Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  The woman looked to her friends. “Five years, maybe?”

  The others nodded and shrugged. “Around that, I think,” offered the man.

  “You say she worked in fraud. Did she ever receive any threats from one of her cases?”

  The group exchanged concerned looks.

  “We haven’t heard anything like that,” the women said.

  “Do you know where she worked before coming to Dixon Donlevy?”

  “No idea,” the woman said.

  “I think they lived in Nevada, or Arizona or someplace around there,” the man said.

  “Do you know what Lori did when she lived there?”

  “No,” the second woman interjected, “but I heard from someone in our section that the family had some tragedy out there.”

  “Really? What kind of tragedy?”

  The three of them shook their heads and shrugged.

  “And it was in Nevada or Arizona?”

  “Not sure,” the second woman said. “I did hear that Lori didn’t like to talk about it.”

  It wasn’t much, but office gossip counted for something. As Kate made notes, the man looked at his phone.

  “We should be getting back,” he said.

  “Can I get your names before you go?” Kate asked.

  “Not mine,” the man said. “I don’t want to be quoted.”

  The women declined to give their names, as well, and started to cross the street with the man.

  “Wait, please,” Kate said. “Let me give you my card. I’d be happy to share any information we have on the case as it develops. Please, call me if you hear anything more. Please. Thanks.”

  18

  Roseoak Park, New York

  A few miles from Dixon Donlevy where Kate Page had questioned people on Lori Fulton’s history, investigators at the bank were probing Dan Fulton’s background.

  In one of the empty offices, Ted Shummard, SkyNational’s regional security director, had loosened his tie and was tapping his pen on the desk as he read Dan Fulton’s personnel file on the computer monitor. Human Resources at headquarters had emailed it ten minutes earlier, in response to his demand. “Send me every damned thing we have on Fulton and send it now!”

  Shummard had put in twenty-five years with the US Secret Service, working in financial crimes and diplomatic security before punching out and taking a job with SkyNational.

  Nick Varner and Marv Tilden sat across the desk from him, studying printouts of the file with some urgency.

  “Okay.” Shummard scrolled to the end of the last page. “You asked if Fulton had money problems. This is everything we’ve got.”

  “I see a lot of numbers here,” Varner said. “You wanna tell me what they all mean?”

  “He’s in good standing. He’s received performance compensation, bonuses, awards, no black marks on his record.”

  “He’s got a lot of debt, though.” Varner had circled various figures. “He’s carrying a mortgage, line of credit, car loans, large credit card balances. The works.”

  “As an executive he gets a discount on all financial services,” Shummard said, “including his mortgage and preferred rates on his line and loans. He’s taken advantage of them. He’s making his payments on time. So far, I see no red flags here.”

  “By my quick count, he owes about two hundred and...forty thousand,” Varner said.

  “Two forty-six,” Shummard corrected.

  “And what did your people estimate he walked out of here with today?” Varner asked.

  “Two hundred and fifty-nine thousand.”

  “He owes two forty-six and takes two fifty-nine,” Tilden said.

  Shummard shot Tilden then Varner a surprised glance.

  “What? You think Fulton’s involved? That maybe he planned this?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” Tilden said.

  Shummard shook his head. “It doesn’t fit. Not with a record this clean.”

  “We can’t rule anything out,” Tilden said before he and Shummard were distracted by Varner standing at the office window.

  “Who’s that?” Varner asked, pointing through the glass to a middle-aged man smoking and pacing in front of the bank near the other employees.

  Shummard flipped open his notebook. “Charles McGarridge, he’s a loan officer with the branch.”

  “Looks like he’s got a lot on his mind,” Varner said. “We’ll want to talk to him when we’re done here.”

  “All right,” Shummard said.

  Varner shifted back to the file.

  “Marv’s right, we can’t rule anything out. Any security incidents we should know about, Ted?”

  “Nothing. This branch has never been hit. Three years ago there was an argument in the parking lot. Didn’t amount to anything. So, nothing. Zip.”

  Tilden turned back to an earlier page in the file.

  “I see Fulton had served with the National Guard in California,” Tilden said. “We’ll need to find out if he was deployed overseas. See if he experienced any posttraumatic stress. It could be a factor.”

  “I don’t think he saw any action,” Shummard said.

  “Do we know if he has any gambling debts?” Tilden asked. “If he uses drugs, has any problem with alcohol?”

  “What about marital stress?” Varner asked. “Any stress in the family?”

  “If we were aware, or if he’d sought help through us at any point, it would’ve come to my desk.” Shummard removed his glasses. “From my read here, and what I know, Fulton’s a clean-living law abider. He volunteers at a homeless shelter in Rego Park. He helps organize a fund-raiser for kids with terminal conditions. Fulton’s a solid guy.”

  A knock sounded at the door and a detective stuck his head in.

  “Marv, got a teller out here you guys should talk to.”

  “Send her in.”

  The detective pushed the door open and indicated a chair. “This is Dolores Spivak, been with the branch for nearly twenty years,” he said. The woman was in her early sixties and held a crumpled tissue in her hand. Her attempted smile at the grim-faced investigators was underscored with anxiety.

  “Do you have some information for us?” Shummard said.

  “Well, I don’t know if this is relevant, but when I told the other girls, they said I should tell you. I... I saw something that looked sort of strange to me.”

  “Go ahead,” Varner said.

  “Well, I live over on Cedar, you know, close enough to walk to work. I come down the boulevard and pass the Roseview Plaza.” She pointed out the window toward a small building. “The little strip mall that’s kitty-cornered over there to the bank.”

  “Okay,” Varner said.

  “Well, about two weeks ago, for three, maybe four days, I saw a young man sitting in a parked car.”

  “What’s strange about that?” Tilden asked.

  “He was looking through binoculars.”

  “At what?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “At the bank?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. But one time he caught me looking at him, and he put the binoculars down quickly, moved them out of sight.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you think it was suspicious?”

  “Well, not then because...” Dolores stared at the tissue in her hand. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, to be honest. I mean, he could’ve been watching the birds in the trees, I don’t know. This is such a quiet neighborhood—it’s always been safe. So when you see something like that, you just assume there’s a perfectly normal explanation for it. But now, after what’s happened, I feel so stupid. I should’ve reported him.”

&n
bsp; “Any chance you got a license plate?” Tilden asked.

  Dolores shook her head.

  “What about the kind of car it was—anything about it you can remember?”

  “No.”

  “Was the man white, black?”

  “White. In his twenties, maybe? I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Dolores,” Varner said. “Thank you. This is still helpful. You can go home now, though. We’ll talk to you again later if we have any more questions.”

  After she left, Tilden turned to Varner and said, “They had to be casing the place.”

  “Yup. We’ll need the plaza to volunteer its security video.” Varner nodded to the loan officer pacing out front. “And we need to talk to him.”

  19

  New York City/New Jersey

  As Dan drove through Washington Heights, the lattice towers of the George Washington Bridge soared above the building tops.

  He’d cleared the stretch of gridlock caused by a tractor trailor breakdown earlier. Now he guided his car along an on-ramp to the bridge.

  He prayed Port Authority security cameras would record him traveling into New Jersey as he merged into one of the four lanes of westbound traffic on the upper deck.

  Will I ever see my family again?

  Looking out at the Hudson River some two hundred feet below, he remembered the first time he’d set eyes on Lori.

  It was at Cal State.

  He’d been in a food court, and when he’d looked up from his book... She was at a table nearby, alone, on her phone crying and he’d thought, Who would be stupid enough to make a girl like that cry?

  He’d stolen glimpses of her composing herself. When she’d gotten up to leave, he’d noticed that she’d forgotten a book at her table. Dan had grabbed it and run after her. He’d made a little joke when he caught up to her, which made her laugh. She had the most beautiful smile, the most beautiful eyes, he’d ever seen.

  And she’d agreed to go out with him.

  They’d walked along the beach at Santa Monica, and she’d told him that she’d been crying because her boyfriend had found someone else.

  “His loss,” Dan had said.

  Soon after that, Dan and Lori had begun dating more seriously. She’d been studying criminology, he’d been studying business. They were happy together. They had chemistry. It was clear from the start that Lori was the right one for him. She owned his heart.

  Three years after they graduated and were well into their careers, they’d gotten married. A few years later they’d had Billy. Dan had been there with Lori every step of the pregnancy, attending all the birthing classes, doing all the breathing exercises, shopping for clothes and furniture.

  When he’d witnessed the birth of their son, Dan had felt a degree of love he’d never known existed. Soon, he’d grappled with his own mortality. It had frightened him, overwhelmed him, along with the realization that he was a father. He feared he would fail at fatherhood, so he compensated the only way he could: by striving to be a good husband, a good provider and a good protector.

  But it was Lori who was more adept at handling life’s crises, a point made clear the night they’d gone to a movie and come upon two intimidating young men testing the doors on their car in the lot. Dan had stopped a distance away, kept his voice low and reached for his phone.

  “I think we should call nine-one-one.”

  But Lori had strode right by him and confronted the men.

  “Excuse me, can we help you? That’s our car.”

  They two men had eyed Lori coldly, then glanced at Dan as if he was pathetic and it amused them.

  “We was just checkin’,” one of them had said. “Ya know, so’s to make sure everything’s locked up safe, like mall security.”

  “That so? How about you show me ID?”

  They’d flashed their empty palms and backed away.

  “Not necessary, baby. All cool.”

  As they’d backed off, the two shared a loud joke about “the bitch and the scared-ass pussy,” and their laughter had painfully underlined the truth: Dan was weak, while Lori was the rock of the family.

  At least, that’s how it was until it all went wrong and nearly destroyed her.

  But Dan had been there for her. When she’d thought she could no longer endure, he’d hung on for both of them, finally getting the chance to prove himself—to show that he could take care of them, too.

  “We’ll get through this together, Lori,” he’d said a hundred times. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  He’d sought the new job with the bank in New York not long after. Not for himself but for Lori, since it provided a chance for her to start over. It wasn’t easy at first, but eventually it worked out. Things got better. Ever since the move five years ago, she’d been healing. The worst time of their lives was behind them, convincing Dan that they’d never face anything as horrible again.

  Until now.

  Now, when Lori needed him most. And he’d failed her.

  He’d done nothing to protect her and Billy.

  He descended the bridge, his heart heavy with the shame of having failed them. As he rolled by the toll plaza, he had to face the fact that he was a coward, afraid to take action, to fight back.

  “Take the Four to Hackensack,” Vic said.

  Dan eyed his fuel gauge. “I’m getting low on gas,” he said. “I’ll need to stop.”

  Vic did not respond.

  As Dan drove ahead, he signaled and got into the lane for Hackensack, dreading what was coming as they took him farther and farther away from Roseoak and the happy life he, Lori and Billy had known there.

  20

  Roseoak Park, New York

  Charles McGarridge’s small eyes were taut with worry behind his dark-framed glasses.

  He was a short, balding man in his late forties with a thin moustache and a tailored suit—the bank’s senior loan officer. Tilden and Varner were interviewing him in his office.

  “What time did I get here?” McGarridge said, repeating the detectives’ question. He smelled of cigarettes, and he rotated the small bowl of peppermints on his desk. The two investigators had declined his offer to share them. “I got here a little before ten, maybe around nine-thirty. It was after it happened. The police were already here talking to Annie and Jo.”

  “You’ve worked with Dan Fulton for five years?” Varner asked.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Was he under any stress that you knew of, maybe acting strangely in the time leading up to this incident?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “So you would consider this behavior out of character?”

  “Absolutely. Managers don’t usually rob their own banks.” McGarridge shook his head. “I can’t believe this is happening. I mean, bomb vests! This is crazy.”

  Tilden leaned forward.

  “Mr. McGarridge, we need to move fast on this and we need your help.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Has anything happened recently that might indicate who could be behind this? Anything suspicious? Anything unusual?”

  McGarridge’s jaw muscle pulsated and he licked his lips, suggesting to both Tilden and Varner that something was troubling the loan officer.

  “Anything at all that you can recall?” Tilden nudged him.

  “Well, there’s one client...” McGarridge stopped as if to ask himself if he should proceed.

  “Mr. McGarridge, we don’t have a lot of time,” Tilden said.

  “There’s one client whose past behavior disturbs me—you know, in light of what’s happened.” McGarridge realigned his stapler and penholder, then rubbed his chin. “I, uh...don’t want them to know this came from me.”

  �
�It’ll stay confidential. Now, who’s the client?” Tilden asked.

  “Vitori Bazerinni.”

  “And what exactly has you disturbed?”

  “He owns Bazerinni Trucking and it’s the loan he’s taken out that concerns me—an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar business loan.”

  “What about it?” Tilden asked.

  McGarridge hesitated, then rubbed his lips.

  “About five or six months ago his son, Luca Bazerinni, a vice president of the company, stormed into the branch, claiming we’d misled Bazerinni Trucking on the terms of the loan.”

  “Was that the case?” Varner asked.

  “Absolutely not. Mr. Bazerinni and his family had misunderstood the terms of the loan.”

  “How’s this relevant to what’s happening now?” Tilden asked.

  “Bazerinni Trucking was losing income. Several business accounts were consistently overdrawn. They were having difficulties with suppliers and subcontractors. They wanted loan modifications. In fact, they said they’d been guaranteed a loan modification, which was absolutely not the case for the type of loan and interest rates they’d secured. The terms were very strict for that type of loan.”

  “So, what happened?” Tilden asked.

  “We explained this to Luca Bazerinni and he got very upset.”

  “Upset how?” Tilden asked.

  “He threatened the bank.”

  “With what?”

  “When he left I remember exactly what he said. It was, ‘Do you know who you’re talking to? You mothers better watch your back, ’cause one day you’re gonna regret this!’”

  Tilden and Varner exchanged looks.

  “Was Dan Fulton party to this?”

  “No, Dan never knew. I was handling this with Martin Green, a junior loan officer, who’s since moved to Seattle.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Dan?”

  McGarridge blinked several times and stared off.

  “Mr. McGarridge, that’s a serious threat you received. Why didn’t you report it?”

  McGarridge pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I was Martin’s supervisor. I knew Martin had a penchant for ‘overselling’ the loan terms, implying the bank could, or would, do better than what was on paper, and I’d cautioned him many times on that. There are regulations and laws. But in this case, I’d convinced myself that this was just a matter of Luca Bazerinni blowing off steam because the company was losing money.”