by Rick Mofina
“All I’m saying, Roy, is I won’t use that type for bluegill or smallmouth,” said a man in overalls, who was leaning against the counter, sipping from a take-out coffeecup.
“Just the gas today, friend?” the bearded man behind the counter said to Dan.
Dan nodded, placed the cash on the counter. “May I use your restroom?”
“Just around the corner.”
As Dan started for the room, a man wearing a flannel work shirt rushed from the area, muttering to himself. As he passed Dan, he called out: “I know I got that part in my truck, Roy, be right back.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
“Hey, Hank.” The man in the overalls winked. “Alice have the baby yet?”
“Doctor said anytime, I tell you—” Hank continued talking while outside, something about no sleep.
Dan rounded the corner to see that Hank had been working on an outlet between the entrances to the men’s and women’s restrooms. A large open tool box was on a shelf between the two rooms.
Dan knew Vic could see whatever he saw.
Dan looked away from the toolbox, keeping his eyes ahead on the bathroom door as he made his way down the hall. As he passed close to the shelf, he reached out and took two small items from the tool tray, shoving them in his pocket while still keeping his eyes—and Vic’s view—straight ahead. In the restroom, while standing alone at the urinal, Dan used one hand to reach into his pocket and uncap the felt-tipped marker he’d stolen from the box. His heart rate was galloping, but he kept his eyes forward as he began scrawling on the metal wall of the stall. The ongoing rush of flushing water drowned out any sound from the pen as he wrote as fast as he could—hoping it would be legible since he wouldn’t be able to check it.
After finishing, Dan washed his hands, feeling the bulk of the vest. Then he dried them and returned to his car and resumed driving northbound on the Thruway.
After he’d gone several miles, he was careful to keep his eyes on the road while he retrieved the second item from his pocket, lowered his left hand and slowly pulled up the trouser cuff of his left leg. Keeping the rest of his body still, he positioned the item he’d stolen from the tool box and tucked it into his left sock.
His heart was pounding as he replaced his hand on the wheel, confident Vic hadn’t seen the actions he’d taken, now or back at the gas station.
As he drove farther upstate, he tightened his grip on the wheel.
I’m not going down without a fight.
27
Manhattan, New York
Kate’s cab moved along West 40th Street.
Her mystery caller had provided no details on Lori Fulton over the phone but was willing to meet in Bryant Park, only a short cab ride from Newslead.
Kate didn’t know what to make of the woman’s call. Over the years she’d encountered all sorts of “tipsters”—people who were lonely, people demanding money, conspiracy nuts, mystics, weirdoes and creeps. Kate had seen all kinds.
Most were a waste of time.
In every case, when callers insisted on meeting, Kate weighed the circumstances carefully. Tips were the lifeblood of any news operation. No reporter, if they were any good, dismissed them. You never knew which tip, no matter how it came to you, could break a story wide-open.
And time was ticking on the Fulton story.
It had been several hours since the robbery that morning, and they still hadn’t found a trace of the family or the money. Kate needed to take readers deeper into the story, but while she had some threads on the Fultons, she had no firm leads.
Trusting her instincts, she decided to meet this woman who claimed to know the “truth” about Lori Fulton. Other than wasting her time, the risk was low. They would be at a public place and it was midday. Still, she remained a bit wary when she got out of the cab on Sixth Avenue.
Bryant Park sat in the heart of Midtown behind the New York Public Library’s main branch, on ten acres of beautiful green lawn. It was bordered with gardens and trees sheltering tables and chairs, offering a tranquil outdoor café setting, an urban oasis amid glass and steel skyscrapers. People dotted the great lawn, reading or napping; some were picnicking.
Kate searched the tables near the carousel. Her caller had said that she’d be alone there, with a white bag on the table and reading a hardcover copy of Great Expectations.
After scanning a few families at tables near the carousel, Kate approached an older woman who was wearing casual white pants and a mint-colored top. She was at a table with a white bag on it and—as promised—was reading Great Expectations. Kate stood at the table until the book was lowered and the woman removed her sunglasses.
“Kate Page?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Please, sit down.”
The woman closed her book and placed her sunglasses on it.
“I don’t want you to use my name or take my picture. Will you give me that assurance?”
“I’ll see how this goes. Remember, you called me, and I don’t even know your name. Look, I don’t have much time. What do you know about Lori Fulton?”
The woman repositioned herself in her chair.
“The news reports portray the Fultons as the epitome of a wholesome, all-American family—pillars of the community.”
“And you think they’re not?”
“I didn’t say that. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sympathetic to what’s happening to them. I hope they’re safe, of course—they have a little boy! But I think—I mean, I know there’s more to the story and I believe people should know about it.”
Kate put her recorder on the table and her notebook.
The woman hesitated.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Kate said, “if you’re telling me the truth.”
The woman considered the situation.
“And I don’t have much time,” Kate added.
“Before he died, my husband worked for Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance as a claims adjuster. He was due for a promotion to be a senior investigator of fraudulent claims out of the office in Queens, where we were living at the time.”
Kate made notes.
“But the job went to Lori Fulton. My husband was crushed. He’d been with the company over twenty years. To make room for Lori, he was given a lateral position, which meant a grinding commute into Manhattan.”
“Okay.” Kate stopped. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure this is the information I’m looking for. What’s this got to do with what’s happening now?”
“My husband’s boss had a connection with the bank and Lori’s husband, so when they were moving from California, he’d arranged for Lori to get the job that should’ve gone to my husband.”
“All right, so he was passed over for a promotion. I still don’t think this has any relevance to the current situation.” Kate checked the time. This was a mistake. This was a case of a woman who’d held a grudge and was looking to vent, and it all seemed rather petty.
“Sorry, I’m complicating this. I still get a bit emotional. The reason Lori got the job as a fraud investigator is because in California she’d been a police officer.”
“A police officer?” Kate sat up and made a note underlining it.
“Yes, and... I think that may be connected to what’s happened now.”
“That’s quite a leap,” Kate said. “How does her being a police officer have anything to do with her husband robbing his bank—or with her and her son being held hostage?”
“Well, I don’t know. That’s for the police to figure out.”
“And did you contact them with your suspicion?”
“No, but I’m sure they must know that she was a cop. Police have access to these things. My husband’s boss was an ex-cop and favored hiring ex-cops for
investigations.” The woman pulled a tissue from her bag. “It’s understandable, I know. But my Jackie had put in twenty-two years and had an exemplary record with the company. Then this Lori, who’d done nothing for Dixon Donlevy, aside from showing up, is handed his job on a platter. Jack never complained. He was loyal to the company. He made the commute every day...until his heart attack.”
“Do you know where in California Lori Fulton was a cop?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. But one night, Jack told me that he’d heard that Lori Fulton was involved in something terrible. Something happened when she was a cop that forced her to quit, to leave the force—and that was the reason the Fultons had moved to New York.”
“I need something that proves you have a connection to this. How can I be sure you’re not making this up?”
The woman reached into her bag.
“I knew you might ask.” She pulled out a small stack of papers and photos and put them on the table. “This is me and my husband, Jack, on our last vacation in South Carolina,” she said, pointing to the photo at the top of the pile.
It was a photo of the woman and man smiling on a beach.
“And here’s a photo of our last Dixon Donlevy Christmas party. That’s me with Jack, and there...you see? Lori and Dan Fulton.”
Kate saw the faces of several smiling people, including the Fultons.
“And here,” the woman continued, pulling a piece of paper from the bottom of the stack, “is the staff notice Dixon Donlevy put out when Lori got the job and Jack got his transfer. Jack brought it home and showed me—he was so disappointed. We kept it in our files.”
“May I take pictures of this material to show my editors that it supports what you’ve told me?”
“As long as you swear to me you won’t publish them.”
“I wouldn’t—not without your permission.”
“And you won’t use my name or Jack’s name, either? You’ll find them on some of these papers.”
“Not without permission.”
The woman touched her tissue to her eyes.
“I know in my heart that had my husband got the job he earned instead of Lori Fulton, he’d be alive today.”
“What about your husband’s boss at the company, the ex-cop. What’s his name? I could talk to him?” Kate asked, after snapping a few photos of the items on the table.
“Angelo Korda. But you won’t be able to talk to him. He drowned two years ago, fishing in Maine.”
“Did your husband ever hint at what went wrong for Lori?”
“No. I have no idea of what she was up to in California. But if it was bad enough that she had to quit her job and leave the state, then maybe it could be linked to what’s happened to her family.”
Kate got a number and email address from the woman in case she needed to contact her again. Then Kate promised once more to protect her identity, thanked her and left. She wove around the dozens of families surrounding the carousel. Amid the huffing pipe organ and squeals of happy children, she realized one thing.
She was getting closer to a bigger story.
28
Manhattan, New York
The subject was a white male with large, soft eyes that hinted at innocence, a stubbled chin and tousled hair framing the face of a man barely out of his teens.
His photo filled the large monitor in the boardroom at the FBI’s office at 26 Federal Plaza in Lower Manhattan.
“This is our prime suspect. Jerricko Titus Blaine,” Nick Varner told the investigators at the table and those who’d dialed in from across the country for the emergency case-status meeting on the robbery. “Based on the evidence, which we’ve outlined in the case summary notes we’ve provided you, we don’t believe Blaine acted alone.”
The FBI, the NYPD, New York State Police, Homeland Security and a range of local, state and federal law enforcement agencies had joined the ongoing investigation, which grew with every passing hour.
After summarizing key facts known so far, Varner’s top agenda item was to find their primary suspect: Jerricko Titus Blaine.
“Blaine’s prints were left on duct tape found in the Fulton home that we believe was used to bind the family,” Varner said. “You’ve all been provided with our status sheet on this case—Blaine’s height, weight, DOB and any other information we currently have. Blaine’s last known address was in Dallas, Texas, so that’s where we’re headed. Doyle, what do you have?”
The voice of Trent Doyle, an agent with the FBI’s Dallas division, came through loud and clear over the conference phone speaker.
“We’ve got our people heading to Blaine’s last address with warrants, and we’ve got detectives from DPD initiating a canvass and scouring all local and state records. We’re pursuing any employers, relatives, friends and associates.”
“Good,” Varner said, as he took notes. He noticed how one detective hadn’t stopped staring at Blaine’s photo. Almost as though he recognized him. Varner kept his eye on him as he continued. “Blaine’s Social Security Number shows he was born in Torrance, California, and attended school there. Over to you, LA. What can you tell us?”
Bill Kendrick with the FBI’s Los Angeles division gave an update.
“We’re working with the LAPD and Los Angeles County. We’ve dispatched teams to all addresses associated with Blaine.”
“Schools?” Varner said.
“Yes, we’re going to schools, looking into any jobs he held, searching for relatives and any associates.”
“Marv, you want to jump in here?”
“Marv Tilden, NYPD. We’re circulating Blaine’s photo to all confidential informants, we’re going door-to-door in the Fultons’ neighborhood in Queens. We’re also chasing down family, friends, social circles. We’re going through the family’s computer and phone records for any leads.”
“Where are we on Dan Fulton?” an FBI agent at the table asked.
“We haven’t located him or his car,” Varner said. “There’s been no activity on any of the Fultons’ credit or bank cards. We’re obtaining camera footage from the bank and neighboring businesses, and we’re looking at all security footage we can secure from the Fultons’ neighbors.”
“What about the BOLO for Dan Fulton’s Taurus?” the agent asked. “Anything from Real Time Crime Center?”
“Nothing so far,” the NYPD commander for the center said. “They could’ve switched vehicles or changed Fulton’s plate. The BOLO remains active.”
“What about Fulton as a suspect?” an NYPD detective asked.
Varner flipped pages of his case notes.
“Unlikely, based on everything we know to be true at this stage—including the note he wrote before he left the bank. You’ve got all the details in the summary.”
Varner clicked a button, and Dan Fulton’s note appeared on the monitor next to Blaine’s photo.
“What’s Fulton’s personal situation?” the detective asked. “Could he have set this up?”
“It’s unlikely. We have no indication of him having any overwhelming debts, gambling or drug problems. Nothing that would require immediate access to a large sum of money, nothing that would make him this desperate. Right now we think the Fulton family was targeted.”
“What about this threat from Luca Bazerinni?”
“We’ve not ruled that out. We’ve spoken to Bazerinni and executed search warrants on his company and home. So far we’ve found no grounds to show that Bazerinni acted on his threat. No connection between Blaine and Bazerinni. But we’ve not ruled him out. We’re still processing material seized from his trucking operation and home.”
“What about terrorism?” asked Henry Collins, an NYPD detective.
“It hasn’t been ruled out,” Varner said.
“Well, did Homeland run down
Blaine’s passport? Is he on any watch lists, or no-fly lists?”
Varner turned to the woman from the Department of Homeland Security, who cleared her throat.
“Our records show that a US passport has not been issued to Jerricko Titus Blaine.”
“Maybe he used a fake one, or bought a foreign one?”
“DHS is investigating all possibilities,” she said.
“Nick, what makes you think Blaine didn’t act alone?” another investigator asked.
“The nature of the crime and the content of Dan Fulton’s note.”
Varner pointed to the note on the monitor: Family held hostage at home! Strapped bombs on us!
“If Dan is at the bank and his family is being held hostage at home, we don’t think one person could pull this off alone.”
“What about the wife, Lori Fulton?” another detective asked.
“We’ve got people talking to her employer at the insurance company,” Tilden said. “We’re looking into the cases where she investigated people involved in fraudulent insurance claims—anyone who might have held a grudge and who could be involved. So far nothing has surfaced. But there’s a new aspect concerning Lori Fulton’s previous job.”
Tilden raised his eyebrows at Varner.
“Right,” Varner said. “Now, this may have no bearing on the case here, but we’ve learned that Lori was with the Santa Ana Police Department in California, but we’ll go to our RA in Santa Ana for the details. Wade?”
Wade Darden, with the FBI’s resident agency in Orange County, California, gave a report.
“What we know is that she was using her maiden name at the time, Lori Wallace, and was a police officer with SAPD until she resigned after several months of disability leave for psychological trauma. It’s believed the trauma resulted from an incident that occurred while she was on duty some six years ago. I’ll be meeting with the Santa Ana PD after this call and should get full details as soon as possible.”
Varner and Tilden then discussed theories and other aspects with the group to ensure nothing was overlooked or no investigative threads were left unchecked.
