by Rice, Luanne
Maynard Holmes had wound up head of the New Haven division. They had lived in a big blue house on Main Street in Crandell, between the store and the library. While other fathers went off to be schoolteachers, bankers, lawyers, mechanics, Joe knew his father was heading off to catch bad guys.
“How do you know who's bad?” Joe asked his father once.
“Not by how the person looks,” his father had said. “Never judge anyone by their appearance, Joe. Or the car they drive, or the house they live in, or even by the words they say. Judge people by their actions. That's how you know whether they're bad or good.”
Joe had always remembered that. He thought of his father's lessons every day, working for the Bureau. He wished his father was still alive; he would really like to discuss the McCabe case with him. But that was the least of it. Joe missed both of his parents. His mother had died of a stroke two years ago; his father hadn't lasted six months after that.
That's the kind of love Joe wished he had. But, investigating white-collar crime, he saw so many liars and the broken hearts they left behind, he wasn't sure love like his parents' existed anymore. He viewed most of the people he met with the same intense suspicion he had seen in Tara O'Toole's eyes just ten minutes ago.
Passing through town, Joe's next stop was Shoreline Bank, to question Fiona Mills. The receptionist waved him back to her office, and he walked in. She had striking blue eyes and chestnut hair held back by a sterling silver headband; she wore a simple, expensive pin-striped suit.
“I have a few questions,” he said.
“I have a very full plate today, Mr. Holmes,” she said, gesturing at her desk. “With Sean gone . . . and with the mess he left behind . . . Of course I want to do everything I can to help you, but I don't have much time right now.”
“I know,” Joe said, thinking of how different her dark blue eyes were from Tara O'Toole's. He swallowed, settling down. “Thank you for cooperating. We're just going over the latest details, trying to get to the bottom of everything. First of all, is there someone named Ed who works here?”
“Edwin Taylor, in the trust department,” she said. “And Eduardo Valenti, a summer intern from New York. His parents live in the area.”
Joe made notes, then looked up. “Can you tell me a little about yourself, and what you know about Sean McCabe?”
Fiona had arrived at Shoreline Bank about five years ago, and everything had seemed great. The bank was a terrific place to work, she had liked her colleagues, everyone had seemed to get along and worked together to keep the bank growing.
“Sean is always very competitive,” she said. “We're about the same level, came up for vice president at the same time. He made no bones about wanting the promotion, and he courted the president and board . . . I knew we'd both eventually get it, which we did, but Sean really seemed to sweat it.”
“Is that his personality?”
“Very much so. He likes contests, prizes. One year he was in charge of tellers, and he was always setting up competitions. In one, I remember, the person who opened the most new accounts got a weekend in Newport—things like that. He loves having the biggest boat, the newest car.”
The opposite of Bay, Joe thought, taking notes.
“Did you ever think he was embezzling from clients?”
“Not back then,” she said. “Never. It started after the presidency thing—”
“When Shoreline brought Mark Boland over from another bank?”
“Yes. Anchor. I have to admit, I was upset, too. Both Sean and I were hoping for the job. I think either one of us would have been great at it. But they brought in Boland instead.”
“And Sean's behavior changed after that?”
Fiona nodded. “Yes, he was furious. He was really uncooperative at first—unwilling to share numbers, discuss loans. He'd miss meetings, going out on his boat every chance he got. I actually grabbed him after work one day, told him to pull it together—for his family's sake, if not his own.”
“He was on the way to getting fired?”
Fiona nodded. “I think he was heading in that direction.”
“And then what?”
“Well, a few bad loans—I suspected something, but I didn't want to say. Sean began seeing one of the loan officers, Lindsey Beale—very openly, brazenly. I know Bay and like her, and I thought he was acting like an ass. He began taking Lindsey to the casino, and she'd come in the next day and talk about it.”
“Indiscreet.”
“Very. Lindsey would talk about Sean blowing lots of money, and suddenly he started having some bad loans, and I began getting a bad feeling.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes. He told me it was nothing. At first . . . but then he started avoiding me. Any time I wanted to discuss something, he'd tell me to leave him a voice mail, send him an e-mail. Eventually, I brought it up to Mark.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He was very upset. He liked Sean—everyone did. And I think Mark is sensitive enough to know that Sean hated losing out to him. They had a history of some sort—high school sports. And they played golf, I think. Sean was the kind of guy who, if he played golf against you, wanted to play for your watch, your cuff links.”
“And money?”
Fiona shook her head. “Not so much. I think it was an heirloom thing; Sean came from a working-class family, and he really liked the trappings of growing up WASP. So many New England bankers have that sort of upbringing . . .”
Joe nodded. He had read the file. Fiona had gone to New York with Sean on a bank seminar, three years ago; records obtained from the Hotel Gregory indicated that they had shared a room. They had the job in common, but Joe suspected that it had been her boarding-school poise that had attracted him most. Fiona had grown up in Providence, summered in Newport. Her family was listed in the Social Register. She had attended the Madeira School and Middlebury College, with an advanced degree from Columbia Business School.
She was very cool right now, staring at Joe. In spite of the air-conditioning, a trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades. He found himself wondering whether she could be “the girl.”
The police had found a folder full of bank statements and account ledgers on Sean's boat. Joe had analyzed them, realized that they represented many of the people Sean had stolen from. What confused him was the way Sean had written “the girl” over and over—Joe had examined many criminals' doodles, and he could generally make sense of the emotions inside at the time of the drawings.
He had seen the way a check forger had written “Paris,” and the way a murderer had doodled “Mary Ann,” and the way a smuggler had written “South Beach” with a certain lightness, with the criminal's dreams present in the word. Not “the girl.” Joe had noticed the thick black letters, the heavily scored border: as if the real girl, whoever she might be, had been weighing on Sean's mind.
“Did Sean ever talk to you about his work, about the bank?”
“Naturally,” she said. “We're colleagues.”
“Did he ever hint at what he was doing about the embezzlement?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I had no idea . . . I find it hard to believe now. His clients loved him. And he talked about them as if he cared. He cared about everyone.”
Joe nodded. That wasn't inconsistent with other white-collar criminals; they were so invested in lying to everyone, they also lied to themselves.
“Can you tell me who he seemed closest to? Here at the bank?”
“Frank Allingham. And I've seen him having drinks with the bank's attorney, Ralph Benjamin.”
“What about Mark Boland? Did they ever get past their feud?”
“No. In fact, Mark was the one who told me to file that criminal report. I thought he should do it himself—at first I'd hoped he could handle it in-house . . .”
“But of course that would be against regulations,” Joe said slowly. “Once you'd blown the whistle, Mark was required by law to call the FBI.”
<
br /> “What would we do without banking regulations?” Fiona asked, shaking her head. “Sean might not have gotten hurt.”
“Excuse me?”
“Banged his head, I mean,” she said. “Whatever happened on that boat.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he went so crazy after he was passed over for Mark's job. If only he could have had more time, to pull himself together. He must have gotten wind of the investigation, gotten scared. I think he'd started drinking a little—maybe even doing some drugs.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Sean likes to party,” Fiona said. “Surely I'm not the first one to tell you this.”
“No,” Joe said. “You're not. I'm getting the feeling he was pretty wild. Was there anyone in particular you can think of that he called ‘the girl'?”
Fiona frowned and seemed at a loss.
Just then Mark Boland stuck his head into the office. He looked uptight and harried, but he threw Joe a wide smile. “How's it going, Agent Holmes?” he asked, shaking his hand. “Is there anything I can add to whatever Fiona's helping you with?”
“He was just asking who Sean called ‘the girl'.”
“He calls his daughters ‘the girls,' I think. Sometimes he includes Bay in that. As in ‘The girls and Billy are waiting for me at home,' ” Boland said. “Do you have a wife, Mr. Holmes?”
“No, I don't.”
“Well, my wife might kill me for saying it, but there's no time limit on calling your wife a girl. Maybe Sean meant Bay. On the other hand, with Sean it could just as easily mean a whole different thing.”
“I'm getting the picture,” Joe said.
“Well, I'll leave Fiona to answer the rest of your questions. I have a conference call with the IRS and our lawyer right now. Excuse me.”
Joe thanked him, then turned back to Fiona Mills. She had given him plenty of her time, and it was time for him to get going. “Is there anything else you'd like to add?” he asked.
Fiona shrugged. “Sometimes I think Sean was just completely bowled over by all the money he oversaw.”
Joe watched as she clasped her hands, touched the edge of her desk thoughtfully. “Sean's from a working-class family. We're not very close, but we did—take a few business trips together. We'd talk on the way, or having drinks at the hotel. I take it that they never had much money—Oh, they were comfortable in a middle-class way. But real money—that came much later, after Sean became a banker. He felt left out of so many things growing up.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like the country club. He caddied for the members. And the yacht club; he worked as a deckhand for people like my father and uncles, who owned their own yachts. I think I represent something to him, that he's wanted all his life: to belong.”
“Belong to what?” Joe asked. Didn't he belong to a great family—Bay, the kids?
“You know, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “You're just being obtuse. I mean belong to ‘the club.' To be in instead of out. To have doors open for you. Some of us grew up taking that for granted. Sean didn't.”
“I see, Ms. Mills. Thank you very much for your time.” As he stood to leave, he noticed a glass case filled with trophies—for horse shows, regattas, tennis matches. “Are those yours?”
“Yes,” she said. “My father rather values athleticism.”
“The competitive spirit is alive and well here at Shoreline Bank,” he said, noticing an empty spot on a middle shelf, with dust around the shiny circle of a round base. “What was there?”
“Odd you should ask,” she said, her eyes clouding over. “I'm missing a silver bowl. Nothing terribly important—something I won for a jumping event several years ago.”
Joe nodded, thanking Fiona for her time. Passing from her office through the bank, he was aware of all the bank personnel discretely watching him.
Everyone except Mark Boland. He was on the phone, back to the door, jabbing the air with his finger. Seemed like a pretty competitive guy himself, Joe thought, walking to his car.
AFTER WATCHING JOE HOLMES DRIVE AWAY, TARA GAVE BAY half an hour alone, while she and Annie picked a huge bouquet. Then they waded across the creek and cut through the backyard. The news vultures called from the driveway, and Annie's shoulders went up to her ears. When they were safely inside, Tara instructed her goddaughter to arrange the tangled flowers in a tall vase, and she climbed the stairs and found Bay curled up on her bed.
“It's too nice a day out for you to be in here,” Tara said. “In spite of all the idiots parked in front of your house.”
Bay's face stayed in the pillow.
Tara sat down on the edge of the bed, put her hand on Bay's shoulder. It felt far too thin, almost frail, as if this ordeal was literally taking everything out of her.
“Bay? I saw Joe Holmes over here.”
No words, just quiet crying.
“Bay?”
“It's awful, Tara,” Bay said finally. “It's so much worse than we thought. Sean really did it—embezzled money, planned it all out, used his clients. Stole money, parked money—it's bad.”
“He's sure?”
“Yes. He has lots of evidence. He showed me a lot of it. Including our accounts . . .”
“Bay, no—he didn't take money from you . . .”
Bay nodded, starting to sob. She clutched the pillowcase, and Tara could see that it was already soaking wet with tears. She felt such overwhelming fury at Sean she could barely keep her voice steady.
“How bad is it?”
“I don't know yet, Tara,” Bay said. “I can't even think. It's all just hitting me: He's a criminal. My husband! What kind of an idiot was I to not know? What'll I tell the kids? Every day there's something new and horrible. They're all just hanging on, praying that their father's okay.”
“I know. The whole time Annie was over, she couldn't take her eyes off your house. As though he was going to show up any second.”
“Waiting for him to come home—when he's probably going to jail!”
“No wonder he's hiding somewhere.”
Bay rolled onto her back, looked up at Tara with swollen, red eyes. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
“You're going to stay strong,” Tara said firmly. “We'll get through this together.”
“Thanks for being here,” Bay said. “I don't know what the kids or I would do without you.”
Tara just shook her head—such a thing wasn't even worth saying. Bay had enfolded Tara into her family, into the warmth of her life, just as if she was a sister. The depth of her love was without bounds, and she couldn't bear to hear Bay thank her.
“Just know how wonderful you are,” Tara said, leaning over to hug Bay, to look straight into her eyes. “And how wrong he is.”
The best friends locked gazes, and Bay nodded.
“And go see that boatbuilder,” Tara said.
“That what?”
“Danny Connolly,” Tara said.
“Why?” Bay asked, her eyes clouded with confusion and pain.
Tara swallowed, holding back what she really thought: that maybe the one decent thing Sean had done this whole horrific year was to open this door for Bay. But she didn't say that. Instead, she conjured up Joe Holmes and her grandfather and made herself feel and sound like an investigator on the case.
“Because you're in a mystery right now,” she said steadily, “and Daniel Connolly is one of the clues.”
6
AS DAYS WENT BY WITHOUT ANY NEW developments, the news trucks began to travel to other stories, leaving the McCabes alone. Joe Holmes took note as he drove by, and he was relieved. He also took note of Tara O'Toole sitting on the front steps, reading to the youngest McCabe child, Pegeen. He saw her watch him like a mother eagle, sharp-eyed and ready to use her talons if necessary.
He had checked her grandfather out. Since she'd mentioned the law-enforcement connection, he'd been curious. So he'd looked up all the O'Tooles he could find. The most prominent on
e in Connecticut had been Seamus O'Toole, Captain of Detectives, in Eastport. The particulars seemed right—his wife was named Eileen, and they had retired to their summerhouse in the Hubbard's Point section of Black Hall.
Captain O'Toole had been known in the department for his tough crackdown on drugs, in the early days of an epidemic that had seen neighborhoods turned into war zones. He had become known for brash raids on dealers in the West End, leading his officers into warehouses filled with drugs just off boats, in Long Island Sound, hidden in trucks speeding up the northeast corridor of I-95.
His record was full of gun battles, important arrests, personal injuries, being shot three times. Medals for valor and bravery, for his prowess as a pistol shot. The file also included the story of how Captain O'Toole had been the first on the scene of a head-on traffic fatality: One of the drivers had been drunk. He had died instantly, as had the woman in the other car. His name was Dermot O'Toole. He was the captain's son.
And Tara's father.
Joe nodded at Tara as he drove by. She nodded gravely back. Two products of law-enforcement families, he thought. She'd probably want nothing to do with another officer—not that he'd ever get the chance to find out. She was too close to this investigation.
Pulling into the parking lot at Shoreline Bank, he shook her from his mind and went inside. He had seen Eduardo Valenti yesterday, a dark-haired college kid spending his summer as a teller. His contact with Sean McCabe had been minimal. He had told Joe about an outing on the Aldebaran with a few other people who worked at the bank, and times when McCabe would stop by his desk to ask how things were going. Eduardo hadn't liked Sean.
“I found him to be slick and superficial.”
“That's quite a comment to make about your boss,” Joe said, smiling and amused at the kid's haughtiness.
“My parents raised me to recognize sincerity,” Eduardo said. “I didn't see it in Mr. McCabe.”
Eduardo Valenti came from a very wealthy Castilian family, formal and dignified, and he was always called “Eduardo”—never “Ed.”
