A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “I’m telling you, he’s not here!” a man said loudly. The three of us got up to see what was going on, and much to my surprise Detectives Sollie and Keegan, along with several uniformed police officers, were marching briskly down the hall. I hung up the phone, wondering if they were coming to get me. I pulled off my scarf and jacket, willing to turn myself in as long as they would look at what we had discovered.

  They passed me by, however, so I followed them until they reached the end of the hall and Alan Bennet’s office, which was dark and empty.

  “If you’re looking for Alan Bennet, he’s not here,” I said. Keegan glared at me, anger on his face.

  “And where the heck have you been?” he demanded. “I got a room full of people who need to talk to you.”

  By now we had drawn a small crowd. As I opened my mouth to reply, I heard one of the policemen say to another, “He’s not here and not at his apartment. Where does that leave us?”

  “Are you here for Alan Bennet?” I asked. “Because I don’t know where he is, but I sure know what he’s doing. I was just trying to call you.”

  Keegan raised one eyebrow.

  “Follow me. Quickly.”

  I led them back to Yolanda’s office, and they crowded around behind her terminal.

  “Alan’s had a busy day,” I said softly, waiting until the police had ushered away the curious onlookers. “In the last two hours, he’s transferred over a million dollars into this one account.”

  “Is he at the bank?”

  “No. He’s doing it over the internet. He could be anywhere.”

  I looked at the screen, realizing the balance was even higher now than it had been a few moments ago.

  “My guess,” I continued, “is that he’s pooling money from a bunch of different accounts before going to the bank where he’ll either make a giant withdrawal or an out-of-bank wire transfer.”

  “Get the bank on the phone!” Sollie barked. Yolanda jumped as she reached for the phone and dialed the number with trembling hands. I stepped out of the way, listening as the cops talked among themselves. Apparently, they had come here with a warrant for Alan Bennet to arrest him for the murder of Wendell Smythe.

  “What happened?” I asked Keegan, my eyes wide, wondering what piece of the puzzle had clicked for them to point things to Alan. “I mean, how’d you get a warrant?”

  “We got the labs back on the print on the syringe and the hair found on Smythe. They both belonged to Bennet.”

  I told him my theory, the one I had been forming for the last few days.

  “It’s my opinion,” I said, “that Judith and Alan Bennet were both responsible. I think they may have killed Wendell together, and then Alan went out the back way and returned to his office, while Judith stayed there in her father’s office until he was dead. I think she was still in the bathroom, cleaning up some evidence or whatever, when I came in. I think it was Judith that I chased down the stairwell.”

  “We’ve already sent someone out to pick her up for questioning,” Detective Keegan replied, nodding. “But we can’t really hold her for murder unless Bennet implicates her. At this point, we have no proof of her involvement in her father’s death.”

  I thought of Alan Bennet, feeling fairly certain he would incriminate his own mother if it made things easier for him.

  “We did manage to turn up a few priors on him,” Keegan continued. “So we’ll see what happens.”

  “Keegan!” Sollie called, putting his hand over the mouthpiece on the phone. “The bank manager said that that particular account is set up with what they call a ‘repetitive wire.’ That means Bennet doesn’t have to go to the bank in person. He can wire money out of it remotely, just by using a secret code and a telephone.”

  “On the internet?”

  “No. He can move the money around on the internet, but if he wants to wire it to an outside account, he has to do that with a regular phone call.”

  “What do you mean, a regular phone call?”

  “On a Touch-Tone phone. The right code, and the money’s outta there.”

  “You mean you’re telling me that with the push of a few buttons, Bennet can wipe out that account right under our noses?”

  “That’s what they’re saying. What do we want to do?”

  We all froze, looking at each other. I knew exactly what the two men were thinking: If they stopped what Alan was doing and put a hold on the account, Alan would know they were onto him, and he would take off. But if they didn’t put a hold on the account, he might snatch the money out at any minute, and then it would be too late anyway.

  “Put on a freeze, and he’ll know we know,” Keegan said softly.

  “Don’t put on a freeze,” Sollie replied, “and he’ll strip those accounts bare.”

  After a moment, we all spoke in unison. Everyone had a different idea, but my voice was the loudest, and finally they all shut up and looked at me.

  “You can trace the phone call,” I said, but Sollie shook his head.

  “Not if he’s on a modem through an internet provider. We had to do that once before, and it took too long.”

  “No,” I insisted, shaking my head. “Right now, he’s on the internet, moving money from lots of accounts into one single account. He can move that money around all he wants as long as he’s online. But when he’s finally ready to wire the money out of that bank and into some other private account, he’s got to get off of the internet and call in on the telephone. If the bank can intercept that call, and you can get a trace on it, then you’ll know where he is.”

  “Risky,” said Keegan.

  “Riskier than a ribeye in a pen full of Dobermans,” Harriet added, “especially if the police can’t move fast enough. Then he gets the money and he gets out of town.”

  Sollie and Keegan looked at each other and then at me.

  “It’s worth a try,” Sollie said finally. “Hate to gamble with the money, but I don’t want to risk losing our man.”

  The decision made, they all sprang into action, making phone calls, barking commands into the radio. Meanwhile, Yolanda, Gwen, Harriet, and I continued to tensely watch the computer screen. The balance in that one account had reached nearly 1.5 million dollars.

  Finally, the number stopped changing. It just sat there while we watched it quietly. One million, five hundred twenty-three thousand dollars. A nice chunk of change for a morning’s work.

  “We think activity has ceased,” Sollie said into the phone softly, still connected with the bank. “Are we set? Are we ready?”

  Keegan was on his radio, saying essentially the same thing. We all held our breath as we watched the number on the screen. Then, suddenly, after nearly a full two minutes of waiting, it disappeared. In an instant, the amount $1,523,000 flicked away.

  All that was left was one dollar.

  Everyone exploded into noise. Sollie was shouting to all of us to calm down as he listened to the phone.

  “Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut up, I can’t hear!”

  Finally, everyone quieted down and waited as he spoke.

  “Yes,” he said, listening, “go ahead.” He waved for a pen and paper, and Yolanda handed him hers. “Got it. Yes. Okay.”

  Then he hung up.

  “Well?” Keegan asked as we were all waiting, holding our breath.

  “They got the number,” Sollie replied. “The call to transfer the funds came from a pay phone in Pike Ridge.”

  “Pike Ridge?” Keegan asked. From what I could recall, Pike Ridge was a small suburb west of the city, not too far from the Smythes’ house, about half an hour from where we were. “Have they got somebody on it?”

  “Units have already been dispatched to the scene.”

  “What’s in Pike Ridge?” another cop asked. “Besides some expensive houses and a few shopping centers?”

  Sollie shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you what’s in Pike Ridge,” I said suddenly, thinking of Tom and his trip to the funeral via helicopter.
“An airport. There’s a small airport in Pike Ridge.”

  Forty-One

  The cops drove westward through the city, sirens blaring as they wove in and out of traffic. The detectives had, of course, called ahead to the Pike Ridge police and told them to seize Alan Bennet, probably at the airport. But Keegan and Sollie still wanted to get there as soon as possible themselves to question Alan once he had been arrested. I followed along behind the last cop car, matching their speed in my fancy Lincoln as we flew through the city.

  Harriet had opted to take a cab from the Smythe offices to her cousin’s house where she would wait for further word from me. I was glad she had some place to pass the time; I knew she had a real aversion for things like high-speed pursuits and apprehending suspects.

  As I drove, I thought about Alan, and I wondered if Judith was with him. Despite all the illegal things Judith had done thus far—from diverting funds out of Feed the Need to vandalizing her brother and his wife—I had a feeling that maybe Alan was acting alone in the murder with Monty Redburn as his accomplice. Smythe Incorporated was partly Judith’s company now, her inheritance. It didn’t make sense that she would rob herself—especially not for a paltry 1.5 million dollars. Her stake in the company had to be worth at least ten times as much.

  Once I reached the airport, I pulled to a stop in the gravel parking lot, got out of the car, and sprinted closer to the action. There were about seven police cars there now, and most of the cops were braced against them, guns drawn. The guns were all pointed toward a small, private airplane that was parked out in front of the hangar. A man I didn’t recognize stood in front of the plane with his hands up in the air. Detective Sollie was pointing a gun at him from several feet away as Detective Keegan headed for the plane itself. As we all watched, he opened the passenger-side door of the plane and then held out the gun, shouting. Slowly, Alan Bennet stepped from the plane, hands clasped behind his head.

  I didn’t believe it. We had done it! We had caught the murdering thief before he skipped town! I did feel a rush of disappointment that Monty Redburn wasn’t also there. The plane had held only two people—Alan and the pilot. That meant Redburn was still at large. And Judith Smythe was nowhere to be found.

  Still, a nearly audible sigh of relief seemed to sweep through the waiting policemen as the detective snapped handcuffs on Bennet’s wrists. They put down their guns and made jokes and laughed away the tension. I blew out a deep breath myself and headed for the tarmac.

  I looked around as I walked, noting that the airport itself wasn’t much more than a big open field with one paved runway, a few gas pumps, a hangar, and a main building. There were about ten small private planes parked in a row alongside the hangar, and an old tower out behind the main building. That was about it.

  Walking among the small crowd that had gathered, I tried to be unobtrusive but observant, watching as they pulled Bennet’s luggage from the plane and listening as they read him his rights. The pilot was claiming that he didn’t even know Alan and hadn’t ever met him before he was hired to fly him to Vermont.

  As they were leading Alan to the car, he happened to look my way. Our eyes met and I held his gaze, thinking how hard it was to believe that I was looking into the face of a murderer, or at least an accomplice to murder.

  I noticed movement off to my left, and I glanced that way, stunned to see a dented red pickup truck tearing into the parking lot. It came to a screeching halt, dust flying, and out jumped Monty Redburn, a high-powered rifle in his hands.

  “Gun!” I screamed, dropping to the ground and flattening myself against the pavement. I heard a cracking boom and then more gunfire in response. “You liar!” Monty screamed from the parking lot. “You’re a liar! A thief and a liar!”

  I clutched my hands around my head, too frightened to move. Finally, I heard people running, and I looked up, shocked to see Alan Bennet lying on the pavement, shot in the chest. In the parking lot, Monty had also been shot and apprehended by the police, his own blood seeping onto the leg of his pants as they handcuffed him.

  Paramedics were laboring over Alan, who seemed to be unconscious but not dead. A bright red stain radiated from his chest in a jagged circle.

  I turned and headed to the parking lot, wanting to come face-to-face with the man who had tried to kill me this morning. Keegan saw me and grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, pulling me back, away from the confusion. He gestured toward Monty, his voice soft.

  “He look familiar to you?”

  “Monty Redburn,” I said. “He tried to kill me this morning in a vehicular homicide. He very nearly succeeded.”

  “I know it’s Redburn. But how do you know? What’s your connection with him?”

  “Before today, not much. He’s been tailing me, trying to scare me. Yesterday, he lured me out to the cemetery and then pushed me into an open grave.”

  “And you didn’t report that incident to the police?”

  “It’s part of an ongoing investigation,” I said, shrugging. “I survived. I managed to get his prints, and I asked Duane to run them.”

  Keegan grunted angrily.

  “Sometimes I like to know the identity of the people who are trying to kill me,” I added sarcastically. “Surely that’s not a crime.”

  “No,” he said. “But avoiding the police when you know you’re being sought for questioning isn’t exactly what I call being ‘mutually cooperative.’”

  “You think I’ve been obstructing justice, Keegan?”

  He rolled his eyes and let go of my sleeve.

  “I think you’ve been biting the hand that feeds you,” he replied.

  Then he stalked off, leaving me to feel guilty, knowing that in a way, I had done just that.

  I watched all of the activity for a while, standing on the fringe of the crowd, watching as first one ambulance was loaded with the still-unconscious body of Alan Bennet and then another with the angry and struggling Monty Redburn. Once both vehicles sped away, I sought out Detective Sollie, who was filling out some paperwork near his car. I approached him carefully and apologized for avoiding them the first half of the day. He seemed distracted, but not angry the way Keegan had been.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I inquired gingerly.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “How do you guys know Monty Redburn? Why did his name send off red flags when we tried to run his prints?”

  “You’re shameless, Webber,” I heard from behind me. I turned to see Keegan, hands on hips, lips pursed. He seemed irritated with me, but no longer truly angry.

  “He’s been fencing some of Marion Smythe’s jewelry around town,” Sollie replied, obviously unaware of the dynamic between me and Keegan. “Because of his prior criminal history and his connection with the Smythes, he was at the top of the list of suspects.”

  “Do you think that he and Alan and Judith all worked together to kill Wendell Smythe?”

  The two men looked at each other, then Keegan exhaled slowly.

  “Redburn’s got an ironclad alibi for the time of the murder,” Keegan said. “He may have been involved peripherally, but he definitely wasn’t there the day the man was killed.”

  “So it couldn’t have been him I heard in the bathroom?”

  The men looked off into the distance.

  “Nope,” said Sollie. “Wasn’t there. That’s for certain.”

  Keegan shook his head, confusion evident in his face.

  “He’s a low-life scum with a long list of priors and a brief work history with the Smythes,” he said. “Beyond that, how he fits into this whole thing is anybody’s guess.”

  Forty-Two

  I needed to think. All I really wanted was to go somewhere all alone for a little peace and quiet while I sorted out my thoughts. But I still had to pick up Harriet and deliver her back to the train station. Looking at my watch, I decided that if I could find her cousin’s house without too much trouble, I would be able to get Harriet to the station in time for the next train, and then I could h
ead for Fairmount Park or someplace where I could take a walk and clear my head.

  The cousin lived in a small town in Montgomery County on a main highway. I found the road without too much trouble, and I finally slowed down at the 8100 block, stopping to turn in at a little red mailbox marked 8127.

  The driveway dipped down to a small but very pleasant tree-covered lot with a tiny Cape Cod house perched in the center. The front door was wide open, so I parked my car and headed up the walk, noting the lovely geraniums blooming on each side of the front porch. When I arrived at the door, however, I nearly ran right into it. To my surprise, I realized the door wasn’t really open at all. It was shut tight and painted to look as if it were open.

  My knock brought Harriet to the door, laughing when I told her what I’d done. As she led me into the house, she told me to be careful, that it was only a hint of things to come.

  She wasn’t kidding. As we walked through a series of tiny rooms, we were assaulted on all sides by a sort of trompe l’oeil nightmare. There were “windows” painted into walls, furniture painted to look like animals, walls that seemed not to exist at all. Harriet led me to the kitchen, which was done up like ancient ruins, painted with pillars and statues and crumbling walls, fallen to reveal lovely gardens and more statues “outside.”

  I suppose it could’ve been lovely were it not so overdone. But then I looked at Harriet’s cousin, the woman sitting at the table, and I realized it probably suited her perfectly. She looked warm and friendly but eccentric in a paint-speckled shirt and overalls. She wore a baseball cap on her head over wiry gray curls, and she had the weather-lined face of someone who had been many places and seen many things.

  Harriet introduced Lorraine as her “first cousin, once removed,” and the woman rose to shake my hand and offer me some coffee. I glanced at my watch and then reluctantly accepted. We needed to be on our way in ten minutes or so if Harriet wanted to make her train.