by Mary Ellis
“So in addition to getting DNA samples, your lunch went well?”
“Couldn’t have gone better. She thinks I still cry myself to sleep over her. But don’t worry, I don’t. Your partner is no longer an idiot.”
The waitress thumped plates onto their table. “See, folks, I told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Beth gaped at sandwiches so huge, they could feed a village. “Apparently you and I have reversed roles. But our symbiotic relationship might not last much longer—one case and done. Assuming Nate doesn’t fire me, he needs PIs in Natchez. Even once the gossip dies down, Jack will hobble me here indefinitely. I can’t expect the chief or you to run interference forever.” She compressed her triple-decker sandwich and took a bite.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The future is in God’s hands, not Detective Lejeune’s. In the meantime, let’s concentrate on these sandwiches. This meal will cost the company at least fifteen bucks.”
FIFTY-THREE
Friday
For three days Michael remained more or less in the loop with Natchez PD and Special Agent Jessica Fonteneau of the FBI’s Financial Crimes Division. Nate assigned Beth to a missing person case, which got her away from the office for a few days. When Michael’s partner returned from Nashville, where she’d gone to track down the twenty-year-old woman, he finally had something good to report.
Beth walked into the office just as Maxine was leaving for the day. “I’m b-a-ack,” she crowed. “Did anybody miss me?”
“I’ve been counting the hours, dear heart.” Maxine squeezed Beth’s arm on her way out the door. “I just made a fresh pitcher of tea.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Michael said, hiding how much he really had missed her. “Tell me your news first. Did you find the missing college kid before she could do much damage?”
Beth rolled her eyes. “The girl wasn’t covering her tracks very well. She went to Nashville for a bachelorette party. At least she hadn’t eloped with her boyfriend as her parents had feared. Trouble is, she took her grandfather’s credit card along with her. She decided to pay for a suite at the Grand Ole Opry Hotel and wine and dine the bride-to-be and other girls.” Beth pulled up a chair next to Michael’s desk.
“And she thought this was a good idea?” He suppressed a grin.
“Her grandfather just had hip replacement surgery and will be out of commission for a while. Miss Bridesmaid thought she could spend to her heart’s desire and then report the credit card stolen. The bank would issue a new card and remove the charges from Grandpa’s account. Aren’t cards being replaced after each and every security breach?”
“It doesn’t quite work that way.”
“I know it and you know it, but not this bridesmaid. She didn’t know her mother was monitoring Grandpa’s account online. A few months ago, he’d been duped by a fraudulent GoFundMe scheme. When I tracked the girl down in Nashville, her parents had already cancelled the Visa card. They made arrangements to pay the hotel what she owed, but Miss Bridesmaid will be paying them back long after this wedding is a sweet memory.”
“Once again, justice is served by Price Investigations.” Michael offered Beth a high five. “I also have news, but I’m hungry. Want me to tell you while we get something to eat?”
Beth leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “As appealing as that sounds, I’m having dinner with my parents. They deserve a better explanation than the one they got the night you sprang me from jail. I told them they would hear the whole story when I got back to town.”
“You did nothing wrong, Elizabeth. How’s your dad?”
“They’re still waiting for bloodwork results, but so far the second doctor agrees with the benign diagnosis. What did you hear from the police?”
“McNeil received the crime lab’s results: Miss Stewart’s DNA and fingerprints didn’t match those found at the scene.” He paused to let this sink in. “Whoever was with Reverend Dean when he died isn’t in the law enforcement data banks. But the FBI arrested Rachel at her home in Jackson on charges of illegal wire transfers, conspiracy to commit fraud, and more. She’s being transported to Natchez as we speak. Apparently, she’s willing to cooperate with homicide detectives in exchange for a reduced sentence on federal charges.”
“They won’t let her off, will they?”
“Absolutely not, but if she helps catch the murderer, maybe she won’t die in jail. The FBI has located another Mississippi church that suffered a significant loss. D.K. Financials had been planning to wipe out every account they had access to, but in the meantime they were helping themselves to three accounts for current overhead.”
“Three victims, not just Paul and Reverend Huff of Hattiesburg?” Beth asked.
“Special Agent Jessica Fonteneau spoke with a finance director in Greenville, Clay Whitfield. According to their last statement, his church suffered a fifty percent loss of principal. Mr. Whitfield is willing to help the FBI catch all the crooked fish.”
“And Elliott Rayburn? Will he go to jail?”
“Most likely not. The investigation is far from over, but apparently Spare the Children had been turning over seventy-five percent of monies raised to orphanages in Nigeria, Bangladesh, Rwanda, and other sub-Saharan countries. Rayburn merely took a healthy percentage for his services.”
Beth looked sick to her stomach. “Does everyone have their hand out these days?”
“The Internet makes it so much easier to steal. The person collecting money door-to-door for charity used to be one of your neighbors. Now all you see is an email or a slick website.”
“Where does this leave us? Should we tell Alice that Natchez PD has booted us off the case?”
“When the investment sting takes place, we’ll both be there as consultants to the police. Rachel gave Special Agent Fonteneau the impression that she trusted me. I’m not sure why.”
“Maybe she regrets breaking off the engagement.”
“Nah, she’s just scared and thinks I’ll be her champion. If it helps to close the case, I’m willing to play along.”
“It will give you closure at long last.” Beth rose to her feet. “Why don’t we pay Alice a visit tomorrow? If we let her know what’s going on, maybe she can start sleeping better.”
“Good idea. Right now, why don’t you call your mom and wrangle me a dinner invitation for tonight? I’d like to be your champion with your parents over this arrest debacle.”
Beth ducked her head, but not before Michael spotted her blush. “Fine, but if rabbit stew and stuffed turnips are on the menu, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
FIFTY-FOUR
When Michael picked up Beth on Sunday morning, they drove to the station in relative silence. Alice hadn’t been available Saturday, so this was the first time they had seen each other since dinner with the Kirbys Friday night. Neither of them knew quite what to say. Michael had explained the reason for Lejeune’s overreaction and Beth’s innocence in the trumped-up charges. Rita and Stan had insisted they never doubted their daughter’s innocence for a moment, which was reassuring to hear, but some of Rita’s thinly veiled comments were harder to take in stride: “Seems to me like you two are a perfect match, and I’m so glad Betsy found a nice man for a change.”
“We’re work partners, Ma,” Beth had said. “Can’t you let Michael enjoy his dinner in peace?”
“Of course, dear. I was referring to your job. I never did like Jack Lejeune.”
When they pulled into the parking lot for Natchez PD, Beth asked, “Any idea what we’re walking into? What did Chris say on the phone?”
Michael turned off the ignition. “It was Lejeune who called. He said to come to the conference room and to not be late. We’ll be briefed by the FBI agent in charge.”
“Does he know I’m coming?” asked Beth, half inside the car, half out. “The last time we met, his hand was on his weapon.”
“He does, so stop worrying.”
Michael locked their firearms in the trunk. On
ce they were buzzed in, he led the way down the hall with Beth on his heels. Chris McNeil and a uniformed officer rose to their feet when they entered the conference room, followed by Lejeune and a second detective. A thirtyish, well-dressed woman remained seated but smiled politely. FBI Special Crimes, he thought.
“Come in, Mr. Preston, Miss Kirby. This is Special Agent Jessica Fonteneau from Baton Rouge. She’s taken over the investment scam case and will be assisting our Homicide Department today. You already know Jack, and this is Lieutenant Baxter and Officer Pratt. Mike Preston and Beth Kirby work for Price Investigations here in town,” McNeil said to the agent.
“How do you do, ma’am,” said Mike.
“Thank you for letting us join the investigation, Agent Fonteneau.” Beth smiled at her and then at the other gentlemen. She managed to avoid eye contact with Jack.
After almost everyone shook hands and sat down, Agent Fonteneau was first to speak. “I want to thank you for giving our team a great starting point, Mr. Preston, Miss Kirby. We’ve already obtained warrants to seize funds later today before any money can be wired out of the country.”
“Later today?” Michael asked, hoping a consultant was allowed to ask questions.
Chief McNeil took the floor. “We don’t want to tip anyone off too soon. Miss Stewart agreed to let us record the phone conversation between her and her boss at D.K. Financials last night. When they meet this afternoon, she will be wearing a wire.”
“Rachel will be your bait?” asked Michael.
“Yes. She agreed, provided less-serious federal charges are brought against her.” Agent Fonteneau retook control of the briefing. “Would you care to hear her conversation with George Roush?”
“You bet we would,” said Beth, with plenty of enthusiasm.
Lejeune cleared his throat but kept his attention on Agent Fonteneau as she switched on the machine.
“George? It’s Rachel.” The voice of Michael’s ex-fiancée filled the room. “Hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Late isn’t the problem. Care to explain where you were today? I didn’t appreciate your telling my assistant you had a head cold. Next time, talk to me personally if you’ll be away from the office. We’re getting down to the wire.”
Michael caught Beth’s expression from the corner of his eye. She was practically levitating from her chair.
“I took several remedies to lessen the symptoms,” said Rachel in a nasally voice. “They seem to be working. I’ll be back in the office on Monday, bright eyed and bushy tailed.” She coughed, perhaps for effect.
“What is the matter with you? I need you here tomorrow. I don’t care if it is a Sunday!” Roush thundered. No way will this guy win any boss-of-the-year awards, Michael thought.
“There’s a slight problem, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I got a call from the finance director of a Presbyterian church in Greenville. Unfortunately, I gave Clay Whitfield my cell number when I set up the account. What a mistake. He’s screaming about his church’s money. He says he’ll contact Mississippi’s attorney general if we don’t return their initial investment in full.”
Roush uttered a foul word that revealed much about his professional demeanor with employees. “And you said what, exactly?”
“Relax. What can the attorney general do? Have one of his minions send a form letter asking for clarification of the complaint?”
Rachel’s choice of words indicated D.K. might have received just such a request in the past. “I told Whitfield I would bring him an updated statement showing their losses were a temporary glitch and that the church has nothing to worry about. I have an appointment with him at two. That’s why I won’t be in the office until Monday.”
“I can’t believe you sound so lackadaisical about this! The attorney general can cause serious problems for us, which we certainly don’t need.”
“That’s why I’m buying us more time. That financial director likes me. The guy stared at my legs during our entire appointment.”
“Considering his church is kicking up a fuss, let’s not depend on your legs to prevent disaster. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll go talk to him together.”
There was only the briefest hesitation before his sly ex-fiancée answered. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’m already in Greenville. I drove up to spend the night with a friend. I haven’t seen any of my sorority sisters in ages—”
“Rachel! What were you thinking?” Roush peppered his question with additional profanities. “We have the biggest score ever on the line, and you want to touch base with an old college pal? I thought you were sick!”
“The medication is working, and I might never see my friend again.” Rachel’s drawl was sticky sweet. “Besides, we have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“Hold on a second,” snapped Roush. “According to Google, there’s a coffee shop within a mile of Mr. Whitfield’s house. I’ll meet you at one fifteen and we’ll talk to him together. No arguments, Rachel. Forget about your girlfriend and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need your A-game tomorrow to keep this finance director from ruining everything we’ve worked for.”
The line went dead, and Special Agent Fonteneau switched off the machine. “Today the FBI and the Natchez PD will bring their A-games as well. Rachel will be wearing a wire when she meets her boss and also during their appointment with the finance director. We’ll get the evidence we need to convict Roush on fraud charges. Miss Stewart requested your presence, Mr. Preston, in case things turn dicey. For some reason she trusts you. You and Miss Kirby will ride in the surveillance van with Natchez PD. I’ll ride with Chief McNeil and Detective Lejeune. If there are no additional questions, shall we hit the road? We don’t want to be late.”
It was a rhetorical question. Agent Fonteneau immediately shoved her folders into her briefcase and strode out the door with the officers at her heels. Michael and Beth exchanged a glance and followed the entourage into the back lot, where the unmarked van sat idling, the techs already in place.
During the drive to Greenville, the van driver played a radio talk show so loudly conversation was impossible. For that, Michael was grateful. He had no idea why Rachel trusted him or thought he would somehow be on her side. When the surveillance team was in place near the coffee shop, the driver turned down the radio and closed his eyes to wait.
Beth scooted closer to him on the backseat. “Sorry if my mom made you uncomfortable at dinner the other night.”
Michael smiled. “I’m fine with your mother. In fact, I really like your parents.”
“Embarrassing my friends, especially if they happen to be male, is Rita’s personal A-game.”
“Would it help if I shared some of my painful moments at the hands of Margo Preston? But you must promise never to divulge a word you’re about to hear.”
Beth nodded, placed her left hand over her heart, and lifted her right hand as though in court. “I swear,” she mouthed.
Michael outlined the highlights from his days of science fair competitions and blue ribbons for hamster 4-H projects. His mother never understood that those accomplishments weren’t quite as newsworthy as gridiron achievements. Before Michael launched into one particularly dreadful article in their church’s newsletter, the cop motioned for them to be silent. The two technicians who had been dozing with headsets on sprang into action as Rachel and an older man entered the coffee shop. In the background, Michael heard the din of conversation, but the microphone picked up the targeted dialogue perfectly. In short order Rachel’s voice filled the surveillance van.
“He’s expecting us at two o’clock, Mr. Roush. There was no reason to meet me here. I know how to handle a client.”
“Like you reassured Paul Dean?” said George Roush.
“Pastor Dean must have been suffering from depression or else—”
“We can’t afford any more mistakes, so stop talking and listen.” Roush barked the words in a harsh whisper. “You will follow my instructions to the letter. Everything we’ve w
orked for is at stake.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Wait until Whitfield invites us in and we’re sitting down in his living room. Then ask for coffee. If he says he has none, ask for tea or something cold. Once he brings out some refreshment, send him back to the kitchen for sugar or cream. You must think of something that’s not on the tray. Can you handle that, Rachel?”
“Of course I can, but what exactly are you planning?” She sounded scared, something Michael had never known her to be.
“While he’s out of the room, I’ll put enough tranquilizers in his cup to send him to dreamland.” Roush emitted a scornful laugh.
“There’s no need to drug him, Mr. Roush. I know I can buy us the time we need by talking to him.”
“We can’t take that chance. Within twenty-four hours, money from our targeted accounts will transfer beyond the reach of anyone in the U.S. and we’ll be on a flight out of here. If Whitfield calls the attorney general, you and I will go to prison for a long time.”
“What if Mr. Whitfield wakes up before the funds transfer?”
“You really are a little ninny, aren’t you?” Roush snorted. “The drug will only last a couple hours, but it’ll be long enough to get him to the garage, where the disgraced finance director decides he can’t live with his shame.”
Two or three seconds of silence passed, while Michael and everyone in the van held their breath. “Are you going to kill him…hang him like you did Paul Dean?” Rachel asked.
“Keep your voice down. Of course I’m not going to hang him. How would that look? When Whitfield falls asleep, we’ll put him behind the wheel of his car and turn on the ignition. Carbon monoxide should take care of the rest as long as the garage door is closed. Let’s get going. Leave your car here and ride with me. I want to be early to catch him off guard.”
The sound of boisterous children nearby obscured part of Rachel’s reply. “…kill not one, but two preachers and still live with yourself? You’ve never even met the man.”
