Linking it to a congressman running for reelection? Gold.
Jenn stood, glanced over at their editor’s office. “Wish me luck…”
She knocked on his open door. “Remember when you told me the only way I was getting a byline was if a local politician committed the murder?”
“What about it?” he asked, barely sparing her a glance. Apparently she was back to being invisible.
“I have it on good authority that the police just served a search warrant for Congressman Parnell’s bank records in relationship to the murder of his campaign worker.”
Larry looked up, his full attention on her now. “How did you come by that information?”
“Someone from his office. I can’t ask her to confirm it. Sort of a deal we struck when I asked her to pass on any interesting news my way.”
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving her. “You think it’s legit?”
“I think the guy’s in the middle of a huge reelection campaign, and for the police to even be looking that direction brings up all kinds of possibilities we never imagined.”
He chewed on the end of his pen, his gaze locked on her as though contemplating his decision. “Go. Find out what you can. I’d like to know what his reaction is. And take a photographer.”
She nodded then returned to her desk. “I’m in,” she told Taryn.
“Finally!”
Finally.
THIRTY-ONE
In the end, Casey and Al walked away with several file boxes filled with financial records, a flash drive of the computer copies of same, Trudy’s belongings from her emptied desk, and assurances from Parnell and his office manager that his staff would be en route to the police department once his attorney arrived.
At the Hall, they started sifting through the records, and Casey wondered if they’d ever make sense of anything. At the bottom of the box he found the first printout, given to him by Carlotta when they’d asked her to separate all of the checks written to the vendor Margie Foulke. He placed the dozen or so papers on his desk, looking at the check amounts, most no more than a few hundred dollars, definitely nothing that stood out. But there were an awful lot of them, and he pulled out his calculator and started adding them up. No sooner had he entered the last one, looked at the total, when Bishop and Edwards walked into the office. “Kellog,” Bishop said. “You heard, right?”
“Heard what?”
“Your security guard. The one from your video who’s apparently not a security guard anymore. His print matched up to the Ghirardelli robbery.”
Casey saw the figure and did a double take. “Son of a…” He looked up, saw Al watching him. “I think I found the hit money.”
“Where?”
“The checks written to our vendor. Margie Foulke. Guess how much they add up to?”
“Ten K?”
“Exactly.”
Bishop walked up to Casey, bent down so that he looked Casey right in the face. “Did you even hear a word I said? Your security guard. The print matched. You did it.”
“Did what?”
“Possibly caught the Landmark Strangler.”
“The Strangler?” Casey started from his chair. He wanted in on the arrest. “Are you going to pick him up on it?”
Al put his hand on Casey’s shoulder, keeping him in his seat. “Easy, College Boy. Let him talk.”
Bishop said, “Wish we could. He walked through an open-air mall and touched a banister. Hardly enough to hook him on murder. In other words, it gives us nothing, just like you’ve got nothing.”
“I’m a bit confused. Then why all the excitement?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Casey waited for Bishop to finish.
“Two alleged robbery attempts and your security guard’s fingerprint shows up? One, he’s no longer a security guard, and that video shows him wearing what looks like a uniform beneath that windbreaker. What better way to blend into the background than be the guy who’s supposed to be watching out for you, right? Two, you’re the one who said those robberies didn’t look like robberies. So let’s say he is the Strangler and those are failed attempts. Then he’s gonna strike again. And we’ve got nothing to hold him on but a video showing him in a moment of anger threatening a past victim.”
“The print,” Casey pointed out.
“A mall. Anyone has a right to be there. Doesn’t mean he attacked the girls.”
“What about a photo lineup?”
“Already ran one by them. They can’t ID him. We’re sitting on him now. We’re gonna put him to bed at night and get him up in the morning. He so much as sneezes, we’re gonna know about it.”
Lieutenant Timms’s office door opened, and he and the captain walked in. When the captain’s gaze landed on Casey, a sinking feeling settled into his gut. He recalled Al’s warning about threatening Parnell’s office with the attention from the press and knew this was it.
“Sergeant Kellog,” the captain said. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
Casey was certain he’d misheard. “Sir?”
“The possible break on the Strangler case. Sergeant Bishop informs me it was your lead on an older case that brought everything together.”
“Teamwork, sir. And it’s far from solved.”
“Even so, I just want you to know your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you.”
Timms gave a slight nod toward Casey before following the captain from the room.
“Wow,” Casey said to Bishop. “That was the last thing I expected. Thanks.”
“You deserve the credit,” Bishop said. “Let’s hope it’s a solid lead.”
Al gave a slight laugh. “Especially if the other case goes south.”
“You got that right,” Casey said as his phone rang. He picked it up to answer, thinking if Parnell complained about the way he handled the search warrant request in his office, he was toast. “Kellog. Homicide.”
The department secretary. “Congressman Parnell and his attorney are here.”
“Be right there.” Casey told Al, “Guess who’s here.”
“That was fast. I was figuring they’d try to delay for a few days at least.” He picked up the file folder containing the text messages. “Let’s go do this.”
Parnell’s attorney, a gray-haired man in his early sixties, introduced himself as Jared Monroe, not that he needed to. Casey had seen Monroe on other high-profile cases. As expected from a lawyer of his caliber, he was a sharp dresser, his charcoal suit and blue silk tie probably costing more than what Casey made in a month. Maybe two months. He wasn’t even about to factor in the cost of the tasseled loafers.
Casey and then Al shook hands with him.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Monroe said after they were seated on their respective sides of the table in an interview room. “I understand you believe that Congressman Parnell’s office is somehow connected to the death of Trudy Salvatori, a fact we can assure you isn’t true. That being said, perhaps if you described to us what it is you found, or why you feel Mr. Parnell’s campaign financial records are of importance, we can clear his name and be of some assistance to your investigation.”
Casey glanced at Al, who gave a slight nod. “Mr. Parnell, thank you for coming down.” Casey opened his portfolio. “What sort of relationship did you have with Trudi Salvatori?”
“Coworkers. Friends. We’ve known each other a few years from working on my campaign in the past, so I suppose you could say we were closer than most.”
“How close?”
“Friendly. Joking.”
“Did you see her outside of work?”
“No. Not unless it was at some campaign function. A fund-raiser dinner. That sort of thing.”
Al rested his hand on the manila folder, giving Casey his cue. “Did you sh
are text messages with her?”
Parnell hesitated, then, “Yes.”
“Do you recall any of them?” Casey asked.
Again that hesitation. “We flirted.” His attorney asked, “Where are we going with this?”
Al opened the folder, turned it so that it was facing Parnell and his attorney. “Mr. Parnell. Do you recognize these texts?”
His attorney reached over, pulled the folder closer, then picked up the top page. He was too much of a professional to show any outward expression. Congressman Parnell, on the other hand, said, “These are just harmless flirtations.”
“Are they?” Al asked. “I’m sure your constituents would feel the same way come voting time. Or maybe not.”
Jared Monroe dropped the sheet into the folder, slammed it actually. “What is it you’re implying about my client?”
“That he was involved in an affair with Trudy Salvatori.”
“That’s preposterous,” Monroe said.
“Is it, Mr. Parnell?” Al asked.
“It’s okay,” Parnell said to his attorney. “We weren’t sleeping together. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?” Al asked.
“My first election campaign, we, uh—It just happened. And we promised each other no more. And nothing happened. Those texts are just that. Harmless flirtations.”
He seemed believable, Casey thought. But that’s probably what made him a good politician. Making people think he was sincere and caring. “What would happen to your campaign if this got out?”
Monroe started to speak, but Parnell waved him off. “I’m running a strong campaign. For the most part, what happened between Trudy and me was a long time ago.”
Just like a politician, Casey thought. Double speak. “For the most part?”
“We may have…gone out a time or two recently. But that doesn’t mean I killed her.”
“Did anyone in your office know about the affair?”
“No one did.”
“Did Trudy ever threaten to tell anyone?”
“What? No. Never.”
“Mr. Parnell. Do you know a woman named Margie Foulke?”
“The name’s not familiar at all.”
“She’s a vendor on your books. For Internet ads.”
“I don’t handle any of that. Trudy did. Why?”
Monroe said, “What are you getting at?”
Casey kept his gaze focused on the congressman’s face. “As I explained to you at your office, I believe someone paid Darrell Fife to kill Trudy Salvatori.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it as his attorney put up his hand and said, “A contract killing? The idea that something like that could come out of Congressman Parnell’s office is preposterous.”
“And yet,” Casey said, “we found the money in Darrell Fife’s home. Money that was picked up from Bay Trust Mutual by Margie Foulke, a woman who has cashed numerous checks drawn on the congressman’s campaign accounts.”
Parnell shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s time to shut up,” Monroe said.
“No. Because I didn’t kill her. And I didn’t pay anyone to kill her. My God. This is a nightmare.”
Casey asked, “Are you certain that no one knew about your affair?”
He nodded. “Positive. We were very careful. And there’s no one on my staff now who was around back then.”
Jared Monroe placed his hand on Parnell’s shoulder then looked right at Casey. “Are you charging my client with anything?”
“No, sir. We’re conducting a murder investigation.”
“What makes you think this money came from Mr. Parnell’s accounts?”
“This.” Casey pulled the accounting sheets that Carlotta had printed out. “These are checks written to Margie Foulke for Internet ads. They add up to exactly ten thousand dollars.”
“A coincidence.”
“Except this same woman was seen exchanging smaller bills for a packet of one-hundred-dollar bills that amounted to exactly ten thousand dollars, the same amount we believe was paid to Darrell Fife.” He pulled out a photograph of the bundled money. “This is the money found in Darrell Fife’s belongings. These are the banker’s initials and the date she gave the money to Margie Foulke. She not only identified her by name, but recalled that she’s the same woman who cashed checks drawn on the congressman’s campaign account.”
“Then she was mistaken,” Monroe said.
“We also have a video showing her accepting the same ten-thousand-dollar bundle from the bank teller.”
“We’d like to see it.”
Casey glanced at Al, who said, “Give me about two minutes. I’ll get it and a computer we can view it on.”
It was more like five minutes, and Casey grew uncomfortable every time Parnell’s attorney glanced at his watch, certain he was going to drag the congressman out of there, thereby ending their interrogation. But he didn’t, and Al finally returned with a laptop and the CD from the bank. He popped it in, then fast-forwarded through the video until the moment when the woman in dark glasses entered the bank. He paused the picture, then turned the computer screen so that it faced Parnell and his attorney. “The woman just walking into the door,” Al said, hitting Play. “Do you recognize her?”
Parnell nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
“So you do know Margie Foulke? Or possibly as Marcie Foulke?”
“Who? I—I told you, I have no idea who that is.”
Al stood then leaned over, pointing at the computer screen. “That is Margie Foulke.”
“That,” Parnell said, “is Trudy Salvatori.”
THIRTY-TWO
Casey stared at the woman in dark glasses and the hat on the video, certain he’d misunderstood what Congressman Parnell said. Or that Congressman Parnell had misunderstood what they were asking about the woman. “You’re sure?” Casey asked, just to clarify. “That’s Trudy Salvatori?”
“Of course I am,” Parnell said. “She worked in my campaign office and, well—I’d recognize her anywhere. Why? What does Trudy have to do with this Margie Foulke you keep asking about?”
“That,” Casey said, “is a very good question.”
Al directed his fatherly smile toward Parnell’s lawyer. “So you understand, Mr. Monroe, why we have questions about Congressman Parnell’s dealings with Trudy? This video is rather incriminating. She’s picking up the ten thousand dollars we found on the killer.”
“Incriminating for whom?” Monroe said, pushing back his chair and standing. “Trudy Salvatori? Are you accusing her of paying for her own hit? Unless you’re charging my client with anything, we’re done here.”
“What the hell?” Al asked after they left. “How did we not see that?”
Casey eyed the picture of the woman in the bank video. “One, she’s wearing a dark glasses and a distinctive hat that belongs to her neighbor. Two, she looks nothing like the dead version of her.”
“Three, our whole murder investigation just took a nosedive.” Al closed the laptop then gathered his file folders. “Good thing our suspect is dead. We’d be kicking him out of jail right about now.”
“Maybe we’re thinking too deep on this one,” Casey said as they walked back to Homicide. “Let’s say that is her getting that money—”
“A safe bet at this point.”
“What we don’t know is why. She had the means and motive to skim money from the campaign accounts to pay off a blackmailer. Prior experience, familiarity, and access to the money. Create a fake name, write out a lot of low-level checks. Who’s going to suspect her? Maybe it was simple greed. Someone caught her in the act.”
“And what?” Al said. “Paid someone to kill her with the money she skimmed? That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Unless they decided to keep the money for themselves
.”
“Then why give all ten K to Darrell Fife?”
A good question, Casey thought. “Maybe while she was busy skimming money, she caught an even bigger embezzler, and he paid to have her killed?”
“With the money she withdrew herself?”
“What if someone was blackmailing her about her affair with Parnell? She—and even Parnell—would have a very good reason not to want that info out.”
“Again,” Al said, “why did the money she embezzled and carefully exchanged into hundreds end up in the hands of the person who killed her? I seriously doubt she would pay someone for her own murder.”
“Okay, I haven’t worked out that part yet. Maybe she was dying and wanted her husband—”
Al stopped at the door to their office. “Seriously? You have how many degrees, and that’s what you come up with?”
“Just throwing it out there.”
“Might throw you out there, you come up with more crap like that.” Al opened the door to Homicide, saw the office filled with investigators, standing room only, with the lieutenant at the front addressing them. “Clearly there have been developments,” Al whispered as he and Casey slipped in then walked toward the back, standing against the wall, since Timms was in midspeech.
Timms looked up from the sheet, saw them. “Good. You’re here. Someone pass back a couple of op plans for Krug and Kellog. Note the cover sheet says ‘Ghirardelli 211’ on it. There is nothing on here that states it’s anything beyond the robbery report taken from our victim at Ghirardelli Square. The last thing we need is for the press to get wind of this, have it plastered on the morning news, and thereby ruin any chance we have of seeing what this guy is up to.”
Edwards stepped forward. “Page three. Decoys. On the list, Cooper, Brendan, Jones, and Parker,” he said, naming female sergeants from Property and Vice. “They’ll be splitting shifts. Two in the morning, two in the evening. This should get us some round-the-clock coverage if we see him getting out to case his next victim, and if we need to switch them out. We don’t want to use the same one each time, should he start noticing that all the female joggers look alike.”
The Last Good Place Page 19
