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Chapter 35
A BACKGROUND ON THE NAME Leslie Shaw was unsuccessful, but it figured that our unsub would choose a unisex name.
The address on file with Golden State Bank and Trust was about an hour and a half from Simpson’s house and outside of Grafton’s jurisdiction. Jack and I were on the way there now with Grafton following behind us. I was surprised Jack let him tag along, even if the man was in his own car. This case belonged to the FBI, but Grafton was determined to help. Maybe he was feeling bad about what he had put Paige through, or it could have been as simple as just wanting to find the killer.
We left Zach and Paige at Simpson’s to analyze his computer, see if they could get anything else. They’d also be on hand if anything turned up that needed a quick response back in Canyon Country.
I couldn’t help thinking, though, that the targets our unsub chose might not have anything to do with Simpson’s ledger. It could just be a fluke or even meant to throw us off. And really, until we had more to go on, I couldn’t see Jack sending officers or agents from the local field office to check on each of the men on the list. Not to mention, with it dating back so many years, there would be far too many people to track down.
Jack pulled the car to the curb in front of a vacant patch of land surrounded by a chain-link fence.
“This is it?” I asked.
We should have checked the address on our phones first, looked at the location from Google Street View. But we had been so happy to have a lead that we’d run with it. Of course, I wasn’t going to mention any of this out loud. The oversight would become my fault if I did, or at least that’s where the blame would land.
Jack lowered his window and lit up a cigarette.
Grafton parked behind us, got out, and walked over to Jack’s side of the car.
“Dead end here,” Grafton said. He coughed, likely due to a plume of smoke from Jack’s cigarette hitting him in the face. “But I got a call on the way here. My people found a stash of date-rape drugs at Simpson’s bar. What do you suggest we do now?”
Jack had yet to say a word since he’d parked. He kept up a stream of exhaled smoke, however.
Grafton leaned down to look across at me in the passenger seat. I wasn’t going to say anything.
One more drag on the cig and an exhale, then Jack spoke. “We go to the branch and see if they have footage of our unsub from the day and time the account was opened. They’ll also have a record of the name of the teller who opened the account, so we’ll know what wicket to watch.” Another calm puff on his cigarette. Jack didn’t seem fazed in the least that we’d driven an hour and a half and, as of yet, had nothing to show for our trouble. That wasn’t like Jack. He must have planned to hit the bank in the first place.
“All right, and while you’re doing that?” Grafton prompted Jack for direction.
“You just make sure a copy of those ledgers gets to Nadia Webber.”
“That was the other part of the message. The list has already been sent to your girl.”
Jack pressed his lips together. “Hmm.”
I’d worked by Jack’s side for the better part of two years, and I sensed impatience in his hum. He was probably wondering why we hadn’t heard from Nadia yet.
“There have to be a lot of names in that ledger,” I said, offering justification to any seeming delay Jack may have seen on Nadia’s part.
Grafton looked from me to Jack. “What’s the deal with the ledgers we found anyway? You mentioned they could be a hit list for the killer. How? We found them at the bar intact.”
Jack raised his brows. “She could have taken a picture of the list with her phone.”
A flush touched the detective’s cheeks.
“If she did that she likely wouldn’t have gotten all sixteen years that were recorded, as that would have taken far too long. And we don’t even know that she had access to the ledgers,” I said, my doubts rising to the surface. “She might just be aware of who Simpson serviced from watching him over the years.”
“Nope.” Jack shook his head. “If that were the case, Simpson would have mentioned she was there often.”
One step forward, two steps back.
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Chapter 36
PAIGE STOOD BEHIND ZACH WHILE he remained in front of Simpson’s computer. The coroner had taken off with Simpson’s body, leaving behind a slew of investigators working over the house in microscopic intensity.
Zach had found an account with an online payment system called Money Buddy that made it possible to keep money in a virtual wallet, but the funds there remained untouched.
“Why transfer three thousand from a bank account and none from this account?” Paige asked.
Zach closed out the browser window he was working in and turned to face her. “Money Buddy offers secure money transfer and management. They make it easier to trace and reverse disputed transactions.”
“All right, makes sense why she left it alone, then.” All Hall’s and Simpson’s credit cards were left behind along with their identification, too. The killer clearly didn’t want it to look like robbery. But with the amount of money that had left the men’s accounts—eight thousand total—it was factoring in as at least a side benefit. “Was the killer selectively targeting only those she knew had some money, as well? But why not take the same amount from each?”
“I don’t think the amount mattered. She took what she could from both men. But I don’t think it would be a bad idea for Nadia to filter out people who have some savings once she gets the list from Grafton’s investigators,” Zach said.
Paige nodded. “Or at least those who have reliable jobs.” Paige shared their insights with Nadia and hung up. “Nadia’s got the list and is already working on it.” Paige paused. “I was just thinking, though… In Malone’s case, money wasn’t stolen. So why start now? Was it just to help with HIV meds?”
“Hard to say.” Zach faced the laptop again, and as her gaze followed his movement, her eyes went to the screen. The wastebasket icon showed paper inside.
She pointed to it. “Look.”
Zach double-clicked the icon and opened it to review the contents. The filename was “Cheers.”
“Open it, Zach.” She knew she didn’t need to tell him the next step but verbalized the directive anyhow.
A spreadsheet opened with each tab labeled by year. On each sheet was a list of names, dates, and amounts owed and settled.
“I guess we just confirmed that our unsub knows about Simpson’s list. She even tried to get rid of the evidence.”
“I’ll call Jack.”
JACK HAD JUST HUNG UP from talking to Paige when his phone rang again. He answered it on speaker. “Harper, here.”
“It’s Nadia. I looked into Clive, and he worked for a company called CL Corporation, but I’m having a hard time finding out more. I’m going to requisition his previous IRS filings and get an address for the company from his W-2. As for the ledger, Paige recommended that I search for people who had secure jobs or were well-off. I did that first and narrowed things down to those who had criminal records or complaints on file.”
“I want you to see if either Hall or Malone are in the ledger sixteen years ago,” Jack began. “I also want to know if any other names from back then show up in the last year.”
“On it.”
“Conduct thorough backgrounds on them, too.”
I wanted to ask how she was making out with the Synergies callers, but it wasn’t the appropriate time. Jack was on a roll here.
“We also need warrants for Leslie Shaw’s bank that covers account particulars and camera footage. Send them through to my phone the minute they arrive. And find out the history on the address that Leslie Shaw provided to the bank.” Jack hung up and dialed someone else without saying a word to me. Obviously
something had struck him while on the phone with Nadia.
This time the phone wasn’t on speaker. “Paige? I need you to do something for me. Was my business card there among Simpson’s things?” There was a pregnant pause, followed by Jack clenching his jaw. “I need you to check his garbage cans.”
More time passed. He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, barely missing Grafton. A few seconds later, “Son of a bitch.”
Jack hung up and looked at Grafton. “Have your people look for my business card at the bar. I need to know right away if it’s there or not.” The detective stepped back from the car and made the phone call.
Grafton hung up from his conversation and put his smartphone back in his shirt pocket and hunched over, his elbows propped on the driver’s-side window ledge. “No sign of your card. Simpson could have gotten rid of it somewhere else, though. It doesn’t mean—”
“She knows we’re in town,” Jack interrupted.
“Do you think you’re in danger?” Grafton asked.
“I’m not sure.” Jack paused, turned to Grafton, and immediately drew his head back. Obviously Grafton was too far inside the vehicle. Grafton stood up straight, my line of sight now directly at crotch level. I faced forward.
“Go back to Canyon Country,” Jack directed Grafton.
“But the bank? It’s here in town.”
“We’ve got it under control. I need you back by the crime scene and the bar. I need you on call if Agents Dawson and Miles require backup.”
“All right.” Grafton skulked off toward his department-issued sedan and pulled away.
He was gone, but my mind was stuck on the fact that our unsub likely knew about us. Whenever killers caught a whiff of the FBI, things got worse before they got better. I tried to think positively, though.
“Okay, now that she knows we’re involved, shouldn’t she be trying harder to cover her tracks?” I asked.
“Either that or she’ll lure us in. It might become more of a game to her.”
“Do you think our lives are in danger?”
Jack stared me straight in the eye. “We took that risk the second we donned a badge.”
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Chapter 37
THIS PARTICULAR BRANCH OF Golden State Bank and Trust was large and located on the corner of a bustling intersection. Jack and I entered the bank and went straight to the manager’s office. The blinds were closed in the window next to his door but there was an etching in the glass: ARTEM KOZAK, MANAGER. The door was shut, but that didn’t stop Jack from knocking and then entering right afterward.
The man behind the desk shot to his feet and gestured to a couple sitting across from him. “Excuse me, but I am with clients.” His voice got louder with each word, and he was coming toward us.
Jack held up his cred pack. I followed suit.
“FBI Special Agents Jack Harper and Brandon Fisher. We have a few questions for you.”
I glanced at his customers. I’d guess they were a married couple, even though I couldn’t see their wedding bands. They held hands, dressed similarly, and had the same hair and eye color. Even their skin tones were a perfect match. Experts would say they were “meant to be.” To me, though, too much of the same equaled boring and predictable.
The woman’s mouth gaped open. The man wrapped his arm around her, and they both stood.
“We’ll make another appointment, Artem,” the man said.
“No, please, this shouldn’t take long,” Artem beseeched his customers while keeping eye contact with Jack.
“We’re here about a serial murder investigation,” Jack said, his voice hard.
The woman gasped, and the couple cleared the doorway and were quickly heading for the bank’s exit.
Artem watched after the couple and then turned to Jack. “You better have a really good reason for what you just did.”
Jack held out his phone. “Ferris Hall.” On the screen was his DMV picture.
“What about him?” the manager asked. “I’ve never seen him in my life.”
“He was murdered.”
“Well, I didn’t do it.”
“We never said you did. Money was sent from an account he held to one at your branch.”
“Any help you can provide us would be appreciated, Mr. Kozak,” I pitched in, taming Jack’s abrupt approach.
“We need to know about the account holder.”
Artem sighed and looked at me and Jack. A few seconds later, he consented with a bowed head and gestured for us to take a seat.
I sat, but Jack remained standing. Artem shut his door again—this time he locked it—and walked behind his desk. “If you want account-holder information, I assume you have a warrant.”
“It will be coming through soon,” Jack said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you until that happens.”
Jack’s phone chimed that he had a message. He consulted the screen. “It looks like I spoke too soon.” He flashed his screen at Artem. “It’s here.” He handed his phone to me, and I referred to one of the business cards in a holder on the manager’s desk and forwarded the warrant to his e-mail. No one spoke.
I gave Jack his phone back and said to Artem, “You should have an electronic copy of the warrant in your inbox now.”
Artem made no effort to confirm that he did and crossed his arms. “What do you want, exactly?”
Jack gave him the account number, and Artem scribbled it on a pad of paper.
“I want you to confirm the name of the account holder and his or her address,” Jack said.
“Also the date it was opened,” I added.
“Fine, then.” Artem stared blankly at Jack and me before pulling out his keyboard tray. He angled the monitor so we could see what he was typing and the results. Artem still read them off to us. “The account was opened a month ago by a Leslie Shaw.” Artem paused and looked at us as if he was assessing our reactions.
He didn’t get any and continued to provide us the same address Nadia had given us.
“Do you take ID to open accounts?” I asked, figuring it was standard protocol.
“ID would have been checked, yes.”
“Well the address on that account isn’t a legitimate one. We’ve already been there, and it’s an empty lot.”
Artem blanched. “Well, I don’t know what to say. We don’t drive out to verify customers’ addresses.” The last statement was said in defense, not apology.
“We’ll need access to your camera feed for the date and time the account was opened,” Jack said.
“Why do you need the camera feed?”
“We want to see Leslie Shaw.”
“Don’t you have a database for something like that?”
Artem’s question grew stagnant until he obviously realized the stupidity of the question. A fake address was provided, and it was likely the same for the name.
“She killed someone…” Artem stated this dryly, and incredulously, as if the purpose for our being here was just starting to sink in for him.
“The investigation is open at this time and we cannot comment,” I said.
Artem swallowed visibly and nodded.
“The camera feed,” Jack prompted. “And a copy of the ID if you have it.”
“Yes, certainly.” Artem got up and tugged down on his jacket. He didn’t quite reach the door when he spun around. “Actually…” He walked back behind his desk and checked something on the computer. “This isn’t regarding the camera feed, but the teller who opened this account is very thorough. A lot of times she’ll even photocopy a customer’s ID. One second.” Artem left the room and returned a few minutes later.
The hope he had built up in his absence came crashing down the second I saw his face. Artem shook his head.
�
��No such luck this time,” he began. “The teller was told that it was unnecessary to make a copy of the ID and stopped doing so a few months back.”
“Who told her it was unnecessary?” Jack asked.
Artem diverted his eyes. “I did.”
“But you just assured us you always take ID,” I said.
“I said it would have been checked, not copied,” Artem defended himself.
“The camera feed?” Jack pressed again.
“Ah, yes. Here’s the thing with the cameras: the feed goes live to a security company who monitors it.”
“Let me guess, they are not on-site,” Jack said.
Artem shook his head, still avoiding eye contact with us. “They are located about ten minutes from here.”
“What else is there?” I asked.
“The account…” Artem’s voice sounded dry and pasty. “The teller told me that she also closed the account just about an hour ago.”
“Closed?” Jack rushed to his feet. “And you’re just telling us this now? You didn’t see it in your computer a moment ago?”
The manager shook his head. “The system updates overnight.”
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Chapter 38
SHE WATCHED THEM LEAVE the bank. Risky. Stupid. Careless. Maybe a combination of all three, but she had to find out more about this Jack Harper. Up until she’d found out about his existence, last night had been going according to plan. It had even turned out to be financially advantageous. But what excited her the most was that she had made the big time.
She’d found the business card on Clive’s dresser after she’d killed him: SUPERVISORY SPECIAL AGENT JACK HARPER.
Her work had the attention of the FBI, not just local law enforcement. Federal. She had to start covering her tracks even more carefully now, and that was why she’d gone to Los Angeles and been ready the second the bank had opened its doors. And she was still in the parking lot, back far enough that she shouldn’t be spotted, but she could see the bank’s entrance.
[Brandon Fisher FBI 05.0] Violated Page 18
