The Walshes never had treats like alfalfa cubes, but he used to pull grass to feed to Mary, and she had loved it, following him everywhere. He would find excuses to stop his chores and groom her, pick her feet, or pull her mane, imagining she enjoyed the attention. It was when she developed a cut that started to fester that was the beginning of the end. But Chris refused to think about that now.
His flashlight found a stairwell in the corner, and he hurried up the stairs. He shined the flashlight around the neatly stacked bales of hay on both sides of the loft, next to a pile of extra feed. He went over to make sure nothing was hidden behind them, then hurried back downstairs and out the feed-room door. He glanced around, but there was no sound, except for the horses’ occasional shuffling in their stalls. There was another door across the way, presumably the tack room. He opened the door, closed it behind him, and shined his flashlight on saddles, grooming boxes, and blankets, then shelves of the typical supplies—Ventrolin, Corona hoof dressing, and a white jar of Swat, a salve for wounds.
On impulse, Chris walked over, picked up the Swat, and unscrewed the lid, releasing the pungent smell, and for a second felt lost in a reverie of emotion. It all came rushing back to him then, and he couldn’t stop it if he tried. His mare had cut herself on a nail on the fence, a cut that would’ve healed if he’d been able to treat her. It had been the height of summer, hot as hell, and the horseflies were biting the mare alive, laying eggs in the wound. All it would’ve taken to heal her was Swat, which he’d seen an ad for in one of the farm newspapers. The salve only cost nine dollars then, and it would’ve fixed everything.
Walsh wouldn’t spend the money, and so one day, Chris had bought Swat himself with money he’d saved and covered Mary’s wound, before he turned her out at night. But the telltale pink stain on her neck showed Walsh that Chris had been treating the wound, and Walsh had smacked him so hard that he went flying down the aisle of the barn. Then Walsh found the Swat, dug his dirty fingers inside, and smeared two pink globs on Chris’s cheeks, like rouge.
You don’t listen, boy.
Chris hustled out of the barn and went past the chicken coop, also well maintained. Ahead lay the two outbuildings, the first a white woodshed with a peaked roof. He went to the door, which had a galvanized turn handle, but stopped before he opened it. Going inside the shed was an unlawful search, and he never would have been able to get a subpoena. The fact that Trevor was on the baseball team, lived on a farm, and was the requisite height wasn’t sufficient for probable cause.
Chris couldn’t break and enter, under the law. Undercover ATF agents weren’t allowed to engage in otherwise illegal activity, OIA. If they needed to engage in OIA, they were supposed to get prior approval, which was laughably impractical. Chris remembered the time he’d infiltrated a human-trafficking ring smuggling young women from the Philippines, and he’d been offered one of the girls. It not only revolted him, but it would’ve constituted OIA. He’d declined, coming up with what became a classic line around the office—I never paid for it in my life. He took a special pride when those traffickers were convicted and sent to jail for twenty years.
But with the outbuilding, Chris was willing to bend the rules. It wasn’t locked, so he wasn’t breaking in, and it could prevent an impending bombing. He opened the door, stepped inside, and flicked on his flashlight. He looked around for fertilizer or anything suspicious, but it looked normal, even first-rate. Just an old tractor and a Kubota front-end loader with keys in the ignition. Hanging neatly were pitchforks, brooms, shovels, a hedge clipper, blowers, and the like.
He left the shed and hustled ahead to the other outbuilding, with a similar type of door, but it was padlocked. The shed could be used to store fertilizer, it was a cool location and it would be prudent to be kept under lock and key. He didn’t smell anything but ammonium nitrate fertilizer was odorless. Chris thought about breaking the padlock, but didn’t. It would be discovered, and even so, he made a distinction between going through an open door and breaking into a locked one. It drove him crazy that law didn’t always lead to justice, and often thwarted justice, like now.
Chris needed a work-around. The situation came up on undercover operations, and the way that ATF dealt with it was through a “walled-off” operation. Most common was when he knew there were suspects driving around with contraband or explosives, but they couldn’t be stopped without blowing an agent’s cover, so the higher-ups at ATF would call the local constabulary. The locals would then make a traffic stop on the vehicle, finding a broken taillight, cracked windshield, or expired inspection sticker. It happened every day, but Chris couldn’t do it without a call to the Rabbi, and he couldn’t get it done tonight. He turned from the door, which would stay locked another day.
And he ran back toward the Jeep.
Chapter Thirty
Mindy reached for her phone and touched the screen, which came to life—3:23 A.M. She had been awake since Paul had told her that the mysterious charge at the jewelry store was for Carole’s birthday. Mindy hadn’t been sure whether she wanted to know the truth, but she had reached a decision.
She thumbed to the calendar function, scrolled to March, and scanned the entries on her calendar, color-coded: red for family, blue for Boosters, pink for Hospital Auxiliary, and green for Miscellaneous. An entry for Carole’s birthday would have been, Miscellaneous, but she scanned the entries with a sinking heart. There was no entry for Carole’s birthday.
She scrolled to April, and there was no entry for Carole’s birthday there either. She searched the calendar under “Carole,” because she remembered entering the secretary’s birthday, and the entry came up, October 23. Mindy got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Carole’s birthday wasn’t last month. It hadn’t even come yet. No amount of staring at the phone would change that fact. Paul had lied to her.
Tears came to her eyes, but she was more angry than sad. What did Paul think, that she wouldn’t check the bill? How stupid did he think she was? Even brain-dead housewives can read Visa bills. Why did she let him handle all the money in the first place? In fact, she had offered to handle their household finances more than once, but Paul felt strongly that it was his money.
Mindy wondered how many other charges had gone unnoticed. Questions flooded her brain, and she had the sickening realization that it was happening all over again. Did he take her out to eat? Who was she? Was she married? The reason he’d gotten caught last time was that the nurse had started calling him. Maybe this time he’d wised up. Practice made perfect.
Mindy’s phone blinked into darkness, and she glanced over at Paul, snoring soundly away. Then she remembered something he had said.
I thought I paid cash for that, but now I remember. I was short that day. I guess I charged it.
Mindy thought it was an odd thing to say. It got her thinking. Maybe that was his improvement, that he started paying cash. Maybe that was why she hadn’t seen any other charges. He wasn’t charging anymore. Her heartbeat quickened. It made perfect sense. If he was paying cash, he would have been using his ATM card to withdraw cash. She never checked those before because she’d been so focused on the charges.
Mindy got out of bed, padded out of the bedroom, and went back downstairs to the kitchen. She flipped on the light and went directly to the drawers in a pocket office off the kitchen, where they kept bank statements, which she had rifled through only this afternoon. She’d been looking for the wrong thing, for canceled checks and charges. She should have been looking at cash.
She went to the first stack of envelopes, which she kept in chronological order with the most recent on top. March was the first statement, and she grabbed the thick envelope, slid out the three pages, and scanned for cash withdrawals that looked unusual. Paul generally withdrew cash in two-hundred-dollar amounts, and she saw one on March 7, March 14, then March 21, and then another on March 28, also two hundred dollars. In other words, nothing unusual or suspicious.
She felt stumped. She replaced the
March statements, refilled the envelope, and reached back for February. She withdrew the February statements, another three pages, and scanned them as well. There was a two-hundred-dollar cash withdrawal on February 1, 8, 15, 22, and 28. She noticed they were all around lunchtime at the same ATM, Blakemore Plaza, at the hospital. Again, not suspicious.
Mindy put the February statement back and reached into the drawer for the January statement. But when she pulled it out, she noticed that it wasn’t from their joint account—it was a February statement from Evan’s account. They had opened the account for him, and the balance was about $32,000. Evan deposited money he got from them and from Paul’s wealthy parents, who had been generous with gifts for their only grandson. The statement was still sealed, since she never bothered to open them when they came in. Evan didn’t bother either, evidently taking it for granted, defeating her purpose in opening the account in the first place. She could almost hear her father’s voice, saying, you have to teach him the value of money, and that had been her intent, but somehow she ended up with a son who had affluenza.
Mindy tore open the envelope, which read at the top, Dr. Paul & Mrs. Mindy Kostis in custodianship for Evan R. Kostis, and she scanned down to the bottom for the balance, which was $22,918. That was a lower balance than she remembered, but she could have been mistaken. There had been no deposits that month, but oddly, there had been a withdrawal, in the amount of $5,000.
Mindy gasped. Why had there been such a large withdrawal, or any withdrawal at all? Who had withdrawn it? She, Paul, and Evan were all authorized to make withdrawals, and no permissions were required. Mindy hadn’t withdrawn the money, so that left Paul or Evan. She didn’t know if Paul had withdrawn the money to buy his new girlfriend a present, or if Evan had withdrawn the money to buy whatever girlfriend he had a present.
Mindy felt flabbergasted. In the past, Evan had bought presents for his girlfriends at Central Valley and other high schools, probably five gifts in total, but he had never used his money to do it and the most he’d ever charged was three hundred dollars, which was when she’d laid down the law that he had to ask first. So what could Evan have possibly done with $5,000? Or Paul, for that matter?
She set the statement aside, went back in the drawer, and started looking for the previous statement, which she found, also unopened. She was kicking herself now. She’d simply assumed Evan’s account was dormant.
She examined the envelope, postmarked February 12, then extracted the statement, scanning it. She spotted a withdrawal of $3,000 on January 16. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Why would Evan take so much money out of his account? Why would Paul? How many gifts where they buying? What was going on? Where was all of Evan’s money going?
Mindy’s heart began to hammer. What was going on in her own house? Her own family? She set the statement aside, went back in the drawer, and rummaged until she found the December statement for Evan’s account. She tore it open, pulling out the single-page statement with hands that had begun to shake. Again, on December 13, about a month previous, there was another withdrawal, for $2,000.
Mindy’s mind raced with possibilities. Drugs? Gambling? She went back to the drawer, collected all of the statements from Evan’s account, and opened every envelope, checking to see if there were any cash withdrawals. Half an hour later, she’d found none earlier than December.
Mindy sat cross-legged on the floor, the statements around her in a circle. So there had been three withdrawals, totaling $10,000 in cash, but she didn’t know if they were by Evan or Paul. Her heart told her that they had to have been made by Paul, but she knew a way to answer her own question.
She returned the statements to their envelopes, put them back in the kitchen drawer, then hurried from the kitchen and headed for Evan’s room.
She was going to get to the bottom of this, right now.
Chapter Thirty-one
Chris sped toward town, his head pounding. It drove him crazy that there could be ammonium nitrate fertilizer in the Kiefermanns’ shed and he was leaving it behind. He’d already called and texted the Rabbi to set up a work-around, but the Rabbi hadn’t called or texted back yet, and Chris suspected it couldn’t happen until tomorrow or the next day. Which could be too late.
Chris accelerated down the country road, racing past dark farms and fields. He gripped the wheel tight, grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw. He knew he was right about a bomb plot at CVHS and he wasn’t going to stop digging until he stopped them. He felt a rush of adrenaline that focused his thoughts and clarified his mission, a drive that dedicated him to a higher purpose—protecting people, saving lives, serving justice.
He glanced at the speedometer and saw he was nearing a hundred miles an hour. He let off the gas. Central Valley lay ahead, and he followed the route to Dylan McPhee’s house. Chris had been making nocturnal rounds of the four suspects since he moved to town, regularly cruising their homes. Now he knew that with Trevor, he’d been staking out the wrong house, a split-level in Central Valley proper. No wonder he hadn’t seen Trevor there. Trevor didn’t live there. Chris was kicking himself, but it showed why an undercover needed an unwitting.
He took a right turn off the main road, then wended his way through the upscale Golfing Park neighborhood, where the homes were large, with a stone or brick façade. Most were built fifteen years ago, when the developers came in to support the outlet boom. He turned onto Dylan’s street, Markham Road, and parked at the corner, giving him a diagonal view of the house, number 283, three doors down.
He cut the engine, not wanting to wake anyone up. The street was quiet and still. Houses lined up behind the hedges, and perennials sprouted through fresh mulch. Newer cars sat in the driveways, though some houses had garages. Several of the garage doors were left open, indicating that the residents felt safe and secure, but Chris knew otherwise. People thought no harm could ever come to them, but the harm was already here.
He sat eyeing Dylan’s house, a standard four-bedroom on two acres, bordered by a high stone wall that enclosed a kidney-shaped pool and a small putting green—Chris knew from Google Earth, which had given him every detail of the homes he staked out. Dylan’s bedroom was around the back, and the boy’s was the only window that stayed lighted after the family had gone to bed. Chris had binoculars and he used them to see Dylan through the open curtains, the boy’s head bent over the lighted screen of his laptop, sitting at his desk until almost one in the morning, every night.
Chris glanced at Dylan’s window, but it was dark, which made sense since it was 4:15 A.M. The kid had to sleep sometime. Chris picked up his phone, thumbed to the camera function, enlarged the view, and took a picture, reviewing what he knew about Dylan’s family. The father, David McPhee, was a workmen’s comp lawyer in town who had no website and little social media. His mother was a dental hygienist, also in town, but she had no activity on social media, and the other kids were younger, Michael, age ten, Allison, age nine, who had been in the local newspaper for winning a spelling bee. There were two cars in the driveway; a green Subaru Outback and a new Honda Fit, a shiny eggplant color.
Chris had a bad feeling about the McPhee family, not because of anything he saw, but because of what he didn’t. It was strange that even the mother wasn’t on social media, especially with kids who had academic and sports success. It struck him as secretive, and he’d also noticed that the family only rarely went out, except to church on Sundays, attending United Methodist in Central Valley. Chris had been making the rounds to different churches, temporarily becoming the religion his suspects were, but so far, it had been impossible to keep track of everybody on Sunday morning, which was why he needed more manpower.
Suddenly, he spotted something in motion behind the hedges at the house next to the McPhees’. It was moving fast, maybe a deer. He reached inside the glove box, retrieved his binoculars, and aimed where the shadow had been. It took him only a second to focus the lens, and he saw something race across the McPhees’ driveway behind
the cars.
Chris watched through the binoculars, astonished. It was a person, and in the next minute, a figure climbed on top of the stucco wall and walked along the edge to the house, climbed a trellis affixed to the wall, and used it like a ladder toward the window. It had to be Dylan, because in the next minute, the boy reached his window and scrambled inside.
“Holy shit,” Chris said under his breath. He kept his binoculars trained on the window as Dylan closed the sash. A moment later, the bluish light of the laptop screen went on, and the boy appeared in view, his profile silhouetted as he sat down at his desk.
Chris tried to make sense of what he had seen. He’d been here many nights and seen Dylan at the computer, but there had never been any suspicious activity. Dylan had obviously sneaked out somewhere, which didn’t fit his nerdy profile. It wasn’t inherently suspicious that Dylan was sneaking out, but the questions were obvious.
Chris kept an eye on the window, and Dylan stayed on his laptop. Chris wished that he could legally get inside the kids’ computers, but again, the law thwarted him. He didn’t have probable cause for a subpoena and even the Rabbi wouldn’t let him go phishing, that is, sending the boys a false link to hack into their computers. Again Chris understood the reason for the law, but it kept thwarting him when he was trying to save lives. He would just have to keep investigating the old-fashioned way, around the clock.
Chris waited, watching, and in the next few minutes, Dylan got up from his desk and disappeared from view. The laptop screen blinked to darkness, and the window went black. Chris stayed waiting and watching, just in case anything else happened. After twenty minutes, he turned on the ignition, pulled out of the space, and left the street, heading home with another set of questions to answer.
The anniversary of the Oklahoma bombing was less than three days away.
One Perfect Lie Page 16
