Death of a Bankster (11 page)

Next, she called Paige Crawford and asked if she could come by immediately and pick her up.

* * *

Paige Crawford met Maddie at the door before she could ring the bell. She was alone. “What’s this about, Sergeant Richards? Did you find Sam?”

“Yes, ma’am, we did. At least we believe we have. I need you to come to the medical examiner’s office to look at a heretofore unidentified body they fits your husband’s description.”

“Give me a minute.” Paige left Maddie standing on her porch. She came back carrying her purse, a tissue in her hand. “Do you want me to follow you?”

“Let’s drive together. I’ll bring you back afterwards. That way we can talk some while we drive. I need to fill you in before we get there. You’ll have questions about what comes next. That kinda thing, we’ll talk about all that.” Maddie anticipated that Paige would need someone with her if the body turned out to be her husband. Maddie expected it would.

While they drove, Maddie asked, “Now that you’ve been back in your house a few days, and we know the FBI agents were imposters, have you noticed anything missing?”

“The key for our safe-deposit box in Sam’s bank. But I can't be certain. Sam often carried the key with him if he wanted in the box. Sometimes he left it in his desk at the bank.”

“What's in the box now?”

“Not what we put in it. I can tell you that.” When Maddie looked puzzled, Paige said more. “I went down to the bank yesterday afternoon. Seeing the key had been taken, I used my signature, identification, and the people there who knew me, along with a fee, of course, to get the box open. They drilled the lock. The box had our two wills and our cemetery plot certificates, and a decreasing term life insurance policy that mirrored the unpaid balance on our home mortgage. All that was correct, but the cash had been taken.”

“The bank keeps records. Who had gained entry into the box?”

“The bank showed no one entering the box since the last time I went into it.”

“Was the cash you referred to there when you were last in the box?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“How much cash are we talking about?”

“A quarter of a million dollars. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this. If it comes up again, I’ll have to deny this part of our conversation. But I want you to know whatever I know that might somehow assist you in finding who killed Sam and stole his body.”

“Will you be okay without that cash?”

“No one loses that much cash without feeling it. But, I still have our joint brokerage accounts and a checking and savings account. Now that you have found my husband, I will make a claim on the decreasing term life insurance policy I mentioned. That will pay off the house and eliminate a mortgage payment. We got it right along with buying the house. We lived out of state then and arranged the insurance with a small insurer in California. Several years ago the company stopped doing business here in Arizona. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, my mind’s going double-time. Yes, I’ll be okay, but not, what should I say, as okay.”

“Are you saying that the bank took that cash or let the imposter FBI agents have access to get the cash given the imposters apparently had the key?”

“Who else? But then the bank has no record of anyone since me getting in that box. No record of the FBI attempting to access the box. For what other reason would they steal the key to the box? I confronted Maxie, um, Maxwell Norbert, the bank president and Sam’s boss. Well, his boss up until he fired Sam.”

“And?”

“And, Mr. Norbert said no one could have gotten into the box without both keys. Therefore, even if someone had stolen Sam’s key from his desk at home, they would have needed the bank’s key as well as access into the safe area. That would have resulted in a record of that access and the signature of that person. The bank showed no access on the box record since Sam’s death. The bank’s position is that there had been no access.”

“Yet, the cash is gone from the box.”

“That’s right, gone.”

“I take it this is cash you cannot report as stolen without possibly implicating yourself in something about which you don’t wish to be implicated.”

“Something like that.”

* * *

It took about thirty minutes to get to the medical examiner’s office. Fifteen minutes after that, they left. Paige Crawford had identified the white male as her husband, Sam Crawford. And the medical examiner’s office had put a tag on Sam’s toe.

On the way back to the Crawford residence, Maddie took a shortcut through a part of Phoenix where each house had too many kids, too few bedrooms, and parents who didn’t make enough money. As she turned back onto more of a thoroughfare, she heard from Sue Martin.

“I got some help on the calls. There weren’t all that many places with refrigerated storage big enough for a grown man’s body. None of them had stored any bodies. None of them have had a recent break-in or other unusual activity. It’s a dead end, Maddie.”

“Thank you, Detective Martin. I’m here with Paige Crawford. I’m driving her home after she identified her husband at the ME’s office. Get our case file brought current to reflect that. I’ll see you in about thirty minutes or so.”

Chapter 12

“Hey, luscious, I hear you found your body. Now that’s what I call great homicide work. Yep. It all starts with a body.”

The smart remark came from Doyle Brackett, the head of vice and a former homicide cop. Brackett was the department’s resident jerk, with a bristled mustache that stuck straight out from his lip the way his crew cut stuck out from his head. The cops who didn’t like Brackett referred to him as Broom, an informal club with a good number of members. Even Brackett’s partner, Amun Grant, didn’t hang with Brackett much away from working cases. Amun was a decent guy. Maddie had actually expected Amun might be assigned last year as her new partner after Jed Smith had taken early retirement. Instead, Lieutenant Harrison had supported her choice of Sue Martin for the department’s first two-gal detective team. They had been together nearly a year, their relationship worked well from the start. Sue was willing to do, and did well, many of the routine tasks and digging which Maddie abhorred.

Brackett, a career chauvinist, had three ex-wives. That might explain his wearing shirts that had never been introduced to a dry cleaner. His verbal style reminded Maddie of Joe Friday on the old Dragnet TV series; her mother still enjoyed watching the reruns. Only the fictional Sergeant Joe Friday had a good heart. Brackett either never had a heart or it had been eaten by its surroundings. The old timers said Brackett was once a caring and resourceful detective. As along as Maddie had known Brackett, the man had seemed incapable of finding his own dick in a dark room.

“Yes, Sergeant Brackett,” Maddie said, standing on a sidewalk hot enough to fry squaw bread. “We have our body. Now why don’t you go dry hump somebody else’s leg.”

As Maddie walked away she heard Brackett, who was standing with a few patrolmen, make a remark about a new female officer who had joined the force a few days ago. “That new black chick is flatter than piss on linoleum.” The officers were laughing when Maddie spun on her heels and walked back to Brackett. She grabbed his sleeve and kept ahold of it after he turned to face her.

“Brackett you are a sorry sack ‘a shit.”

“What’s your problem Richards?”

“You are. Last year you referred to my partner, Sue Martin, as your African Queen. Now you rag on the new officer who can’t tell you what a turd-faced bully you are. Well, I can, … but then you’re not worth it. You need professional help with your attitude toward women.”

“And all you need is a killer to put with your new found body.” Brackett said choosing to avoid expanding the confrontation.

“That’s right. And right now I’d settle for either the killer or a splintered broom handle I could jam up your ass far enough to make people wonder if your mustache was the sweeping end.”

“Let me feel the love,” Brackett said while walking away, his laughter wafting back over his shoulder.

Maddie stopped at the breakroom to get a diet soda to cool off. After she got in her office, Sue walked in. “Well, that’s progress,” Sue said after closing the door. “We’ve now got the body so Lieutenant Harrison will stop threatening to take away the case.”

“The lieutenant had a valid point. Fortunately he gave us enough time.”

“I agree. He’s cool. We could have worse. Can you imagine things around here with Doyle Brackett in charge?”

“Don’t get me started on Brackett. You had to have come in here for a better reason.”

“Sure. I was just poking at ya. I already got a call about your blitzing that prick out in the lot. So, now we got ourselves a bonafide murder. You got any thoughts on the shooter?”

“Brainstorm it with me, Sue. Who might it be, based on what we know now?”

Sue sat across from Maddie. “The spouse is always on the suspect list. I’d also put Paige’s mother on that list, although, I admit, it may be simply because I didn’t like the woman. Being slim at her age is reason enough for any woman not to like her. She wears a what, size eight or something? Okay. Okay. I’m just venting. Let me get back to the case. We need to reserve a spot for a lover, but that thinking takes us back to the spouse, with or without help.”

Maddie had worn slacks so she tilted her chair back and put her feet up on top of her desk, crossed at the ankles. “We got the fishy part about the bank. Maxwell Norbert denied having fired Sam Crawford. Either he or Paige is lying about that. There’s no other explanation.” Maddie then filled Sue in on the safe-deposit box and the missing quarter million. “That means either the bank or Paige is lying about that in addition to whether or not Norbert had fired Sam Crawford. You realize Norbert is the common thread with respect to these two contested events.”

Sue’s eyes got big. “For my money, Maxwell Norbert has a bigger role in all this than we know about. But, whoa Nelly, a quarter mil, that’s serious coin. Okay, back to the wife. Paige Crawford knew of the money and had a key to the bank box. She could have paid off somebody she gotten chummy with while her husband worked at the bank, to gain a no-record entry into her own box. The bank as an institution doesn’t have to cooperate, just one person willing to look the other way and file the signature card back without having had Paige actually sign it. What do you figure something like that would cost? Five, maybe ten grand, twenty tops?”

“All right, Sue, let me be Paige. You be the bank clerk that I pay off for you to use the bank’s second key and not document my entry to my box. Why do I need to pay you a wad to gain access to the box? It’s my box. I have the key. Apparently, no one knew the money was in the box except me and my husband, and he’s dead. I just go in, sign to satisfy the normal routine, and take out the money. Later, I toss the key in the dessert. Then go back, say I lost my key, pay the bank the fee to drill the box. After it’s opened, I excitedly announce the money is missing. Then I go confront Maxwell Norbert about the missing money. No, I didn’t need your help, and I certainly didn’t need to give you boodle to get in my box. I would never even announce the money had ever been there. And I certainly wouldn’t tell a police detective I had unreported cash.”

“That’s why you’re the sergeant and I’m the rookie detective.”

Maddie laughed. “Let’s try a different approach. What if the money laundering claim is not bogus?” Maddie asked. “What if Sam was getting paid on the side to launder money for one of Arizona’s drug or human smugglers? That could explain the money’s existence.”

“So, we resurrect the money laundering angle.” Sue rubbed her hands together. “I thought we saw that laundering story as a load of bull to explain to Paige why they had her husband under surveillance. And to gain entry into her home after they killed him.”

“If we erase the money laundering angle, we’re left with why did someone murder Sam Crawford? All homicide theory includes a motive. We got none.”

“The spouse,” Sue said, “who else?”

“Indulge me a little longer,” Maddie said. “Is there anything that can put legs on this laundering story being true?”

“It might explain why the bank and Paige having different stories about Sam being fired and about the quarter million dollars supposedly missing from her box in the bank. Without the money laundering, the bank would simply be the victim’s employer. Whether or not Sam Crawford had been fired.”

“Okay,” Maddie admitted, “those pieces could fit.”

“Then again,” Sue continued, “if Paige killed her husband, she could have confused the landscape by making up the part about her husband telling her he had been fired. To create another layer of confusion and cast a wider shadow over the bank, raising the specter of vague other motives, she could have invented the story about the missing $250,000. Both of those stories could be nothing more than an attempt to distract our investigation. Create alternative explanations for his death.”

“We don’t know the truth about the firing claim,” Maddie said. “We don’t know the truth about the money Paige claims had been in the box. So, what do we know to be true? We know, because we both checked with the FBI, that no Sam Crawford laundering case exists.”

“And no Agents Powell and Withers,” Sue added. “You even called Lincoln Rogers, your fella, well, one of your fellas and he said no dice.”

“You make it sound like I’m collecting men, when in my mind I’m hunting for one. If Linc worked in this town, he’d be on the top of my list, but he doesn’t so that beat goes on.”

Sue shrugged. “Maybe the laundering case wasn’t the FBI, they aren’t the only agency that deals with this sort of thing. Even local cops do now and again. Maybe it was some other agency playing FBI as a cover. Maybe it was the Secret Service? They handle counterfeiting cases. Maybe the money that disappeared from the bank box was queer.”

“Maybe the dough was the real deal, but belonged to the people he was laundering money for. They could’ve wanted his cell phone and computer because of concern we might find a trail back to them.”

“We sure don’t lack for theories,” Sue said. “What we lack is evidence which supports any of them.”

“I want you to dig into the background of this Carla Roth. She’s our only witness not connected by family. Try to find out what you can about her sexual proclivities. Keep it discreet.”

“What about the bank president? This Norbert dude could be lying about firing Sam Crawford.”

“Toss him in as well. We need to know more about all these people. Damn. By now we should be done with what-if theories. At least we should have a favorite.”

* * *

Maddie showered while her son did the same in the second bathroom. After that they read more from the Hardy Boys Missing Chums mystery. When Bradley went to sleep, Maddie changed her outfit and drove over to the Ritz Carlton on Camelback. A foxy outfit, over a push-up bra and a thong, instead of police garb, made her feel like a new woman. She and Ryan had agreed to meet there in the Club Bar around ten for a drink. She had gotten there first. She sat on a tufted brown leather couch along the sidewall at the far end away from the bar.

After a few minutes, as her eyes adjusted to the lower lighting, she noticed a large man sitting in one of the high-back chairs facing the bar. For a moment, from the back, she thought he might be Ryan. When he turned far enough to give her a view of his profile, she knew he was not. She ordered and sipped a white wine, and found herself trying to make some sense out of the seemingly disjointed assortment of odd data points and claims she had accumulated on the Crawford case.

A voice interrupted her thoughts. “Miss, if I bought you a few drinks and, after an hour or so, you were to accept an invitation up to my room, would I need to later fight your husband?”

Maddie looked up to see Ryan’s smiling face. “I do not have a husband, sir” she said, “so no. No fight.” Ryan sat down. “Why do you want to buy me a few drinks?”

“Without that, it would be rude of me to invite you up to my room.”

Maddie reached over and touched the back of his hand which lay palm down on the table top. “Can I trust you, Mr. Testler?”

“The best way to find out is to trust me.”

“And if I shouldn’t trust you?”

“You will know, and that was your question. Remember, you’re the one with the handcuffs and gun.” Ryan stood up. His room key in his hand.

“Tomorrow will come soon enough. Let’s not waste time.” Maddie stood up, took Ryan’s hand, and led him toward the elevator.

* * *

The next morning was Saturday. After Bradley had finished his cereal, he left to play at the park. Maddie joined her mother on the patio for a cup of tea, a serving of yogurt, and a piece of buttered rosemary herb toast.

“Would you feel uncomfortable if I invited a man over for dinner?”

“Why should I, Madeline Jane? This is your home. I’m your mother. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed being able to take a gander at the men my daughter is seeing. When were you thinking of this invite?”

“Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Can I let you know by noon?”

“Sure.”

“Whatever meal you have planned for that night will be fine, nothing special.”

Rita harrumphed. “Nothing special? Don’t kid me, girl. We’ve been living together a few years now. This is only the second time you’ve brought a man home for dinner. The other time was a co-worker. Is this another of those platonic things from work?”

“No, mother. It’s not platonic. He’s a man I know.”

“That certainly tells a mother a lot.”

“I just thought it might be nice for him to meet you and Bradley. That’s all. If you’d rather I not do it, it’s okay.” Maddie got up. “I gotta get out of here. Crime stopper work, you know.”

Rita watched Maddie rinse her cup and plate before putting them in the dishwasher. Then she spoke. “Madeline Jane. I think that’s a fine idea. Obviously, this man has made an impression. So, sure, tonight is fine, or tomorrow. It’s the weekend. Let me know.”

* * *

Maddie had barely shut her desk drawer after putting her purse in it, before she noticed Lieutenant Adam Harrison standing in her doorway. “So, you’ve found your body, but don’t know how it got there. That about sum it up?”

“Pretty much, Lieutenant. The way it adds up, Sam Crawford’s body was likely delivered to the ME’s place and put in one of their bins a week ago Thursday night, not long after Crawford was killed.”

“Sounds like you’re hunting a smart cookie.” Maddie nodded. “You got the body formally ID’d?” Maddie nodded. “Wife?” Maddie nodded. “Nice chatting with you, Sergeant Richards.” Maddie nodded. This time she looked up and they swapped smiles.

A few minutes later, Maddie walked down the hall to get a diet soda. On the way she passed Arthur Dinkins, the brother-in-law of the police chief. Monday, Dinkins would formally return from vacation. Apparently, he wanted to come down and get back in the feel of the place before returning to work officially. Arthur Dinkins had a vague job description. He ran errands for the chief, did odd jobs, and studied Maddie’s butt—that part he did for himself. The Dink was already in back-to-work mode. She felt his eyes on her as she passed him in the hallway, heard his salacious grunt or slurp. The man’s eyes worked her like a thirsty dog’s tongue worked a puddle. One day she would kick The Dink in the balls, but being the chief’s brother-in-law dictated some discretion. That alone also ruled out filing a formal complaint. A detective sergeant does not do things which will embarrass the chief of police. The large view said she could manage the situation. The dumpling man lacked the confidence to try and act out the mental images that accompanied his grunts and slurps. Maddie refused to allow even consideration of what those images might be.