By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel (34 page)

“And Daisy was the one that helped us hit!” Miss Horn-Rims almost shouted. “A woman named Wilmadeane — she spelled it wrong — Loomis has been visiting various county social-service offices, inquiring about benefits. She begins to fill out the application but always lacks some crucial piece of paperwork — the children’s birth certificates, I’m guessing — and settles for a temporary check to tide her over.”

“Doesn’t a woman who applies for social services have to provide information about her children’s father, so the agency can contact him? I thought there was a big push to make fathers pay.”

“There is.” The young woman nodded vigorously, a welfare-wonk bobblehead. “But there are loopholes. The woman can decline to provide that information if she says she’s a victim of abuse.”

“
Abuse!
” Mark Rubin’s face flushed wine red. “How could anyone…?”

But Tess was remembering Nancy Porter, the Baltimore County homicide detective who had felt obligated to make the same discreet inquiries, in part because of the insular nature of Baltimore’s Orthodox community. Natalie had used the system — and, perhaps, certain cultural biases — quite cleverly. Maybe that explained her route through smaller Midwest towns. She was banking on people’s being unfamiliar with the lives of Orthodox Jews and therefore even more inclined to believe her stories about an abusive, vengeful husband who must never know where she was.

“Is there a pattern to the towns or to the route?”

“Not that I can find,” Miss Horn-Rims said, in a tone that implied that something she couldn’t find didn’t exist. “They just zigzagged around Indiana, Illinois, and Ohio.”

“But we know they suddenly started heading east in a pretty linear way, driving across Ohio to Wheeling.”

“No one ever went to West Virginia to perpetrate welfare fraud,” Miss Horn-Rims said. “I could call these county agencies on your behalf to try to get more information, but my guess is she’s dropped this scam. The last check was cut in Valparaiso, last Friday. Before that they never went a week without a check.”

Which was, Tess calculated, right after they were spotted in French Lick. And just before Amos was killed. The zigzagging had stopped once Amos was dead. Were the two things connected?

“I’m trying to work this out,” she said, remembering Amos’s state-of-the-art photocopier, the templates for documents. “You say the grants averaged a hundred to two hundred dollars, which she received in the form of a check. So Natalie clearly has a fake ID, or else she couldn’t cash the check.”

“Right,” Miss Horn-Rims agreed. “But the check is issued through the state or the county, so no bank or check-cashing store is going to be too worried about it bouncing. If she has an ID that satisfies welfare workers, she must have one that will meet standards at most banks as well.”

“Still, that’s not a lot of money. Total it all up. She probably hasn’t made a thousand dollars since she left, and that’s just not that much money for five people on the move. Her friend Lana couldn’t possibly cover them for this long.”

“She could be getting off-the-book work or staying in shelters,” Miss Horn-Rims said with a blithe shrug, as if food and shelter were simply abstract concepts to be plugged in to her theories and formulas.

“Possibly,” Tess said, trying to keep a lid on her partisan animosity. “Meanwhile, could I have a list of the banks and check-cashing stores where Natalie cashed her checks? Maybe someone will remember her or a telling detail about the man she’s traveling with.”

“A real man, an able-bodied man,” Mark put in, “supports a woman.”

The perky Human Services analyst nodded again, mistaking Mark’s private bitterness for a larger worldview. “Traditional core values are at the heart of this administration’s mission.”

“I know,” Tess said, pushed past her breaking point, a short trip at the best of times. “Sometimes I can’t sleep at night, worrying about welfare fraud. Or whether billionaires are going to qualify for the family tax credit.”

Miss Horn-Rims’ smooth forehead crinkled. “She means well,” Mark said swiftly. “She’s just a little agitated. Thank you for all your work on this.”

On the street outside the nondescript D.C. office building, Mark offered Tess another life lesson while she scarfed down a hot dog from a street vendor.

“When people are doing you favors, you have to swallow a few things — including your own tongue.”

“Is that in the Talmud?”

“If it’s not, it should be.”

Tess quickly learned that small-town bank tellers don’t necessarily remember strangers, not even beautiful ones who resemble Natalie Wood — or Gene Tierney or Merle Oberon — and have three children in tow. Not in Valparaiso, not in Paoli, not in Mount Carmel. The managers were invariably friendly, smothering her in chatter and irrelevant detail before finding the right teller, but no one seemed to know or remember anything. One teller did recall a dark-haired woman, but he insisted she was traveling with two children, a boy and a girl. No, he couldn’t tell if they were twins. No, he didn’t remember anything else.

“It was the seventeenth, a Thursday,” Tess said. “Can’t you recall anything more?”

The man’s voice, already high and effeminate, became shrill. “Look, I’m sorry if I don’t remember everything that happened that day. I happened to be held up at gunpoint, and that memory is a little more vivid than cashing some county check.”

“I’m sorry,” Tess said, understanding the man’s testiness. Tellers were sometimes questioned closely after bank robberies, in case they were conspirators in such crimes. “That must have been harrowing.”

“Well, I didn’t see a gun,” he said, mollified. “But you’re not supposed to put up any opposition, no matter what. There’s a protocol. I guess I should be grateful it’s the only one so far this year.”

“Really? Is Fort Wayne that dangerous?”

“Oh, the security in our branch is practically nil, but you find that everywhere these days. Did you know bank robbery is actually up, even though the takes are smaller than ever? This joker got four hundred out of my drawer, but he knew enough to make sure I didn’t put a dye pack in. Made me count the money out like a withdrawal, telling me all the time that he had a gun and he had an accomplice with a gun inside the bank. I’ve been on Paxil since, and the side effects are dreadful.”

“Side effects,” Tess repeated, just to be saying something.

“Dry mouth. Among other things. Anyway, the federal agents spent all of twenty minutes with me — if it doesn’t involve some guy in a turban, they’re just not interested.”

“That’s awful,” Tess said, unsure how to end the conversation without seeming callous. This man clearly had nothing to tell her, except his own sob story.

“The field agent actually said to me, ‘Look, we’ve had five of these in the past two weeks’ — not just in Indiana but in southern Illinois and Ohio, too. It’s a new craze, like one of those silly dances that comes along every so often.”

“A new craze of bank robberies,” Tess repeated. “In southern Illinois and Ohio.”

“And Indiana. So I said —”

Through being polite, Tess hung up the phone and asked Mark to read her the number for the Valparaiso bank.

“But you already talked to them.”

“I know, but there’s something I forgot to ask.”

The Valparaiso bank had been robbed the day Natalie cashed her check. So had the Paoli bank. Only the Mount Carmel bank had been spared for some reason.

“That’s how they’re making it,” Tess said. “Natalie gets a social-services check, takes it to the bank. Within an hour or two, it’s robbed.”

“Natalie’s not a robber,” Mark said.

“No one’s saying she is. But it’s three for four, which is a hell of a coincidence. She’s casing the places, don’t you see? The check gives her cash, but it also gives her a plausible reason to go into the bank and study the layout. That’s how they’re making it. They’re robbing banks with lax security. Bonnie and Clyde, with three kids in tow.”

“It’s a ridiculous theory.”

“Probably,” she said, trying to placate him even as her excitement grew. “But I bet it’s strong enough to go to federal authorities and persuade them to issue a warrant for Natalie. That means the next time she’s spotted, local police can take her in and hold her long enough for you to get there and get your kids back.”

“No.”

“No?”
She had thought her idea sheer genius.

“It’s dangerous. The police could give chase, and the children would be in the middle.”

“Your children are traveling with a bank robber, who’s been risking encounters with the police up to twice a week. They’ll be safer if authorities intervene.”

“I don’t want Natalie to face criminal charges.”

“I’m sure she won’t, if she agrees to cooperate. But she’s clearly not going to turn herself in.”

“She’s doing this under duress. This man has scared her, forced her to do these things.”

“Mark, you yourself pointed out that she didn’t get away from him when she had the chance —”

“No.” He was yelling now. “No police. And if you go to them, you’re violating my confidentiality as a client. Remember the papers you had me sign, the ones drawn up by your lawyer? Those require you to honor my wishes.”

“Not when I have evidence of a string of felonies.”

“But you don’t. This is just some wild idea you cooked up, nothing more.”

“It’s not as wild as what you’re thinking.”

He gave her a look that he must have perfected over his years in business, a level, direct gaze that was hard to meet for more than a few seconds.

“Really?” he demanded. “Tell me what I’m thinking, Miss Mind Reader.”

“You believe you can turn this to your advantage, that Natalie will have to come back to you if this man is locked up. That you can get her a great lawyer, cut her a deal, and have leverage over her. But if she doesn’t want to be with you, then she’s never going to stay, Mark. What are you going to do, put her on an even tighter leash when you get her home?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The money, the house, the life you created for her — it was all about control. In your heart of hearts, you were always preparing for the day she might leave you. You tried to make sure she wouldn’t have the wherewithal, financially or emotionally. But the fact is, she’s chosen another life, with another man. Yes, he’s probably a crook, and it’s a crappy life, and it makes no sense, but it’s what she wants, Mark. You’ve got to forget about Natalie and focus on your children.”

Mark did not speak for several long moments. When he did, his voice was frightening in its controlled anger, its absolute disdain for Tess and her opinions. “I did not hire you for personal advice. I hired you to find my family. Given the information you’ve developed today, you might want to go back to the records at Jessup, see if Boris had any contact with someone serving time for armed robbery. That strikes me as the most useful thing you can do.”

“Mark —”

“There will be no more talk of warrants or police,” he said, holding up a hand. “You work for me. Do as I’ve told you or you’re fired.”

T
wo things kept Tess from walking out on Mark Rubin in a fit of pique — the thought of Isaac waving to Mary Eleanor on the highway, and the thought of her bank account waving a frantic SOS in her direction. She had not yet earned out Mark Rubin’s generous retainer, but she had spent a large chunk of it. If she wanted to quit on principle, she would have to refund money she didn’t have, a principle she abhorred even more.

So she sucked it up and chose the best antidote she could think of to Mark Rubin’s cold, high-handed treatment. She invited her WASP-iest friend, Whitney, over for dinner. Whitney was always good company, and she would take Tess’s side in this quarrel with her client, which made her even better company. Within an hour of Tess’s call, Whitney arrived with Indian takeout from the Ambassador and a bottle of zinfandel.

“The guy at the Wine Source said it was peppery and aggressive, with berry overtones and a strong finish,” she said. “Just like me.”

“You don’t look very fruity,” Tess said of her sharp-chinned friend, whose coloring was more easily found in the dairy case — butter-yellow hair, milk-white skin with a bluish undercast.

“Oh, I’m sour as a pickle these days. Everything annoys me. I took my mother to a Barbara Cook concert down at the Kennedy Center, and there was a sign-language interpreter.
At a vocal concert.
Does this mean they’re going to start providing audio commentary for the ballet? And I can’t speak to the sign language, but the closed-captioning was for shit. Cook was doing Sondheim, and a line from ‘Losing My Mind’ was transcribed as ‘I want to sew.’ ”

“If I said that,” Tess said, “you would know I was losing my mind.”

Whitney laughed, expelling a little zinfandel through her nose. “It seemed to annoy Cook, too. Here she is, singing brilliantly, and there’s someone blocking her from part of the audience’s view, hamming it up.”

“How does an interpreter ham it up?”

“Oh, c’mon.” Whitney stood, giving Esskay the opportunity she needed to snatch a half-eaten samosa from her plate and bolt. “Damn dogs — they’ve gotten really nutty since Crow went to Virginia.”
Like kids in a divorce,
Tess thought ruefully, but said nothing. She hadn’t told Whitney about the breakup either, if only because she didn’t want to be castigated for letting go of the perfect postmodern boyfriend. Whitney had always mocked the age difference between Tess and Crow, but she was perverse enough to exalt him now that Tess had lost him. “Anyway, she was trying to upstage Cook, I kid you not. Although I guess it would be downstaging in this case.”