Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (7 page)

He conducted a cursory search of the boy’s room, while Evans dug through the closet at the end of the hall. He crossed to the third bedroom and found it locked. “Crap.”

“What’s wrong?” Evans trotted toward him.

“This room is locked, which means I really want to know what’s in there.”

“No problem.” Evans grabbed her carryall, which she’d left on the floor in the hall, and came up with a lock pick.

As she worked the mechanism, Jackson joked, “Did you learn that in juvie?”

“I wasn’t in long enough.” Evans laughed in an odd way, and Jackson realized he’d hit a nerve. She popped the lock, opened the door, and grinned. “One of my snitches taught me the skill in exchange for a pass on a pot-possession charge.”

They looked into the room and said in unison, “Holy shit.”

Only a narrow path separated the ceiling-high stacks of boxes and crates. Factory food labels were obvious on many of the containers, but others were taped closed and labeled with a black marker:
Medicine, Reference Books, Blankets, Coffee, Batteries.

“They’re prepared for the apocalypse,” Evans said, no humor implied.

“Let’s open a few to be sure the contents match the labels.”

Jackson reached for a cardboard container marked
Medicine
. He set it on the floor, and Evans handed him a utility knife.

“You must have been a hell of a Girl Scout.”

“Nope. Just a child of alcoholics.”

Jackson wondered if his own daughter felt the need for that level of preparedness. He squatted, cut open the box, and found it stuffed with bandages, rubbing alcohol, antibacterial ointment, aspirin, and a hefty supply of Vicodin. He glanced up at Evans. “We may end up opening every one of these, but not today. Let’s move the boxes away from the closet and see what’s in there.”

They worked together for five minutes, clearing a path to the bedroom closet. Every time Evans squatted to pick up a box, Jackson noticed her small, tight butt. Sweat broke out under his arms as he moved cases of canned beans.

Schak came in to see what the commotion was about. “What the hell?”

“Survivalists,” Evans said. “They’re probably preparing for social breakdown. Or maybe just extreme weather.”

Jackson moved the last case of chili con carne and pulled open the closet doors. Inside sat a dark trunk with a musty, faintly familiar smell. A trickle of fear ran through his chest. Gently, he pushed open the lid and leaned forward for a closer look.

Oh god.
He turned to Schak in the hall. “Call the bomb squad, please.”

CHAPTER 7

Friday, November 11, noon

Michael Quince walked through Northwest Federal to a small office in the back. The bank’s internal investigator stood, introduced himself, and shook Quince’s hand. The man’s flushed red cheeks made him look uncomfortable, even though his voice was confident.

“Detective Michael Quince, Eugene Police.” He still got a kick out of saying that, even after five years at that rank. A decade ago, he’d started as a dispatcher with the department, thinking it might be more interesting than factory work. If someone then had told him he’d end up a detective, he would have asked what they were smoking.

The two men sat down, and Quince got right to the point. “We seem to have a tragic case of fraud, and as you know, cyberthieves disappear quickly. I’d like to access Molly Pershing’s records and begin an investigation immediately.”

“Because Mrs. Pershing is dead, I can give you the relevant information. But her daughter is also on the account, so for extensive records, I’ll need a subpoena.”

“Fair enough. For starters, I need to know where the money went.”

After a moment of clicking through files on his computer, the bank investigator said, “It was transferred to an account in an online bank called American Heritage. To a business account with the name Veterans Relief Fund. It was her second transfer to that account.”

Quince wanted to get out his netbook and google the name, but it could wait a few minutes. “How much was the first transfer?”

“Fifty dollars.”

“And today’s transfer?”

“Seven thousand.”

Quince made a whistling sound. “Wow. How was the transfer made?”

“Molly set up an automatic monthly payment, initially in the amount of fifty dollars.” The banker paused as he scanned a file on his computer. “The amount was changed late Tuesday night, and the seven-grand transfer went through on Wednesday. If we’d had more time, we would have caught it and notified her.”

“Will you give me a printout of those transactions?”

“Sure.” The banker clicked a few keys. “What can I do to help the investigation?”

“Type up a statement summarizing what you just told me. I’ll need it to get a subpoena to access the data from the perpetrator’s account.”

An hour later, Quince sat on a bench outside Judge Marlee Volcansek’s office, waiting for her to take a break from court. Netbook in his lap, he keyed in
Veterans Relief Fund
, and a
website came up. Surprised the perp hadn’t taken down the site yet, or at least renamed it, Quince clicked through its simple pages. The website hosted photos of injured soldiers and appealed to people’s sympathy. It asked for donations and offered three ways to send money: through PayPal, by setting up an automatic monthly donation, or by mailing a check to a post office box. He determined the internet protocol address, then logged in to the American Registry for Internet Numbers. He clicked
Whois
and keyed in the IP address for the charity site. While he waited for the search to complete, he crossed his fingers and hoped the website was hosted by a legitimate company he could subpoena for information about the site’s owner.

Nothing came up. The site wasn’t hosted in North America. Quince swore under his breath, then looked around the wide courthouse hall to see if anyone had heard him. If the website had free hosting from a provider out of China or Russia, he had no chance of tracking the owner. He keyed in the IP address again to make sure he hadn’t typed it wrong. This time, Gorilla Social Services came up, and he heaved a sigh of relief. It was a new provider he hadn’t heard of yet, but at least he could contact the company and ask them to release the name of the person who paid for the website service. It could be a ten-minute task or turn into a ten-day ordeal while he waited for callbacks, wrote a subpoena, and pressured them for a response.

He quickly found the host’s contact information and made the call. An answering service picked up, which was not a good sign. Quince left a message, stressing the urgency of a callback. While he talked, he spotted the judge coming down the hall. Damn, she was good-looking. Too bad about the ugly robe. He wondered when that silly tradition would go away. As the judge came near, he stood and smiled. “Can I have a minute of your time, Judge Volcansek? I have an important subpoena.”

Back at his desk in the department, Quince called the online bank, American Heritage, got a manager on the phone, and explained what he needed and why.

“Fax me the subpoena,” the banker said. “We’re not releasing information about our client without it.”

Quince got the fax number and wrote it down. “The two-page document will be there in a moment. Please call me right after you read the subpoena.”

“I’m on my way to a meeting, and this is Friday afternoon. I appreciate the importance of your investigation, but you may not hear from me until Monday.” The banker clicked off before Quince could press his case.

Well, hell. That sucked
. Maybe the website-hosting company would come through for him. For now, it was time to track down Molly’s connections. Earlier in the bank, a patrol officer had found the dead woman’s cell phone in her purse and called her daughter, so at least he didn’t have to deal with that issue. But he needed to find out how the perp had come into contact with Molly and somehow accessed her banking information. What if there were other victims out there?

Quince pulled into Rosehill Estates, surprised by the number of cars in the parking lot. The senior community in South Eugene contained both independent apartments and an assisted-living center, but he hadn’t expected many of its residents to still be driving. Molly Pershing had lived here, and accessing her personal records was an important step in tracking what had happened to her money.

Cold rain plopped on his head as he jogged across the parking lot. His short hair offered little protection, but he rarely wore a hat. Too much to keep track of.

A receptionist led him to the director’s office, where she barged in with only a knock and made a breathless introduction. “Mrs. Fowler, this is Michael Quince, a detective with the Eugene Police.”

The director, a fifty-something woman, stood and shook his hand. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to inform you that one of your residents, Molly Pershing, died of a heart attack this morning.”

“Oh no.” The director’s face fell, and she sat back down. “Molly was so sweet. We’ll miss her dearly.”

“I have more bad news. She was the victim of fraud, and that’s why she had the heart attack.”

“That’s terrible. What kind of fraud?”

“I’m still investigating, and I need to look through Molly’s personal documents and computer, if she has one.”

The director hesitated. “I should contact her daughter. She’s listed as Molly’s next of kin, and I think I need her permission.”

“Another officer called her this morning, so she already knows what happened.”

She looked relieved. “That’s good. I’ve notified a lot of families about the death of their loved ones. It never gets easier.”

“I tried contacting the daughter about entering Molly’s apartment, but she’s not answering her phone. It would help my investigation if I didn’t have to wait. Other residents may be at risk or have already been conned.”

“That concerns me,” the director responded, “but privacy issues are so important these days. We have to wait until we hear from Molly’s daughter.”

Frustrated, Quince said, “Will you at least send out an announcement to everyone in the facility? If anyone has had dealings with the Veterans Relief Fund, I’d like them to contact me.” Quince handed her a business card. “Or if they have information
about how Molly came into contact with the fraudulent charity, I’d like to hear it.”

“I’ll print up a notice and have our volunteer deliver it this evening.”

“Any ideas how Molly met the con man?”

“She spent a lot of time at the library and at the Hartford Senior Center, but if she had guests in her home, I didn’t know about it.”

“I’ll check out the senior center.” Quince stood. “They took seven thousand from Molly. I suspect they’ll close out their account and disappear if we don’t act quickly.”

“I’ll get the memo out now.”

“Call me the minute you have any information.” Quince thanked her and left. In the lobby, he checked his cell phone for e-mail messages. Jackson had notified him of a task force meeting at six. He still had some time.

“Mr. Quince,” the director called out, as he headed for the main door.

He turned around.

“Molly’s daughter says to do everything you can to catch the bastard.”

CHAPTER 8

In the forty minutes it took the Explosives Disposal Unit to arrive, Jackson’s team searched every drawer, cupboard, and dark space in the house and the garage, which held mostly tools and more food supplies. They’d debated the merits and risks of staying in the house and continuing their search, then decided to proceed. Knowing the dynamite and blasting caps were in the back closet made them all a little jittery, but the family had lived in the home with the knowledge, so the fear was mostly psychological.

As long as nothing dramatic—like an earthquake or a falling tree—occurred while they were inside, they rationalized it would be fine. Once the EDU arrived, the experts would evacuate not only the house but likely the neighbors as well while they moved the explosives into the containment unit for transfer and disposal. So Jackson and his team made the most of the few minutes they had, gathering up personal papers, the family computer, and most of the knives in the kitchen for comparison to the victim’s wound.