Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

“Have you done it?”

“Yes,” said Laura. “It is now July the seventh at four-sixteen in the afternoon. I am Laura Amester, and I am speaking with client Robert Mallon, and recording our conversation. Mr. Mallon’s voice is known to me, and I’ve reached him by calling his home number. Is that right, Mr. Mallon?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Can you tell me the last four digits of your social security number?”

He recited the number.

“Thank you,” said Laura. “Can you repeat what you’ve said about the withdrawal order we received today?”

“Yes. I did not authorize any withdrawal of funds from my account. I do not believe that my attorney did either. Just to be safe, I am now revoking the power of attorney I granted to Diane Fleming. Please make no changes to my account unless you have verified it with me first.”

When the conversation was over, Mallon made a list of the other banks and brokers that held investment or savings accounts for him. He had once signed a power of attorney authorization for Diane for a specific, limited set of circumstances: she had needed to withdraw money from one of his accounts from time to time to pay taxes and fees. But if something dishonest was going on, someone might have altered that authorization and sent it to other institutions to gain control of other accounts. He began making telephone calls. Most of the offices were closed, but even those had voice mail. As soon as he had gone down the list, he went to his computer and wrote a letter that repeated the same information. He strongly suspected that e-mail had no legal status, so he customized his letter twenty times with different addresses and account numbers, printed out and signed the copies, then made out the envelopes and went out to mail the letters. As soon as they were in the mailbox, he made his third trip to the police station on Figueroa.

He stepped into the too familiar lobby of the station and up to the counter. The desk sergeant had an exaggeratedly respectful expression on his face as he said, “Mr. Mallon. How can we help you today?”

Mallon’s stomach tightened. He said, “Is Detective Fowler in? Or Detective Long?”

The sergeant shook his head. “No, but I can take a message for you and make sure they receive it.”

They were all convinced he had lost his mind, but he had to try. He said carefully, “I think something strange is going on with my attorney, Diane Fleming. She may be in danger, or threatened in some way. And she’s disappeared.”

The sergeant squinted at him. He said, “What makes you believe that?”

“She suddenly took off this morning, or maybe yesterday. I’m not sure, but probably it was then. An attempt had been made on my life, and I called her a number of times, but she didn’t return any of my calls.”

He stopped and blinked his eyes. He sounded crazy. He paused, trying to think of a way to repair the impression. There was no way, so he pressed on. “A couple of hours ago, I got word from Wells Fargo Bank in San Francisco that she had requested that an investment account of mine there be liquidated and the proceeds wired to another account at Moncrief and Tydings.”

“In her name?”

“I don’t think so. They said, ‘to your account at Moncrief and Tydings.’ So it must be in my name. I don’t know of an account at Moncrief and Tydings, but it’s possible one has been opened there.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, really. It appears to me to be an attempt by someone to embezzle the money. It’s possible that they were doing it just so I wouldn’t have the use of it. Do you see? It would be hard for them to withdraw it, but if it were simply moved to another account in my name that I didn’t know about, I couldn’t use it.”

“Does she usually handle your money? Can she move it around like that?”

“Well, she has-had-a power of attorney that allowed her to move money to pay some bills and taxes and so on. But this is different.”

“How?”

“It’s a lot of money. It’s about fifteen million dollars.”

He had lost the sergeant. He could see that. Maybe the idea that he had that kind of money created a gulf between them that precluded sympathy or even understanding. Maybe the other policemen had not talked about him as a wealthy man, and his throwing these numbers around convinced the sergeant that he was hallucinating. He tried to keep his dignity. He tried to summarize his complaint. “She has left-left town, supposedly-with no notice, and is now-again supposedly-doing things she’s never done before, and which I don’t believe she would ever do, at least voluntarily.”

“Mr. Mallon,” said the sergeant. “Have you ever been to court with Miss Fleming?”

“No,” said Mallon.

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. I only saw her in court once, but it was because I was meeting her for lunch. It wasn’t anything she was doing for me.”

“You don’t recall ever hearing the word conservator or conservatorship?”

“Of course I’ve heard those terms,” he said angrily. “But they have nothing to do with me. Nobody has ever thought I needed a conservator. I’m not deluded or something. I’m telling you that a young woman, a respected attorney in this city, has abruptly disappeared, and now there are papers appearing with her signature on them that she would never sign. In other words, either she’s suddenly become an embezzler or she’s in trouble.”

“Why do you think she’s disappeared?”

“She left without telling her secretary where she was going or when she’d be back.”

“Who is the secretary?”

“Her name is Sylvia.”

“Is she worried too? Did she come to you to tell you this?”

“No. But she doesn’t know any of the things I’ve told you about the money. She was in the office to take the plants home because Diane told her not to bother coming into the office until she returned. If it was Diane. I’m beginning to think it couldn’t have been.”

“Can you give me Sylvia’s full name?”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard her last name.”

The sergeant looked at his watch and wrote something at the top of a form, then glanced at Mallon. “Seven o’clock. Do you happen to know the date today?” He held the pen above the line for the date.

It was the question doctors asked old people to see whether they had dementia. Mallon felt hot panic. “July seventh.”

“I’m going to make a full report, and make sure it gets to the detectives. They’ll let you know what they find out, I’m sure. But it’ll take a while. You may as well go home and get some rest.”

Mallon stood in silence for a moment. “I’m not insane, you know.”

“Of course not.”

Mallon stared at him for a moment, but his eyes were on the paper. He was busy writing, filling in blanks on the form. Mallon desperately searched his mind for something tangible, some piece of evidence that the police couldn’t ignore, couldn’t dismiss as either a delusion or a magnification of a routine event into something sinister. He was aware that time was passing, and that while the cop was pretending to pay attention to the form he was observing him, waiting.

Mallon said earnestly, “I know that this sounds vague, and I have no single piece of physical evidence that I can use to prove what I’m saying. But honestly, none of what’s happened is normal, or within the usual range of behavior for Diane Fleming. I need to have you take this seriously.”

The cop looked up from his paper, his clear, benevolent eyes wide open in a look of innocent surprise. “I assure you, we are taking it seriously.” The fact that he was lying was completely undisguised, and there was absolutely nothing Mallon could do about it.