Rick Mofina - Every Second

“Could I talk to you folks for a minute?” Kate took out her notebook. “I’d be happy to tell you what we know.”

“Did the police find them?” the second woman asked.

“Not yet.”

“Dear Lord,” the woman said. “We’d heard that Dan was forced to rob his bank, that someone took Lori and Billy hostage. Is that true?”

“From what I’ve heard, it’s true,” Kate said. “What can you tell me about Lori?”

“She’s a good person. They love her here. I think she’s involved at her son’s school and never misses a ball game.”

“How long has she been with the company?”

The woman looked to her friends. “Five years, maybe?”

The others nodded and shrugged. “Around that, I think,” offered the man.

“You say she worked in fraud. Did she ever receive any threats from one of her cases?”

The group exchanged concerned looks.

“We haven’t heard anything like that,” the women said.

“Do you know where she worked before coming to Dixon Donlevy?”

“No idea,” the woman said.

“I think they lived in Nevada, or Arizona or someplace around there,” the man said.

“Do you know what Lori did when she lived there?”

“No,” the second woman interjected, “but I heard from someone in our section that the family had some tragedy out there.”

“Really? What kind of tragedy?”

The three of them shook their heads and shrugged.

“And it was in Nevada or Arizona?”

“Not sure,” the second woman said. “I did hear that Lori didn’t like to talk about it.”

It wasn’t much, but office gossip counted for something. As Kate made notes, the man looked at his phone.

“We should be getting back,” he said.

“Can I get your names before you go?” Kate asked.

“Not mine,” the man said. “I don’t want to be quoted.”

The women declined to give their names, as well, and started to cross the street with the man.

“Wait, please,” Kate said. “Let me give you my card. I’d be happy to share any information we have on the case as it develops. Please, call me if you hear anything more. Please. Thanks.”

Roseoak Park, New York

A few miles from Dixon Donlevy where Kate Page had questioned people on Lori Fulton’s history, investigators at the bank were probing Dan Fulton’s background.

In one of the empty offices, Ted Shummard, SkyNational’s regional security director, had loosened his tie and was tapping his pen on the desk as he read Dan Fulton’s personnel file on the computer monitor. Human Resources at headquarters had emailed it ten minutes earlier, in response to his demand. “Send me every damned thing we have on Fulton and send it now!”

Shummard had put in twenty-five years with the US Secret Service, working in financial crimes and diplomatic security before punching out and taking a job with SkyNational.

Nick Varner and Marv Tilden sat across the desk from him, studying printouts of the file with some urgency.

“Okay.” Shummard scrolled to the end of the last page. “You asked if Fulton had money problems. This is everything we’ve got.”

“I see a lot of numbers here,” Varner said. “You wanna tell me what they all mean?”

“He’s in good standing. He’s received performance compensation, bonuses, awards, no black marks on his record.”

“He’s got a lot of debt, though.” Varner had circled various figures. “He’s carrying a mortgage, line of credit, car loans, large credit card balances. The works.”

“As an executive he gets a discount on all financial services,” Shummard said, “including his mortgage and preferred rates on his line and loans. He’s taken advantage of them. He’s making his payments on time. So far, I see no red flags here.”

“By my quick count, he owes about two hundred and…forty thousand,” Varner said.

“Two forty-six,” Shummard corrected.

“And what did your people estimate he walked out of here with today?” Varner asked.

“Two hundred and fifty-nine thousand.”

“He owes two forty-six and takes two fifty-nine,” Tilden said.

Shummard shot Tilden then Varner a surprised glance.

“What? You think Fulton’s involved? That maybe he planned this?”

“It’s been known to happen,” Tilden said.

Shummard shook his head. “It doesn’t fit. Not with a record this clean.”

“We can’t rule anything out,” Tilden said before he and Shummard were distracted by Varner standing at the office window.

“Who’s that?” Varner asked, pointing through the glass to a middle-aged man smoking and pacing in front of the bank near the other employees.

Shummard flipped open his notebook. “Charles McGarridge, he’s a loan officer with the branch.”

“Looks like he’s got a lot on his mind,” Varner said. “We’ll want to talk to him when we’re done here.”

“All right,” Shummard said.

Varner shifted back to the file.

“Marv’s right, we can’t rule anything out. Any security incidents we should know about, Ted?”

“Nothing. This branch has never been hit. Three years ago there was an argument in the parking lot. Didn’t amount to anything. So, nothing. Zip.”

Tilden turned back to an earlier page in the file.

“I see Fulton had served with the National Guard in California,” Tilden said. “We’ll need to find out if he was deployed overseas. See if he experienced any posttraumatic stress. It could be a factor.”

“I don’t think he saw any action,” Shummard said.

“Do we know if he has any gambling debts?” Tilden asked. “If he uses drugs, has any problem with alcohol?”

“What about marital stress?” Varner asked. “Any stress in the family?”

“If we were aware, or if he’d sought help through us at any point, it would’ve come to my desk.” Shummard removed his glasses. “From my read here, and what I know, Fulton’s a clean-living law abider. He volunteers at a homeless shelter in Rego Park. He helps organize a fund-raiser for kids with terminal conditions. Fulton’s a solid guy.”

A knock sounded at the door and a detective stuck his head in.

“Marv, got a teller out here you guys should talk to.”

“Send her in.”

The detective pushed the door open and indicated a chair. “This is Dolores Spivak, been with the branch for nearly twenty years,” he said. The woman was in her early sixties and held a crumpled tissue in her hand. Her attempted smile at the grim-faced investigators was underscored with anxiety.

“Do you have some information for us?” Shummard said.

“Well, I don’t know if this is relevant, but when I told the other girls, they said I should tell you. I… I saw something that looked sort of strange to me.”

“Go ahead,” Varner said.

“Well, I live over on Cedar, you know, close enough to walk to work. I come down the boulevard and pass the Roseview Plaza.” She pointed out the window toward a small building. “The little strip mall that’s kitty-cornered over there to the bank.”

“Okay,” Varner said.

“Well, about two weeks ago, for three, maybe four days, I saw a young man sitting in a parked car.”

“What’s strange about that?” Tilden asked.

“He was looking through binoculars.”

“At what?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“At the bank?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. But one time he caught me looking at him, and he put the binoculars down quickly, moved them out of sight.”

“Did you tell anyone about it?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you think it was suspicious?”

“Well, not then because…” Dolores stared at the tissue in her hand. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, to be honest. I mean, he could’ve been watching the birds in the trees, I don’t know. This is such a quiet neighborhood-it’s always been safe. So when you see something like that, you just assume there’s a perfectly normal explanation for it. But now, after what’s happened, I feel so stupid. I should’ve reported him.”