A Simple Act of Violence (36 page)

Maybe he should just call and say I am going to call you, you know? I did hear what you said and I really would like to take you out, but right now we have this thing. He could say we because she would understand that. She’d understand that he wasn’t trying to put her off. He could say Right now we have this thing. There’s one hell of a lot of heat on it. From Lassiter - he’s my precinct captain, you know? - and from the chief, all the way down from the mayor, and right now I don’t even have time to piss straight . . . No, not that. Not that kind of language. Right now I don’t even have time to open my mail, so please don’t get the idea that I’m not interested, but you’re in the loop on this and you understand where I’m coming from, right?’

‘Robert?’

Miller snapped to, turned and looked at Roth.

‘You just drove past the bank.’

Miller parked the car half a block down and they walked back the way they’d come. They waited in the foyer while someone spoke to someone who spoke to someone else, and finally - after perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes - the VP for security came down. Pleasant guy, perhaps early forties. Hell of a suit, Miller noticed. Kind of suit you couldn’t buy in a store.

‘I’m Douglas Lorentzen, Vice-President for Security,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting . . . please, come this way.’

Walked out back of the reception area and down a corridor that ran the length of the building. They reached a door at the end and Lorentzen punched a code into a pad on the wall. Once through it they took a left, Miller ahead of Roth, every once in a while glancing over his shoulder as if he expected Roth to say something.

They went through a door at the end of the second
corridor into an ante-room, beyond that a plush office -
large, no windows, a bank of security monitors across the right hand wall. Pot plants, a wide mahogany desk, several chairs around a smaller oval table, its surface buffed to a glass-like finish.

‘Please sit down,’ Lorentzen said. ‘I can get you something . . . some coffee, mineral water?’

Miller sat down. ‘We’re fine,’ he said. ‘We just need your help on a small matter and then we’ll be gone.’

Lorentzen appeared unruffled, as if this was routine - the appearance of two detectives with a warrant, a meeting in a basement office, questions to be asked and answered.

‘I understand you have a warrant,’ Lorentzen said, preempting Miller.

Miller withdrew the warrant from his pocket, slid it across the table.

Lorentzen read through the warrant and looked up. ‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘Give me a moment.’

Lorentzen lifted the phone and asked for Records and Archives, shared a few words with someone, gave them McCullough’s name, the approximate date the account had been opened, asked for all files or documents relating to McCullough’s account to be delivered to the security suite.

Lorentzen replaced the receiver. ‘So, is there anything you can tell me about what we’re dealing with here?’ he asked.

‘Unfortunately no,’ Roth replied. ‘It’s an ongoing investigation. ’

‘Some aspect of fraud perhaps?’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Lorentzen,’ Miller answered. ‘We’re simply trying to gather information regarding the whereabouts of a particular person.’

‘And this person, this Michael McCullough, appears to have opened an account here some years ago?’

‘Appears so, yes.’

The phone rang.

‘Excuse me,’ Lorentzen said. He picked up the phone, listened for a moment, acknowledged the person at the other end and instructed them to come right in. Moments later a knock at the door, Lorentzen opened it, took a file from someone, and then closed the door.

He smiled as he walked toward Miller and Roth. He was efficient. He was VP for Security, and within a handful of minutes he had proven his ability to administer the system, to assist the police, to find what they were looking for. The Washington American Trust bank did what it said it could do.

Lorentzen sat down and opened the thin manila file. He leafed through some papers, and then looked up. ‘The account was opened in the name of Michael Richard McCullough on Friday, April 11th, 2003. Mr McCullough attended the bank as a new customer that morning, was seen by the assistant manager for new accounts, Keith Beck. Keith, unfortunately, is no longer with us.’

Roth took a notepad from his inside jacket pocket. He wrote April 11th 2003 and Keith Beck New Accounts Manager, Wash Am Trust.

‘Mr McCullough made an opening deposit of fifty dollars. That’s the minimum deposit required when opening a new account—’

‘Cash or check?’ Roth asked.

‘Cash unfortunately,’ Lorentzen replied.

‘And the ID he used?’ Miller asked.

‘His police department identity card, his social security card, a bill from the telephone company to confirm his address on Corcoran Street.’

Miller glanced at Roth. ‘Three blocks from me,’ he said, and turned back to Lorentzen. ‘We’re going to need copies of all of those documents.’

‘Unfortunately that will take a little time. Once an account has been opened we return the originals to the account holder. We have copies, but they’re scanned into a computer and held on file at our central security unit.’

‘Which is where?’

‘Here in Washington,’ Lorenzten said, ‘but—’

‘This is a warrant case,’ Miller said. ‘We really need whatever help you can give us.’

Roth leaned forward. ‘This could actually contribute to the resolution of a tremendously important investigation, Mr Lorentzen. We need to get copies of these documents as rapidly as possible.’

Lorentzen understood. He was not over-complicated. One of those rare officials who actually considered it was his job to help, not to hinder with explanations of administrative regulations and bureaucratic protocol.

‘You’re happy to wait here?’ he said.

‘No problem,’ Miller replied.

‘I’ll do what I can, okay?’

‘That’s all we can ask of you.’

Lorentzen left the room, closed the door firmly behind him.

Miller looked at his watch: it was ten after three.