Collateral Damage (30 page)

I turned, looked at him and said, “Welcome home, brother.”

While Jock drove us to the airport I called Bill Lester. I told him what we'd learned in Birmingham, or perhaps more precisely, what we hadn't learned. “Anything on Telson?” I asked.

“According to Pilots on Demand, he's not working. But he hasn't been home in a couple of days. His wife said he flew out on a trip two days ago and she hasn't heard from him since. Said the trip isn't unusual, but he always calls at least once a day. His cell phone goes directly to voice mail. He's in the wind.”

“We're on our way back to Sarasota. Should be landing about two o'clock your time. Let me know if you hear anything.”

Jock asked, “What now?”

“I don't know. We're not any closer to finding J.D. than we were this time yesterday.”

“We know she has to be with Telson. That's something.”

“Not much.”

“She said she was okay. That means something.”

“She also said she was scared,” I said.

“Look, we know now that the same rifle was used to kill both Desmond and Fleming. We can be pretty sure that both murders were carried out by Asians. The only connection between the two victims was the Otto Foundation. We know that Bud Stanley is dirty and that he has a lot of Asian visitors. We know that one of his goons speaks Vietnamese.”

“But the Fleming boy was in Cambodia. That sort of leaves out the Soupy connection.”

“Maybe there never was a Soupy connection,” said Jock.

I thought about that. “But there was a Soupy connection to Stanley.”

“Right. But it might not have anything to do with Desmond.”

I thought some more. “Suppose Stanley is still running drugs for Soupy. Maybe he's using the kids somehow to bring the drugs into the country. The Otto Foundation could be the way to launder some of the money.”

“And if Stanley is using the kids to bring in the drugs,” said Jock, “maybe both Fleming and Desmond tripped over something that alerted them and they had to be taken out.”

“That makes some sense, except that Desmond had been home for four years when he was killed. He apparently didn't have anything to do with the foundation after he came home from Laos. If he'd found something earlier, I'd think he'd either have been taken out before now or gone to the cops.”

“When's Logan due back?” Jock asked.

“He's supposed to dock in Tampa early tomorrow.”

“I'd like some new eyes looking at the evidence. Logan's pretty good at that.”

“Jock, did you notice anything strange about Caine when I mentioned Jim Desmond's name?”

“He seemed a little taken aback, but his reaction didn't ring any alarm bells.”

“Not in me either. But there is a coincidence here. All three of the fathers of the murdered young people served in Vietnam at about the same time.”

Jock was silent for a beat. “Where're you going with this?”

“I don't know. It's like trying to grab a handful of cloud. I can see the shape, but I can't get hold of any substance.”

“Didn't you say that Brewster was a Marine?”

“Yeah.”

“And Fleming and Desmond were both army.”

“Yes. And there were still a lot of people in-country during that time. I doubt they would have known each other. It's just a little loose thread that needs to be tidied up.”

I called Debbie. “Did you find anything on those hard drives?”

“Not as much as I would have thought, but some interesting items.”

“Talk to me.”

“It seems that a lot of money is being transferred out of the Otto Foundation accounts to other banks. The transfers are always relatively small, but they add up to quite a bit.”

“Overseas banks?”

“No. All in this country.”

“Have you got a list of the banks?”

“All of them. Everything is done electronically.”

“Were you able to find out where the money goes after it's transferred into the other banks?”

“Not yet. But I've got the names of the accounts in those banks. Their security might be too much for me. I was hoping Jock's people could get into them.”

“I'm sure they can. Was there anything on Nigella Morrissey?”

“Yes. I got into the foundation bank account records. She shows up on the payroll the first time when the payroll account was opened with the bank about five years ago. The payments were being sent to a bank in Macon, but in mid-June of this year, that changed. Her pay is now electronically transferred to an account in a Sarasota bank. Ten thousand dollars a month. The last payment was transferred overnight Sunday. It was in the account at the opening of business yesterday.”

“You're sure? Sarasota?”

“Yes. I ran her Social Security number through the databases. I wanted to see what else I could turn up on her. The number was never issued to anyone named Morrissey. Turns out it was issued to a friend of ours.”

An icy chill ran up my spine, an augury of dread, the presage of knowledge I didn't want. “Who?”

Debbie let out a long slow breath. “I'm sorry, Matt. The Social Security number belongs to Jennifer Diane Duncan.”

I closed the phone. I sat quietly, staring at the passing cityscape, trying to get my thoughts in some sort of order. J.D. couldn't be dirty. Not the J.D. I knew. She was a professional law enforcement officer, a woman of strong ethical and moral values, a strength of character that glowed like luminous radium, somehow always letting the world know that she was an upright human being with no character defects.

“What's up?” asked Jock. “You look like somebody died.”

“It turns out that the elusive Nigella Morrisey is J. D. Duncan.”

“I don't understand.”

“Debbie tells me that Morrissey's paychecks go into an account in a Sarasota Bank. Morrissey's Social Security number is identical to J.D.'s.”

“Uh-oh. That's not good.”

“Something's not right. J.D. isn't dirty.”

“I want to agree with you, podna. But we'll have to follow the facts.”

“Deb says she has a number of banks where the money has been shifted from the Otto Foundation account. Can your people get those records?”

“Shouldn't be a problem.”

By the time we reached the airport Jock had called his agency and then called Debbie and asked her to e-mail the bank information to an agency geek who would get into the accounts and find out where the money went. Jock told the computer guy to look first at the Sarasota bank and an account in the name of Nigella Morrissey.

We landed at Sarasota a little after two o'clock. Fred Cassidy said that he and the copilot had been instructed to lay over at the Hyatt Regency again
in case I needed the plane. Jock called his contact in the agency office in Washington while we drove back to Longboat Key.

He closed his phone. “It doesn't look too good, Matt. Morrissey's account gets nine thousand two hundred thirty dollars each month. That's the ten grand less the Social Security and Medicare withholding. She doesn't withhold any income taxes. There have only been three checks written out of the account, each one on the day after the money is transferred in and each one for exactly nine thousand dollars, payable to J.D. Duncan. The checks are cashed at the bank on the same day. The last one was cashed yesterday morning at nine forty-five.”

“That's pretty neat,” I said. “If the checks are cashed for less than ten grand the bank doesn't have to report it to the government. I wonder if the bank has security cameras that can identify the person who cashed the checks.”

“Bill Lester can get that for us.”

“I don't want to involve Bill in this just yet. He'll have to take some action and then the word will get out that J.D.'s on the take. Even after we prove she's not, the stain will still be there.”

“Look, podna,” Jock said. “I know you've got feelings for J.D, but you can't let that cloud your judgment. Things don't look so good for her right now. Bill's your friend and J.D.'s boss. He needs to know about this.”

“I don't want to lie to Bill, but what he doesn't know can't hurt him.”

“Unless J.D. is dirty, and then a load of crap is going to fall on the chief.”

I was quiet for a moment, thinking it over. Bill truly was a good friend, to both J.D. and me, but he also had responsibilities to his department and the town that paid his salary. He was an honorable man and the duty he owed his fellow officers and the people of Longboat Key would likely override his emotional attachments to a couple of friends. On the other hand, if J.D. were truly dirty, I would be putting Lester's career in jeopardy.

“I'll keep that in mind,” I said, more sharply than I meant to.

Jock drove in silence for a few moments. “Let me make some calls.”

We pulled into a Crispers Restaurant on Cortez Road. We hadn't eaten since a quick breakfast on the way to the airport that morning. I went
inside, leaving Jock in the car with his cell phone. He came in a few minutes later and joined me in the ordering line.

“My director is calling the bank president. National security concerns open a lot of doors.”

“How's this going to work?”

“The director will tell the banker that I need to look at his security tapes from yesterday morning. That we're tracking a terror suspect and we think he might have been in the bank yesterday. No names, no fuss, just a routine follow-up by a field agent. Me.”

We ate our lunch in silence. Jock's phone rang, he answered, said “okay” and hung up. “We're in,” he said. “Let's finish up and get to the bank. The president is expecting us, and he'll have the tape ready.”

The bank was a small independent establishment, one of those set up by entrepreneurs who get funding and grow the deposits with the hope of selling out at a big profit to one of the large chains. The president came to the lobby to greet us and took us back to his office. Jock flashed his credentials and introduced me as his associate. The banker plugged a flash drive into the computer on his desk.

“This starts at nine a.m. when we open the doors,” he said. “It goes until noon. If you need more tape, we can get it for you.”

“This should do fine,” said Jock. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“Always glad to help. I don't like the thought of a terrorist in my bank.”

“It's probably nothing,” said Jock, “but we have to follow up any lead.”

“Okay. I'll leave you alone.”

Jock and I huddled behind the desk reviewing the security tape on the monitor. It was a small bank and there were only two teller windows. One of them was closed. The camera was placed behind the tellers so that we could see the faces of the customers. We had a clear picture of the bank lobby and the entrance.

Just before nine forty-five, a woman came through the entrance. She was a brunette, her hair shoulder length. She carried herself with that assurance that cops adopt, not exactly a swagger, but a stride of confidence
that hinted that she was in charge of her surroundings. As she neared the counter her face came into focus. I told Jock to stop the video. We had a fairly close-up view of the woman cashing the check. No doubt about it. The lovely face, the one that could break into a smile that lit up a room, belonged to Detective J. D. Duncan.

We went to the lobby to talk to the bank president. Jock said, “I noticed that your teller had the person cashing the check make a thumbprint.”

“Yes, we do that for security. We check ID, but that's easy to fake. We have to cash checks on our customer's accounts, so we require the thumbprint. If the ID was fake and we gave cash to a somebody other than the payee on the check, we'll have a way to find them and prosecute.”

“Could we get a copy of the print on a certain check?” asked Jock.

“Yes, but the checks have already been sent to the processing center.

I can probably get somebody there to find it for you, but it'll be at least tomorrow morning before I can get it back.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd get right on that,” said Jock.

I held up the flash drive with the security video. “We're going to need a copy of this.”

“Take that one,” said the banker. “We're giving blank flash drives away to new customers. I've got a boatload of them in the storeroom.”

“Do you want to bring Lester in on this now?” Jock asked. We were driving back to the key. I felt as if a dark cloud was slowly engulfing me, turning me into block of stone, unable to think or move or feel. Was J.D. really dirty? It seemed so.

“Not yet,” I said. “I know this woman, Jock. She's not capable of something like this.”

“The money started flowing right after Jim Desmond was killed. Maybe she came across something in the investigation and is being bought off.”

“That'd be a logical conclusion if I didn't know her. She's not capable of that kind of betrayal of all of us.”

“You weren't involved until very late in this. Maybe she wouldn't do it to you, but by the time you got interested it was too late to back out.”

“She wouldn't betray Bill Lester and the department. Or her own values. Something is wrong with the picture we're getting.”

“I hope you're right.”

“We need to dig deeper,” I said. “Can your people dig up some information on a top secret outfit that ran something called Operation Thanatos back at the end of the Vietnam War?”

“If there's information on it, I'm sure we can get it. What's this about?”

“Doc Desmond left our unit and went to a group made up of special ops types, Army Special Forces, Marine Recon, Navy SEALs, CIA. They were super secret and were used to assassinate Viet Cong leaders.”