Deadly Interest (36 page)

The familiar phone prefix and exchange gave
me the impression that she lived in the south suburbs, probably
near Palos Hospital. She picked it up on the third ring.

“
Maya, this is Alex St.
James. We met the other day?” I put it as a question, hoping she
remembered.

“
Alex, yes of course,” she
said.

“
I’m sorry to bother you
at home,” I began.

“
That’s all right,” she
said with automatic politeness. “What’s up?”

“
That’s the thing,” I
said, “I’m not sure. I have some files here—”

“
Are you at the
bank?”

“
I’m at home.”

I could hear wariness creep into her voice.
“Owen let you take bank files home with you?”

I took a deep breath. “No.” I explained the
circumstances that brought the files to my possession. She was
mostly silent during my narrative, offering up an uncertain,
“Okay,” that I knew meant more to prompt me along than to agree
with anything. I left out the fact that I’d made copies that Barton
now possessed.

“
I have an idea of what
some of this means,” I said. All of a sudden this phone call felt
lame; my expectation that she’d be able to sort through all my
questions, without seeing the records, was the work of a pie-eyed
idealist, not the ace researcher I tried to be. Knowing it’d be a
tough sell to pull her out on a Saturday night, I forged ahead.
“But I’m not sure if the conclusions I’m coming to are solid, or
way off. If it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, could I
meet you somewhere to get your ideas?”

Her thoughtful silence over the phone made
me believe I’d lost her. “Tonight?” she asked.

“
Well . . .yes.” I’d been
about to hedge, to suggest that we get together Monday after work,
but I knew that my questions couldn’t wait, and I still had Bass on
my back, waiting for me to cough up a story. “I realize it’s a
Saturday night, and you’ve probably got a million things you’d
rather do, but—”

She cut me off, her voice skeptical. “You
think this has something to do with why Evelyn was murdered?”

“
I honestly don’t know.
That’s why I need help here.”

Sensing that she was choosing the right
words to decline, I clenched my eyes shut for a split second,
worried about the chance I was about to take. “Listen,” I said, “do
you know why the bank is being audited by the FDIC?”

“
Because we’re due for an
audit.”

“
That’s not the whole
story,” I said. I took a deep breath, and decided to go for it.
“They’re investigating you.”

“
What? Me?”

“
Please,” I said. “I
promise not to take much of your time. Is there a restaurant or
something near you where we can talk?”

“
What exactly do you have
there? What kinds of files did you find?”

For a half-second, the antagonism in her
voice made me wonder if she was, indeed, involved in some
embezzling scheme at the bank, but my gut told me differently.

“
I’m no
banker—”

“
What did you
find?”

I took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know
what some of this is. If I’m putting it together correctly, it
looks like you’ve set up an elaborate scheme to siphon money out of
the bank, but,” I added that in before she could interrupt, “a
couple of things don’t fit that scenario. I think you’re being set
up. Let me show you, okay?”

I took her silence to mean she was
considering my proposition. Wanting to tip the scales my direction,
I added, “I could be out your direction in twenty minutes.” Closer
to thirty, I thought, but I’d push.

“
Okay,” she said at last.
“But I have to tell you, I’m not real happy to be thinking you’re
considering me a suspect here.”

“
I’m not,” I said. “If I
did, you’re the last person I’d talk to.”

* * * * *

Twenty-five minutes later, having grabbed a
cheeseburger and iced tea at the fastest drive-thru I knew, I rang
Maya’s doorbell. When she’d finally agreed to meet me, she
suggested I come to her home rather than discuss bank business in a
public place. I had an initial feeling of unease about that, but I
attributed my nervousness to the fact that I might be on the verge
of finally coming up with some solid leads.

On the drive over, just to be safe, I phoned
Detective Lulinski to tell him my plans. I’d learned, the hard way,
not to put myself in compromising positions without a backup plan.
I got his voicemail, which was just as well. I had no doubt he’d
try to talk me out of my visit, or worse, he’d want to accompany
me. I knew in my gut that I’d get a lot more information from Maya
girl-to-girl, than with a detective listening in.

Maya opened the door, not smiling, but the
looseness of her hair, released from its customary pulled-back
style, framed her dark face giving her a softer appearance. She
wore a belted silk robe in an African pattern, and her feet were
bare. I offered a smile, relieved at least, to see that she wasn’t
in a hurry to go out.

Coffee-colored eyes bore into me, not with
the furtive apprehension of a guilty party, but with a pointed
anger—”kill the messenger” rang out loud and clear.

Her house was small, as Palos Park homes
went, but it was still at least twice the size of mine. An affluent
suburb of Chicago, Palos boasted sprawling mansions deep in wooded
cul-de-sacs. Maya’s brick ranch must have cost her a fortune,
though it was certainly not out of the reach of a Loop bank
vice-president’s salary.

“
Forgive the mess,” she
said, the way a woman always will, when faced with a surprise
guest, even if her house is pristine. “Just moved in a few months
ago,” she said, gesturing around the older home. “Didn’t get much
done, yet.”

“
I really am very sorry to
bother you,” I said again, taking in my surroundings as quickly as
I could. Framed prints sat atop the back of her sofa, leaning
against the wall, in preview of their placements. The musty smell
of the home’s past lives relaxed me. Not a pretentious house, it
was sturdy, creaky with promise, and just waiting for its new
owner’s personal touch. “This is lovely,” I said, meaning
it.

“
Let’s sit in the dining
room, the light’s better,” she said. She moved with wary
impatience, as though she both wanted to know, yet was afraid to
see what damaging evidence I held in the papers I carried
close.

“
The bastard!”

Maya stood up from the chair she’d taken
just over an hour ago. Her exclamation bellowed in the otherwise
quiet room, where we’d been discussing the records in whispers, as
though some unseen entity might overhear.

She paced the dining room, her bare feet
making angry “whumps” as she strode over the creaky wooden floor,
head down, her loosened hair shaking from side to side.

I waited.

“
Damn, damn, damn,” she
said. Stealing a look up at me, she cringed, her eyes imploring, as
though I could somehow make all this go away. She fingered the gold
cross hanging from the chain around her neck. “Lord Jesus, help me
in my time of need,” she said, her voice cracking.

We’d just finished reading a letter written
by Owen Riordan, addressed to the Banner Bank human resources
manager, with copies to Maya’s personnel file and to David Dewars.
In the letter, Owen voiced his concerns about Maya’s honesty and
reliability, and stated that he suspected she was attempting to
perpetrate a huge scam from her position in the loan department.
The peculiar thing was that the letter was dated over three weeks
in the future, but I’d found it in Mrs. Vicks safe deposit box.

Maya nodded, a glint of anger making an
appearance behind her wet eyes. “I’m not going to let him set me
up—I swear.”

“
Good,” I said. “That’s
exactly the attitude we need.” I picked up my pen and looked at her
pointedly. “Now, talk. Let’s go over what we’ve got here one more
time.”

Tugging her robe tighter around her slight
frame, she nodded, her gaze already dancing over the papers on the
table, stopping long enough for her to grab the hand-lettered page
Mrs. Vicks had seen fit to create.

“
I still can’t believe all
this,” Maya said, holding onto a corner of the legal sheets,
“Banner Bank opened ‘Line of Affluence’ accounts for dozens . . .
no, more than that . . . hundreds of people who probably never knew
they applied for the accounts.”

“
You’re sure?”

“
No,” she said, “but it
makes sense. Look,” she said, digging to find the copy of a
computer printout Mrs. Vicks had made with tiny blue ink checkmarks
in the column adjacent to many of the names. “Here. Every one of
the people Evelyn indicated on this list has a Chicago area PO Box
as an address. That’s the first clue that they’re bogus. You always
get a home address when you’re issuing a loan. Always. It’d be
stupid not to.”

I took the copies from her as she
continued.

“
These people,” she tapped
the yellow sheets this time, “according to Evelyn’s notes, are
nursing home residents. From all across the country. Their names
and socials match up to the files, but I doubt they’d apply for
this kind of loan. We marketed this program to young, urban
professionals. Retired seniors are far different from our target
demographic. And yet,” she sighed with quiet incredulity, “every
one has my name on it as approving their application.”

“
But you didn’t approve
them, did you?”

Her eyes jumped, her voice shot out
angry—defensive. “I’ve never even seen these before tonight—how
could I have approved them?”

“
Hey,” I said, in a
soothing voice, “I’m on your side.”

Her expression shifted; she leaned forward,
pulling tight at the front of the robe again, covering
protectively. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why are you on my
side? Why didn’t you just take all this information and bring it to
Owen?”

“
Because . . .” I met her
eyes, “I knew better.”

I could almost see her brain working behind
narrowed eyes, so I explained. “Remember that day you tried to
rescue me from the bowels of the vault department?”

She nodded.

I held up the copy of the
computer printout to show her the scrawled message:
Approved: M. Richardson – Please
File
. “The note you wrote that
day—completely different handwriting than this.”

Canting her head, her voice went up a notch.
“You can recognize peoples’ handwriting? After one look?”

I smiled at that, and for the first time
since I’d arrived, I felt a small amount of tension drift away.
“No, but I do remember thinking that your handwriting didn’t match
your personality.” I held out a hand her direction. “You’re
energetic and outgoing. Your note looked like it was written—no
offense—by a timid third-grader.”

Leaning back in her chair she let go a short
laugh. “Thank the nuns for that. They used to crack the rulers
against my desk and scare the living daylights out of me if I
didn’t keep my letters small and legible.” With a wistful smile,
she added, “I guess I never realized I’d be so glad they were tough
on me, huh?” She narrowed her eyes again. “That’s it? You came out
all this way, and took a chance because of some handwriting?”

“
Of course not,” I
admitted. “When I went over all this stuff tonight at home, I could
see something wasn’t right. I had an idea, but I needed help
figuring it all out.” Shrugging my uncertainty, I continued. “I had
to ask somebody . . . either you or Owen, and since Mrs. Vicks had
your home phone number written on her notes, I took it to mean that
she wanted to get in touch with you outside of work. She must have
had faith in you. Plus,” I added, “I’ve met you and I’ve met Owen.
I asked myself which one of you I would trust.” I shrugged. “And
here I am.”

She smiled at that, and a couple of quiet
beats passed before we both sat forward, getting back to work. A
gentle bubble of camaraderie had enveloped us, ready now to face
the task of dismantling the scam together.

* * * * *

When we finished sorting through it all, we
were confident we had the details worked out. “Line of Affluence”
accounts had been opened for the one hundred and seventy-three
people Mrs. Vicks had listed on her ledger sheets, for varying
amounts, all under ten thousand dollars. Compiled in chronological
order, the first accounts had been opened six months earlier. I was
sure hundreds more had been added to the list since then.

Maya explained that the “Line of Affluence”
account was a pilot program. A brand-new idea to bring in
customers, it had generated a buzz even more intense than they’d
hoped. Professionals everywhere were clamoring to sign up. A
checking account with credit privileges, it offered a super-low
rate on overdrafts. Not ordinary overdrafts, these customers could,
in essence, write themselves a loan up to their assigned credit
limit with no collateral—nothing but a signature to guarantee
future repayment.

I gave a low whistle when she’d first
explained the program. “Nice setup. At least till the bills
start.”

“
That’s the thing.” She
sifted through the paperwork for several minutes while I watched,
trying to read her expression. Tiny frown lines deepened between
her dark brows and when she finally looked up again, her lips were
pursed in thought. “This printout was dated three weeks ago,” she
said. “But it lists each individual approval date. Every single one
of these accounts was funded on the very day they were
approved.”