Death of a Bankster

by David Bishop

  “Sensational, girl. If I was into women, even part time, I’d be all over you.”

  “Thank you, Carla. I think.”

  “No. No. I mean it. If you and Sam want to try a threesome, I’ll be glad to stick around. I always wondered how it would be to share a man. Dabble in a little girl-on-girl action. Why don’t I take off my dress? We can fool around, nibble a little. Get you warmed up for Sam.”

  “Behave yourself. And no threesome.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you haven’t wondered what it would be like with a woman.”

  “Wondered? Yes. I’ll admit to wondering, a time or two maybe, but tonight, this is about Sam. Maybe some other time, not likely, but maybe. Who knows where this new me will end up going.”

  “Damn. You’ve got me in the mood, girl. You look hot and that’s without your come-fuck-me shoes. All right, another time, but at least tell me about that hunk you had over here today. But I ain’t promising I won’t rub myself so you make it juicy, girl. You’ve talked about divorce. So I understand you wanting to test drive some new models.”

  “I had a flat and the man stopped to change it for me. The least I could do was to give him a cup of coffee. That’s it, coffee. Although,” Paige smiled, “you had it right, he was a hunk. Well, actually, he still is a hunk.” They both laughed.

  Paige went to mix up a batch of margaritas. Carla had lost her passion for the Riesling they had planned to drink. “I’m ready for some hard stuff.” Carla licked her lips after saying that, and they laughed again. Then the phone rang.

  “I’ve been downsized,” Sam said, before Paige got the phone to her ear.

  “Honey? What are you saying?”

  “I’ve been sacked,” Sam said putting a different twist on it. “Let go. Terminated. Fired. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “While I was at parent headquarters, in LA. They told me this afternoon before I left for the airport.”

  “What did they say?”

  “‘You’re being downsized,’ that’s what they said. Did you ever hear anything so stupid? I’m the same height. The same weight. How can I be downsized? The company can downsize. The department can downsize. But not me. I can’t be downsized.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Aren’t you listening? Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been sacked. I’m fucked. That’s what it means. We’re fucked. That’s what it means.”

  “How soon? How much time do we have?”

  “None. Well, tomorrow. It’s official tomorrow. I have to go in tomorrow morning and clean out my desk. I report to security. They will accompany me to and from my office.”

  “Why so sudden? What did you do?”

  “What did I do? What did I do? I did my damn job. That’s what I did. I did my damn job. Everything they wanted me to do. I went along. I did it. I carried the water on bringing all that money into the U.S. I authorized what needed to be. I signed the documents. I got ‘em millions and millions in deposits and fees, and gobs of under-the-table payments. That’s what I did. I got the bank a fat pile of dough. I made the top guys super wealthy. For that I get the sack, and if it all gets tracked, the trail leads only to my desk. So now I’m expendable. Their fair-haired boy turns out to have been just that, their fair-haired boy. I suppose they want me to fall on my sword. Well, no thanks. I’ve seen this coming. Felt it. I started taking steps several weeks ago. I’ll get the last laugh on them. Laugh in their faces. That’s what I’ll do. I—”

  “You’re rambling, dear. Come home. Have a drink. Tell me about it then. I mean, I can’t imagine them just up and firing you. I mean, if you were doing your job.”

  “Why is it so hard to believe? They’re rotten assholes. Dickheads. Senior executive dickheads. I never liked the term, but yeah, as the world will eventually learn, they’re Banksters. Well, fuck ‘em. We’ll be better off without ‘em.”

  “Banksters? What’s that mean?”

  “You mate a banker with a gangster to make a bankster.”

  “Oh, that’s silly, dear.”

  “Believe me it’s a lot truer than most people imagine. These dickheads have a simple motto: greed before country, greed before honor. Google Bankster, you’ll see.”

  “What about Max? Can’t he help you? I mean, he’s your direct boss. He was the best man at our wedding. You’ve been friends for more than twenty years, a little longer than we’ve been married.”

  “Mr. Maxwell Norbert is the biggest dickhead of them all. He’s the one who fired me, who told me to clean out my desk. Turn in my pass to the underground parking space. No notice. I get two weeks’ severance, health insurance till the end of the year, and a security guard to escort me out of the bank. I have to vacate my office and the bank by ten in the morning or security will escort my ass to my car.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at Sky Harbor, on my cell phone heading for baggage. Well, their cell phone. I have to give that to security tomorrow before I leave the building, along with my laptop, again, their laptop. They bought it. I’m here at baggage so let me go. I’ll be home soon. Forty-five minutes, give or take.”

  “It always takes you an hour to get home from the airport after you get to baggage,” Paige said.

  “Not tonight. I’ll set a new land-speed record. That’s if I don’t drive off the edge somewhere. That’d serve those bastards right, make ‘em pay off under the bank’s million-dollar life policy. I’m still covered. For how long I don’t know. Maybe until the end of the year like my health coverage, your guess is as good as mine, but certainly until tomorrow. Right now, I’m still officially on the payroll.”

  “You took a cab to the airport dear. You don’t have your car.”

  “Just my luck. The one time I didn’t drive to the airport.”

  “I don’t like that kinda talk, Sam, even in kidding.”

  “Who the hell’s kidding? But don’t sweat it. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. The bank’s the beneficiary on the life insurance. It’s a key-man type policy designed to provide the bank money to offset the costs, loss of revenue, and adjustments to replacing me if I die. Ain’t that a pile of crap?”

  “Now promise me you’ll not do anything foolish. We’ll be okay. We’ll make it. With what you’ve put in our safe deposit box and our brokerage accounts, we’re okay. We’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll come out of this on top. You watch. Those dickheads will end up getting it in the ass. Score one for Sam Crawford. I’ll have the last laugh on all this. You’ll see.” Sam hung up.

  Paige hit the end button and dropped her cell phone on the couch next to her. Carla sat forward in her chair, a blank look on her face. “What happened?”

  “He’s been downsized. He’ll be home soon. I guess I better get upstairs and out of this seduction outfit.”

  “No. No. A great lay will take a man’s mind off anything. Men don’t multi-task well, they can’t use their big heads while they’re using their little heads. You get after it, girl. Pour it on. Strut your stuff.” Carla bobbed her head. “You make ‘im beg for it, honey.”

  “But he’s been downsized.”

  “Listen to me. You look hot in that outfit, beyond hot. Take his mind off being downsized, whatever the hell that means. Tonight is about you getting him up-sized. And that pun is intended.”

  Chapter 4

  Two margaritas later, the front door opened. Paige and Carla looked up to see Paige’s husband, Sam, standing on the porch. He turned toward the street and looked back at the cab pulling away from the curb. The hot night air danced through a mesquite tree growing on Sam's side of the streetlamp, the swaying branches tossing shadows across the pavement.

  Carla stood. “Don’t close the door Sam; I’ve got to be going.”

  Sam stepped up into the house. Then he fell forward. His face hit the floor. Hard. His right pant leg twisted and pushed partway up as he fell. One foot hung back over the sill, suspended out into
the night air, a strip of exposed white skin cooling above his sock.

  The two women stood still, looking at each other, and then ran toward Sam. They stopped when a pool of blood began flowing toward them. The tiny red stream flowed unevenly along the grout lines of the diagonally laid slate tile entryway, like a miniature desert wash in a flash rain.

  Paige screamed.

  Carla grabbed Paige by the shoulders. “Let me look.” Carla moved Sam’s legs far enough to let her close the door. She bent down and put the inside of the pads of her index and middle finger against Sam’s throat, below his jawline. After a brief period, Carla stood and went to Paige. “Sam’s been shot in the back of the head. I’m sorry, honey. He’s dead.”

  Carla didn’t let go of Paige until she stopped crying. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  “Would you, Carla. I need to go upstairs and change. I can’t have the cops see me wearing this. She spread her hands and looked down. I feel silly in … why am I worried about this now?”

  Carla gently wiped her thumb across a tear path on Paige’s cheek. Then she reached for the phone. A sudden noise turned both women toward the door. Toward the voice of a man who had opened the door without knocking.

  He stepped inside. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping over Sam’s legs. Paige snatched her robe closed and fastened the tie. “I’m with the FBI,” he said, “Special Agent in Charge, Dennis Powell.”

  “How did you know this had happened?” Carla asked. “So quickly?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “you are?”

  “This is Paige Crawford. That’s her husband,” Carla pointed back toward the front door, “Sam Crawford. I’m her friend, her neighbor, Carla Roth. I’m a registered nurse. I checked. Sam is dead. Now how did you get here so fast? How did you know Sam had been shot?”

  “This is Special Agent Ann Withers, Ms. Roth. We’ve had Mr. Crawford under surveillance for some time. I followed him home from the airport. Agent Withers had the house under surveillance.”

  “You had my home under surveillance?” Paige asked. She leaned one hand against the sofa table that sat along the wall not far from the door, on the other side of the stream of her husband’s blood. Her first words since the agents came into her home. “What does that mean? Why would you be watching my house? I expect an explanation, Agent … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Agent Powell, Ma’am. I can’t give you all the details, but you are entitled to an answer. We have had your husband under investigation for some months.”

  “Under investigation? For what?”

  “Your husband is suspected of money laundering, Mrs. Crawford.”

  Is that what Sam has been up to? How he’s been getting all that extra money?

  Another voice came from the doorway. “Agent Powell, may I proceed?”

  “Mrs. Crawford, Ms. Roth, this man is the local medical examiner. Agent Withers took the liberty of calling him before we approached the house. The need for him was obvious. We saw the whole thing.” Then Agent Powell turned to the medical examiner, “Yes. This is now officially a crime scene. You go right ahead. I assume you’ll be taking the body to your lab?”

  The medical examiner nodded. “Yes. Should be there and booked in within an hour or so. Your surveillance establishes causation and the time of death. So, this one’ll go rather quickly.”

  Agent Powell turned to Agent Withers. “You have the entire crime on tape, correct?”

  “From start to finish,” Agent Withers said. “It all happened right in the doorway. The angle of the shot suggests the shooter was somewhere along the ridge near Camelback, about four-to-five-hundred yards. We saw enough dust right after the shot to suggest the shooter got away on an all-terrain vehicle of some sort. We called the locals. They have people who know that ground so they’ll assist us in finding the exact sniping position.”

  “Agent Withers,” SAIC Powell said. “Don’t bother to call for an evidence response team. We’ve got it all on tape so we know nothing happened on the premises or inside the house. However,” he turned to Paige, “with your permission, we’d like to search your home. Perhaps you could go to Ms. Roth’s home to stay while we do that? We’ll need about two hours, I’d say. If you have any locked file cabinets, doors or drawers, or password protected computers please unlock those before you leave. We’ll be looking for clues to why and by whom your husband was killed. Given our video of the event, we will not be doing any forensics so a couple of hours should be fine. We’ll try to be neat as we proceed.”

  “Paige can stay with me tonight,” Carla said. “I’m off work tomorrow. I’ll stay with her.”

  “That would be excellent,” Agent Powell said. “That way we won’t need to rush. If you’ll give me the key, I’ll personally lock the door when we’re done looking around and the medical examiner has … ah, finished. I’ll bring the key next door. Would that be all right?”

  “I guess so,” Paige said, in monotone, a blank expression on her face.

  Carla Roth nodded. “We want whoever did this to be found. Agent Powell, if you need anything here’s my card. In the short term, call me and I’ll talk with Paige, just for the next day or two. Would that be okay?”

  “Thank you, Ms. Roth. The Bureau appreciates your help.” Then he turned to Paige. “We understand your husband had been out of town the last few days. You were apparently waiting for him when he got home. You saw him when he entered?”

  “Yes,” Paige said, feeling a bit uncomfortable still wearing the bustier under her robe. She had noticed the men looking at her before she realized that in the hubbub her robe tie had again loosened. At least she still wore her slippers and not the platform heels she had planned to wear later. She again wondered why she felt concerned with that right now.

  “Tomorrow morning, we’ll want to go to the bank where Sam worked,” Agent Powell said, “without them knowing the situation before we arrive. So don’t call anyone, no one at all. This is important. We’ll want to judge whether or not people at the bank are surprised when they learn of his death. We’ll want to deal with it the same way here in your neighborhood, and in your family. So, again, please tell no one. That goes for you too, Ms. Roth.”

  “Agent Powell,” Carla said, “Sam’s parents are dead, also Paige’s father, but not her mother. How long do you expect her to remain silent about … this?”

  “I understand. This part of it never runs smoothly. This is Thursday night.” He glanced at his watch before turning to Paige. “It’ll be close to Friday morning by the time we wrap up here. We should be at your husband’s bank in about ten hours or so. Give us until Sunday. In fact, I’ll stop back on Sunday around noon. At that time, I’ll tell you what else we have learned. I’ll likely have a few more questions then. Is Sunday okay for you? Do you work?”

  “Not outside the home, Agent Powell. Sunday will be fine. I’ll be sure and be home Sunday or maybe at Carla’s. I think she’s off until Monday.” Carla nodded her head while mouthing yes without speaking.

  “I think we’ve covered it then, ladies. There was no real commotion on the property and we’ve operated out of discreet surveillance vehicles. We asked the M.E. to come in an unmarked van to maintain our low profile. None of us used any sirens. He should be able to take your husband out without arousing your neighbors. Given the hour, the way your property is landscaped, and the driveway turns toward the house, I doubt anyone has paid any particular attention. You likely won’t be questioned by anyone before I see you again. In the unlikely event you are, excuse it away as animal control removing a javelina that had strayed into your backyard and wouldn’t leave. You could, in the alternative, have Ms. Roth tell anyone who calls or comes by that you’re in bed with a terrible cold, that you’ll likely be up and around by Monday. That should do it.

  “When I come back Sunday afternoon I’ll have a name, a local homicide officer for you to contact. The M.E. will report to that person. Ms. Roth, please take Mrs. Crawford over to
your home now so we can get on with our search. And thank you, Mrs. Crawford, for your permission to look around. We need to get to the bottom of this, and your cooperation tonight will speed that process. Please do not take anything with you now. At this moment, we don’t know what might be evidence. You understand. After I bring the key back, you can return whenever you’d like. We won’t need to button up your house as a crime scene. We have it all on film. The M.E. has the body. The role of your home in the crime was minimal.”

  Carla led Paige toward the front door with Paige clutching her robe above her bustline, her legs peeking out with each step forward. Then Carla turned back toward Agent Powell. “May we have your card?”

  “My apologies, Ms. Roth. I should have provided that first thing. It was a bit hectic, having just observed the killing and all. Here you are. I’m on special assignment out of the national office in D.C. The number on there is my cell. Good night, ladies. Oh, one more thing. How many computers do you have in the house?”

  “There are two, I think,” Carla said, looking at Paige.

  “Yes. Two,” Paige confirmed. “Mine is in the kitchen. I use it to pay bills and personal stuff. Sam has a laptop. At home he uses it in a docking station. He works from home a lot. If you want, take his with you. It may help. I’m sure it’s in the portfolio he had in his hand when—” Her words trailed off. Paige pointed. The leather case was on the entryway floor. “Take it. It belongs to the bank anyway. He got fired earlier today so he would have returned it tomorrow anyway.”

  “He was just fired? Today?”

  “Yes,” Paige said. “He spoke of it when he called from the airport before heading home.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Crawford. I’ll let the bank know we’ve got it. We’ll return it there when we’re done with it.” Then Agent Powell turned to Carla. “You said you’re a nurse, maybe you have something that could help Mrs. Crawford sleep tonight?”