The Dark Heart

by Julie Cave

  Elise and Dinah left ten minutes later, and met Raoul at a round table away from the bar. The Irish bar was often busy over the weekend, but on Monday nights, quiet tables were available. Most of the patrons were clustered around the television, watching Monday night football.

  Raoul Gomez was tall, dark-complexioned, and floridly handsome. In his mid-thirties, he’d managed the Ten Mile Hollow Savings Trust Bank for five years. He sat behind a stack of paper. “Hi, Detective,” he greeted Elise. He glanced at Dinah with curiosity. “Hope the information I’ve found is useful.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she said. “Thanks for calling me. This is Dinah Harris, a former FBI agent who is consulting on this case for me.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Gomez said, standing up to shake Dinah’s hand.

  They all sat and ordered root beer from the waitress.

  “Well, let’s start at the beginning,” Gomez said, showing Elise and Dinah a copy of Malia Shaw’s bank statements. “You can see regular deposits into her account, of about five hundred dollars a fortnight.”

  Dinah saw the regular injections of cash and nodded.

  “You’ll notice the numbers after the word ‘deposit’ on the statement,” continued Raoul. “This is a descriptor, which tells me that the money was transferred from another account, as opposed to being deposited in-person in a bank.”

  Dinah and Elise nodded again.

  “Secondly, the descriptor tells me the money came from another bank, not the Ten Mile Hollow Savings Trust. When we perform the trace, we basically decode the numbers.”

  Dinah, a little impatient, kept a pleasant smile on her face. Let’s hurry this up, Raoul!

  “So the bank the money came from is Bank of America, from an account held in a branch in Richmond,” continued Raoul.

  “Who is the holder of that account?” Elise asked.

  “A company, Sons & Daughters Ltd,” said Raoul. “Does that ring any bells for you?”

  Elise frowned and shook her head.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Raoul. “So I did some further checking with a friend who works at Bank of America. The signatories on the account are a man and woman, by the names of Robert Langer and Theresa Scott.”

  Dinah frowned, her brain in overdrive. Those names didn’t sound familiar either, yet something flagged deep in the back of her mind.

  “This Sons & Daughters, Ltd account is the only one in that name, and neither Robert Langer nor Theresa Scott have accounts there in their own names.”

  “How much money did the account have in it, and where did it come from?” Elise asked.

  “I’m glad you thought of that, because I did, too,” grinned Raoul, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “The account has been open for close to 20 years, and there is a deposit of roughly $15,000 every year. So we ran a trace on the deposit of $15,000.”

  Dinah nodded. Spit it out, man!

  “That deposit comes from a Wells Fargo branch held in D.C. The Wells Fargo account is held in the name of The Wellness Group Trust, and the signatories on that account are Lola Albright and Robert Langer.”

  Lola! Dinah sat up straighter. “I know a Lola Albright,” she said. Elise agreed with a nod.

  “Well, here is something interesting,” said Raoul. “The money in that account is also about $15,000 a year and the trace led to another account, an investment account with Goldman Sachs. It was opened about 20 years ago — I’m starting to see a pattern here — in the name of Robert Langer, with an opening balance of $225,000, at a branch in California.”

  That got Elise’s attention. “Really?” she said, eyebrows raised. “What do you think that means?”

  “The attempt to hide the source of the money is not particularly sophisticated,” said Raoul. “Though this information is not widely available, any bank staffer could trace the money pretty easily. But where did the $225,000 come from? It was a series of cash deposits — all under the amount of $10,000, of course. Anything over that we have to report. So we see a wide range of cash deposits from banks and branches all over the country, all for between $8,000 and $9,000 each. Collectively, it adds up to $225,000. And that’s the interesting thing.”

  “Is there any pattern to those deposits being made?” Dinah asked. “Indicative of a journey from somewhere else, for example?”

  “No,” said Raoul. “I checked. It’s all here, but as an example, you can see that in March, a deposit was made in New Orleans. Two days later, another deposit in Seattle. It bounces around all over the country in the same way over a period of about six months.”

  There was silence as both Elise and Dinah thought about this. “So the trace stops eventually with a huge amount of cash in Robert Langer’s name,” said Dinah.

  “Right. One thing I can’t tell you is where that cash came from, but perhaps this Robert Langer will explain,” said Raoul.

  A long-time heroin addict receives five hundred dollars a fortnight from a man and Lola, thought Dinah. But it comes from a nest egg of almost a quarter of a million dollars, deposited 20 years ago in cash.

  A thought suddenly struck her. She stood and shook Raoul’s hand. “Thanks for all your help,” she said. “Can I take this paperwork with me? I’d like to go to the office and look through it.”

  Elise looked up at her, a puzzled expression on her face. But she stood too.

  “Of course,” said Raoul. “It was kind of fun, you know, doing some proper investigating.”

  Outside, Elise asked: “What? You thought of something?”

  “Let’s get back to the office and I’ll explain,” said Dinah.

  Elise drove urgently to her office, which meant her driving was even worse than normal. Still, she arrived in record time. The office was empty save for the deputies on duty and the night dispatcher, who chewed gum frantically as though her life depended upon it. Dinah flicked on the lights over her desk and rifled through the evidence they’d already collected while Elise watched.

  She finally found what she was looking for — the fake identification documents she’d found in Malia Shaw’s apartment. Her suspicion was confirmed — the signatory known as Theresa Scott was one of the aliases Malia Shaw had used. She showed the document to Elise.

  Elise immediately called Raoul on his cell phone.

  “Raoul?” she said. “Listen, I need one more thing from you. Can you locate the identification documentation Robert Langer used when he opened the account at Bank of America? I think I know who he is, but I need a picture to confirm it.”

  Though the evening was getting late, Raoul managed to get the information from the West Coast by close of business. As the sun died a fiery death in the west, the fax machine chattered into life. The document that came through clarified Dinah’s hunch. When Robert Langer had opened the account, he’d been required to provide identification. He’d given a passport and a driver’s license, which had been photocopied by the bank employee. And even the grainy, poor-quality photocopy of the passport photo could not hide his identity. Robert Langer was Angus Whitehall. His fake identification seemed to be as professional as those found in Malia Shaw’s apartment; certainly, the bank employee had seen no reason to be suspicious.

  Dinah sat down hard at her desk, her mind spinning like a child’s toy. Who were Angus, Malia, and Lola? What were they hiding?

  And why had it led to Malia’s death and Lola’s disappearance?

  Chapter 8

  Don’t tell me,” groaned Angus. His knuckles turned white where he gripped his desk. “Please not today.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Shana, in her wobbly, uncertain voice. She often made the sentences she said sound like questions. “He’s already on his way in?”

  “Thanks,” whispered Angus. He took a deep breath and waited, counting grimly. He wasn’t sure his overwhelmed mind could take much more. In one corner, the shocking murder of Malia Shaw tried to elbow its way into the foreground. It competed with the needs of the church, and all of the responsibili
ties that entailed. In yet another corner, the concerned and probing looks his wife gave him caused him concern. In a third, his concern for Lola Albright throbbed like a heart. Above all of these, a red neon light flashed over and over: what if they find out about me?

  Two minutes later, the door of his office opened. A tall man with crew cut gray hair, large eyebrows that looked like gray squirrel tails, and a hawkish nose stood in the doorway.

  “Morning, Pastor,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”

  He was in before Angus could formally address the question. Angus stood up to shake the man’s hand and then sank back down into his chair. “Hello, Mr. O’Toole. How are you today?”

  Samuel R. O’Toole III was one of the richest men in Ten Mile Hollow, owning the John Deere dealership out on Industrial Way and acres of land throughout the town and beyond. He was a regular attendee at Ten Mile Hollow First Baptist Church and a generous benefactor. He happily donated time, money, land, and whatever else he could to the church and to the ministry. If Angus needed something, Samuel O’Toole was the man he turned to for help. There was only one small problem — O’Toole desperately wanted Angus to confirm his opinion that white people were the God-ordained master race and that all others were inferior.

  The irony, thought Angus, when he heard O’Toole was on his way in. The irony burns.

  Angus wouldn’t comply with the man’s wishes, and therefore every so often, O’Toole would appear in his office to ask why not.

  “Well, sir,” said O’Toole, seating himself down opposite Angus. Only the desk between them offered Angus any respite. “I have to say, I can’t quite agree with some of the things you said there on Sunday morning.”

  Angus stifled a sigh. “Which parts, Mr. O’Toole?”

  “Call me Samuel, now,” the big man said. “Well, I have to take issue with you telling us that all the races are equal. I have no shame in telling you that my ancestors had slaves, and I know that’s how the good Lord wanted it to be.”

  “Mr. O’Toole, let’s not start by saying that we are of different races,” Angus suggested. “That is a term that only serves to divide us. We’re all one race, the human race descended from Adam and Eve. I think you must agree with me on that.”

  “Well, but you’re suggesting that I’m the same race as the slaves my great-great-grandfather owned!” O’Toole shook his head. His squirrel-tail eyebrows danced up and then down. “I have to remind you that they couldn’t even read!”

  Angus looked the other man in the eye. “Sir, you know full well that’s because they were afforded neither an education nor opportunity. Frankly, you are the same race.” Angus tried to recall the exact figures. “If you were to examine your DNA and the DNA of another person regardless of their ethnicity, you’d find very little difference indeed. From memory, about 0.1 percent.”

  O’Toole gave a little chuckle. “I don’t know much about the science behind it, but I do know about the curse of Ham. Oh yes. Noah cursed Ham, and that’s why there are black people. Now I’m not part of any curse, so I can’t be the same.”

  Angus cleared his throat and took his Bible from the drawer. “I’m glad you brought this up,” he said. He flipped through the Bible to the passage O’Toole referred to — Genesis chapter nine. He handed the book over to O’Toole.

  “Would you read it to me, please?” he asked.

  O’Toole obliged. “’When Noah awoke from his wine and found out what his youngest son had done to him, he said, ‘Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of slaves will he be to his brothers.’ ” He looked up triumphantly.

  “Please read me the part where this curse has anything to do with skin color or race,” said Angus, his voice mild.

  O’Toole re-read the passage to himself but remained silent, as Angus knew he would. Although Genesis chapter nine was often used to justify slavery and racism of dark-skinned people, in truth it did nothing of the sort. It pronounced a curse upon Canaan and its people the Canaanites, but the curse had nothing to do with their skin color. Descendants of Canaan had been found in many parts of the world — Asia, the Middle East, and Africa — and shared a diverse range of physical characteristics.

  Angus continued: “Of course, the Bible does tell us quite a lot about human beings. It refers to us as being of ‘one blood’ in Acts 17:26. Paul makes the point in Romans that ‘there is no difference between the Jew and the Greek.’ But most importantly, he reminds us that we’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God and that Jesus died for sinners.”

  O’Toole still looked skeptical.

  “Tell me, sir,” Angus finished. “Do you think only light-skinned people get to go to heaven?”

  Samuel O’Toole sighed. “Well, now, don’t put words in my mouth. Listen, don’t you take me for a racist. I don’t hate them. I just . . . they’re just . . . we’re just not the same, no matter what you say.”

  The phone on Angus’s desk rang. “You’ve got your next meeting?” Shana said.

  “Thanks.” He hung up and stood. “Mr. O’Toole, I’m sorry to cut this short. But I have another meeting to go to. Thanks for stopping by.”

  Mr. O’Toole shook Angus’s hand. “I appreciate your time, sir.” He paused for a moment. “I guess it’s lucky we got soft-hearted people like you around.” He left with a chuckle.

  Angus wanted to collapse on the ground but he wasn’t sure whether it was with hysterical laughter or angry weeping.

  I tell you about this because I must undo all the terrible things I’ve done. Because you must never know who I truly am.

  ****

  Dinah dreamed about fake bank accounts, suitcases full of money, and shadowy figures that never quite allowed their faces to be seen. She tossed and turned all night and woke early, the urge to uncover the mystery of the money strong. While it was still dark outside, she changed into her running clothes, sent Elise a text message telling her that she’d meet her at the office, and went out into the bracing morning air.

  A smidge of grayish-pink on the eastern horizon was all that hinted at the coming sunrise. There was no wind, but the cold bit at Dinah’s bones within seconds. She began to run, taking slow, measured breaths of the cold air, enjoying the quiet solitude of early morning in a small town. Back home in D.C., it was never really quiet or still. Traffic still moved, a siren would wail, 24-hour convenience stores never turned off their blinking neon lights. But in Ten Mile Hollow, nothing moved or made a sound. It truly was dark and quiet.

  She called Aaron again and they spoke briefly. Aaron was tense, gearing up for a raid that morning on the office of an environmental lawyer. He was getting into the zone, that space of hyper-awareness that preceded the possibility of violence. It didn’t bother Dinah that they couldn’t talk much — just hearing his voice made her feel calmer.

  She ran five miles around town before having a quick shower at the sheriff’s office, changing her clothes, and picking up a breakfast burrito from Main Street.

  By the time she got back to the office, Elise was waiting for her. “Look,” she said, without preamble. “The owner of Malia Shaw’s building, that cranky old guy — what was his name? Kracker Ides or something?”

  “Yes,” said Dinah. “Karakarides.”

  “Right. So he told us that Malia Shaw had paid her rent six months in advance.”

  “Yes,” repeated Dinah. “A fortune for someone who was otherwise occupied with getting as much heroin as she could.”

  “So when you rent an apartment, you have to provide proof of a job or pay a deposit or have a guarantee, right?” Elise continued. “I mean, you have to make some representation that you’ll pay your rent.”

  “I had the same thought myself,” agreed Dinah.

  Elise thrust the rental agreement toward Dinah. “Yeah, so look.”

  Someone had indeed guaranteed Malia Shaw’s rental application. On the back page of the rental application was a section for guarantors to fill in their details. On this application, Angus Whitehall had completed it
.

  Dinah thoughtfully committed this piece of information to her memory. Angus Whitehall had guaranteed Malia Shaw’s lease from the moment she needed a place to live in Ten Mile Hollow. That would indicate that he’d known her well before she’d moved here. Well enough to guarantee an addict’s lease.

  “Let’s give him a call,” she suggested.

  Elise called Angus Whitehall’s number and turned on the speaker.

  “Hello?” He sounded tired.

  “It’s Detective Elise Jones,” she said. Without further pleasantries, she continued: “I note that you signed a guarantee for Malia Shaw’s lease.”

  There was a long silence. “Yes,” admitted Whitehall, his words tense and clipped. “I did.”

  “She needed a place to live and you felt sorry for her?” Elise asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How long did you know her before she moved to Ten Mile Hollow?”

  “I didn’t, not really,” he hedged. “She came to me for help. We had known each other in college many years before. I felt sorry for her.”

  “Did you both move here at the same time, to live in Ten Mile Hollow?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Whitehall, his voice trembling. “I don’t know.”

  “Why would she move here? She has no family here, no friends. No job. How did she end up here?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  Why are you lying? thought Dinah. If you didn’t kill her, why are you lying?

  “How did she meet or get to know Lola?”

  “I don’t —”

  “Let me ask you something else,” said Elise, abruptly. “Do you think I’m going to find withdrawals of about $1,800 every six months or so from your account?”

  The silence on the other end of the phone made Elise shoot a triumphant smile at Dinah.

  “So you’ll guarantee her lease because you’re paying the rent,” she said. “Fair enough. Don’t you think it’s odd for someone to go to so much trouble for the sake of an addict, for someone you barely knew?”

  “She wasn’t just an addict!” said Angus, fiercely. “To me, she was still a human being who needed help! It was worth making sure she had a place to live. I couldn’t control what she spent the rest of her money on, but at least —”