Scar Tissue (Mr. Finn Book 2)

by Trace Conger

  Back on the traffic system dashboard, I clicked on the green icon for the exit 4 camera. The live feed opened on the upper right hand side of the screen, and I watched a flurry of vehicles pass by. The idea was to compare all of the vehicles that passed by the exit 4 camera around 9:15 am, with those that passed by it again around 10:03 am and again at 10:51 am and find vehicles that appeared on all three feeds. If I was looking for just any vehicle, the exercise would be impossible given the sheer volume of traffic passing by the camera every second. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t looking for any vehicle.

  The Banker was moving at least $5 million dollars of Holbrook’s money. That’s a lot of physical cash. Hundred-dollar bills are still the largest bill a citizen can get their hands on, which meant if the Banker had $5 million in cash, he was carting around at least 50,000 bills. Since a single bill weighs about one gram, and the Banker was carting around at least 50,000 bills, he’d be moving about 110 pounds of cold, hard cash. And that’s on the low end because it assumed the Banker only hauled the cash in $100 bills. If Holbrook’s balance was in $50s, $20s, or $10s, the number of bills the Banker was hauling around skyrocketed.

  That’s not the kind of money you throw in your trunk. Plus, that was just Holbrook’s money. Holbrook said the Banker also safeguarded cash for some of his associates, so there’s no telling how much he actually moved at one time, but I knew it required something larger than the family station wagon or SUV. Something as large as a tractor-trailer and the Banker would need a CDL, not to mention some real skills. And while he could have used an 18-wheeler to move the cash, that method seemed too cumbersome, so I ruled it out. Connor said he’d move the money in a box truck. I’d do the same. It was big but not too big. I decided to focus my search on those and if nothing popped, then I’d widen the search to accommodate more vehicles.

  I accessed the exit 4 camera archive and entered the date from the triangulation report into the date field. Then I entered “9:10 am” in the time field. I figured I’d give the Banker a five-minute window on each side of 9:15 am, knowing I wasn’t dealing with exact times and to account for any inaccuracy on the triangulation report. There were other variables too. Maybe there was a traffic jam that day that slowed traffic below a constant speed. Perhaps the Banker took an unscheduled exit to take a piss or get something to eat. The possibilities were endless, but I had to start with what I knew.

  For what seemed like an hour, I watched a flurry of vehicles buzz past the traffic camera. I paused the feed and wrote down each box truck that passed the camera. After reviewing the footage, I had a list of 31 vehicles on my legal pad, complete with vehicle make, color, and time that it appeared on camera. Watching traffic footage is as exciting as watching someone conduct a tax audit using sign language, and I had a new-found respect for those troopers who parked along the highway aiming their radar gun down the line of oncoming traffic. At least they got to tear down the highway with light and sirens blazing after their target. I just sat there.

  After a fifteen-minute break to rest my eyeballs and refill my coffee, I headed back to the table. I repeated the same process watching the exit 4 camera footage from lap two, around 10:03 am. I identified 22 possible vehicles. Then I dialed up the footage for the same camera around 10:51 am. The camera captured only a handful of potential vehicles.

  It took more than two hours to watch all of the video feeds and jot down the descriptions on my pad. I ended up with three columns, one for each camera feed. If my approach was correct, the Banker’s vehicle would appear in all three columns, since it should be the only common vehicle passing the camera at each interval. I compared the vehicles in each column and eliminated most as one-time appearances. What remained was a list of three vehicles that appeared on all three camera feeds. One yellow Penske truck and two white box trucks.

  I rubbed my eyes, downed the last drop of lukewarm coffee in my mug, and hoped to God that I didn’t have to expand the search beyond the vehicles I’d already captured.

  A quick comparison of the Penske trucks in the three feeds showed different registration numbers on the side of the cabs, so these weren’t the same vehicles. That left the two white box trucks as potential hits. I checked my notes on the legal pad and then pulled up the time when the camera captured each box truck. I zoomed in and checked the plates. I was able to rule out one of the box trucks right away, because it had different plates. But I got lucky on the third one. The same plate—551EOD—meant this was the same vehicle that passed by the same camera in each feed. It was in the right place at the right times, and it had to be the Banker, or one fuckload of a coincidence.

  I leaned back in the wooden chair as a jolt of electricity fired up from my legs and radiated throughout my core. For once, it wasn’t the coffee. If this was the Banker, I was damn close to uncovering a big piece of the puzzle. A wide grin spread across on my face.

  Then there was a knock on the door.

  Twenty Seven

  CONNOR STEPPED INTO MY LIVING room drinking a to-go cup of gas station coffee.

  “Morning,” he said looking around. “Where’s dad?”

  “Still asleep. I’m the only early riser around here.”

  Connor looked at my laptop screen and saw the traffic camera footage still rolling.

  “Is that what I think it is? Traffic cameras? How did…”

  “You aren’t the only one who can pull strings,” I said.

  He inched closer to the screen. “Did you find anything?”

  “You’re Goddamn right I did.” I held up my legal pad. “I got the Banker’s license plate. At least, I think I did.”

  “Nice job, little brother. Tie it to a name yet?”

  “I was just about to do that.”

  Some people think investigative work is intriguing and sexy. That’s bullshit. It’s not all car chases and shootouts. Ninety-five percent of what I do is sitting in front of a computer slumming search engines, diving into databases, or living at the library with my head buried in old records that aren’t accessible online. It’s about as sexy as syphilis, but that’s where the information is.

  The state of Ohio yanked my PI license three years ago, but I didn’t need a PI license to maintain access to the usual information databases, like criminal records, motor vehicle registrations, driver’s licenses, concealed weapon permits, professional licenses, voter registration records, and a slew of others. The people behind these databases don’t care whether I’m running searches for some defense lawyer in Cincinnati or a mobster in Indianapolis.

  I sat back down at the table. Connor stood behind me. I could smell his blueberry-flavored coffee over my right shoulder. I logged into the motor vehicle registration and licensing database and entered the license plate number from the white box truck. The screen went blank, and I felt chills as I waited for the record to load.

  After few seconds, the registration opened and for the first time, we had a name. Thomas Coyne. The plate was registered to a business, Van Leunen Plumbing located at 1053 Industrial Parkway in Indianapolis.

  “Could it really be that easy?” said Connor.

  “Easy? You didn’t have to spend your morning watching traffic feeds.” I heard Albert fumbling through drawers in his bedroom.

  I wrote the address down on my legal pad and clicked on Thomas Coyne’s name. A moment later, his driver’s license record opened and I was finally face to face with the Banker, or at least his driver’s license photo. According to his license, Thomas Coyne was 66 years old. He had short white hair that was neatly parted to the side. His face was narrow, and while it showed some age, he didn’t look 66. He might pass for late fifties. He wore thin eyeglasses that looked like designer frames. His license had him at five-foot-nine and 149 pounds. The address on file was the same from his registration, 1053 Industrial Parkway in Indianapolis.

  Albert walked out of his bedroom and looked at the screen. “Who’s that dapper gent?”

  “The Banker. It’s the man we’re looking for
. Got him from his license plate.”

  Albert squinted and looked at the screen. “That’s funny.”

  “What’s funny?” I said.

  “Thomas Coyne.”

  “What’s funny about it?”

  “You’re looking for a banker, and his last name is coin.”

  “Shit,” I said. “That’s either one hell of a coincidence…”

  “Or it’s an alias,” interrupted Connor.

  “Maybe it’s pronounced cone,” I said. “Like ice cream.”

  “Nah, that’s coin,” said Albert. “Definitely a cover.”

  “One way to find out,” I said.

  I opened the IRB search database and dropped Thomas Coyne’s name into the search field. Nothing.

  “That’s not good,” said Connor.

  I clicked open a new browser and went to www.usps.com. The postal service had an address finder tool on their website. I clicked open the tool and typed in “1053 Industrial Parkway, Indianapolis, IN.” I clicked “Find” and groaned when the site indicated, in bold red letters, that “This address wasn’t found” and prompted me to double-check it and try again.

  “Can you go back to the traffic cameras,” said Connor. “To his vehicle?”

  I minimized the post office webpage and the motor vehicle database webpage and clicked open the Indiana State Traffic System site. I looked at my notepad, found the time I’d indicated when the Banker’s box truck passed the camera, and dialed it up on the screen.

  “That’s his truck,” I said, as I zoomed in on the vehicle and studied the image. “Shit. I was so focused on the license plate I didn’t see it before.”

  “See what before?” said Albert.

  “There’s no logo on the side of the truck. No phone number, no name, nothing.”

  The business name on the registration was a front, because even a freshman business major knows if you run a service company, you put your name or logo on the side of your truck. The box truck on the screen didn’t have any markings at all. That was either intentional or really bad business.

  There was an easy way to confirm whether Van Leunen Plumbing was a real company that belonged to an inept businessman or whether it was a front to conceal the vehicle owner’s identity. I steered my browser to the Business Services portal for the Indiana Secretary of State. All those records are public domain. I ran a business entity name search for “Van Leunen Plumbing” and nothing came up, which meant no such company existed now nor had existed in the past decade. Shit.

  During the past ten minutes, I’d experienced what could only be described as a PI boner when I discovered the Banker’s name and address, only to lose the high after finding out everything was shit. But for all I didn’t have, I knew this had to be the Banker’s vehicle and license plate. No one else would have gone to such lengths to hide their identity. Plus, I had the traffic footage.

  Whoever owned the box truck had covered his tracks, but not as well as he could have. My vehicle plates are registered to a dummy corporation as well, but I was smart enough to take the extra step and establish an actual LLC. Run my plates or my apartment address and you’ll get the name of a business registered in Delaware. Look up the company name and you’ll find a physical address on Mayfield Road as well as a list of corporate officers. Digitally, there’s a solid paper trail, physically, there’s an empty office at the end of the seventh floor of the Hollowell Building. Run my background and you don’t get a dead end. The Banker didn’t go that far. He figured the false business name and crap address would hide his footprints, and it could, for a while. There was one piece of information that I hoped he’d overlooked. Right there on his registration record, tucked between the “certificate title number” and the “purchase date” was the “vehicle serial number,” otherwise known as a VIN.

  VINs are good for more than running a vehicle accident history. They also provide a vehicle’s ownership history. If I couldn’t find the current owner, maybe I could find the previous one.

  I went back to the motor vehicle database and plugged in the truck’s VIN. Everything else on the Banker had turned up cold, and it’s possible the VIN would be a dead end too, but at the moment, it’s all I had.

  “Smart,” said Albert.

  Besides Van Leunen Plumbing, there was one previous owner. It was last registered to Miller Moving and Storage, which was also located in Indianapolis. But, hopefully unlike Van Leunen Plumbing, Miller Moving and Storage had all the hallmarks of a real business. I ran a business search using the same Indiana Secretary of State database and within seconds, I had a location, contact information, and an owner for Miller Moving and Storage. The company was located on Morse Road in Indianapolis.

  Time to put on some miles on Connor’s Escalade and a tie around my neck.

  Twenty Eight

  CONNOR AND I DROVE TO the Miller Moving and Storage complex at 2280 Morse Road in Indianapolis. I slipped on my gray suit jacket, gabbed the yellow file folder from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the parking lot.

  “It’ll be less intimidating if I go in alone,” I said. “Why don’t you just sit here and look pretty?”

  “Fine with me. I’ve got a few calls to return anyway.” Connor was already dialing his cell before I finished readjusting my gray-and-blue striped tie in the driver’s side mirror. I gave the tie one last tug and then started toward the front door.

  The VIN search identified Dale Miller as the previous owner of the white box truck. According to online records, Dale was the founder and current owner of Miller Moving and Storage. It wasn’t a huge operation. The lot in front of me consisted of a dozen moving vans and two rows of self-storage units, which sat behind a ten-foot razor-wire fence. The main office sat off to the side.

  I walked into the office and found a young blond woman, who looked no older than twenty, sitting at the front desk under the watchful eye of a large blue-and-white Miller Moving and Storage logo. Behind the woman were stacks of moving supplies, flat boxes, rolls of packing tape, and industrial-sized bubble wrap.

  “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the owner. Is he available?” I flashed a smile and she picked up the phone.

  “Dad,” she stopped herself. “Mr. Miller, there’s someone here to see you.”

  A moment later a man in his fifties, wearing a light blue button-up shirt tucked neatly into his department-store khakis, stepped out of a side office and extended his hand.

  “Hello,” he said. “Dale Miller.”

  “Agent Roger Mathers,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’m with the Ohio Bureau of Workers’ Compensation.”

  Most of the time when I’m looking for information from a business owner, I pretext that I’m with the Ohio Bureau of Workers’ Compensation. That’s because some people are leery of private investigators and they clam up and won’t share anything useful. But, every business owner loves investigators from the Bureau of Workers’ Compensation because they save businesses money by investigating false claims against them. A business owner might hate the press, the IRS, or even the police, but every business owner loves investigators from the Goddamn Bureau of Workers’ Compensation.

  “Did someone file a claim against me?” said Dale, his smile wilted like a newspaper in the rain.

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m investigating a potentially fraudulent claim, but it’s not related to your company.”

  “Then how can I help you?”

  “Is there a place we can sit down and talk?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Right this way.”

  Dale led me into his office, which had a small circular table and two chairs. I took a seat at the table and opened the folder I had tucked under my arm.

  “I’m investigating an individual who might be perpetuating a fraud against the state of Ohio, but we have reason to believe he filed the claim using a fraudulent name. All I’m trying to do is determine the man’s identify to ensure everything is on the up-and-up.”<
br />
  “I’m not sure I can help you,” he said. “I don’t do a lot of business in Ohio.”

  “Right,” I said slipping the copy of the vehicle registration and a title transfer form from the folder. “But I’m interested in this vehicle you sold a few years back. It was a white box truck.” I pointed to the VIN on the form. “This VIN comes back as being previously owned by your company. You sold it three years ago.”

  “That’s probably right. We’re always updating our truck fleet. Once they get too beat up, get high in miles, or become too expensive to maintain, we sell them off and replace them with something more reliable. But what does an old truck have to do with me?”

  “I believe the man who bought the truck from you is the same person I’m looking for. So I was hoping you could tell me anything that might help me confirm the buyer’s identity.”

  Dale scooted his chair back and crossed his legs. “Can I see your paperwork?”

  I slid the information I had across the table. He slipped his glasses from his shirt pocket, placed them onto the bridge of his nose, and studied the documents.

  “Okay. Let me see what I can pull up.” Miller went to his desk and started typing on his keyboard. I watched as he nodded his head and typed more keys. “This VIN does match one of our previous vehicles. Let me see.” He stood up and walked over to a six-drawer file cabinet and opened the second drawer from the bottom. His eyes shifted from the file tabs to the form in his hand, and back to the tabs. He yanked a folder from the drawer and slammed it closed.

  “It’s your lucky day, Agent Mathers,” said Miller. “I thought this might be at our off-site storage facility, but it’s still here. It was a while ago.” He sat back down at the small table and opened the folder. He plucked a bill of sale from the folder and repositioned the glasses on his face. “2011 Ford E350 truck. 115,442 miles. Sold to Thomas Coyne for $11,250.” He studied the form. “He paid in cash.” Miller flipped through the folder. “This might help. I have a photocopy of his driver’s license.”