by Trace Conger
“Are you sure you’re okay Ms. Harding?” said the security officer.
“I’m fine. Really. Thank you.” She turned to Kendrick. “And thank you for activating the alarm.”
“Of course,” said Kendrick.
“I think I just want to get to work. All I need is some ice for my head and I’ll be fine.”
The officers looked at each other. “Ms. Harding, we can’t let…”
“I said I’m fine. Really.”
Brooke grabbed her remaining sneaker from the rear of the SUV and closed the lift gate.
“You should really be evaluated before…”
“I’m fine,” she said as she closed the lift gate, ran across the parking lot, and disappeared into the hospital’s elevator bank. They didn’t see her start to cry.
Thirty Two
CONNOR AND I LEFT MY apartment, walked to his Escalade, and picked up I-74 to Indianapolis. A quick search on my phone showed eleven DMV locations near Indianapolis. I knew the Banker had been operating within a 30-mile radius of Holbrook’s farm in Greenwood, Indiana, so I decided to focus on the closest DMV to Greenwood, which was the South Meridian License Branch on South Meridian Street.
More than 100 miles later, we pulled into the DMV parking lot.
ONE SUMMER, WHEN CONNOR AND I were kids, we stayed up late to watch David Letterman and somehow ended up prank calling random phone numbers around 1:00 am. After getting bored messing with people we didn’t know, Connor decided to prank 9-1-1, but hung up the phone before he thought the dispatcher had answered. Letterman was still on when two uniformed police officers knocked on the front door. Connor and I opened the door and one of the officers asked if everything was okay. We told him everything was gravy. Then he instructed us to wake our parents. I’m not sure why, but we decided to take our chances with Albert.
A few minutes later, a groggy Albert stepped to the door in his underwear and demanded to know why he was talking to two police officers instead of sleeping in his bed. They explained they had received a 9-1-1 call from our address and assumed, correctly, that one of us had dialed and hung up. My father made Connor and I apologize for wasting the officers’ time and explained that he’d think of an appropriate punishment for us in the morning. The officers, satisfied, went on their way, and Albert went back to sleep saying he’d deal with us later. He never brought it up again, and to this day, I believe Albert thought he’d dreamed the entire episode.
Aside from learning not to fuck with the 9-1-1 system, I also learned something else that night. I learned that if you look the part, people will take you for your word. There’s no doubt in my mind that the two men on our doorstep that night were police officers. Of course they were. They wore blue uniforms and had badges pinned to their chests. They also wore thick shiny black belts with a holstered revolver on their right hip and a black baton and leather pouch for their handcuffs on their left hip. The leather belts and silver buckles sparkled in the wash from the front porch light.
There was never a doubt as to who these two men were. My father never asked for their badge numbers or called the Cincinnati Police Department to confirm their identities. He didn’t need to. They looked the part.
There’s an old adage that says if you walk briskly and carry a clipboard, you can gain access to anywhere. That’s oversimplified, of course, but the main idea holds true. If you appear confident and look the part, few will question you. I’d employed what those two officers taught me many times, and I was about to do it again, this time at the South Meridian DMV.
CONNOR STRAIGHTENED HIS TIE AND ran his hand through his hair. He tugged on the sleeves of the navy blue suit jacket that had hung in my closet only a few hours earlier.
“When did you get so short?” he said.
“Sorry. You should have packed your own suit.”
“Didn’t know I’d need one.”
I grabbed a leather portfolio that contained a yellow legal pad and pen, and we headed for the front door.
The young woman behind the counter stood up when we came in. Every other time I’d ever been to the DMV, it was packed. But apparently, everyone in town had some place better to be, because the place was empty except for three DMV employees and two men in navy blue suits pretending to be government employees.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” said the woman as she looked at the ID clipped to the front of my suit jacket.
“Hello,” I waited for her name.
“Barb.”
“Hello Barb. I’m Special Investigator Roger Mathers, and this is Special Investigator Brian Tipton.” Connor nodded. “We’re with the Inspector General’s office.”
Barb leaned in closer and folded her hands on top of the shoulder-high counter. Hearing our introductions, the two other women walked over and stood next to Barb.
“Inspector General? What can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating a potential fraud.” I opened the leather portfolio and clicked open the pen. “I’d like you to access a registration for me.”
“For who?”
I read from the registration we printed out earlier. “Thomas Coyne. D.O.B is May 20, 1949”
“I’ve got it,” said Barb. The two other women inched closer to her shoulder. According to her name tag, one was named Emma. The other one didn’t wear a name tag. “Thomas Coyne, 1053 Industrial Parkway.”
Emma leaned forward. “Is this your perp?”
Connor’s face strained to hold back a laugh.
“Possibly.” I leaned across the counter and rotated the monitor so I could see it. The green flickering computer screen looked like something from the 80s. “What can you tell me about this record?”
Barb studied the screen. “It’s a standard license. No restrictions. No fines.”
“Can you tell me if it’s been edited? The information in the system?”
Barb slapped a few keys on the graying keyboard. Emma maneuvered closer. “Yes. It was edited.”
Connor looked at me. “When?” he said.
Barb smacked more keys. “Let’s see… Wait… That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” I said.
“Someone edited it two days after they created it.”
“That is odd,” said Emma peering over Barb’s shoulder. “Who did it?”
Barb hit a few more keys. “Jeff Collins,” she said.
“I knew it,” said the third woman, throwing her hands up into the air. “I’d a bet my lunch that it was Jeff Collins.”
Part of me wanted to see where this side conversation went, but Connor must have been anxious.
“Can you look in the edits?” he said. “To see what information this Jeff Collins fella altered?”
“Uh huh. I can revert it back to the original,” said Barb clicking more keys. A moment later the printer behind her spit out a sheet of paper. Barb swiped it from the tray and peered down at it.
“He changed the whole damn thing,” she said.
“That boy was always messing up,” said Emma looking up at me. “He went and got hisself fired. Too many mistakes.”
Barb waved the printout in the air. “Like this one. Nobody’s perfect, but he messed up this whole record. Had to change it all.”
I glanced up for a moment and noted the three cameras watching us from the wall. “May I see that Barb?” I said.
Barb handed me the printout. I took a deep breath and watched as the Banker materialized in front of me. Everything we’d been searching for was looking back at us from a grainy gray-and-white printout. Thomas Coyne was gone. The Banker’s real name was William Burns. The photo on the printout matched the one we pulled from the DMV database yesterday, but the printout included all the real information the Banker used to get his license. He must have paid Jeff Collins to alter the information later, but while Jeff could change the information in the system, he hadn’t erased the edit history.
William Burns, 4408 Ivy Way, Cope, Indiana. I wanted to believe this was the Banker, but he’d duped
us before. Everything we got from the DMV was based on the truck’s VIN from the registration, but why didn’t the Banker swap the VIN to add another layer of misinformation on top of the steaming pile of shit he’d already left for us?
I turned back to the three women staring at us. I placed the printout on the counter.
“You said all the information had been corrected,” I said. “What about the VIN? Does the history show any changes to that?”
Barb smiled wider than I thought was humanly possible. “You can’t change the VIN, honey. It’s a locked field. Once you create a record and enter a VIN, it’s there to stay.”
“Jeff Collins hasn’t worked here for two years,” said Emma. “Is he in trouble?”
I folded the printout and placed it inside my leather portfolio. “We’ll see.” I nodded to Connor. “Thank you ladies. We appreciate your time. This is very helpful.”
“You’re welcome” said the three women in unison.
Connor and I walked out of the DMV and moved one step closer to finding Holbrook’s $5 million.
THE BANKER HAD ALREADY LED me to one dead end with Thomas Coyne, and I wondered if William Burns was the real deal or just another speed bump along the journey of finding his real identity. One way to find out. When we returned to my apartment in Cincinnati, I pulled up the IRB search database and entered “William Burns” into the search field. Within seconds I confirmed his identify and his address. According to the data in the system, William Burns was a real person, living a real life, with a real past. William Burns was genuine, but was he the Banker?
Thirty Three
MY PHONE VIBRATED ON MY desk and Brooke’s photo appeared on the screen.
“Hey,” I said.
“Adler attacked me!” her voice was rushed like it had been the night she called to tell me Adler came to her home.
“What are you talking about? How did he find you at your sister’s place?”
“Not there. He cornered me at work. In the parking garage at the hospital. He must have followed me there.”
“What happened?”
“I’m calling the police,” she said.
“Wait. Tell me what happened.”
“What difference does it make? He attacked me and that’s all that matters. This has gone too far. I’m not protecting Daryl anymore.”
“Brooke, you can't go to the police. Let me take care of this. Going to the police is only going to make it worse.”
“Fuck you, Finn. He tried to rape me, and you want me to keep quiet? Fuck you, I’m calling the police.”
“If you go to the police, nothing is going to happen to Adler. He’ll walk. Holbrook will make sure of that. But I can hurt him. I can make him pay for it.”
“I don't want revenge, Finn. I want justice. I want him to rot in prison where he belongs.”
I thought back to the background report I ran on Adler before I met him at the coffee shop. He didn’t have a criminal record. Probably because Holbrook had insulated him.
“He won’t see a day of prison, Brooke. People like Holbrook own the police. Let me get him.”
“You were the one who told me to go to the police in the first place and now you’re telling me not to? He attacked me, and if it weren’t for some Good Samaritan, he might have killed me.” She paused. “Adler came looking for information. Why haven’t you called them? To give them an update? That’s what he said he wanted. Why didn’t you call them?”
“Because until today I haven’t had anything to update them on. We’ve been running around in circles looking for this guy, but I think I’ve finally found him.”
I felt comfortable dealing with asshats like Adler. That’s the environment I work in, but until now, Brooke and Becca were safe. My work and my family were never supposed to intersect, but now they were careening toward each other like an out-of-control 18-wheeler with no brakes.
My grip tightened around the phone. “I’m sorry this all happened.” I paused. “This will all be over soon, and I promise you I’ll make Adler pay for what he did. If we get the police involved now, Holbrook is going to come ten times as hard. I can take care of it. But in the meantime, I want you to stay here with me.”
“We’re fine at my sister’s place. No one knows we’re here and I’m not going to disrupt Becca any more than I already have by moving her somewhere else.”
“Adler tailed you from somewhere,” I said.
“I think he followed me from Becca’s school.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You think I do? Just make this go away. If Adler shows his face around me again I’m going to the cops, Finn.”
When I hung up with Brooke it took everything I had not to put the phone and my fist through the wall. Brooke was safer at Allison’s place anyway. With Albert gone, and me and Connor out searching for the Banker, there wouldn’t be anyone to watch out for them. At least she had Allison and Bill to keep an eye on her at their place. But that still didn’t make it any easier.
Adler and Holbrook stepped over the line. I’d have to put them back in their place.
I dialed the number Adler gave me.
“Hello?” said Adler.
“Give the phone to Holbrook,” I said.
“Anything you got to say to him, you can say to me.”
“I’ve only got one thing to say to you, and I’ll tell you that after I speak with Holbrook. Now pass him the phone or you don’t get your update.”
A moment later, Holbrook was on the line.
“You got news for me?”
When I first met Adler and Darby in the coffee shop they had all the leverage. I was trying to get Daryl out of a shitty situation and I had nothing to offer. Now I had something to offer that was worth more than Daryl continuing to supply Holbrook with fentanyl. I had the Banker’s identity. Leverage had shifted, and I had enough to start making threats.
“Before I give you a Goddamn thing, I want to know if Adler went after my ex-wife on his own or if you sent him.”
“You need to be more concerned with finding the Banker…”
“Answer my fucking question.” I cut him off. “Did you send Adler or did he go on his own?”
“What does it matter?”
“It’s gonna determine who walks away after this is all over.” Holbrook was silent. “Let me be clear about something, Holbrook. You send anyone after my family again and I’ll slice his throat open so wide you can use him as a PEZ dispenser.”
“We’ll see who walks away when this is over.” He paused. “Now what do you have?”
“I’ve got a name, but if you pull this shit again, you’ll never hear it. And you won’t get a Goddamn cent of your money.”
“This is on you. I told you I wanted updates, but perhaps you didn’t take me seriously.”
“I’ll call you when I have a reason to call you. It wastes both our time if I have to explain every road I go down. All you need to know is I’m close to finding your guy. I’ve already got a name and soon I’ll have his location.”
“Who is he?” said Holbrook.
“I’ll hang onto that tidbit until later. To ensure you or Adler don’t do something stupid again. I’ll call you when I have your money. Not before. Now put Adler back on the line.”
“I think you’ve forgotten who you work for.”
“I didn’t forget shit. Put Adler on the phone or I walk away and I take the Banker’s name with me.”
Holbrook was silent for a moment, then he passed the phone to Adler.
“You upset with me?” said Adler.
“Upset doesn’t begin to cover it, asshole. Get this one thing through your head. When this is over, I’m going to burn you to the ground.”
“I look forward to that,” he said. “I’m also looking forward to fucking your lady friend. We got interrupted last time.”
The line went dead.
I took a deep breath, scanned my cell phone’s directory, and dialed again.
“Cricket, I’ve
got a gig for you. I need you to keep eyeballs on someone.”
“Who is it?”
“My ex-wife. She’s staying at her sister’s place.” I gave him Allison’s address. “It’s an upscale neighborhood, so you’ll need to rent a car. Something European. To blend in.”
“How long you want me to sit on the house?”
“Few days. Week at the most.”
“That’s gonna cost you, Finn.”
“I know.”
“Your girl know I’m gonna be there?”
“No. Just between us.”
“Okay, what exactly am I looking for?”
“Guy by the name of Adler. About six-foot-two. Looks Italian. Short black hair. Stocky build. Mid-thirties. Likes leather. He might be traveling with another guy. Bigger. Bald with a mustache and goatee. Drives a red minivan.”
“A minivan?” Cricket paused. “You serious?”
“Yup.”
“Okay,” said Cricket. “What do you want me to do if he shows?”
“You still got that street sweeper?”
“I could dust it off.”
“Good,” I said. “You see him, take him down.”
“You sure?”
“Sure as shit.”
“All right. He won’t reach the lawn.”
Thirty Four
ALBERT STEPPED OUT OF THE Portland Transportation Center, a red brick building that looked more like a small bank than a train depot. He pulled his suitcase across the white crosswalk onto a concrete walkway and scanned the adjacent parking lot. From across the lot, an F-350 pickup roared to life and pulled to a stop in front of Albert.
Mitch Skinner rolled down the window. “I see you made the trip.”
“Pretty easy to do,” said Albert. “All I had to do was sit there. Even you could have done it.”
Mitch looked down at the suitcase. “What are you waiting for? Get in.”
“Thought you’d be a gentleman and grab my bag for me.”
“If that’s what you’re waiting on, we’re gonna be here awhile. Now get your old ass in here.” Mitch pointed to the truck’s bed with a hitchhiker’s thumb. “Be glad you’re not riding in the rumble seat.”