Violated

by Arnold, Carolyn

  Zach closed out the browser window he was working in and turned to face her. “Money Buddy offers secure money transfer and management. They make it easier to trace and reverse disputed transactions.”

  “All right, makes sense why she left it alone, then.” All Hall’s and Simpson’s credit cards were left behind along with their identification, too. The killer clearly didn’t want it to look like robbery. But with the amount of money that had left the men’s accounts—eight thousand total—it was factoring in as at least a side benefit. “Was the killer selectively targeting only those she knew had some money, as well? But why not take the same amount from each?”

  “I don’t think the amount mattered. She took what she could from both men. But I don’t think it would be a bad idea for Nadia to filter out people who have some savings once she gets the list from Grafton’s investigators,” Zach said.

  Paige nodded. “Or at least those who have reliable jobs.” Paige shared their insights with Nadia and hung up. “Nadia’s got the list and is already working on it.” Paige paused. “I was just thinking, though… In Malone’s case, money wasn’t stolen. So why start now? Was it just to help with HIV meds?”

  “Hard to say.” Zach faced the laptop again, and as her gaze followed his movement, her eyes went to the screen. The wastebasket icon showed paper inside.

  She pointed to it. “Look.”

  Zach double-clicked the icon and opened it to review the contents. The filename was “Cheers.”

  “Open it, Zach.” She knew she didn’t need to tell him the next step but verbalized the directive anyhow.

  A spreadsheet opened with each tab labeled by year. On each sheet was a list of names, dates, and amounts owed and settled.

  “I guess we just confirmed that our unsub knows about Simpson’s list. She even tried to get rid of the evidence.”

  “I’ll call Jack.”

  JACK HAD JUST HUNG UP from talking to Paige when his phone rang again. He answered it on speaker. “Harper, here.”

  “It’s Nadia. I looked into Clive, and he worked for a company called CL Corporation, but I’m having a hard time finding out more. I’m going to requisition his previous IRS filings and get an address for the company from his W-2. As for the ledger, Paige recommended that I search for people who had secure jobs or were well-off. I did that first and narrowed things down to those who had criminal records or complaints on file.”

  “I want you to see if either Hall or Malone are in the ledger sixteen years ago,” Jack began. “I also want to know if any other names from back then show up in the last year.”

  “On it.”

  “Conduct thorough backgrounds on them, too.”

  I wanted to ask how she was making out with the Synergies callers, but it wasn’t the appropriate time. Jack was on a roll here.

  “We also need warrants for Leslie Shaw’s bank that covers account particulars and camera footage. Send them through to my phone the minute they arrive. And find out the history on the address that Leslie Shaw provided to the bank.” Jack hung up and dialed someone else without saying a word to me. Obviously something had struck him while on the phone with Nadia.

  This time the phone wasn’t on speaker. “Paige? I need you to do something for me. Was my business card there among Simpson’s things?” There was a pregnant pause, followed by Jack clenching his jaw. “I need you to check his garbage cans.”

  More time passed. He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, barely missing Grafton. A few seconds later, “Son of a bitch.”

  Jack hung up and looked at Grafton. “Have your people look for my business card at the bar. I need to know right away if it’s there or not.” The detective stepped back from the car and made the phone call.

  Grafton hung up from his conversation and put his smartphone back in his shirt pocket and hunched over, his elbows propped on the driver’s-side window ledge. “No sign of your card. Simpson could have gotten rid of it somewhere else, though. It doesn’t mean—”

  “She knows we’re in town,” Jack interrupted.

  “Do you think you’re in danger?” Grafton asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Jack paused, turned to Grafton, and immediately drew his head back. Obviously Grafton was too far inside the vehicle. Grafton stood up straight, my line of sight now directly at crotch level. I faced forward.

  “Go back to Canyon Country,” Jack directed Grafton.

  “But the bank? It’s here in town.”

  “We’ve got it under control. I need you back by the crime scene and the bar. I need you on call if Agents Dawson and Miles require backup.”

  “All right.” Grafton skulked off toward his department-issued sedan and pulled away.

  He was gone, but my mind was stuck on the fact that our unsub likely knew about us. Whenever killers caught a whiff of the FBI, things got worse before they got better. I tried to think positively, though.

  “Okay, now that she knows we’re involved, shouldn’t she be trying harder to cover her tracks?” I asked.

  “Either that or she’ll lure us in. It might become more of a game to her.”

  “Do you think our lives are in danger?”

  Jack stared me straight in the eye. “We took that risk the second we donned a badge.”

  -

  Chapter 37

  THIS PARTICULAR BRANCH OF Golden State Bank and Trust was large and located on the corner of a bustling intersection. Jack and I entered the bank and went straight to the manager’s office. The blinds were closed in the window next to his door but there was an etching in the glass: ARTEM KOZAK, MANAGER. The door was shut, but that didn’t stop Jack from knocking and then entering right afterward.

  The man behind the desk shot to his feet and gestured to a couple sitting across from him. “Excuse me, but I am with clients.” His voice got louder with each word, and he was coming toward us.

  Jack held up his cred pack. I followed suit.

  “FBI Special Agents Jack Harper and Brandon Fisher. We have a few questions for you.”

  I glanced at his customers. I’d guess they were a married couple, even though I couldn’t see their wedding bands. They held hands, dressed similarly, and had the same hair and eye color. Even their skin tones were a perfect match. Experts would say they were “meant to be.” To me, though, too much of the same equaled boring and predictable.

  The woman’s mouth gaped open. The man wrapped his arm around her, and they both stood.

  “We’ll make another appointment, Artem,” the man said.

  “No, please, this shouldn’t take long,” Artem beseeched his customers while keeping eye contact with Jack.

  “We’re here about a serial murder investigation,” Jack said, his voice hard.

  The woman gasped, and the couple cleared the doorway and were quickly heading for the bank’s exit.

  Artem watched after the couple and then turned to Jack. “You better have a really good reason for what you just did.”

  Jack held out his phone. “Ferris Hall.” On the screen was his DMV picture.

  “What about him?” the manager asked. “I’ve never seen him in my life.”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it.”

  “We never said you did. Money was sent from an account he held to one at your branch.”

  “Any help you can provide us would be appreciated, Mr. Kozak,” I pitched in, taming Jack’s abrupt approach.

  “We need to know about the account holder.”

  Artem sighed and looked at me and Jack. A few seconds later, he consented with a bowed head and gestured for us to take a seat.

  I sat, but Jack remained standing. Artem shut his door again—this time he locked it—and walked behind his desk. “If you want account-holder information, I assume you have a warrant.”

  “It will be comi
ng through soon,” Jack said.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you until that happens.”

  Jack’s phone chimed that he had a message. He consulted the screen. “It looks like I spoke too soon.” He flashed his screen at Artem. “It’s here.” He handed his phone to me, and I referred to one of the business cards in a holder on the manager’s desk and forwarded the warrant to his e-mail. No one spoke.

  I gave Jack his phone back and said to Artem, “You should have an electronic copy of the warrant in your inbox now.”

  Artem made no effort to confirm that he did and crossed his arms. “What do you want, exactly?”

  Jack gave him the account number, and Artem scribbled it on a pad of paper.

  “I want you to confirm the name of the account holder and his or her address,” Jack said.

  “Also the date it was opened,” I added.

  “Fine, then.” Artem stared blankly at Jack and me before pulling out his keyboard tray. He angled the monitor so we could see what he was typing and the results. Artem still read them off to us. “The account was opened a month ago by a Leslie Shaw.” Artem paused and looked at us as if he was assessing our reactions.

  He didn’t get any and continued to provide us the same address Nadia had given us.

  “Do you take ID to open accounts?” I asked, figuring it was standard protocol.

  “ID would have been checked, yes.”

  “Well the address on that account isn’t a legitimate one. We’ve already been there, and it’s an empty lot.”

  Artem blanched. “Well, I don’t know what to say. We don’t drive out to verify customers’ addresses.” The last statement was said in defense, not apology.

  “We’ll need access to your camera feed for the date and time the account was opened,” Jack said.

  “Why do you need the camera feed?”

  “We want to see Leslie Shaw.”

  “Don’t you have a database for something like that?”

  Artem’s question grew stagnant until he obviously realized the stupidity of the question. A fake address was provided, and it was likely the same for the name.

  “She killed someone…” Artem stated this dryly, and incredulously, as if the purpose for our being here was just starting to sink in for him.

  “The investigation is open at this time and we cannot comment,” I said.

  Artem swallowed visibly and nodded.

  “The camera feed,” Jack prompted. “And a copy of the ID if you have it.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Artem got up and tugged down on his jacket. He didn’t quite reach the door when he spun around. “Actually…” He walked back behind his desk and checked something on the computer. “This isn’t regarding the camera feed, but the teller who opened this account is very thorough. A lot of times she’ll even photocopy a customer’s ID. One second.” Artem left the room and returned a few minutes later.

  The hope he had built up in his absence came crashing down the second I saw his face. Artem shook his head.

  “No such luck this time,” he began. “The teller was told that it was unnecessary to make a copy of the ID and stopped doing so a few months back.”

  “Who told her it was unnecessary?” Jack asked.

  Artem diverted his eyes. “I did.”

  “But you just assured us you always take ID,” I said.

  “I said it would have been checked, not copied,” Artem defended himself.

  “The camera feed?” Jack pressed again.

  “Ah, yes. Here’s the thing with the cameras: the feed goes live to a security company who monitors it.”

  “Let me guess, they are not on-site,” Jack said.

  Artem shook his head, still avoiding eye contact with us. “They are located about ten minutes from here.”

  “What else is there?” I asked.

  “The account…” Artem’s voice sounded dry and pasty. “The teller told me that she also closed the account just about an hour ago.”

  “Closed?” Jack rushed to his feet. “And you’re just telling us this now? You didn’t see it in your computer a moment ago?”

  The manager shook his head. “The system updates overnight.”

  -

  Chapter 38

  SHE WATCHED THEM LEAVE the bank. Risky. Stupid. Careless. Maybe a combination of all three, but she had to find out more about this Jack Harper. Up until she’d found out about his existence, last night had been going according to plan. It had even turned out to be financially advantageous. But what excited her the most was that she had made the big time.

  She’d found the business card on Clive’s dresser after she’d killed him: SUPERVISORY SPECIAL AGENT JACK HARPER.

  Her work had the attention of the FBI, not just local law enforcement. Federal. She had to start covering her tracks even more carefully now, and that was why she’d gone to Los Angeles and been ready the second the bank had opened its doors. And she was still in the parking lot, back far enough that she shouldn’t be spotted, but she could see the bank’s entrance.

  She knew she should have left, but she was drawn to wait and see if Harper had found the money transfer. And the gamble paid off. She watched them go into the bank. Whether it was Ferris’s account or Clive’s that had led them here, it didn’t matter. Two men in suits, obviously armed and reeking of being federal agents, studied their surroundings on the way into the institution. Based on her sixth sense, the redhead seemed to have something to prove. She pegged Harper as the older of the two, and he appeared to be the type most would strive to impress. His ramrod-straight back indicated he was someone who lived and breathed the job.

  She eased into the front seat of her car, a smile finding its way to her lips. She was worthy of his attention? Impressive. And she hadn’t even tried to make him take notice. She had simply been following her urges, killing those who deserved it.

  At least she had beat them here. She was still a step ahead. The cash was secured in her purse on the passenger seat, and she put her hand over the bag. On the way here, she had worried about what would happen if she had lost her nest egg. All that money, gone. Now she had the funds to feed the greedy pharmaceutical companies. At least a little while longer.

  There was no way she was going to let the FBI interfere with her plans. Everyone needed to make a living, and at one time, she had tried doing so the conventional way. Not that everyone would consider her career choices conventional. She had wanted to be an actress and light up the screen. But it wasn’t meant to be.

  And she’d had such huge dreams. She had planned to be a movie star, a diva who would warrant a trailer and entourage as she traveled the world starring in box-office hits.

  Then the diagnosis of the disease had come, and she’d learned that Hollywood wasn’t as open-minded as they liked to claim to the masses. But she’d found one true way to bury her sorrow…

  She wondered just how much the FBI knew and, with a satisfied smile, concluded they probably didn’t know the half of it.

  But there was something else she had netted from last night besides the money—the list from Clive’s computer. She hadn’t known what it was until she’d seen Ferris Hall’s name, but then she’d quickly realized it was an accounting ledger. She had forwarded the list to herself, and as she had waited for the agents, she examined the e-mail attachment.

  She keyed in Kyle Malone. And the document returned a finding that had her seeing blood red. Not that she had ever experienced remorse over her kills, but she had been in the right to kill Clive. Labeling him guilty as she had was an apt finish for a man responsible for so much pain, let alone his contribution to her own rape. After all these years, the experience from that night was still fresh in her mind. The loud music, the cramped quarters, the urinals, the grunting pig behind her…

  She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. The only time
she experienced any sort of peace was while torturing and killing those scumbags. Then her mind calmed and went quiet, soothed by the pain and discomfort of another. She needed to do it more often.

  But she didn’t consider herself an evil person, which was the way the world likely viewed her. That and a freak of nature, even in this “accepting” society where people were able to live as they saw fit, to do whatever it was that made them happy. Live your bliss was a statement preached by those too afraid to follow their own. It was something most hid behind, a shield to protect themselves from judgment. But she was no longer going to hide, not in a proverbial closet, nor was she going to hold back from what made her happy…even if it meant dying behind bars.

  She clicked on the sheet for the current year and was about to select the name Guy Owen at the top of the list, but her gut churned.

  “No!” she cried out as she realized her own stupidity. Her gaze was now back on Harper’s card.

  The FBI had found the money transfers. Did they also find the ledger? Now she was doubting herself. Had she deleted the file from Clive’s recycling bin on his desktop?

  She clenched her hand into a fist. Her options were limited and growing smaller.

  Take down another violator, or go out with a bang…

  She picked up the card. Maybe covering her tracks was no longer an option.

  -

  Chapter 39

  ROAR SECURITIES WAS SITUATED IN a strip mall, and they boasted the nicest front of all the businesses there. Their signage was embossed brass lettering, and I was certain that, at night, lights would shine from behind to showcase the business name. Their windows were tinted and weren’t covered in advertisements like their neighbors’ were.

  The door chimed when we entered, and a cute blonde was seated at the front desk. She wore a headset clipped over one ear, and when she smiled, she was even more attractive. And that was saying a lot. Her wardrobe was conservative—white blouse paired with a black jacket. Whether she wore them with a skirt or slacks, I didn’t know. The desk was in the way. Her hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders, and her eyes were clear, alert, and the color of a stormy sky.