by Sue Grafton
“Nice to meet you, Miss Millhone. I’m so glad you’re here.” His voice was deep and rumbling, with confidence-inspiring undertones. On the other hand, I didn’t like the look in his eyes. He could have been a con man, for all I knew. “I understand Mrs. Ackerman never got home Friday night,” he said.
“That’s what I’m told,” I replied. “Can you tell me anything about her day here?”
He studied me briefly. “Well, now, I’m going to have to be honest with you. Our bookkeeper has come across some discrepancies in the accounts. It looks like Lucy Ackerman has just walked off with half a million dollars entrusted to us.”
“How’d she manage that?”
I was picturing Lucy Ackerman, free of those truck-busting kids, lying on a beach in Rio, slurping some kind of rum drink out of a coconut.
Mr. Sotherland looked pained. “In the most straightforward manner imaginable,” he said. “It looks like she opened a new bank account at a branch in Montebello and deposited ten checks that should have gone into other accounts. Last Friday, she withdrew over five hundred thousand dollars in cash, claiming we were closing out a big real estate deal. We found the passbook in her bottom drawer.” He tossed the booklet across the desk to me and I picked it up. The word VOID had been punched into the pages in a series of holes. A quick glance showed ten deposits at intervals dating back over the past three months and a zero balance as of last Friday’s date.
“Didn’t anybody else double-check this stuff?”
“We’d just undergone our annual audit in June. Everything was fine. We trusted this woman implicitly and had every reason to.”
“You discovered the loss this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I’ll admit I was suspicious Friday night when Robert Ackerman called me at home. It was completely unlike that woman to disappear without a word. She’s worked here eight years and she’s been punctual and conscientious since the day she walked in.”
“Well, punctual at any rate,” I said. “Have you notified the police?”
“I was just about to do that. I’ll have to alert the Department of Corporations, too. God, I can’t believe she did this to us. I’ll be fired. They’ll probably shut this entire office down.”
“Would you mind if I had a quick look around?”
“To what end?”
“There’s always a chance we can figure out where she went. If we move fast enough, maybe we can catch her before she gets away with it.”
“Well, I doubt that,” he said. “The last anybody saw her was Friday afternoon. That’s two full days. She could be anywhere by now.”
“Mr. Sotherland, her husband has already authorized three hundred dollars’ worth of my time. Why not take advantage of it?”
He stared at me. “Won’t the police object?”
“Probably. But I don’t intend to get in anybody’s way, and whatever I find out, I’ll turn over to them. They may not be able to get a fraud detective out here until late morning, anyway. If I get a line on her, it’ll make you look good to the company and to the cops.”
He gave a sigh of resignation and waved his hand. “Hell, I don’t care. Do what you want.”
When I left his office, he was putting the call through to the police department.
I SAT BRIEFLY at Lucy’s desk, which was neat and well organized. Her drawers contained the usual office supplies, no personal items at all. There was a calendar on her desktop, one of those loose-leaf affairs with a page for each day. I checked back through the past couple of months. The only personal notation was for an appointment at the Women’s Health Center August 2 and a second visit last Friday afternoon. It must have been a busy day for Lucy, what with a doctor’s appointment and ripping off her company for half a million bucks. I made a note of the address she’d penciled in at the time of her first visit. The other two women in the office were keeping an eye on me, I noticed, though both pretended to be occupied with paperwork.
When I finished my search, I got up and crossed the room to Mrs. Merriman’s desk. “Is there any way I can make a copy of the passbook for that account Mrs. Ackerman opened?”
“Well, yes, if Mr. Sotherland approves,” she said.
“I’m also wondering where she kept her coat and purse during the day.”
“In the back. We each have a locker in the storage room.”
“I’d like to take a look at that, too.”
I waited patiently while she cleared both matters with her boss, and then I accompanied her to the rear. There was a door that opened onto the parking lot. To the left of it was a small restroom and, on the right, there was a storage room that housed four connecting upright metal lockers, the copy machine, and numerous shelves neatly stacked with office supplies. Each shoulder-high locker was marked with a name. Lucy Ackerman’s was still securely padlocked. There was something about the blank look of that locker that seemed ominous somehow. I looked at the lock, fairly itching to have a crack at it with my little set of key picks, but I didn’t want to push my luck with the cops on the way.
“I’d like for someone to let me know what’s in that locker when it’s finally opened,” I remarked while Mrs. Merriman ran off the copy of the passbook pages for me.
“This, too,” I said, handing her a carbon of the withdrawal slip Lucy’d been required to sign in receipt of the cash. It had been folded and tucked into the back of the booklet. “You have any theories about where she went?”
Mrs. Merriman’s mouth pursed piously, as though she were debating with herself about how much she might say.
“I wouldn’t want to be accused of talking out of school,” she ventured.
“Mrs. Merriman, it does look like a crime’s been committed,” I suggested. “The police are going to ask you the same thing when they get here.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose it’s all right. I mean, I don’t have the faintest idea where she is, but I do think she’s been acting oddly the past few months.”
“Like what?”
“She seemed secretive. Smug. Like she knew something the rest of us didn’t know about.”
“That certainly turned out to be the case,” I said.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it was related to that,” she said hesitantly. “I think she was having an affair.”
That got my attention. “An affair? With whom?”
She paused for a moment, touching at one of the hairpins that supported her ornate hairdo. She allowed her gaze to stray back toward Mr. Sotherland’s office. I turned and looked in that direction too.
“Really?” I said. No wonder he was in a sweat, I thought.
“I couldn’t swear to it,” she murmured, “but his marriage has been rocky for years, and I gather she hasn’t been that happy herself. She has those beastly little boys, you know, and a husband who seems determined to spawn more. She and Mr. Sotherland—Gavie, she calls him—have . . . well, I’m sure they’ve been together. Whether it’s connected to this matter of the missing money, I wouldn’t presume to guess.” Having said as much, she was suddenly uneasy. “You won’t repeat what I’ve said to the police, I hope.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Unless they ask, of course.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“By the way, is there a company travel agent?”
“Right next door,” she replied.
I HAD A BRIEF chat with the bookkeeper, who added nothing to the general picture of Lucy Ackerman’s last few days at work. I retrieved my VW from the parking lot and headed over to the health center eight blocks away, wondering what Lucy had been up to. I was guessing birth control and probably the permanent sort. If she was having an affair (and determined not to get pregnant again in any event), it would seem logical, but I hadn’t any idea how to verify the fact. Medical personnel are notoriously stingy with information like that.
I parked in front of the clinic and grabbed my clipboard from the backseat. I have a supply of all-purpose forms for occasions like this. They look like a cross
between a job application and an insurance claim. I filled one out now in Lucy’s name and forged her signature at the bottom where it said “authorization to release information.” As a model, I used the Xerox copy of the withdrawal slip she’d tucked in her passbook. I’ll admit my methods would be considered unorthodox, nay illegal, in the eyes of law-enforcement officers everywhere, but I reasoned that the information I was seeking would never actually be used in court, and therefore it couldn’t matter that much how it was obtained.
I went into the clinic, noting gratefully the near-empty waiting room. I approached the counter and took out my wallet with my California Fidelity ID. I do occasional insurance investigations for CF in exchange for office space. They once made the mistake of issuing me a company identification card with my picture right on it that I’ve been flashing around quite shamelessly ever since.
I had a choice of three female clerks and, after a brief assessment, I made eye contact with the oldest of them. In places like this, the younger employees usually have no authority at all and are, thus, impossible to con. People without authority will often simply stand there, reciting the rules like mynah birds. Having no power, they also seem to take a vicious satisfaction in forcing others to comply.
The woman approached the counter on her side, looking at me expectantly. I showed her my CF ID and made the form on the clipboard conspicuous, as though I had nothing to hide.
“Hi. My name is Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I wonder if you can give me some help. Your name is what?”
She seemed wary of the request, as though her name had magical powers that might be taken from her by force. “Lillian Vincent,” she said reluctantly. “What sort of help did you need?”
“Lucy Ackerman has applied for some insurance benefits and we need verification of the claim. You’ll want a copy of the release form for your files, of course.”
I passed the forged paper to her and then busied myself with my clipboard as though it were all perfectly matter-of-fact.
She was instantly alert. “What is this?”
I gave her a look. “Oh, sorry. She’s applying for maternity leave and we need her due date.”
“Maternity leave?”
“Isn’t she a patient here?”
Lillian Vincent looked at me. “Just a moment,” she said, and moved away from the desk with the form in hand. She went to a file cabinet and extracted a chart, returning to the counter. She pushed it over to me. “The woman has had a tubal ligation,” she said, her manner crisp.
I blinked, smiling slightly as though she were making a joke. “There must be some mistake.”
“Lucy Ackerman must have made it then if she thinks she can pull this off.” She opened the chart and tapped significantly at the August 2 date. “She was just in here Friday for a final checkup and a medical release. She’s sterile.”
I looked at the chart. Sure enough, that’s what it said. I raised my eyebrows and then shook my head slightly. “God. Well. I guess I better have a copy of that.”
“I should think so,” the woman said and ran one off for me on the desktop dry copier. She placed it on the counter and watched as I tucked it onto my clipboard.
She said, “I don’t know how they think they can get away with it.”
“People love to cheat,” I replied.
IT WAS NEARLY noon by the time I got back to the travel agency next door to the place where Lucy Ackerman had worked. It didn’t take any time at all to unearth the reservations she’d made two weeks before. Buenos Aires, first class on Pan Am. For one. She’d picked up the ticket Friday afternoon just before the agency closed for the weekend.
The travel agent rested his elbows on the counter and looked at me with interest, hoping to hear all the gory details, I’m sure. “I heard about that business next door,” he said. He was young, maybe twenty-four, with a pug nose, auburn hair, and a gap between his teeth. He’d make the perfect costar on a wholesome family TV show.
“How’d she pay for the ticket?”
“Cash,” he said. “I mean, who’d have thunk?”
“Did she say anything in particular at the time?”
“Not really. She seemed jazzed and we joked some about Montezuma’s revenge and stuff like that. I knew she was married and I was asking her all about who was keeping the kids and what her old man was going to do while she was gone. God, I never in a million years guessed she was pulling off a scam like that, you know?”
“Did you ask why she was going to Argentina by herself?”
“Well, yeah, and she said it was a surprise.” He shrugged. “It didn’t really make sense, but she was laughing like a kid, and I thought I just didn’t get the joke.”
I asked for a copy of the itinerary, such as it was. She had paid for a round-trip ticket, but there were no reservations coming back. Maybe she intended to cash in the return ticket once she got down there. I tucked the travel docs onto my clipboard along with the copy of her medical forms. Something about this whole deal had begun to chafe, but I couldn’t figure out quite why.
“Thanks for your help,” I said, heading toward the door.
“No problem. I guess the other guy didn’t get it either,” he remarked.
I paused, mid-stride, turning back. “Get what?”
“The joke. I heard ’em next door and they were fighting like cats and dogs. He was pissed.”
“Really,” I said. I stared at him. “What time was this?”
“Five-fifteen. Something like that. They were closed and so were we, but Dad wanted me to stick around for a while until the cleaning crew got here. He owns this place, which is how I got in the business myself. These new guys were starting and he wanted me to make sure they understood what to do.”
“Are you going to be here for a while?”
“Sure.”
“Good. The police may want to hear about this.”
I went back into the escrow office with mental alarm bells clanging away like crazy. Both Barbara Hemdahl and Mrs. Merriman had opted to eat lunch in. Or maybe the cops had ordered them to stay where they were. The bookkeeper sat at her desk with a sandwich, apple, and a carton of milk neatly arranged in front of her, while Mrs. Merriman picked at something in a plastic container she must have brought in from a fast-food place.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
Barbara Hemdahl spoke up from her side of the room. “The detectives went off for a search warrant so they can get in all the lockers back there, collecting evidence.”
“Only one of ’em is locked,” I pointed out.
She shrugged. “I guess they can’t even peek without the paperwork.”
Mrs. Merriman spoke up then, her expression tinged with guilt. “Actually, they asked the rest of us if we’d open our lockers voluntarily, so of course we did.”
Mrs. Merriman and Barbara Hemdahl exchanged a look.
“And?”
Mrs. Merriman colored slightly. “There was an overnight case in Mr. Sotherland’s locker and I guess the things in it were hers.”
“Is it still back there?”
“Well, yes, but they left a uniformed officer on guard so nobody’d walk off with it. They’ve got everything spread out on the copy machine.”
I went through the rear of the office, peering into the storage room. I knew the guy on duty and he didn’t object to my doing a visual survey of the items, as long as I didn’t touch anything. The overnight case had been packed with all the personal belongings women like to keep on hand in case the rest of the luggage gets sent to Mexicali by mistake. I spotted a toothbrush and toothpaste, slippers, a filmy nightie, prescription drugs, hairbrush, extra eyeglasses in a case. I spotted a round plastic container, slightly convex, about the size of a compact, tucked under a change of underwear.
Gavin Sotherland was still sitting at his desk when I stopped by his office. His skin tone was gray and his shirt was hanging out, a big ring of sweat under each arm. He was smoking a cigarette with the air of a man who’s quit t
he habit and has taken it up again under duress. A second uniformed officer was standing just inside the door to my right.
I leaned against the frame, but Gavin scarcely looked up.
I said, “You knew what she was doing, but you thought she’d take you with her when she left.”
His smile was bitter. “Life is full of surprises,” he said.
I WAS GOING TO have to tell Robert Ackerman what I’d discovered, and I dreaded it. As a stalling maneuver, just to demonstrate what a good girl I was, I drove over to the police station first and dropped off the data I’d collected, filling them in on the theory I’d come up with. They didn’t exactly pin a medal on me, but they weren’t as pissed off as I thought they’d be, given the number of penal codes I’d violated in the process. They were even moderately courteous, which is unusual in their treatment of me. Unfortunately, none of it took that long and before I knew it, I was standing at the Ackermans’ front door again.
I rang the bell and waited, bad jokes running through my head. Well, there’s good news and bad news, Robert. The good news is we’ve wrapped it up with hours to spare so you won’t have to pay me the full three hundred dollars we agreed to. The bad news is your wife’s a thief, she’s probably dead, and we’re just getting out a warrant now, because we think we know where the body’s stashed.
The door opened and Robert was standing there with a finger to his lips. “The kids are down for their naps,” he whispered.
I nodded elaborately, pantomiming my understanding, as though the silence he’d imposed required this special behavior on my part.
He motioned me in and together we tiptoed through the house and out to the backyard, where we continued to talk in low tones. I wasn’t sure which bedroom the little rug rats slept in, and I didn’t want to be responsible for waking them.