Sidney became so engrossed in the online gossip that he nearly missed Rusty Mullins pulling into the parking lot. The blue Prius flashed in his mirror as it crossed behind him, appearing so suddenly that Sidney didn’t have a chance to duck down. Just as well because that reflex action might have attracted Mullins’ attention. Instead, Sidney started the engine, figuring Mullins would expect a person sitting behind the wheel of a parked car to do one of two things: get out or drive off.
Sidney backed out of his space, angling so that the driver’s side window stayed farthest from the Prius parked six cars away. He checked Mullins in the rearview mirror and saw him grab a suitcase and multiple hangers of clothing fresh from a dry cleaners. Had he been running normal Saturday afternoon errands, or was he preparing to leave town? The grandchild was no longer with him.
If Mullins planned a flight out of Reagan or Dulles, Sidney knew he was screwed. Tailing Mullins at an airport might not be impossible, but learning his travel plans and not being seen on the same plane would require a string of luck stretching the odds to lottery-winning proportions. Mullins could even be leaving the country, if his international interest represented a very specific target.
Sidney had to be prepared for what he could control. He left Shirlington House and fueled the Audi at a nearby Shell station. He used the bathroom, bought snacks, drinks, and sandwiches, and returned to the apartment parking lot. Mullins’ car hadn’t moved. Sidney found a spot far enough away and off the route Mullins would walk that he felt relatively secure he could avoid detection.
By ten o’clock, Mullins hadn’t reappeared. Sidney decided Mullins was spending Saturday night in. He left for home. He packed an overnight bag, grabbed a few hours sleep, and was back at Shirlington House at four-thirty in the morning.
Five hours later, Rusty Mullins emerged from the high-rise apartment building carrying the suitcase and a hanging bag.
Sidney knew only one thing. Mullins wasn’t headed for church.
Chapter Seventeen
Craig Archer clutched a cup of black coffee and wandered through the lobby of his own bank. At eight-forty on Monday morning, the arriving tellers and customer advisors were surprised to see their president. Normally, he stayed in his suite of executive offices on the third floor and came and went by the rear elevator.
Although he greeted employees with a smile and a cheery “Good Morning,” his appearance wasn’t reassuring. Small groups clustered in the break room and worried that an announcement was imminent. Further layoffs, or the FDIC had taken over the assets. He would utter the dreaded words, “Laurel Bank has failed.”
Ironically, Craig Archer waited in the lobby to dispel the very gossip his presence created. He wanted to intercept his visitor from the Federal Reserve before the guy flashed his credentials. Better to greet him as if he were a personal friend and not an investigator. An on-site Fed would set the rumor mills working overtime.
Archer took U.S. Treasury Agent Nathaniel Brown’s request for secrecy at more than face value, going so far as to enter into his electronic calendar a nine o’clock meeting with Walter Thomson, a name he made up for the benefit of his administrative assistant so she would have an explanation for the man in his office.
Archer caught the eye of his senior teller. “Lexie, can I borrow your key to the front doors?”
“Yes, sir. But it’s only twenty till.”
“That’s okay. I’m expecting a friend and I forgot to tell him to come in the back. If he gets here before nine, I’ll re-lock.”
“All right.” The woman took a key from the pocket of her blazer. “I’ll be at my window.”
Archer stood a few feet from the glass double doors. The drive from D.C. took around four-and-a-half hours depending upon which side of Washington you started from. He hoped this Russell Mullins wouldn’t be late. Otherwise, Archer would turn into the equivalent of a Wal-Mart greeter once the bank opened.
A trim, middle-aged man wearing a crisply pressed, dark-blue suit walked up to the door. He eyed Archer and gave a nod. The man couldn’t have looked more governmental than if he had the U.S. flag tattooed on his forehead.
“Mr. Mullins?” Archer mouthed from behind the glass.
The man nodded again.
Archer unlocked the bolt and pushed the door open.
Rusty Mullins gave a quick glance over his shoulder just long enough to make sure the black Audi had followed him from the motel.
Archer re-locked the door and then offered his hand. “Craig Archer. A pleasure to meet you. You made good time.”
“I drove down yesterday,” Mullins said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Archer relaxed. He’d expected a confrontational attitude from some arrogant Washingtonian who viewed Roanoke as a hick mountain town. “We want to do what we can to clear up whatever happened, especially if illegalities occurred outside of our control.” He gestured for Mullins to follow. “We can speak in my office.”
Moving quickly through the lobby, Archer dropped the keys at Lexie’s window and led Mullins to the back elevator. When they were safely ensconced in his office, Archer said, “Would you like some coffee? My assistant will be here shortly and can brew a fresh pot.”
Mullins waved the offer aside. “Thanks, but I’d rather get right down to business. Time could be critical in learning what happened so we can prevent a reoccurrence.”
“Certainly.” Archer indicated for Mullins to take a seat at a small conference table in one corner of his spacious office. “What would you like to know?”
“Walk me through how the account in question was set up.”
Archer picked up a file folder from his desk, and then joined Mullins at the table. “I had my manager at the Staunton branch scan and email me the account documents.” He flipped open the file cover and slid the top document to Mullins. “This is a photocopy of his driver’s license.”
The double photo, one small, one larger, showed a dark-skinned man. His features weren’t Hispanic, although that would be the common assumption in Florida. Mullins thought of his favorite detective novel, The Maltese Falcon, where Hammett described Joel Cairo as “The Levantine.” The word sent him to the dictionary where he learned “Levant” meant the land around the eastern Mediterranean.
He studied Fred Mack’s features carefully. His educated guess pegged the man as Syrian, but Mack could have been a third-generation American. Mullins wasn’t one to jump to conclusions.
He read the address on the license aloud. “4908 Palm Crescent Drive, Sunrise, Florida. Did someone ask why he was opening a business account in Staunton, Virginia?”
“Mr. Mack said he was in the process of relocating. A major benefactor of his company lives in the area and wanted the organization to be in close proximity. Mr. Mack said he really couldn’t say no.”
Mullins looked across the table at the open file. “Who was the benefactor?”
“He said the benefactor insisted on remaining anonymous.”
“And this organization supposedly helps crime victims gain restitution?”
Archer nodded. “That’s what he said.”
“And a local address?”
Archer grimaced. “No. That’s where we’re lacking critical information. Mr. Mack said they hadn’t completed negotiations for office space yet. He had a P.O. box at the main post office in Staunton and used the Florida address as a physical location, something we’re required to have on file along with a photo ID.”
“Let me guess. There’s no such address.”
“No. There is. I used Google Earth and it’s a residence. Sunrise is a town about forty-five minutes north of Miami. I could see the house and it looks like there’s a For Sale sign in the front yard. At least it’s the right size. The satellite view doesn’t show what’s written on it.”
“Can I see th
e rest of the documentation?”
Archer pushed the thin file to him.
Mullins quickly skimmed the papers, most of which were bank forms and disclaimers including the record of the initial nine-thousand-dollar deposit and signature cards for the account. Fred Mack was the only person with signing privileges.
“Did you check the tax ID number for the company?” Mullins asked.
“No. We had no reason to think there was a problem. And he signed the form attesting that the information he provided was true and accurate.”
Mullins laughed. “Yeah, that only works for people whose information is true and accurate.”
Archer reddened. “He was a customer. Frankly, we need accounts and deposits, and we did everything the law required us to do.”
Mullins turned up his palms. “Look, I’m not here to bust your chops. I’m just trying to find out what happened and how I might reach Mr. Mack. So, he opened the account on Monday a week ago and closed it on Wednesday two days later?”
“Yes. I knew none of this till your colleague Amanda Church called me.”
“And by then it was too late.”
“I know how it looks.”
Mullins stared at the man. “Tell me how it looks.”
Archer licked his lips nervously. “Mr. Mack opened the account for the sole purpose of passing a large amount of cash through it.”
“And somehow broke the authorization codes for your Federal Reserve window and managed to reverse the entire transaction and create an offshore source in the process. Then the money transfers into eleven other accounts that turn out to be bogus. We have no idea where the funds really went, but they started with the Federal Reserve and somebody, somewhere, got real cash. I might be wrong, but that’s not your normal Staunton, Virginia customer, is it, Mr. Archer?”
“No, it’s not.”
Mullins held up the copy of the driver’s license and pointed to Mack’s face. “And I find it hard to believe this man pulled the stunt off alone. He had help.”
“Not from me or any one in Laurel Bank.”
“That’s your opinion.”
Archer bristled. “Part of my opinion. I think you should look to your own house, Mr. Mullins. What are the odds that someone here came up with the name Russell Mullins for a Cayman account?”
Mullins nodded, conceding the point. “So, you understand why I have a personal interest in discovering who’s behind this, as I expect you do as well.”
“Most assuredly. And we’re implementing a thorough review of every procedure involved in establishing and monitoring Mr. Mack’s account.”
“When he closed the account, did Mr. Mack say what his plans were?”
“No. He expressed disappointment that his 501c(3) application had been denied and he apologized for wasting our time.”
Mullins sifted through the file documents again. “Who in the branch opens new accounts?”
“Normally customer advisors handle that, but if they’re tied up, the manager helps out.”
“And your manager dealt with Mr. Mack personally?”
“An associate opened the account. Carl Andrews, the manager, closed it. Because of the large, although brief deposit, Carl wanted to meet Mr. Mack next time he came in.”
“Get him to park his money a little longer?”
Archer shrugged. “I prefer to call it building customer relations. When Mack told him he would be withdrawing the balance, Carl made an effort to keep the account open in case the 501c(3) problem was quickly resolved. He waived service fees in consideration for the amount of money that appeared to be moving through.” Archer paused. “Carl said that was an odd moment.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Mack seemed surprised at the additional funds. At least that was Carl’s impression. Then Mack said he’d forgotten the transaction would be taking place.”
“He forgot over two-hundred thousand was coming to an account he’d just opened?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s another reason to think Mack wasn’t in this alone.”
Mullins gathered the papers together. “May I have copies of these?”
“They’re for you.”
“Did you tell your branch manager I was coming this morning?”
“No. I said only that I wanted to review the file because of the amount of money that moved through such a short-lived account.”
“I understand the person who checks overall daily balances was out the afternoon the wire transfer occurred.”
“Yes. FDIC compliance training. We’re a small bank and don’t have redundancy systems in place. When she ran the numbers the next day, the deposit had come and gone from our balance sheet.”
Mullins thought a moment. “How long in advance had that training session been scheduled?”
“Six weeks. She had to drive to Richmond.”
“And she had to confirm her attendance beforehand?”
“Yes. As soon as we got the notice.”
“Thank you, Mr. Archer.” Mullins closed the file and stood. He looked at the notepad by the phone on Archer’s desk. “Can I have a sheet of that paper? I want to give you my personal cellphone number in case you think of anything else, and especially if Mr. Mack returns.”
Archer pulled the top sheet free. “Certainly. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Not at the moment. Let’s keep this conversation between us. You can appreciate the sensitive nature of what’s transpired.”
Archer watched Mullins jot down the number. The bank president took it, folded the paper once, and then tucked it in his wallet. “I won’t say a word, but if you learn something that could help us avoid a similar problem in the future, I’d appreciate anything you would share.”
“Fair enough.” Mullins shook Archer’s hand. “Meanwhile, I was never here.”
Archer smiled. “Russell Mullins never walked in this building.”
“Thank you. I can find my way out.” Mullins opened the door and left, heading straight for the elevator.
Archer watched him leave, and then closed his office door. He went to his desk, pulled out a fresh legal pad, and began to write everything that just occurred. When Agent Nathaniel Brown called, Archer would be ready.
Mullins stepped off the elevator on the ground floor. Instead of returning to the lobby, he exited through the employee entrance. He crossed the rear parking lot and walked two blocks in the opposite direction from where the black Audi had been facing. He’d made Sidney Levine when he left his apartment in Shirlington, but to try and evade the reporter would have made him suspicious. Mullins didn’t have a problem being followed to a public bank, but the next leg of his investigation needed to be solo.
He walked to the corner of the cross street where he could see two blocks to the bank. The Audi was in the customer lot in a space farthest from his Prius. Sidney could watch both the lobby door and his car. Mullins looked around, not seeing what twenty years earlier would have been a common sight. A pay phone. He wondered if Roanoke had eliminated all of them. He turned and retraced his steps to where he’d seen a Fast Break Food Mart. Sure enough, on the outside wall near the corner of the building, was a public phone. It wouldn’t work for Clark Kent to change into Superman, but it more than sufficed for Mullins.
He skirted the door so that a cashier couldn’t see him, took a handkerchief from his pocket to avoid fingerprints, and dialed 911. He repeated the bomb threat twice to make sure the responder got the address.
The sirens wailed as he stepped back into the bank’s employee parking lot. As people streamed out of the building, Mullins walked around the side and cautiously checked the customer lot. He saw a police officer telling Sidney Levine to move his vehicle. Then a firetruck screeched to a halt, blocking his view. Mullins hurried to his Prius, eased it forward
on quiet battery power, and circled behind the bank.
He relaxed when he merged onto I-81 with no Audi behind him and nothing but interstate between Roanoke and Miami.
Chapter Eighteen
The rush of cop cars, their blue lights blazing and sirens wailing, caught Sidney Levine off-guard. As people poured out of the office building, Sidney scanned the faces for Mullins but couldn’t see him.
“Are you waiting on someone?” The police officer shouted the question as he bent closer to Sidney’s window.
Sidney rolled down the glass. “I was going into the bank. Has there been a robbery?”
“Possible gas leak. We need you to clear the area now.”
Gas leak my ass, Sidney thought. He looked past the officer to the stream of people flowing out the doors and across the street beyond the perimeter rapidly being established by the police. If Sidney got out and joined them, he’d be away from the car if Mullins drove away.
The cop made the choice for him. “Move the vehicle, sir. We need the working space.”
As an emphasis of his point, a firetruck jumped the curb and stopped facing the building. Mullins’ Prius disappeared behind the wall of red and silver metal.
“Yes, sir,” Sidney said. He backed the Audi up and drove out the entrance. Another police officer refused to let him turn left onto the street going in front of the bank. As Sidney drove through the intersection, he craned his neck out the window to see around the firetruck. Mullins’ Prius was gone.
Sidney had no doubt that Mullins orchestrated the chaotic scene. Somehow he must have phoned in a bomb threat to mask his escape. Sidney assumed Mullins spotted him. Then another possibility crossed his mind. What if Mullins saw someone else following him? Someone whose presence posed a real threat.
Sidney looked in his rearview mirror. No cars trailed him. He took a deep breath, telling himself not to let his imagination overwhelm the rational side of his brain. He needed to focus on what he could learn. Mullins had spoken to someone in that building, and he’d gone into the lobby before the bank opened. A distinguished-looking man admitted him. As soon as the emergency vehicles left, Sidney would find out who Mullins saw and why.
The 13th Target Page 8