Dead Broke (Lana Denae Mystery Series Book 1)

by Bruce A. Borders

  Then abruptly, the man’s icy expression changed and to her relief, she saw him smile. A warm, friendly smile. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to point out the absurdity of all this.”

  “If you could just stick to answering my questions that would be helpful,” Lana said, hoping the tenor of her voice conveyed her disgust with the senseless prank he’d pulled.

  “Okay,” he shrugged. “You want to know where I was at the time of the murders? That’s easy. I was home asleep.”

  Lana said, “I assume your wife can verify this?”

  Holloway suddenly looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. “Um, no,” he said with a sheepish twist of his mouth. “My wife is, uh, currently visiting her sister in Arizona—for about a year now.”

  Gathering there was trouble in Paradise, Lana didn’t press the issue. “And you were home on all of the nights in question, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Holloway, for the record, how tall are you?”

  “Five-foot seven.”

  “And could I get your weight?”

  “One eighty.”

  Lana nodded. “Also, we’ll be taking a look at your financials, do you have any off-shore accounts you’d like to declare?” It was worth a shot, she thought. Using off-shore accounts was a favorite tactic of rich people and criminals who wanted to hide money from the government or other prying eyes. Her jurisdiction might not cover off-shore accounts but Holloway may not be aware of that. If she could get him to admit that he had any, and if any large deposits had recently been made, that could bolster their case against him.

  Holloway was having none of it. “No, all of my accounts are local, with the exception of life insurance accounts and those kinds of things.”

  Well, so much for that, Lana thought. Either he knew what she was up to or he was telling the truth. No way to know. Continuing with her questions, she said, “Sir, do you own a 9mm handgun?”

  “I do,” Holloway said. “Hasn’t been fired for a couple of years, though. You’re welcome to check it out for yourself,” he offered. Then, “Providing you have a warrant, of course.”

  Picking up on the comment, Lana made a mental note of his combative stance but, for the moment, chose to let it go. “What brand is your handgun?”

  “Smith and Wesson.”

  Lana frowned and again scribbled a few quick notes in her notepad.

  Holloway took the opportunity to pose a few questions of his own. “Can I ask what kind of information you received that makes you think I’m the murderer? Did someone accuse me, or what?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” Lana told him. “I will say I’m trying my best to eliminate you as a suspect but your answers so far aren’t making it easy.”

  “So do you really think I did it? That I’m your guy?”

  “What I think is not what matters,” Lana said. “My job is to investigate.”

  Devin Holloway nodded. Then with a faint grimace, he said, “I don’t blame you for suspecting me. If I were in your shoes, I’d probably suspect me too. After all, the victims were all my clients, I have access to privileged information regarding their investments, and I’m assuming—since you asked my height and weight—I must match some description you have come up with.”

  Lana nodded. “All that and no alibi. Makes it difficult to rule you out.”

  Holloway sighed. “I agree it doesn’t look good, especially the part about the no alibi, but might I point out that you have no actual evidence either?”

  “Which is why I haven’t arrested you,” Lana said with a smile.

  “But you can’t rule me out.”

  “Not yet,” Lana said.

  Holloway noticed the way she said it, not in a frustrated or challenging manner but more of a hopeful inflection.

  Lana studied him as he watched her and thought she saw the glow of confidence return to his eyes. He certainly didn’t act guilty, she thought.

  Putting away her notes, she said, “Thanks for your cooperation. If I have anything further, I’ll be in touch.”

  Driving back to the precinct, Lana contemplated their conversation, going back and forth, first supposing him to be guilty, then convincing herself of the man’s innocence. It would have helped if her lab people could run a ballistics test on his handgun, she thought. But Holloway had made it clear; the only way she was going to get a hold of the firearm was to get a warrant. With a dismal sigh, she knew a warrant was out of the question without some solid evidence linking Holloway to the crimes.

  Walking into the patrol room, Lana saw no sign of Jamie and Damien. Ray however, was right where she’d left him—at his computer.

  “What have you found on Canya Schmidt?” she asked.

  “Quite a lot, actually,” Ray answered, snatching a file off his desk. “Canya Schmidt was born to John and Terry Schmidt on December third, fifteen years ago. There are a slew of articles in the newspaper archives, stories that mention her in connection with local beauty pageants, school functions, and the like. The last story was from four years ago, covering the house fire that killed her parents.”

  Lana didn’t know whether to be relieved that Canya was real or concerned that her team had missed the girl earlier.

  “Then there’s airline passenger manifests; Canya has flown on a total of four domestic flights, two trips to L.A. to visit theme parks, apparently.”

  “So, it sounds like she is a halfway normal girl,” Lana said.

  “Yeah, but what’s odd is what I didn’t find,” Ray said.

  “And that would be?”

  “No Facebook or Twitter account. In fact, no social media presence at all. In this day and age, that’s unheard of for a teenager.”

  “Might not be that strange.” Lana told him. “Eric said she was a loner, didn’t have any friends and spent all her time at home. Anti-social is how he described her. Almost an introvert, it sounds like.”

  “Maybe,” Ray allowed. “But there’s more. She has no music accounts, not even a YouTube subscription. No gaming accounts, and she apparently has never shopped online. Then, we get into the really bizarre.”

  Lana raised an eyebrow but waited for him to continue.

  “I found an immunization record on file with Public Health. But there’s no evidence that she was ever a patient anywhere, not even Public Health. There are no doctor or hospital visits. No dental visits either.”

  “A little strange,” Lana admitted. “But not totally out of the realm of possibility. Maybe she’s never been. Not everyone rushes to the emergency room for every little toe ache.”

  Ray went right on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I did find a cell phone account in her name, but no record of any calls or data usage associated with that phone.”

  “Did you call the number?”

  Ray looked offended. “Of course, I did. But I got no answer. The voicemail message is the standard default greeting that comes with the phone.”

  “Lot’s of people use that,” Lana argued. “Still not finding any of this all that odd—except the part about no doctor visits.”

  “Not finished yet,” Ray said. “Any of these taken alone may not raise a red flag but together they add up to something very peculiar. Oh, and then there’s this; Canya Schmidt is listed as enrolled at Reynolds High School. She’s been enrolled in school every year since kindergarten, right through her sophomore year. I’ve contacted several of the teachers of those classes as well as quite a few students—according to the online yearbooks I could find—not one of them has ever heard of Canya Schmidt.”

  Lana’s curiosity was piqued now.

  “Also,” Ray continued, “the only photographs I could find were the ones from the online yearbooks. I copied each of them to run facial recognition and came up with nothing. Same result when I Googled them. Then I did the same with the picture you gave me, the one Eric provided.”

  “Same result?”

  “Not quite
. I discovered that picture has been digitally altered. It is a composite of six different girls.”

  “Okay, that is odd. But what does all of this mean?”

  Ray didn’t answer immediately, trying to formulate his thoughts. Then slowly, he said, “All the records I found were online—digital stuff. There is absolutely nothing physical to find.”

  “So you’re saying Eric is falsifying the online records of his sister? Trying to keep her whereabouts a mystery because he killed her or something?”

  “No. I’m saying, I don’t think Canya Schmidt actually exists. I don’t mean because she is dead either. I don’t think she ever existed.”

  “Seriously?” So, the background checks hadn’t missed her after all!

  “Yeah,” Ray nodded. “Online tells one story but it doesn’t match reality. It’s like the digital files have been added in, records altered, and databases tampered with.”

  “Something a top of his class IT student could easily accomplish,” Lana said, finally seeing where Ray was going.

  “Exactly,” Ray said. “But paper files and real world documents would be much harder to fabricate.”

  Lana nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with your conclusion. But how would we prove such a thing?”

  “Patience, my dear,” Ray said, “I’m working on that. I’ll let you know.”

  “Did you check into that file sharing program Eric says he used?” Lana asked. “The one he claimed was untraceable.”

  Ray nodded. “More like a peer to peer network than an FTP. Their servers consist of the computers of all their subscribers. Uploads and downloads are randomly routed through multiple servers, with no way of knowing who actually shared the information—or who downloaded it. Users remain anonymous, even to the network creators. URL’s and other identifying data is deleted after each data transfer.”

  “So, he was right. It’s untraceable?”

  “For all intents and purposes, yes. The NSA could possibly track it down but even that’s doubtful.”

  Lana frowned, falling silent.

  “What are you thinking?” Ray asked, seeing her furrowed brow.

  Lana spoke slowly, as if she wasn’t quite sure of herself. “Eric is a computer geek. He easily hacks into whatever he wants, steals information, and manipulates data to suit his needs. In cyber space, he is the ruler of his world.”

  “Yeah, I’d say that pretty much describes him,” Ray said.

  “It would explain how he manages to keep his bills paid, and yet, has no income—or a job. He just hacks into any financial institution and transfers money into his bank account.”

  “I think he’s probably a little more devious than that. You have the right idea but deposits into his bank account would be traceable. I think instead, he manipulates his creditors accounting ledgers, altering their records to make it appear he has paid, when he actually hasn’t.”

  “But don’t businesses have actual books?” Lana countered. “If those don’t match what’s online, wouldn’t that be easily spotted during an audit?”

  Ray shook his head. “Everything is done on computers these days. Hardly any business keeps a physical set of books anymore, except mom and pop stores.”

  “All right. But what I’m saying is, if he has the ability to pull that off, why bother to steal the identities of investors? He wouldn’t need the money. So why the added hassle? Just for the thrill? The exhilaration that some people feel when they get away with something?”

  Ray shrugged.

  “Who’s getting away with something?” came Jamie’s voice as he and Damien walked in on the tail end of the conversation.

  “Not sure, really,” Lana said and then brought them up to date on what Ray had discovered and her most recent conversation with Devin Holloway.

  “If he lied about having a sister, his whole story is probably fabricated—including the part about Holloway,” Damien said.

  “I know. But when I went to see Holloway, I was unable to disprove any of it,” Lana told them. “I have serious doubts that he’s our guy. But with no alibi and his refusal to let us examine his gun, I’m not sure. What did you guys find?”

  Damien said, “What we found is, Holloway appears clean. Squeaky clean.”

  “Yeah, too clean,” Jamie said.

  “Maybe he’s just a normal decent guy,” Lana suggested.

  “No. Anybody with that kind of unblemished record has something to hide,” Jamie said.

  “And has been busy hiding it,” Damien added.

  “But you couldn’t find anything?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Just a matter of time. Everybody has some dirt in their closet.”

  “Dirt? Maybe so,” Lana said. “But blood? Not necessarily.”

  “Back to our original suspect,” Damien said,“If he invented a sister, and went to all of the trouble to create a whole pseudo-identity, just to legitimize her supposed existence, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine he may have other fake personalities.”

  “Sure,” Jamie said. “And how are we supposed to find those? There’s not exactly a directory for that sort of thing.”

  “Keep digging and see what turns up,” Lana answered.

  “And what about Holloway?”

  Lana shrugged. Keep looking into him too. Sooner or later we’re bound to find something useful.”

  Ray suddenly re-appeared in the room, out of breath and panting. “Get ready,” he said.

  “For what?” Lana asked. “And where have you been. I didn’t even know you’d left.”

  “I was taking my break,” Ray gasped, still trying to catch his breath. But, Sophia Davis is on her way in and wants to talk to you.”

  Lana rolled her eyes. “Her again?” Then, “You ran all the way in here to tell me that?”

  Ray nodded. “Talked to her in the parking lot. Thought you might want to disappear before she got here.”

  “Thanks,” Lana said. “But I’m not going to start hiding out in my own precinct. I might as well talk to her. If I don’t she’ll just keep stalking me with her ridiculous mind-dissecting nonsense.”

  “You disparaging our esteemed psychiatrist again?” asked Damien.

  “No. Just not a fan of psycho babble,” Lana told him. “It’s not very useful.”

  With a smirk, Jamie said, “Wouldn’t psycho babble be unique to a psychologist?”

  “Psychiatrist, psychologist; not much difference.”

  “That’s not true, actually,” came Sophia’s voice from the doorway.

  Lana maintained her professional amiability but chose to not open herself up to yet another lecture on the differences in the two professions. Both were made up of complete drivel as far as she was concerned. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes,” Sophia nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve worked up a psychiatric profile of your latest suspect, Mr. Holloway.”

  “And?” Who had told the lady about Holloway, anyway?

  “It’s pretty simple really,” Sophia said. “Devin Holloway is rich and powerful; a man used to getting his way. With his wife gone, he feels weak and vulnerable, almost useless. He needs to invent a crisis or situation that he can inject himself into in order to feel he’s in control; so he can feel like a man. This case, with its identity theft and murder, is exactly the type of thing such a guy would do.”

  “Lot’s of men are left by their wives—they don’t become serial killers,” Lana argued, her voice suggesting this was nothing but a waste of time.

  “You wanted my opinion,” Sophia said.

  “No,” Lana said. “Actually, I didn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Interesting,” Jamie said.

  “What’s that?” Lana asked. It was barely past eight in the morning and after a long day the day before, with too many surprises, she was approaching critical mass of digesting new information. She didn’t want to have to figure out anything, especially when he could just as easily tell her.

  Jamie pointed to the compute
r screen. “Apparently, Devin Holloway knew Mrs. Wymer.”

  “Roselyn Wymer? Our victim?”

  Jamie nodded.

  Damien frowned and shook his head. “A pertinent little fact he somehow forgot to disclose?”

  “What makes you say he knew her?” a hesitant Lana asked.

  Jamie again pointed to the computer. “Class picture here of Dexter McCarty Middle School in Gresham, where Holloway attended ninth grade. Guess who the teacher is, or was?”

  “Roselyn Wymer,” Lana said.

  “Why would he not mention that?” Damien asked.

  “Only one reason I can think of,” Jamie said. “He didn’t want us to connect him to her.”

  Lana wasn’t convinced. “It’s possible he didn’t remember her,” she pointed out. “It’s been more than thirty years and he was just a young teenager.”

  “You still making excuses for this guy?” Jamie asked with a hint of criticism.

  “I’m just saying it’s possible.”

  The precinct was filled with silence for a moment. Then, out of the blue Damien said, “Mrs. Grant.”

  Lana gave him a curious frown. “Who’s that?”

  “My ninth grade teacher.”

  Following his partner’s lead, Jamie said, “Mr. Peterson.”

  Ray, silently listening as usual, chimed in with, “Miss Roberts.”

  “Don’t tell me you can’t remember your ninth grade teacher’s name,” Jamie said to Lana.

  “I can,” she answered. “Mr. Williams. But none of us are as old as Holloway. He’s had more time to forget.”

  “Forty-seven is not that old,” Ray said with a bit of amusement.

  “When are you going to stop defending this guy and see him for what he is?” Jamie demanded.

  When Lana still hesitated, Damien took a different approach. “So you think you’re going to forget Mr. Williams in the next twelve years?”

  Probably not,” she said. “But I noticed that not one of us mentioned our teacher’s first names.”