“How much did she deposit in the business account on her initial visit?”
Gonzalez didn’t even look at the printed sheets of paper on his desk. “It was just a couple hundred dollars.”
“Did she make deposits to that account?”
“Almost daily.”
Faz noticed Del glance at him. He loved being right.
“May I?” Faz asked.
Gonzalez handed him the sheets of paper. Del leaned over Faz’s shoulder. As Faz had suspected, Strickland had made a steady stream of deposits and withdrawals intended not to draw attention—$1,775, $1,350, $2,260. Over the ensuing month and a half, these small deposits and withdrawals to the business account had increased. The amount of money that had moved through the account had added up to $128,775.42. The Emerald Credit Union was clearly not the only bank account Andrea Strickland had opened. The question was, where had she transferred the rest of the money, and in whose name? Faz was betting the money had gone overseas, to a country that did not report on the identity of its customers.
The number that caught his eye, however, was in the far column on the last line, the one indicating Lynn Hoff’s balance in both accounts: $0.00.
“She closed the accounts,” Faz said, looking up at Gonzalez. “Did she close the accounts?”
“Apparently.”
“You didn’t close it for her?”
“She didn’t come in.”
To open an account a customer had to personally go into a bank and provide proper identification. That was not necessary to transfer the money and close the account, which could be done electronically—if the person had the account number and password.
Faz looked at Del. “She closed the account June twenty-sixth,” he said, not bothering to elaborate. Del knew it was the Monday after Kurt Schill had pulled Andrea Strickland’s body from the depths of Puget Sound.
CHAPTER 16
I got my job back at the insurance company working for Brenda, and that first week back she invited me to lunch to “catch up.” I think she was worried about me and, as my surrogate mom, felt it her duty to make sure I was okay. I wasn’t, of course. I now fully understood the man I had married—manipulative, abusive, probably manic-depressive. I knew he would continue to try to take advantage of me so long as he thought he could gain access to my trust funds. At present, he was on his best behavior, but only because he had to be. He had nowhere to go. His job search was not going well. BSBT, not surprisingly, would not provide him with a recommendation. When prospective employers called, BSBT’s human resources director “declined to comment,” which was a law firm’s way of saying the ex-employee was incompetent or dishonest, without getting sued, and every employer knew it. Graham continued to spin it, saying he didn’t want to work for someone else, that the real money “was in working for himself.” I ignored his comments. Most recently, Graham was talking to a law school roommate who had opened his own firm in a house and was looking for some attorneys to attend depositions and appear in court.
Brenda chose a restaurant called the Port House—a chic brewery that was so Portland with plank floors, a tall wood-beam ceiling, and brick walls. She had an appointment out of the office and suggested we meet at 1:15 p.m., after much of the lunch crowd had thinned. I removed my sunglasses as I entered but didn’t immediately see her. The hostess led me to a table on the sidewalk patio where I could people-watch while waiting. I pulled up my latest novel on my phone to read. A man’s voice interrupted me.
“Excuse me?”
I figured it was a panhandler about to hit me up for change. To my surprise, the man standing on the other side of the small wrought-iron fence wore a suit.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, smiling. “I don’t normally do this, but if you’re not waiting for someone, I wonder if I could buy you a beer?”
I was stunned and unsure of what to say. I’d never had anyone pick me up, and I wasn’t even sure that was the guy’s intent. I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, but he seemed so earnest, even a bit sheepish in his approach, like he really never had done this before. Some people give off a vibe, you know?
“I’m sorry,” I said. I truly was. “I’m having lunch with my friend. But, thank you for asking.”
He nodded as if he understood my situation, though I’m certain he couldn’t have. Maybe it was my vibe. Maybe my vibe was sadness and desperation.
“No worries,” he said, taking a step back from the fence. “I just saw you sitting alone and thought . . .”
The hostess appeared at the table, escorting Brenda.
“Well,” the man said, nodding to us both. “Sorry to interrupt. Have a nice lunch.”
Brenda gave me an inquisitive, arched eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
“No,” I said, watching the man walk away. A part of me wanted to chase after him, tell him I’d love to have lunch, and then we’d talk and I’d realize he was my soul mate. But I knew that was just an age-old fairy tale that had been done a billion different ways in books and movies.
“He just wanted to buy me a beer,” I said.
She smiled. “I don’t blame him. You look great. You’ve lost weight and you look really toned.”
I could again fit into what I referred to as my “skinny wardrobe.” I felt comfortable.
Brenda was casually dressed—casual for her, anyway. She wore slacks, a colorful blouse, and a brown jacket she quickly ditched over the back of her chair. For someone who’d just had her first child, she was in phenomenal shape, but then she was obsessed with working out. I knew Brenda was a member of the local YMCA and, when the weather got nice, she ran. Apparently, she and her husband participated in CrossFit competitions.
The waiter arrived. “I’ll have a Mac & Jack’s,” Brenda said.
He looked to me.
It was lunch and Brenda was my boss. “I’ll have iced tea.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “She’ll have what I’m having.”
After the waiter departed, Brenda said, “The doctor says beer helps produce milk when you’re breast-feeding. Who am I to argue? So what have you been doing to look so terrific?”
“I’ve been working out,” I said, sensing the opening. “Graham wants to climb Rainier. He thinks we need a hobby, that it will help our relationship.”
“Are things going better?”
When I asked Brenda for my job back I’d told her we had to file for bankruptcy and that the stress had impacted our marriage. “We’re working at it,” I said. “Actually, that reminds me. I need to get an insurance policy.”
“An insurance policy?”
“Life insurance,” I said. “Graham thinks it would be wise, given the climb is coming up. Could you help?”
“Sure,” she said. “So, co-policies?”
“No. Just a policy for me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just for you?”
“Well, we can’t really afford the premiums on two policies, and Graham says that if anything were to happen to him, I’d have my parents’ trust, so I’d be okay.”
“So he just wants a policy on you—with him as the beneficiary?”
“Right.”
She seemed to give that some thought. The waiter appeared with our beers. Brenda raised her glass and I met hers across the table. “Cheers,” she said. “It’s good to have you back.”
Brenda ordered a Caesar salad. The thought of anchovies, even just the smell, almost made me lean over the railing and vomit. “I’ll have a house salad with oil and vinegar on the side.”
“Well, I’m glad things are going better,” Brenda said as the waiter departed.
I diverted my gaze.
“Andrea? Things are going better, right?”
“A little,” I said. Then I just blurted out, “Actually, I think he might be cheating on me again.”
The saddest part might have been Brenda’s reaction. She did not look surprised. She set down her glass and reached out a hand to me, her multiple bracelets clattering
against the tabletop.
“How long has it been going on?”
“Well, the first time was before we were married.”
“What?”
“It was an associate in his law firm. He’d been seeing her before he met me and said it had been difficult to break off because he didn’t want to hurt her. I’m an idiot, right?”
In hindsight, I knew I had ignored all the signs—the late nights, Graham coming home smelling of alcohol, the lack of interest in me except when it suited him. I had been an idiot, but I was no longer going to be an idiot. I had to have a different plan now, and telling Brenda was part of it.
“No,” she said, looking at me as if I were a broken little bird. “Don’t blame yourself for this. Have you confronted him about it?”
I shook my head. “He’ll deny it and turn it around, say I don’t trust him.”
“How did you find out?”
“I wasn’t snooping,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Of course not.”
I sat back from the table. “It’s just that, the business was doing so poorly and Graham handled all the business financials. I decided to pay closer attention to the credit card statements. I didn’t know where the money was going, or how we were going to pay our bills each month. The expenses were way beyond what the business was generating.”
“Did you find something on the credit card statements?”
I nodded and took a sip of beer. “Graham was making trips to Seattle, and to Vancouver and Victoria, and charging the hotel rooms to the company credit cards. There were also restaurant charges, and a few bars.”
“Could they have been business trips?” Brenda said, though not with any real conviction.
“That’s what Graham said.”
“So you did confront him.”
“No, that’s what he told me when he said he had to leave town for a few days—that they were business trips.”
“But they weren’t?”
“I called the distributors and dispensaries in Seattle he said he was meeting. They’d never met Graham in person. They had no idea what I was talking about, and pot hadn’t been legalized in Canada when he made those trips.”
Brenda sighed. “Do you know who it is?”
“No,” I said, taking another sip. “And then there’s the stress that Graham could be going to jail.”
Brenda set down her glass. “What?”
“Graham lied on the loan application to the bank. He said he was being made a partner at a higher salary. They asked for a letter to confirm it and he typed it up on the firm letterhead and forged one of the partners’ names.”
“And the bank found out?”
I nodded.
They were never going to make Graham a partner. In fact, they’d given him sixty days to find another job. I saw the severance letter. It was right around the time he came home all excited about opening Genesis. He said he wanted to leave the firm because it was stifling his creativity and he needed to be in business for himself. More bullshit.
“He said they offered him a partnership, but he was tired of working for someone else and wanted to work for himself. None of it was true.”
“I’m so sorry for you, Andrea.” Brenda sat back and gave me that look of pity I saw for so many years when my aunt would tell others that my parents were dead. “I know it’s early, but do you know what you’re going to do?”
“No,” I said.
“Would you like to talk to an attorney?”
I’d thought that through on my own. “I can’t afford a divorce,” I said.
Brenda’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? It should be straightforward. You don’t have kids or own a home, and you won’t have any significant assets.”
“Graham signed my name to personal guarantees on the lease of the building and the bank loan.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he was mad that I wouldn’t let him use my parents’ trust. We’re filing for bankruptcy. I’m really worried I’ll lose it and have nothing.”
“How much is it?”
“The principal is half a million dollars,” I said.
Brenda’s eyes widened. “And Graham can’t touch it?”
“Not while I’m still alive,” I said and laughed lightly. “And that just makes him angry. What I’m concerned about are the creditors coming after it, saying I signed the guarantees.”
“Did you have an attorney look at the bank papers?”
“No. Graham handled it. He said there was no need to pay a lawyer since he was one. I don’t know how I would support myself.”
She waved it off. “Don’t worry about that, you can always work for me.”
“Thanks, Brenda. I hate to bother you with all this.”
She reached across the table and again took my hand. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “I’m going to find you an attorney.”
CHAPTER 17
When Tracy called to set up the interview, Brenda Berg explained that she wouldn’t be at the office, that she had an infant, a baby girl, and worked from home a couple days a week. Still, Berg never hesitated when Tracy said she and Kins would like to talk to her about Andrea Strickland. She said she’d been following the story of Andrea’s brief reappearance and subsequent murder.
Tracy reconnected with Berg as she and Kins left Phil Montgomery’s office. Berg was about to take her daughter out in the jogging stroller to get her to sleep but said that if they didn’t mind talking and walking at the same time, Berg would meet them near two monuments at Waterfront Park just below the Steel Bridge in downtown Portland.
“I’ll be in workout clothes and pushing a running stroller.”
Tracy and Kins arrived at the monuments before Berg. The Willamette River was teeming with runners, men and women walking in business attire, and a few baby strollers.
“I hope she’s not one of those athletic types who walks faster than I run,” Kins said, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. “My hip is burning from all the time we’ve spent in the car.”
“Come on, it’s a beautiful day. Maybe a walk will help loosen it up.”
“I’d like it better if it came with air-conditioning.”
Tracy spotted an athletic-looking woman in a white tank top, dolphin shorts, and running shoes jogging toward them while pushing a blue stroller with one hand. She slowed as she approached.
“Hi, are you Detective Crosswhite?” She didn’t look or sound the least bit out of breath.
Tracy introduced Kins.
Berg looked like a runner—with bony shoulders; lean, sinewy muscles; and a runner’s tan. Tracy had been expecting someone younger, given that Berg said she had a newborn, but the crow’s-feet at the corners of Berg’s eyes indicated she was more likely late thirties to early forties—Tracy’s age.
“Sorry to do this to you,” Berg said, leaning down to peek into the stroller, “but she’s off on her sleep cycles and this seems to be the only way to get her to nap in the afternoon.”
“Not a problem,” Tracy said. Tracy looked beneath the canopy that provided the baby shade. The little girl lay wrapped in a pink blanket and wore a light-blue beanie. “How old is she?”
“Five months yesterday,” Berg said.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. We named her Jessica. She’s my angel.”
Tracy smiled at the tiny face beneath the beanie and it stirred her own memories. She’d always imagined she’d have children. She’d imagined that she’d live next door to Sarah and they’d raise their kids together. “Do you have other children?” she asked.
“No,” Berg said, still smiling at her daughter. “I was more into building my insurance practice and making a living. I met my husband a couple years ago. It took a while before we decided to pull the trigger. Now, I don’t know what my life would be like without her. Do you have kids?”
“No,” Tracy said.
“Wedded to your job, I’d imagine.”
; “Something like that,” Tracy said. She’d been wedded to finding out who had killed Sarah and it had come at a cost. She’d lost a husband, left a career teaching in Cedar Grove to join the Seattle Police Department, and rarely dated. For years she’d spent most nights going over manuscripts and pieces of evidence related to her sister’s disappearance, until she’d hit a dead end, and reluctantly boxed up her work. By then she was in her midthirties and her dating prospects seemed to be cops or prosecutors, and she wasn’t interested in bringing her work home any more than she already did.
“I know that feeling,” Berg said. As if on cue, Jessica made a noise and Berg added, “We better get moving. Seems to be the only thing that puts her to sleep.”
They walked the pavement, Tracy at Berg’s side, Kins following a step behind.
“I’m still in shock,” Berg said. “This was horrible the first time; I mean when we thought Andrea died two months ago. Now, finding out she was alive? I don’t know what to think.” She looked to Tracy. “So, she’s dead? She really is the woman found in that crab pot?”
“That appears to be the case,” Tracy said, stepping to the side as two runners approached and passed.
Berg shook her head. “My emotions are all screwed up.”
“I take it from your response that you hadn’t heard from Andrea,” Tracy said.
“No. Not a word.”
“How long did she work as your assistant?”
“About two, two and a half years. She left for about seven months, when she and her husband opened their business. When it failed, she came back.”
“Was it strictly a professional relationship?” Tracy asked.
Berg nodded. “Andrea was quite a bit younger, and there was that natural demarcation between employer and employee, but we’d occasionally go out to lunch, that sort of thing. I kind of decided that she needed someone. You know she lost her parents at a very young age.”
“We know,” Tracy said.
“It was tragic. She didn’t talk about it, but it came out in her interview and I looked it up. Her parents died in a car accident on Christmas Eve. A drunk driver hit them. From what I understand, Andrea was trapped in the car. I tried to be there for her when she needed me.”
The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4) Page 14