Hanging by a Thread

by Margaret Evans

  “Why didn’t someone say anything two years ago? And how come no customers complained about their bank statements being wrong?”

  “Maybe afraid of losing a job. Or afraid of going to a federal prison for messing with bank funds. As far as the customers go, there might be a way, depending on how the bank systems work, of allowing a customer to log in and see their balances, either at an ATM or online, and something different could be going on in the background, so they see nothing wrong. But let’s keep going. I want to talk about Robin Hood, someone moving around money to make life more equitable. That would be someone who is mentally and emotionally unstable, especially if they decided to put it all back to…cover it up. And then waited, and did it again. Not every customer who finds extra money in their accounts would say something. Remember, we don’t really know what happened after the FBI investigation…yet.

  “The conversation I had with my old boss made me think of another scenario. Someone moving money around, maybe discovering they could do it without getting caught and harming customers, and lying low, then doing it again. Has to be someone doing it remotely, so they won’t be seen, someone with that remote access we were talking about and someone very computer-smart. But now, we have someone murdered and another employee missing for two years whom we know isn’t dead because I saw him right here in town. So maybe they want to make it look as if one or the other of those two employees did the original funny business.”

  “To what end? And they’d need to be—what was that word you used? Technodexterous?”

  “Right—somebody with that skill set. So, if not for fun, that’s where the blackmail comes in. Why would someone keep doing this without some kind of gain? Why did Jessica Wright have to be murdered? Did she find out something she wasn’t supposed to? Did she blackmail the person she discovered was behind it all?”

  “That makes Dotson look more suspicious.”

  “But why now? Dotson’s been out of the picture for two years. Let’s move forward on the ‘why now’ hypothesis. With no money originally missing, what would Paul Dotson be able to pay her if she were blackmailing him? I read the newspapers. He was not a rich man. His apartment was in a relatively lower rent district. And don’t get me started on bank employees’ pay scales. So I don’t think it was that. No, I think Jessica found out something recently and it upset her. She either blackmailed someone or maybe the finger was pointed at her and she was being blackmailed.”

  “If she were the blackmailee, why would someone murder her?”

  “Maybe she ran out of money or threatened to go to the police? Remember, she disappeared for a few days before she was murdered. I think she found something and got scared and ran.”

  Connor looked the question. His murder board had very little of these hypotheses on it. It had only the few facts they knew.

  “I read Charlie’s newspaper, and it’s a small town. Maybe the killer thought she was a liability.”

  “Remember, Laura, you can’t take your facts and fit them into a theory. The facts have to flow into a theory.”

  “I’m trying. I don’t think Jessica was the blackmailer, but she could have been and that’s what might have gotten her killed. Charlie’s newspaper reported that she was nervous and edgy before she didn’t show up for work. If that’s true, it tells us she did discover something that upset her. But all this is conjecture. So if someone wanted to gain from this, and they didn’t steal the money, then the only way they could gain from what went on is from blackmailing the person they believed was responsible or the person who looked that way.”

  “And, again, that makes Dotson look guilty.”

  “But according to the newspaper, they were friends.”

  “Operative word there is ‘were,’” Connor finished.

  Laura finished her root beer, picked up both their bottles to take to the break room.

  “I admit it’s not complete, but it’s another motive,” she said as she rinsed them out and put them in the recycle bin. “It all boils down to who at the bank has the technodexterosity to do these things. Now I really have to leave; I’m trying to get in a bid on a collection of gorgeous antique etched glass serving pieces from the nineteenth century.”

  “What do you know about nineteenth century etched glass?”

  “Absolutely nothing. But by the time I start selling a lot of it, I plan to know a lot more.”

  “From Google?”

  “Nah,” she said, waving goodbye, “I’ll go to the library.”

  As Laura drove the short distance back to the shop and her apartment, there was more than the usual early evening traffic on the road and more than the usual concerns on her mind, and she did not spot the vehicle that was following her, nor did she see the individual reading a newspaper outside the station. The driver and the reader had both noted how long she’d spent at the police station and were thinking about her local reputation as working with the police to clean up crime.

  thirty-three

  Paul Dotson was nearly to his hideaway and the sun had almost set when he thought of something. This was the time for him to reach out to someone at the bank whom he could trust and let them know he would help clear Jessica’s name. One of the last things she had told him was that they all thought he was dead. He knew he had sent that email to Sabina because he had gotten a response from her saying that was okay.

  He found a Quick n Late Mart still open and purchased another burner cell phone for cash. Staying close enough to the town to get cell phone reception, he tapped in the number he had memorized years before. It rang about eight times before it was answered.

  “Paul? Is it really you? I was concerned when we didn’t hear from you.”

  “I sent an email—”

  “Yes, I saw the email, but it’s been a long time and I was getting worried.”

  “I’m calling about Jessica.”

  “Yes, that is truly sad news. We’re all upset.”

  “I think I can help prove what happened to her and what’s going on.”

  “Can you really? The FBI is involved now. Are you going to them?”

  “Eventually, but I wanted to reach out to you first. Can we talk?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Where can we meet?”

  After a brief silence, the recipient continued.

  “I know just the place. Private and safe for you. The overlook on Mulcahy Drive. When can you be there?”

  “How is two hours? Is that too late?”

  “No. Perfect. See you then. And Paul, I’m so glad you called me.”

  Dotson clicked off but still had questions he needed to ask. Why had everyone thought he was dead? Who had trashed his apartment? And why hadn’t Sabina told the others he was just taking time off?

  Hopefully, this meeting would be the beginning of getting it all straightened out.

  •••

  Back in Raging Ford, a typical evening was unfolding. The sun was setting, dinner was either cooking or being eaten, children were finishing their homework, taking their baths, brushing their teeth, and going to bed. Dishes were washed up and some adults were relaxing in front of either TV, the computer, or engrossed in a book. Teens were on social media.

  Aaron Nilsson sat in his bachelor condominium, weary from the day, rubbing his eyes with the fingers of one hand, with the other lying on the armrest of his chair. What a headache this day had been, and to find the FBI in his bank? That was all he needed. What would the Bank and Trust Company board think? His head hurt. He popped a pill with a short glass of scotch and stared at the TV, not seeing the news or the ads. Then his smart phone caught his attention and he stared at it for a moment. A short while later, he jumped up and checked the time on his phone. The evening wasn’t over yet; there was still time to enjoy life.

  Too bad Sabina had been put through the wringer by the FBI today. She was a nice
lady with a great future ahead of her, and she wasn’t used to crime and its aftereffects. There were other things he could set up to help her, but he’d think about that tomorrow, when he also had to think about the FBI checking out everyone’s homes, including his. Maybe they would find who was behind this; maybe they wouldn’t.

  He went outside on his deck to look at the lights on buildings and streets that blinked as the tree branches flowed back and forth in the light breeze.

  Not cold. How could anyone think this was cold weather? Cold weather was farther up north beyond Minnesota. It was almost tropical here. Tropical. Funny. Maybe he should move to Miami next. It was getting close to the time for a change.

  •••

  “I just need to run an errand, Jack,” Sabina said. “Thanks for lending me your car.”

  “Sure, Bina. I’m certain you’ll get yours back soon and I don’t mind in the least. Very soon what’s mine is yours, anyway. I’ll have a late dinner ready for us when you get back.”

  He walked her to the door.

  “I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you, Jack. I feel so much better than I did before. I could go out dancing!”

  She hugged him.

  He kissed her, held her closer.

  “Get that cramp out of your wrist?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s all gone now,” Sabina said and shook her wrist to show him.

  He turned her hand to take a look at the ring he had given her.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said, thinking of her new life about to start.

  “Like you. See you soon, my love. I’ll be waiting.”

  •••

  Liam O’Donnell logged off his laptop quickly as his roommate stuck his head in the door.

  “When do you want dinner?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” Liam responded, keeping his face blank. “I’ve got to go out for a bit and I’ll pick something up.”

  “When will you be back? Do I need to leave lights on? I’m turning in early tonight. Got an early meeting tomorrow. Crack o’ dawn staff.”

  “No, I’ll be good. Don’t wait up.”

  “Got a hot date?”

  “Yeah, kind of. I’ll give you the details if it works out.”

  “Why do you have the wrist band on?”

  Liam looked at the brace.

  “I don’t need it,” he said, pulling it off and tossing it on the bed. “Sometimes I wear it to impress girls or lift heavy boxes at work.”

  “You lift boxes at work? I thought you worked in a bank.”

  Liam laughed.

  “All that gold and paper money I lug around. Sometimes it hurts my wrist.”

  His roommate laughed and left.

  Liam logged back in and checked a few items, like the backwards firewall he had just installed. Nobody could find him now. Not even the FBI, try as they might.

  He grabbed his phone and keys and took off to take care of a few loose ends.

  •••

  Stevie McIntyre finished her drink and left the bar. No one had picked her up tonight which was just fine with her, as she had plans. Big plans.

  She had felt cross earlier as if she were old and her joints hurt. But now, she felt better, as if she could take on the world. Which is exactly what she hoped would happen tonight. Close up one loophole after another, take one more step after another, move on up as far as she could go as fast as possible.

  No way she would be a bank teller all her life. She planned to go straight to the top. Just a few things were in her way, but they would not block her for long. She would find a way to take Aaron Nilsson’s job, and he would not see it coming.

  •••

  Two hours later…

  Paul Dotson hid his bike in the bushes beyond the overlook parking area off Mulcahy Drive. The view from the overlook was breathtaking but mostly visible during the day. At night, you could see tiny lights strung along the upper edge of the other side of the open pit mine and beyond that, a few sparkles from the little town of Raging Ford. During the day, you could see the raw, yawning ridges of the blasted mine, an amazing site really, and the reason for the overlook at this vantage point. Every Wednesday at noon, they set off dynamite in specific locations. Every Wednesday. They had never stopped since the mine opened.

  With little or no pure iron ore left, the intention was to locate as much taconite as possible. The pellets of taconite were processed to extract the iron ore in them and remove other substances such as magnetite, clay and limestone. The pellets were then fired at high temperatures to harden them. The ore pellets were shipped by lake freighters to steel plants near the lower Great Lakes. Some were shipped overseas.

  Dotson didn’t need to read the history of iron ore or this open pit mine that was posted for visitors at the edge of the overlook. He didn’t need to see the grand vista which he had grown up seeing at least once a year with his parents. He just needed to meet the person who was pulling into the parking lot and get the whole mess surrounding Jessica Wright straightened out and his own mess fixed with the FBI so no one would be looking for him except with open arms.

  A car door opened and the person ran to him.

  “Oh, Paul, it’s so good to see you!”

  Dotson’s hopes were high.

  “I really hope you can help me with a problem to do with Jessica.”

  The person looked around.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I walked.” Something was getting his antennae up.

  “Tell me what you need me to do. Can’t you come in and talk to the FBI? I’m sure they would understand.”

  But something was wrong. There was a bright look in the person’s eyes, a high energy level that was not in the range of normal. It wasn’t just the excitement of seeing someone you had worried about or missed.

  “Not yet. I need to get Jessica’s name cleared. And I don’t understand why she thought I was dead. She said everyone thought I was dead.”

  After a silent moment, the person spoke again.

  “You spoke with her?”

  “Yes, I ran into her recently. The day she was murdered, actually. She called to tell me someone was following her.”

  “Really?”

  The person took a step forward, and Dotson took a step backwards.

  “How did you get here, Paul?”

  “I told you. I walked.”

  “Where have you been? Where did you walk from?”

  Dotson took another step backward.

  The person took another step forward with a tipped head.

  “Why won’t you talk to me, Paul? I can help.”

  Dotson was thinking the person wasn’t making much sense. He took another step backwards. He was thinking he had made a dreadful mistake.

  “Can you help me clear Jessica’s name?”

  “Oh, sure. I can help you with anything. We’ll get it all cleared up.”

  The person took several quick steps forward and shoved Dotson backwards over the guardrail with great force.

  The screams echoed and stopped as soon as Dotson hit the first rocky outcrop on his way toward the bottom of the enormous open pit mine.

  The person stood looking down into the mine and waited then looked around for a bicycle or a motorcycle hidden somewhere nearby. Dotson’s bike was found and tossed over the side into the mine, as well. What got missed were the three burner phones Dotson had stashed on a high branch of a tree about fifteen feet away from the bicycle.

  It’s late but no one will notice. He barely made a sound. Now I’m free! I can take on the world!

  What exhilaration!

  This is life!

  The car was driven as slowly out of the parking overlook as when it had arrived.

  thirty-four

  Whatever photograph number 24
5 was, Laura could not, for her life, remember who it was or whom it looked like in Raging Ford. Regardless, she did recall that the face or the stance or posture or something about the person reminded her of someone who was presently living in town. And she was also equally certain that it was not someone in the Samuel Rage family.

  But right now, Laura was focused on getting in her bid on the lovely set of etched glass serving pieces she discovered in an estate auction. With her limited knowledge of the pieces, style, and age, she wasn’t at all sure she was even making the right bid. She would have to check back from time to time as the auction didn’t close until midnight tomorrow night.

  She pressed the button and her initial bid was in.

  Then she started making more popcorn and checking the photograph files, scrolling through until she got to number 245. And there it was again, staring her in the face: Someone who reminded her very much of someone she had known or seen in town recently. Unfortunately, the shot had no name attached to it. She sent it to the printer and turned back to the popcorn. By the time she had set the caramel and butter to warm on the stove, she had taped the picture to the cupboard above the sink. As she stirred the caramel and butter, and added in the green food coloring, she turned several times to look at the picture from several angles.

  Whom it reminded her of continued to escape her.

  When the popcorn was neatly in bags and tied up for sale, she glanced again at the picture, shook her head and logged into the auction. A number of people had bid higher than she had by one, two, or five dollars. So they were trying to keep it low, she thought and decided to watch and wait before she put in a higher bid. After all, she had another twenty-six hours before the bids were closed.

  •••

  In the morning, Laura checked the auction again and saw that a lot more people had entered bids, but none of them was significantly higher than hers. Wait, she told herself, wait. Patience…patience…patience. Anything she bid now would only drive the final bids up higher than necessary. She knew exactly what she could afford to spend and was determined not to spend a penny more. But she could continue to watch and wait until right before the bids closed, if necessary.