Doubleback: A Novel (22 page)

Pamphlets and brochures about the bank’s services. No log.

Dejected, Georgia closed the drawer and moved past a stack of smaller drawers. Another larger drawer lay beyond them. Followed by a stack of smaller ones. Then a large one. So there was a pattern. She went to the second large drawer and used her locks to open it. This time she found a thick red three-ring binder, with tabs for each month. On the cover someone had written in marker, “Cashiers’ Checks.”

A buzz skimmed her nerves. She pulled it out and paged through. Each sheet of paper was separated into six columns: the date the check was cut, the check number, the payee, the remitter and their account number, the bank officer’s authorization, and, in some cases, the address where the check was sent. There were typically two to three hundred entries a day. With all the online banking processes, software, and other high-tech practices, Georgia was surprised any bank information was still recorded in something as low-tech as a three-ring binder. But here it was. She flipped through entries for March and April—there were a slew of them in April, related to taxes, she guessed—then May.

Finally she reached the June entries. She scanned June first, focusing on the remitter column, looking for Delton Security. She was half-way through the entries for that day before she remembered she should be checking “Southwest Development,” not Delton. She started over. Nothing for June first. She was just starting June second when she realized the whine of the vacuum cleaner, which was still on, would effectively mask the sounds of Maria and Isabella returning. She had to hurry.

Paging down the list for June second, she saw two entries for cashiers’ checks remitted by Delton Security. Ironic. One was for $45,000 and the second for $22,459. Both were authorized by Chris Messenger. She was halfway down the second log for June second when she found the words “Southwest Development.” She checked the amount. One million dollars. Authorized by T. Pattison. With an asterisk by his name. She looked at the next entry and the one after that. Three cashiers checks. Each authorized by Pattison. Each for one million dollars. She read the names of the people to whom the money was sent:

Edward Wrobleski

Kirk Brewer

Rafael Peña

Her stomach pitched. She scanned the log to see if there were any addresses indicating where the checks were sent. Wrobleski’s went to a bank in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. For Brewer, a bank in Oklahoma City. For Peña, there was nothing. She copied everything down, stuffed the log back in the drawer, and closed it. At the same time the door to the teller area opened. Georgia looked over her shoulder. Both Maria and Isabella stood there. Maria was holding a bottled water.

Georgia felt the blood rush to her head. Her cheeks started to burn. Had they seen her? Could they tell? She whipped around to face them, quickly sliding her notepad in her back pocket. The women looked curiously at her. Georgia pushed the vacuum, still blowing at high speed, toward the door. She made herself take slow, deep breaths.

The women continued to stare. They knew. They had to.

Georgia unplugged the vacuum, took it back into the lobby area, and stowed it on the cart. The two women followed her out. Georgia frantically tried to come up with a plausible reason why she was ransacking the drawers. But when she turned to face them, they started chatting in Spanish. Maria said something about Montrose and
el lago
. Isabella mentioned Great America and McDonalds. They both laughed.

Georgia shifted her feet. If they had seen her messing with the drawers, apparently they weren’t going to do anything about it. The tension drained out of her. “Well, I think I’m pretty much finished here.
Finito
.
Termine.
” She held out her hand. “You both do excellent work. I’ll make sure the boss knows.”

The two women shook her hand and smiled. Georgia smiled back. Then she headed to the glass door. She could hardly contain her elation.

chapter
27

I
t was after one in the morning when Georgia got home, but she was pumped. She booted up her computer, took a quick shower, and threw on some sweats. This called for a celebration. She’d accomplished her mission. Neat and clean, so to speak. How often did that happen? She wished she had a beer. Too bad she didn’t drink anymore.

She got a pop instead, took a sip, and carried it to the computer. She got out her notepad. Starting with an online white pages directory, she entered Cherry Hill, New Jersey, then Edward Wrobleski. The website promptly spit out an address and phone number. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? She wrote down the number; she’d call first thing in the morning.

She went back to the directory and entered Kirk Brewer and Oklahoma City. Five Brewers came back, but none of them Kirk. She wondered if one of the five was a relative. She printed out the page, just in case. Then she went into one of her subscription databases and entered his name. Two addresses came back. The first was in Oklahoma City but wasn’t one of the five from the directory. The other was in Tallahassee, Florida. She wrote them both down and clicked onto a reverse directory for the phone numbers. Nothing came up for Oklahoma City, but the Tallahassee address yielded a number. She wrote it down.

Next she tried Rafael Peña. She searched across half a dozen public and private websites, but nothing came back. One website indicated that Rafael Peña was in their database, but unlike the more reputable websites she paid money to, this one was just a come-on. Without more information, she was stuck.

Then, just for the hell of it, she Googled Thomas Pattison. Pattison had served in Vietnam with the 101
^st
Airborne in ’68 and ’69. After being awarded two Purple Hearts, he went back to college and graduate school, earning an MBA from UNC. Surprisingly, Pattison went into the public sector and worked at the Treasury Department during the Reagan administration. Which meant he probably had some heavy-duty clout. Once Reagan left office, though, Pattison went private, working for Chase, First National of Chicago, and Harris Bank. He’d taken the chairman’s position at Midwest National five years ago. Georgia clicked on more links. Apparently Pattison had a sterling reputation and was highly respected both in and out of government. Midwest National had hired a big deal.

She picked up the pop—she’d only had the one sip—and poured the rest of it down the drain. She needed a few hours of sleep.

•   •   •

By seven-thirty Monday morning, armed with a strong cup of coffee, Georgia was ready to make her first call. She disabled her caller ID, then punched in Edward Wrobleski’s number in Cherry Hill. She heard a faint swish as the call connected. It rang once. Twice. Then again. On the fourth ring, it went to voice-mail. “Hi. This is Eddie. You know what to do.”

Georgia hung up. There could be all sorts of reasons why Wrobleski wasn’t answering. She’d try again later. Still, after her success last night, she couldn’t help hoping she was on a streak. She went back to her notes, found the Tallahassee phone number for Kirk Brewer, and dialed.

After three rings she was about to disconnect when the phone was picked up.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice. Low-pitched, smoky. A Southern drawl.

“Is this Kirk Brewer’s residence?” Georgia asked.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Georgia Davis. I’m calling from Chicago. Is this Mrs. Brewer?”

“Why are you calling?”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Brewer. Please. It’s a financial matter.”

“Financial? What do you mean by financial?” Georgia picked up something in her voice besides the drawl.

“Are you Mrs. Brewer?” She repeated.

The voice hesitated. “Who’d you say you were?”

The woman was playing cat and mouse. Georgia didn’t want to divulge anything, but she needed information. She had to give her something. “Georgia Davis. I’d really like to talk with Mr. Brewer, if that’s possible.”

Another pause. “It isn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kirk isn’t here.” Her words were slurred. Now Georgia got it. The woman was drinking. Georgia automatically checked her watch. Barely nine in the morning in Florida.

“When do you expect him?”

“I don’t.”

Georgia forced the edge out of her voice. “Ma’am, this is an important matter. Do you know how I could get in touch with him?”

The woman didn’t answer for a minute. Then, “I s’pose you could, if you can communicate with the other side.”

Georgia gripped the phone. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Kirk is dead. That’s what I’m saying.”

Georgia felt like she’d been punched in the gut. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“Was—I mean—when did this happen?”

“I think you’d better tell me what you want.”

Georgia realized she had to come clean. “I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case in which Mr. Brewer’s name has come up. Apparently, he received a large sum of money recently. I’m trying to understand why.”

The woman’s sudden intake of breath told Georgia she knew something.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” Georgia asked.

“I’m Mary Louise. Kirk’s fiancée.”

“Mary Louise, I’m sorry for your loss. But could I ask you a few questions?”

“You can ask.”

Mary Louise might be drinking at nine in the morning, but her brain was still functioning well enough to be cautious. “How did Kirk die?”

“They say it was an accident.”

“An accident? Where?”

“Kirk was working a job out in Arizona.”

“Who was he working for?”

“Delton Security.”

Georgia sat up. “What did he do for Delton?”

“He was a security specialist.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Don’t know. He wouldn’t never talk about it.”

“Where in Arizona was he?”

“Place called Stevens. Near the border.”

“He was there how long?”

“Couple months. Maybe three.”

“Mary Lou, did you know he’d received a lot of money recently?”

There was silence. “Lady, I don’t know who you are. Who you’re working for. So I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

She knew. Georgia thought about it, then decided to approach it from another way. “You said he died in an accident?”

“I said
they
said it was an accident. A training accident.”

“You don’t believe them?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“Why? What happened?”

“It was about three weeks ago. They were working with explosives. Something went wrong. They said he just—blew up. Didn’t even have enough body parts to send home.”

Georgia winced but pushed on. Three weeks ago would have been the end of June. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Delton.”

“Mary Louise, do you doubt what they said?”

“Look, Davis? That’s your name, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, Davis, let me tell you something. My Kirk knows— knew—what he was doing in the field. He did two tours of duty for the Army, both of them in Iraq. He knew about explosives, IEDs, land mines. All of that. He quit the Army ’cause Delton said they’d pay him ten times what he’d been making. A year later he’s dead because of a ‘training’ accident? You say you’re some kind of investigator. You figure it out.”

Georgia frowned. “Mary Louise, could you tell me—”

“No. I don’t got nothing more to say. We’re done here.”

“Wait. Just one more question. Have you ever heard of Edward Wrobleski?”

“Eddie? He was Kirk’s buddy. They met in Iraq. Both of them went to work for Delton.”

“What about Rafael Peña?”

“Never heard of him. And now we
are
done. And please, don’t call here again.” Georgia heard a click followed by the hiss of empty air.

•   •   •

The white pages directory for Cherry Hill had a listing for Milos G. Wrobleski on Chestnut Street, but Georgia couldn’t bring herself to call. It was a hazy, hot July day, but she felt chilled. She stood and went to her window. The glass was new—it had been replaced last year after a bullet pierced it, hit a candle, and set her apartment on fire. She peered out. The house across the street had kids’ toys scattered across the lawn. The walkway up to her apartment had two cracks in the concrete. The yews flanking the walkway were thriving. Everything looked normal.

But it wasn’t. A little girl was traumatized, three people were dead, and Georgia had a feeling the body count would be going up. Mary Louise, Brewer’s fiancée, knew something but was holding back. Was she being paid to keep her mouth shut? Or was she just afraid? Too bad Georgia couldn’t go to Florida to find out, but she wasn’t sure it had anything to do with Molly Messenger’s kidnapping.

Still, she should find out what Brewer—and Delton—were doing in Arizona. Delton had sent Brewer a million dollars from a secret account. And then tried to close the account in a clumsy, ultimately unsuccessful, maneuver. Now, Brewer was dead and his fiancée, for one, thought the reason for his death—a training accident—was suspicious.

What about Eddie Wrobleski, Brewer’s “buddy,” who also got a million dollar check from Delton? Was he in Arizona? And what about Rafael Peña? He got the third million. Why couldn’t she get a handle on him? Georgia turned from the window and glanced at her computer. Before going back, she lowered the blind.

•   •   •

The man who answered Milos Wrobleski’s phone sounded curt and impatient. “What is it?”

“Hello, Mr Wrobleski. My name is Georgia Davis, and I’m calling from Chicago. Do you have a son by the name of Edward?”

An irritated sigh confirmed she had the right person. “What do you want now?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Everyone keeps calling, sending me these fucking forms, telling me they need this and then that and who knows what the fuck else. And it’s all gotta be done yesterday. Can’t you assholes let us mourn in peace?”

Georgia went rigid. She found it hard to catch her breath. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell do you want?”

She forced air into her lungs. “I’m an investigator, and I’m looking into the money your son received a few weeks ago.”