CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
I closed the phone. I sat quietly, staring at the passing cityscape, trying to get my thoughts in some sort of order. J.D. couldn’t be dirty. Not the J.D. I knew. She was a professional law enforcement officer, a woman of strong ethical and moral values, a strength of character that glowed like luminous radium, somehow always letting the world know that she was an upright human being with no character defects.
“What’s up?” asked Jock. “You look like somebody died.”
“It turns out that the elusive Nigella Morrisey is J. D. Duncan.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Debbie tells me that Morrissey’s paychecks go into an account in a Sarasota Bank. Morrissey’s Social Security number is identical to J.D.’s.”
“Uh-oh. That’s not good.”
“Something’s not right. J.D. isn’t dirty.”
“I want to agree with you, podna. But we’ll have to follow the facts.”
“Deb says she has a number of banks where the money has been shifted from the Otto Foundation account. Can your people get those records?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
By the time we reached the airport Jock had called his agency and then called Debbie and asked her to e-mail the bank information to an agency geek who would get into the accounts and find out where the money went. Jock told the computer guy to look first at the Sarasota bank and an account in the name of Nigella Morrissey.
We landed at Sarasota a little after two o’clock. Fred Cassidy said that he and the copilot had been instructed to lay over at the Hyatt Regency again in case I needed the plane. Jock called his contact in the agency office in Washington while we drove back to Longboat Key.
He closed his phone. “It doesn’t look too good, Matt. Morrissey’s account gets nine thousand two hundred thirty dollars each month. That’s the ten grand less the Social Security and Medicare withholding. She doesn’t withhold any income taxes. There have only been three checks written out of the account, each one on the day after the money is transferred in and each one for exactly nine thousand dollars, payable to J.D. Duncan. The checks are cashed at the bank on the same day. The last one was cashed yesterday morning at nine forty-five.”
“That’s pretty neat,” I said. “If the checks are cashed for less than ten grand the bank doesn’t have to report it to the government. I wonder if the bank has security cameras that can identify the person who cashed the checks.”
“Bill Lester can get that for us.”
“I don’t want to involve Bill in this just yet. He’ll have to take some action and then the word will get out that J.D.’s on the take. Even after we prove she’s not, the stain will still be there.”
“Look, podna,” Jock said. “I know you’ve got feelings for J.D, but you can’t let that cloud your judgment. Things don’t look so good for her right now. Bill’s your friend and J.D.’s boss. He needs to know about this.”
“I don’t want to lie to Bill, but what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
“Unless J.D. is dirty, and then a load of crap is going to fall on the chief.”
I was quiet for a moment, thinking it over. Bill truly was a good friend, to both J.D. and me, but he also had responsibilities to his department and the town that paid his salary. He was an honorable man and the duty he owed his fellow officers and the people of Longboat Key would likely override his emotional attachments to a couple of friends. On the other hand, if J.D. were truly dirty, I would be putting Lester’s career in jeopardy.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, more sharply than I meant to.
Jock drove in silence for a few moments. “Let me make some calls.”
We pulled into a Crispers Restaurant on Cortez Road. We hadn’t eaten since a quick breakfast on the way to the airport that morning. I went inside, leaving Jock in the car with his cell phone. He came in a few minutes later and joined me in the ordering line.
“My director is calling the bank president. National security concerns open a lot of doors.”
“How’s this going to work?”
“The director will tell the banker that I need to look at his security tapes from yesterday morning. That we’re tracking a terror suspect and we think he might have been in the bank yesterday. No names, no fuss, just a routine follow-up by a field agent. Me.”
We ate our lunch in silence. Jock’s phone rang, he answered, said “okay” and hung up. “We’re in,” he said. “Let’s finish up and get to the bank. The president is expecting us, and he’ll have the tape ready.”
The bank was a small independent establishment, one of those set up by entrepreneurs who get funding and grow the deposits with the hope of selling out at a big profit to one of the large chains. The president came to the lobby to greet us and took us back to his office. Jock flashed his credentials and introduced me as his associate. The banker plugged a flash drive into the computer on his desk.
“This starts at nine a.m. when we open the doors,” he said. “It goes until noon. If you need more tape, we can get it for you.”
“This should do fine,” said Jock. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Always glad to help. I don’t like the thought of a terrorist in my bank.”
“It’s probably nothing,” said Jock, “but we have to follow up any lead.”
“Okay. I’ll leave you alone.”
Jock and I huddled behind the desk reviewing the security tape on the monitor. It was a small bank and there were only two teller windows. One of them was closed. The camera was placed behind the tellers so that we could see the faces of the customers. We had a clear picture of the bank lobby and the entrance.
Just before nine forty-five, a woman came through the entrance. She was a brunette, her hair shoulder length. She carried herself with that assurance that cops adopt, not exactly a swagger, but a stride of confidence that hinted that she was in charge of her surroundings. As she neared the counter her face came into focus. I told Jock to stop the video. We had a fairly close-up view of the woman cashing the check. No doubt about it. The lovely face, the one that could break into a smile that lit up a room, belonged to Detective J. D. Duncan.