‘Of course,’ she says, and she looks at the security guard with a dismissive gesture. He doesn’t seem to react one way or the other, he just walks away, but when he gets near the door he seems to look a little more vigilant now that an ex-law enforcement officer is around.
She closes her office door and sits behind her desk. There’s a name plaque on the front of it. Erica. On the wall there’s an aerial shot of Christchurch that doesn’t show the true emotion of the city, and a couple of photographs, one of which shows Erica standing next to a man who looks vaguely familiar, probably somebody from one of the numerous banking ads on TV
‘So, what’s this all about, Detective …’
‘Tate,’ I say, and I don’t bother to correct her assumption that I’m still with the force. The business card I was going to give her stays in my hand, and the chances of coming out of here with what I want have just increased.
“I have an account number here,’ I say, and I slide the bank statement over to her. I have underlined the account number I want from Father Julian’s account. I also slide her over the court order. The judge’s name on the top of it is as made up as his signature.
The thing with court orders is a lot can come down to the timing of the delivery. Erica picks it up, and then she does exactly what I expect her to do — she glances at her watch. I’ve seen it a dozen times at the end of the working day when we’ve shown up with one of these orders: it was often the time we’d aim for.
The other thing is that people don’t know what to do with them.
They look at them but they don’t know how to react because most people have never seen one before. They’ve seen them get delivered on TV and they figure that what happens on TV is probably the thing that happens in real life. They suddenly feel like the order has just taken away all their rights of refusal and they don’t argue it. They only ever fight it if they have something to hide.
Erica reads it thoroughly. In the location area the words printed are ‘to access any and all available accounts of the account holder’ and after that I’ve typed out the account number.
‘This is one of your bank account numbers, isn’t it?’ I ask.
‘It is. Is this part of a criminal investigation?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ I say, and I figure she wasn’t expecting anything less.
“I need to call my boss about the order.’
‘No problem.’
“I’ll probably need to fax it to him.’
“I don’t mind waiting. There’s also a space down the bottom you need to sign once you’ve gone over it.’
She checks the time again. ‘Give me a minute.’
‘Take your time,’ I say.
She leaves me in her office, and I’m not sure whether it’ll be her or the police who come back in. I keep glancing at my watch, and each time I think I should just get up and go, cut my losses before Landry or Schroder arrives.
‘The account is in the name of John Paul,’ she says when she returns. I figure the court order got faxed to her boss and not much further. Maybe to their law firm, but it’s probably the kind of firm that charges too much to be on retainer on the weekend, so it’s sitting in a fax tray somewhere. I’ve seen it dozens of times.
She’s not giving me a lot, just a few details. She doesn’t see how it can hurt. She sits back down behind her desk. ‘Like the Pope,’
she adds.
‘How long has it been active?’
She twists the computer monitor to face her. ‘Twenty-four years.’
“I need printouts of payments.’
‘Okay. It’ll take a few minutes.’
“No problem.’
She taps away at her keyboard, then leans back. I don’t hear a printer going anywhere.
‘Did John Paul have any other accounts set up? Or was it just this one?’ I ask.
‘Just this one. But…’ She stops, then looks back down at the court order.
‘What?’
‘When he set up the account, he also set up a safety deposit box.’
A safety deposit box? Here?’
‘It’s even at this branch.’
‘Can I access it?’
‘The court order doesn’t say you can.’
‘Listen, Erica, this is very, very important.’
She seems unsure of what to do.
‘This safety deposit box — did John Paul gain access to it with a key?’ I ask.
‘Of course. That’s how everybody opens them.’
‘When was the last time he accessed it?’
She looks at her monitor. ‘Six weeks ago.’
‘How many keys were issued?’
‘Just the one.’
‘Can you tell me if this is it?’ I reach into my pocket and drag out my keys. I twist the one Bruce Alderman gave me off the ring and hand it over to her.
‘Sure. This is for one of our boxes, though I can’t tell you if it’s specifically for John Paul’s box. We don’t label the keys for a reason, you know, in case they get lost and people try to use them.’
I stand up. ‘I need you to take me to it.’