“No doubt. If you need to sign a lease or open a bank account, you say you’ve been relocated and the company is paying your living expenses. That way, the lease agreements and bills for utilities, which enterprising persons such as us use to track people down, aren’t in your name. Another layer of deception. And the name of a company also gives the landlord the warm and fuzzies that they’re guaranteed payment, especially if the bank is local.”
Del looked out the window at the glass-door entrance to Emerald Credit Union. “Might be local, but I’ve never heard of this place. I take it that was also intentional?”
“Easier to make a personal connection with the branch manager and teller at a small bank.”
“But I thought the whole point was not to draw attention to yourself.”
“You want to avoid the wrong kind of attention, like going through an airport security checkpoint, or customs, with a bag full of cash.”
“So she dumps it in a bank account,” Del said.
“Not all at once. The banking laws are designed to prevent people from hiding large amounts of cash. Anything over ten grand and the bank has to fill out paperwork and report it to the feds.”
“So she makes sure to make deposits under $10K,” Del said.
“And the feds countered that strategy with the Bank Secrecy Act, which requires a bank to file a report if it suspects a person is making multiple cash deposits to avoid the reporting requirement.”
“So you’re saying she goes into the local bank and makes nice so they’re less inclined to report her.”
“I’m betting she had a ready-made story to dump that much cash into one account without triggering the reporting requirement.”
“So then what? She slowly withdraws the money in that account and deposits it into the business account?”
“Bingo. At the same time, she withdraws money from the business account, as if paying business expenses or whatever, but what she’s really doing is transferring it to a different account in a different bank, in a different name. Layer by layer, it disappears.”
“How the hell does a woman with a high school education figure this out?” Del said, shaking his head.
“You kidding? You can buy books that tell you how to do it step-by-step.”
“Too much trouble,” Del said.
“Yeah, you got to know how to read.”
“Only books I read are on the Civil War,” Del said. Faz knew Del had a collection that would make a librarian blush. “If they had that category on Jeopardy, I’d be on a beach in Greece.”
“Greece is bankrupt.”
“Exactly. I’d be like a tycoon over there.” Del killed the engine and checked his watch. “Let’s you and me go figure this out.”
Inside the bank, they walked past the three bank teller stations to a cluster of four desks. Del stopped at the obligatory table with Styrofoam cups and complimentary coffee and snacks. He snagged a couple of miniature chocolate chip cookies, popping one into his mouth.
A female bank employee was waiting on a customer at one of the four desks. The other three desks were empty. On one of those empty desks sat a nameplate holder with a plastic removable sign. “Branch Manager.”
“Why is it removable?” Del said.
“Maybe it’s the guy’s name,” Faz said. Del gave him a look. “Hey, it would save money on business cards.”
Faz noticed a gangly young man standing behind the teller stations glance in their direction. “I’ll bet that’s Branch right there,” he said.
The young man took paperwork from a teller and walked to the far end of the bull pen, emerging from a rear door and proceeding to the branch manager’s desk.
“Detectives?” the young man said, inadvertently drawing the attention of the person seated at the adjacent desk. He lowered his voice, though he would have needed to use sign language to keep the others from hearing—the desks were that close. “I’m Kevin Gonzalez, the branch manager.”
Gonzalez looked to be mid-to late twenties but with one of those prepubescent faces still fighting acne, and a wispy mustache that made him look sixteen.
Faz introduced them both. They all took seats.
“You have the subpoena?” Gonzalez tried to be all business, then added in an almost apologetic tone, “I called the home office and they said you would have a subpoena.”
“Where’s the home office?” Faz asked, hoping a routine question would help Gonzalez relax. The manager was doing his best to look professional, but he couldn’t completely hide the nervous shake in his hands or his voice.
“Centralia,” Gonzalez said, referencing a small town about an hour and a half south of Seattle.
“How long has this branch been open?”
“About five years, I believe.”
“And how long have you been the branch manager?”
“Nine months.”
“Congratulations.”
Gonzalez paused, as if uncertain what to say. Then he smiled. “Thank you.”
“Did you work here before becoming the branch manager?” Faz asked.
“I was a teller for two years. Can I offer you some coffee?”
“We’re good,” Faz said.
“Makes me sweat in weather like this,” Del added. “And I don’t need any help in that department.”
Faz handed Gonzalez the subpoena. He doubted the young man had ever seen a subpoena before, but Gonzalez took the time to make it appear he knew what he was doing. “We’re concerned about the privacy of our customers,” Gonzalez said.
“Don’t be,” Del said. “This customer is dead.”