Doubleback: A Novel (14 page)

“Of course. Heard you way down the road.”

“So if we hear anything, we’ll douse the lights before they get here.”

“I don’t know.”

“Sandy, I know you’ve been alone. But I’m here now, and I’m on your side.”

This time it seemed to work. Sechrest moved heavily to the couch and switched on a small lamp. Georgia blinked. The room was a combination living room, dining area, and kitchen. A narrow hallway led to an open bathroom door and a bedroom. A cracked leather couch was draped with a plaid tartan blanket. Beside it was a Lazyboy that had seen better days. The kitchen table was not much bigger than a card table, with four folding chairs around it.

Georgia sat on the couch and patted the seat beside her.

Sechrest sat. Her long blond hair was dirty and disheveled. She was dressed in flipflops, sweat pants and a black t-shirt with the outline of a panda bear on the front. She started to rock back and forth. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I can’t do this any more,” she sobbed. “It’s like a horror movie. I keep wondering when I’m gonna wake up. But I never do.”

Georgia gave her time to pull herself together. “Start at the beginning.”

Sechrest looked up and wiped a sleeve across her face, then settled back against the cushion. When she spoke, her voice was stronger. “Right before the Fourth of July people started complaining about the service charges.”

“How did you get involved?”

“I get computer generated logs of most of the bank’s transactions. My job is to look them over and check for any unauthorized entries. After the calls came in, the CFO of the bank asked me to look into the matter.”

“And what did you find?”

“It took me a while to find the right log. But once I did, I discovered that every account in the bank had been assessed a ten dollar service charge.”

“Which is unusual.”

“Highly.” A look of impatience paged across Sechrest’s face.

That was good, Georgia thought. She was regaining her bearings.

“It just doesn’t happen that way. The thing is, the amount was so small. Only ten dollars.” She sniffed. “Our commercial accounts, which are on analysis, probably never even saw it. But all the little old ladies who bank with us have eagle eyes. You wouldn’t believe the calls we get. They always think the bank is out to screw them. Then again, any unexpected charge does have an effect if you’re on a fixed income.”

“What day were the charges levied?”

“Wednesday, June twenty-fifth.”

Molly Messenger had been released by her kidnappers that afternoon.

“At first I thought it was a computer glitch. You know, someone in data processing was tinkering with some software, and it got screwed up.”

“Right.”

“So I called Chris Messenger. She’s—she was the IT Director.”

Georgia counted back the days. Christine’s fatal “accident” was on Friday, July fourth. “When was that?”

“On Tuesday, July first. When I checked the Daily Transaction Journal for the twenty-fifth.” It came out quickly, as though Sechrest had already done the math and knew the two events were connected.

“A week after the charges first appeared.”

“Sometimes it takes that long for the customer to notice things. Especially when they only get a statement once a month.”

“Go on.”

“I called Chris, but she wasn’t there. She was at home with her daughter. After that horrible...”

“Kidnapping.” Georgia finished.

The knowing look in Sechrest’s eyes intensified.

“Did you leave Chris a message?”

Sandy swallowed. “That was the problem. I left my name. My extension. My title. Why I was calling. Everything.”

Georgia winced. If Chris—or anyone else—had listened to Messenger’s voicemail on that Tuesday, they’d know everything too. “Then what happened?”

“Well, like I said, the CFO was on me to get this thing cleared up. He was getting flak from the chairman. She shook her head. “Everyone was getting into the act. So I called Mr. Emerlich.”

“Arthur Emerlich.”

“He was the VP of Operations. The COO.”

“And Chris Messenger’s boss.”

Sechrest nodded.

“When did you call him?”

“The same afternoon. I couldn’t reach Christine. He didn’t know anything about it but said he’d try to get to the bottom of it.” A haunted expression crept across her face. “He died the next day.” She tensed. “But, here’s the thing. I came in early the next morning to work on the problem. Before I knew Emerlich was dead. That’s when I found it.”

Georgia found herself tensing, too. “Found what?”

“Any time you go into bank records, you leave a trail—your fingerprints, really—of what you do and when you do it. It’s supposed to be that way, so if there’s ever any questions or irregularities, we can track them and see who or what went wrong. Usually, it’s just carelessness. Someone enters the wrong numbers, so the totals are off, stuff like that.” She stopped and she tilted her head. Her face took on a fearful expression. “Did you hear something outside?”

Georgia was concentrating so hard on Sechrest’s words she hadn’t been paying attention. She quickly got up, turned off the light, and went to the window. Nothing was moving. Even the breeze had died.

“What kind of noise did you hear?”

“Something crunching on gravel.”

Georgia squinted. “I don’t see anything.”

“You sure?”

Nodding, she returned to the couch and turned the light back on. “So, you were saying...”

Sechrest hugged her knees and rocked forward. “Every employee has their own ID number. Whenever you log in—whether it’s to do a transaction, or even just to review them, it shows up. Anyway, when I checked the Daily Transaction Journal, I saw an offset for a lot of money had occurred the same day the service charges were levied.”

“An offset?”

“A credit to an account. Of course, that happens all the time, but this credit was exactly the same amount as the total of the service charges.”

“Which was?”

“Three million dollars.”

Georgia whistled.

“I was still thinking it was all just a mistake. But then I checked another log. Turns out the ID number of the person responsible for the credit to the account was Chris Messenger.”

“What are you saying?”

“It seemed as if Chris put all the services charges into a dummy account.”

“What’s a dummy account?”

“It’s basically just an electronic account. There are no paper files on record, no signature cards, no OFAC checks, no bank officer signature signing off on it. All that’s there is the electronic account.”

“And Chris opened it?”

“Not only did she open it, but she closed it, too.”

Georgia frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“The account was opened around the beginning of June. By Chris Messenger. At least, her ID number was on the paperwork.” Sechrest paused. “What’s more, she authorized three million dollars to be withdrawn the same day.”

“On June first?”

“That’s right.”

Georgia went quiet. That made no sense. Messenger couldn’t have embezzled three million dollars for a ransom three weeks
before
her daughter was kidnapped. Unless she stole the money for another reason. “What happened to the three million?”

“Three cashiers’ checks were issued from that account. Each for a million dollars. But, you see, there’s a catch.”

“What?”

“Technically, there wasn’t any money in the account to pay those checks.”

“No money? Now I’m totally confused.”

“It gets complicated. Especially if you don’t understand banking. Basically, what we had was an overdraft for three million dollars on the account that Chris opened.”

“Did Chris know?”

“Absolutely.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because in order to
close
an account, you either have to eliminate the overdraft, or the bank ends up taking a loss. Which, for a bank of our size, would be catastrophic. It appears that Chris monkeyed around with the computer system—she was the head of IT, remember—and issued the service charges which totaled three million, put them into the account so it
looked
like the account had been funded. Then she promptly turned around and closed the account.”

Georgia had so many questions she wasn’t sure where to start. “When was the account closed?”

“Wednesday, June twenty-fifth.”

“The same day the service charges were levied.”

“Right.”

The day Chris had been escorted downtown by the police, ostensibly to get her laptop. The day Molly was released. Is that when she’d “monkeyed” with the system? But why? None of it made any sense. “Who did the cashiers’ checks go to?”

Sechrest shook her head. “I don’t know. Recipients aren’t on the reports I have access to. Just numbers. We scan all our checks, so I was planning to look up the scanned images, but I didn’t have time.” She ran her hand up her arm. “But, you see, that’s not the end of it.”

“There’s more?” Georgia ran a hand across her brow.

“A lot more. But by the time I discovered the other pieces, Emerlich and Chris were both dead, and I knew I had to split.”

“Tell me.”

Sechrest rearranged herself on the couch “See, there was a—” She stopped short as a light flashed through the window. “Oh my god!”

chapter
17

G
eorgia snapped off the light, pulled out her Sig, and dropped to the floor. “Get down. Now!” But Sechrest appeared to be frozen. “Jesus, Jesus,” she moaned. “I told you there was a noise. Oh fuck!” “Did you hear me, Sandy?” She hissed. “Get down on the god-dammed floor.” Finally Sandy rolled off the couch onto the floor. “I’m getting the shotgun.”

“No. Let me handle it.”

“Like you handled the noise? No way.”

Georgia winced. Sechrest was right. She’d let down her guard. One of the first things you learn as a cop is to be aware of your surroundings. She’d been too interested in what Sechrest was saying.

Sechrest thumped over to the table and retrieved the gun.

“You know how to handle a shotgun?” Georgia asked.

“Are you kidding? My father taught me when I was a kid.”

Georgia nodded, more to herself. It would have to do. She crawled to the window and stood to one side. Inclining her head, she cautiously peered out. Headlights were approaching Sechrest’s cabin. A sedan, she thought. Dark. Like the car that stopped by Sechrest’s house.

The car slid to a stop before turning into Sechrest’s driveway, and Georgia realized they’d spotted her Toyota. Shit. She’d left it at the edge of the road in case she needed a quick getaway. Which meant whoever was in the sedan could see her plates and probably identify her.

“Can you tell who it is?” Sechrest sounded panicked.

“No.”

“Christ. What are we going to do?”

Georgia thought about it. She and Sechrest both had a weapon. If only one or two people were in the car, they could give as good as they’d get. But what if there were four of them, not one or two? And what if Sechrest didn’t really know how to shoot? And what would happen to Georgia if she got away but Sechrest didn’t? The woman was just about to tell her something important about Chris Messenger and the bank. There were too many unknowns to make a stand. After expending so much effort to find her, Georgia couldn’t afford the risk of something bad happening. “Is there a back door?”

“No.”

“Is there any way out of here beside the front?”

“My little brother used to crawl out the bathroom window.”

“Let’s go.”

“There’s no way I’ll fit,” Sechrest said.

“I’ll make sure you do.”

The door to the sedan opened, and a figure slipped out of the car. Medium height. Burly. A man. But the dome light didn’t come on—he must have disconnected it—so Georgia didn’t get a good look at him. She could see he was carrying something long and narrow. A shotgun? A rifle? Georgia was torn: part of her wanted to take him, but every second she delayed meant less time to escape. “Let’s go. Now.”

Sechrest faltered as she got up. The shotgun was tilting her off balance.

“Maybe you should leave it,” Georgia said. “I’ve got a gun.”

“Not on your life.” Sechrest’s voice was resolute. “The bathroom’s this way.”

They stumbled through the dark to the bathroom. Georgia shoved aside the shower curtain. Her heart sank. The window, above the bathtub, sat behind a tiled ledge, but was only fifteen inches square. She wasn’t even sure she could squeeze through. But it was their only option. Thankfully, it was square, not casement. She wouldn’t have to detach the glass, a task that would cost precious time.

Georgia raised the window. A mesh screen was in the way. She pulled an army knife out of her pocket and slashed through it.

“Can you hear anything?” She whispered.

“No.” Sechrest whispered back.

If Sechrest’s heart was pounding as loud as hers, Georgia thought, it would be hard for her to hear anything.

Georgia hoisted herself up to the shelf and thrust her head through the window. It was only about six feet off the ground. If she could squeeze through, she could fold her arms and legs and drop into a roll as she fell. She might not hurt herself too badly. She stretched out her arms, using them as leverage to push herself through the small space, but her shoulders got stuck. They were broad, perhaps even wider than her hips. She wriggled and pushed and squeezed; shrugging one, then the other. Finally, her left shoulder jutted through, leaving a nasty scrape on the fleshy part of her arm. She’d be sore for a week.

Her torso slipped through but jammed at her hips. She swiveled and angled herself up forty-five degrees. Her hips wouldn’t budge.

“Shit.”

Straining, she tried to wiggle her hips through, using her arms for purchase on the side of the house. All at once, she burst through, but with so much momentum there was no time to curl up. She pitched forward and fell on the ground. She lay in the grass, trying to catch her breath. A sharp pain shot down her left arm. She got up carefully, levering it up and down. As she did, light flooded the back yard.

Georgia gasped. Her heart hammered in her chest. “What the—”