The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (7 page)

“The money orders and cash deposits,” Joe said, “were the tip-offs.”

“To what?” Bay asked.

“The fact that Sean was diverting money from his private banking clients. He started off small—a hundred dollars a day at first, then two hundred. He thought no one would notice, and why would they? These were good-sized accounts, with continuous dividends coming in. He'd take money from one account, park it in a trust. Later, he would write a money order or take out cash. He'd take a walk at lunch, head down to his boat, deposit his new money in an account he set up down at Anchor Trust.”

“He'd never bank at Anchor. They were the competition,” Bay said, her eyes burning as she watched Joe slide some forms across the counter. She knew before she even looked that Sean's name was on the accounts . . . and his signature.

“His clients trusted him one hundred percent,” Joe said. “First he'd funnel their funds into a trust at Shoreline, and from there, using the money orders, to an account at Anchor, where he had check-writing ability to spend it at will.”

“No,” Bay said, shaking her head. Were her kids going to have to hear this? It couldn't be true; it would kill Annie. “He would never want to hurt people like that.”

“Most people don't,” Joe said. “They don't even think of themselves as criminals. They have a need—right now. Something that they have an absolute need for.”

“We have enough money,” Bay said. “We're comfortable.”

“In his mind, he probably wasn't even stealing—at first. ‘I'll just help myself to a hundred dollars, and put it back Tuesday. Use it over the weekend.' ”

“No . . . we have plenty . . .” Wasn't that always Sean's argument for Bay to stay home? The times she had wanted to go back to school, back to work? He would tell her they were comfortable . . . they had plenty . . . he didn't want the neighbors to think they needed money.

“Then Tuesday would come, and no one questioned . . . so he just kept going. The amounts increased. A thousand, five thousand. Nine thousand nine hundred. See, he knew that any cash transaction over ten thousand requires a CTR—Cash Transaction Report. He tried to fly under the radar, but Fiona noticed. He chose high-asset clients to steal from; perhaps he thought they wouldn't miss it. They didn't. None of the clients even noticed. He had a need—it was just a need that kept him going.”

“No!” Bay said. What kind of need? The mortgage, vacations, two cars, three kids, the boat . . . an affair? Why would he risk everything they had to steal from the bank?

“It mounted up, over time,” Joe said.

“Months?”

“We're investigating that now. The amounts increased dramatically about eleven months ago.”

A need. Just a need.

“By law,” Joe said, “anyone who handles money in a financial institution—tellers, branch managers—has to take a two-consecutive-week vacation. Financial advisors and trust officers just handle paper, so they're exempt.”

Bay understood the rationale. Sean had explained it to her. Any financial misdeeds would come to light within two weeks.

“But these thirteen days since Sean's disappearance have revealed quite a bit. He didn't cover his tracks.”

“Something terrible must have happened to him,” Bay whispered, her throat as dry as the stalks outside. She thought of the blood on the
Aldebaran
. The blackness of all that blood on the blanket. “A reason he can't come home. What if
he's . . .”

“You're afraid he's dead,” Joe said.

Bay held herself, nodding.

“His body hasn't been found,” Joe said. “If it were winter, with a lot of snow and ice, that would make more sense. But it's summer. Excuse my insensitivity, but bodies don't stay hidden in hot weather. We think he found medical help somewhere, and that he's hiding.” He slid a paper toward her, the account statement from Anchor Trust.

Bay glanced down the debit side of the page. There had been one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in the account fourteen days ago. As of thirteen days ago, the balance read “zero.”

“Our family accounts are at Shoreline,” she said shakily. The first thing she had done, after absorbing the idea that Sean was missing, had been to check the status of their bank accounts.

Joe Holmes removed a second sheet of paper from his folder. He hesitated, then handed it to her. “Twenty-seven thousand dollars,” he said. “Checking, savings, money market.”

“That's plenty,” she said, echoing her husband. She had expected there to be more.

“No stocks, bonds, other investments?”

“The market has been volatile. Sean takes a lot of risks, investing. We've had some big losses. But he's saving for college—three kids.”

“And he likes his boat, and he likes the casino, and he likes . . .”

Bay lifted her eyes, to see whether he would say “other women.”

But he didn't. The FBI agent looked tired, hot, sorry about everything, as if he wished this day would end and he could just go home. Did he have kids, a wife? He wasn't wearing a ring. . . . The sea breeze had stopped blowing. The air in the house was very still, and Bay suddenly felt as if she could dry up and turn to dust.

“Where do you think he is, Bay?” he asked.

She just sat very still, staring at the two account statements. She had done the math herself, over and over during the past days. With mortgage payments and insurance premiums and taxes, with feeding the kids and paying for electric, heat when the cold weather came, with paying the minimum on the credit cards, they had about five months before the savings would run out.

How long would that hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars last Sean, and where had he taken it?

“When someone violates a trust,” Joe said, “it's heartbreaking. All checks and balances go by the wayside.”

Was he talking about people at the bank? Or about her and the kids? Bay wondered.

“Who is ‘Ed'?” he asked.

Bay just frowned and shook her head. “I can't think of anyone.”

“I'm going to ask you something else,” Joe said. “What do you think the words ‘the girl' mean to Sean?”

The girl.
The words sounded familiar, and Bay remembered the folder on Sean's boat. He's talking about that note Sean doodled, Bay thought, her pulse beginning to race as she remembered the drawing of the delivery van and the name Ed.

“I don't know,” Bay said, aware that he was watching her carefully, not knowing why. “Something to do with one of our daughters?”

“I don't think so,” Joe said.

He thinks “the girl” is about another woman, and he's probably right, Bay thought, feeling her shoulders fold forward with shame. A small breeze again stirred the sheer white curtains at the picture window. Upon it were carried the salty scents of sea and marsh, the fresh tang of sea lavender and beach roses. Bay heard Tara and Annie's voices carrying across the marsh and felt Tara watching over her.

“You might think of something,” Joe said, gently sliding the papers back into their folder. “Something that will help us find him.”

Find whom? she wanted to ask. Who was she supposed to help Joe Holmes find? She didn't know this Sean McCabe at all. What was worse, she didn't know herself. Somewhere during her marriage she must have made a deal with herself to stop paying attention, to start looking the other way. To shut down.

Because how could any of this have happened without her knowing?

“If I knew anything,” she said very quietly, so he wouldn't be able to see the panic flooding through her, “I would tell you.”

AS JOE HOLMES BACKED OUT OF BAY MCCABE
'
S DRIVEWAY,
he
saw her friend Tara O'Toole watching him from her house across the marsh—the
consiglière
. Her eyes were dark blue, her gaze so penetrating even at this distance, he felt a shiver go down his spine—Bay had a true friend. Joe had the feeling Tara was barely holding herself back from sprinting across the tide flats to confront him herself.

He'd like to tell Tara that this was one of the parts of the job he hated most—questioning fine, innocent people about their spouses' criminal activity. The look in Bay's eyes was enough to make him think about taking the next month off. Hitting some golf resort in Tucson, somewhere far from here, where all he had to do was tee off and work on his game.

His father had worked for the Bureau, and he'd been the one who first taught Joe that golf went far toward easing the stress of the job. Joe had grown up thinking his dad was the coolest hero, a spy just like James Bond only bigger and stronger and without an English accent, and there had never been a chance that Joe wouldn't follow in his footsteps.

Maynard Holmes had wound up head of the New Haven division. They had lived in a big blue house on Main Street in Crandell, between the store and the library. While other fathers went off to be schoolteachers, bankers, lawyers, mechanics, Joe knew his father was heading off to catch bad guys.

“How do you know who's bad?” Joe asked his father once.

“Not by how the person looks,” his father had said. “Never judge anyone by their appearance, Joe. Or the car they drive, or the house they live in, or even by the words they say. Judge people by their actions. That's how you know whether they're bad or good.”

Joe had always remembered that. He thought of his father's lessons every day, working for the Bureau. He wished his father was still alive; he would really like to discuss the McCabe case with him. But that was the least of it. Joe missed both of his parents. His mother had died of a stroke two years ago; his father hadn't lasted six months after that.

That's the kind of love Joe wished he had. But, investigating white-collar crime, he saw so many liars and the broken hearts they left behind, he wasn't sure love like his parents' existed anymore. He viewed most of the people he met with the same intense suspicion he had seen in Tara O'Toole's eyes just ten minutes ago.

Passing through town, Joe's next stop was Shoreline Bank, to question Fiona Mills. The receptionist waved him back to her office, and he walked in. She had striking blue eyes and chestnut hair held back by a sterling silver headband; she wore a simple, expensive pin-striped suit.

“I have a few questions,” he said.

“I have a very full plate today, Mr. Holmes,” she said, gesturing at her desk. “With Sean gone . . . and with the mess he left behind . . . Of course I want to do everything I can to help you, but I don't have much time right now.”

“I know,” Joe said, thinking of how different her dark blue eyes were from Tara O'Toole's. He swallowed, settling down. “Thank you for cooperating. We're just going over the latest details, trying to get to the bottom of everything. First of all, is there someone named Ed who works here?”

“Edwin Taylor, in the trust department,” she said. “And Eduardo Valenti, a summer intern from New York. His parents live in the area.”

Joe made notes, then looked up. “Can you tell me a little about yourself, and what you know about Sean McCabe?”

Fiona had arrived at Shoreline Bank about five years ago, and everything had seemed great. The bank was a terrific place to work, she had liked her colleagues, everyone had seemed to get along and worked together to keep the bank growing.

“Sean is always very competitive,” she said. “We're about the same level, came up for vice president at the same time. He made no bones about wanting the promotion, and he courted the president and board . . . I knew we'd both eventually get it, which we did, but Sean really seemed to sweat it.”

“Is that his personality?”

“Very much so. He likes contests, prizes. One year he was in charge of tellers, and he was always setting up competitions. In one, I remember, the person who opened the most new accounts got a weekend in Newport—things like that. He loves having the biggest boat, the newest car.”

The opposite of Bay, Joe thought, taking notes.

“Did you ever think he was embezzling from clients?”

“Not back then,” she said. “Never. It started after the presidency thing—”

“When Shoreline brought Mark Boland over from another bank?”

“Yes. Anchor. I have to admit, I was upset, too. Both Sean and I were hoping for the job. I think either one of us would have been great at it. But they brought in Boland instead.”

“And Sean's behavior changed after that?”

Fiona nodded. “Yes, he was furious. He was really uncooperative at first—unwilling to share numbers, discuss loans. He'd miss meetings, going out on his boat every chance he got. I actually grabbed him after work one day, told him to pull it together—for his family's sake, if not his own.”

“He was on the way to getting fired?”

Fiona nodded. “I think he was heading in that direction.”

“And then what?”

“Well, a few bad loans—I suspected something, but I didn't want to say. Sean began seeing one of the loan officers, Lindsey Beale—very openly, brazenly. I know Bay and like her, and I thought he was acting like an ass. He began taking Lindsey to the casino, and she'd come in the next day and talk about it.”

“Indiscreet.”

“Very. Lindsey would talk about Sean blowing lots of money, and suddenly he started having some bad loans, and I began getting a bad feeling.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yes. He told me it was nothing. At first . . . but then he started avoiding me. Any time I wanted to discuss something, he'd tell me to leave him a voice mail, send him an e-mail. Eventually, I brought it up to Mark.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He was very upset. He liked Sean—everyone did. And I think Mark is sensitive enough to know that Sean hated losing out to him. They had a history of some sort—high school sports. And they played golf, I think. Sean was the kind of guy who, if he played golf against you, wanted to play for your watch, your cuff links.”

“And money?”

Fiona shook her head. “Not so much. I think it was an heirloom thing; Sean came from a working-class family, and he really liked the trappings of growing up WASP. So many New England bankers have that sort of upbringing . . .”

Joe nodded. He had read the file. Fiona had gone to New York with Sean on a bank seminar, three years ago; records obtained from the Hotel Gregory indicated that they had shared a room. They had the job in common, but Joe suspected that it had been her boarding-school poise that had attracted him most. Fiona had grown up in Providence, summered in Newport. Her family was listed in the Social Register. She had attended the Madeira School and Middlebury College, with an advanced degree from Columbia Business School.