President of Sunrise Bank. Murt is either trying to insert himself into the investigation for reasons I can’t begin to understand, or he’s trying to extricate himself from it. I can’t tell which. Or maybe he’s guilty of something again, and he’s-”
“What? What do you mean guilty of something again?” she said, the anger in her voice evident.
“If you’ve lived with him for over a year, then I assume you know of his record. He spent some time at Westville for assault. He beat a man, almost to death.”
She pointed her finger at me. “Murton carries images around in his head from the war that leave him little room for peace. The man he beat was a drug dealer who tried to steal from him. I make no excuses for his past behavior, Detective, but I don’t delude myself into thinking it was something it was not. He’s paid his debt to society. Why not leave him be?”
I decided to try a different direction. “Tell me about Samuel Pate.”
“What about him?”
“You sold him your church. Why?”
She pinched her lips together and shook her head the way a grade school teacher might if she were addressing the slow student at the back of the classroom. “First of all, Detective, you don’t sell a church. No one does. You might sell a building that once housed a church, but the church is never for sale. As far as the sale you’re speaking of, it was more of a merger.”
“A merger?”
“That’s right. The Pate Ministry wants to branch out. They’ve brought me on board as one of their staff ministers. The building we’re sitting in is scheduled for demolition in a few months. In time, it will be replaced with a modern ministry center designed for and around the children of our community.”
“So you’re going to be an employee of Pate’s?”
“I already am,” she said.
“What about the money?”
“What money?” she said. What on earth are you talking about?”
“Franklin Dugan and Sunrise Bank handled the financing for your so called merger. Again, I’ve seen the paperwork. It was a multi-million dollar deal. Shortly after the paperwork was completed, Franklin Dugan was murdered at his home. He was shot to death, Ms. Frechette, and your boyfriend, Murton, has shown up out of nowhere and inserted himself into my investigation. He has a record for almost beating someone to death. By your own admission he’s a tormented war veteran. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
I watched her swallow then clench her hands together. It took her a few moments to speak, but when she did, I wasn’t all that surprised by what she said.
“He’s been working security for the Pates,” she said. “This deal has been in the works for over a year now. That’s how we met.”
When I got back out to the Safeway, I saw the manager of the store arguing with Donatti. He wanted to know when he was going to be allowed to open the store back up. Donatti walked away from him while he was still yelling and came over to me. “What’s going on?” I said.
“Man wants to open his store. We should probably let him. Body’s gone, Crime Scene is done, witnesses are gone.”
“So why don’t you let him open?”
Donatti popped a stick of gum into his mouth and tossed the wrapper on the ground. “Because he’s been a dick, or at the very least, sort of dickish, all fucking day.”
I picked up the wrapper and rolled it between my fingers. “Besides,” Donatti continued, “that would be what us underlings refer to as an executive decision.”
Sandy walked up. “He’s right, we’re not authorized to make those kind of decisions.”
I looked at Donatti. “Let him open.”
“You got it, boss.
I looked at Sandy. “Where’s Rosie?”
“He left a little while ago. He said something about some follow up questions for someone at the bank. Margery somebody or other.”
I shook my head.
Sandy looked at me, her head tilted. “What?”
“Aw, nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
“That seems to be a habit of yours.”
“Hey now…”
“Hey now your own self.”
“Listen, I’d like for you to go back to the shop, take everyone’s notes and get them into the computer. The victims, their families, their co-workers, friends, neighbors, witness statements, all of it. This is all connected somehow. You’re the one with the psychology degree. See if you can psychologize some sense out of it all.”
“I don’t think that’s a real word. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
I gave her my best fake smile. “I know. I was trying to be charming.”
“Keep trying. See you tonight?”
I leaned in close, smelled her hair and whispered in her ear. “Count on it. I’ll let you psychologize me.”
“Like we’ve got enough time for that.”
“Hey…”
I had a thought and punched Rosencrantz’s number into my phone. “Still at the bank?” I said when he answered.
“Aw fuck, who ratted me out?”
“No one. I’m psychic. Are you still there or not?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
I took the key that Murton left on the bar out of my pocket. “Let me talk to Margery for a minute, will you?”
“She’s in the can, freshening up. We’re uh, gonna have a late lunch. Wait a minute, here she comes.”
“Have her pull up the records for their safe deposit boxes. See if one of them belongs to Murton Wheeler.” I listened to Rosie repeat my instructions and then I heard the clacking of a computer keyboard. A few seconds later I had the answer.
“No Murton Wheeler listed.”
“How about anyone with the last name of Wheeler?”
I listened again to the sounds of the keyboard before he told me there were no Wheelers listed at all. After thinking for a moment, I asked him to have her try Samuel Pate.
“Sorry Jonesy. No Pate listed either.”
I was about to hang up again when I thought of one more thing. “Ask her if she can identify a safe deposit box by the code stamped on the key.”
A few seconds later he said, “She says the keys are code stamped to match the boxes. If you have a key she can match it to the box, then check the box against the owner to get a name.”
I gave him the code and waited while he repeated it to Dugan’s assistant. When Rosencrantz came back on the line his voice sounded flat, like he was talking to me on the other side of a glass wall. “What the hell is going on, Jonesy?”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“That key code you gave me belongs to a box currently shown as being rented to you. You know those signature cards they make you sign so they know it’s your box? I’m looking at yours as we speak. It’s your signature, man.”
When I arrived at Sunrise Bank, Rosencrantz was waiting for me at the entrance to the executive offices. He stood leaning against a marble tiled wall, a half eaten apple in his hand. When he saw me, he pulled the signature card out of his breast pocket and handed it to me without saying anything. I studied the card for a moment then looked back at him. “What do you think?” I said.
