fine-looking woman, very fit, trim little waist and a shapely butt, great skin, wearing white slacks and a cashmere sweater with pearls. Funny outfit for midnight television.
“Who is it?” came an irritated voice from what appeared to be the living room.
“FBI,” the woman called back.
The TV went off immediately and Bill Novak, the head of security in Crew’s department, emerged.
“What is it?” he asked matter-of-factly.
Fordyce smiled. “I was just apologizing to your wife for the late hour. I have a few questions of a routine nature. It won’t take long.”
“No problem,” said Novak. “Come in, please, sit down.”
They went into the dining room. Mrs. Novak turned on the lights. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing, thanks.” They all sat down at the table and Fordyce looked around. Very tasteful. Expensive. Some old silver on the dining table, a few oil paintings that looked like the real thing, handmade Persian rugs. Nothing outrageous—just expensive.
Fordyce took out a notebook, flipped over the pages.
“Do you need my wife?” Novak asked.
“Oh yes,” said Fordyce. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
They seemed eager to please, not nervous. Maybe they didn’t have anything to be nervous about.
“What is your annual salary, Dr. Novak?” Fordyce asked as he looked up from his notebook.
A sudden silence. “Is this really necessary?” the security head asked.
“Well,” said Fordyce. “This is strictly voluntary. You’re under no obligation to answer my questions. Please feel free to call your attorney if you desire legal advice or wish him or her to be present.” He smiled. “One way or another, however, we would like your answers to these questions.”
After a pause, Novak said, “I think we can proceed. I make a hundred and ten thousand dollars a year.”
“Any other source of income? Investments? Inheritance?”
“Not to speak of.”
“Any overseas accounts?”
“No.”
Fordyce glanced at the wife. “And you, Mrs. Novak?”
“I don’t work. Our finances are mingled.”
Fordyce made a note. “Let’s start with the house. When did you buy it?”
“Two years ago,” said Novak.
“How much did it cost, what was your down payment, and how much did you finance?”
Another long hesitation. “It was six hundred and twenty-five thousand, and we put down a hundred and financed the rest.”
“Your monthly payments?”
“About thirty-five hundred dollars.”
“Which comes to, what, about forty-two thousand per year.” Fordyce made another note. “Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Now let’s talk about your cars. How many?”
“Two,” Novak said.
“The Mercedes and—?”
“A Range Rover.”
“Their cost?”
“The Mercedes was fifty, the Range Rover about sixty-five.”
“Did you finance them?”
A long silence. “No.”
Fordyce went on. “When you bought your house, how much did you spend on new furnishings?”
“I’m not really sure,” said Novak.
“For example, these rugs? Did you bring them from your previous residence or purchase them?”
Novak looked at him. “Just what are you driving at?”
Fordyce allowed him a warm, friendly smile. “These are nothing more than routine questions, Dr. Novak. This is how the FBI starts almost any interview—with financials. You’d be amazed how quickly one can smoke out someone living beyond their means with just a few simple questions. Which is alarm number one in our business.” Another smile.
Fordyce could see signs of tension in Novak’s face for the first time.
“So…the rugs?”
“We bought them for the new house,” Novak said.
“How much?”
“I don’t remember.”
“And the other furnishings? The silver collection? The wide-screen TV?”
“Mostly bought when we purchased the house.”
“Did you finance any of these purchases?”
“No.”
Another notation. “You seem to have had a lot of cash on hand. Was there a legacy involved, lottery or gambling winnings, an investment coup? Or perhaps family help?”
“Nothing significant to speak of.”
Fordyce would have to plug the figures into a spreadsheet, but already they were at the outer limits of what was readily explainable. A man making a hundred grand a year would be hard-pressed to buy the cars he had around the same time he was making a down payment on his house, and paying cash on top of everything else. Unless he’d made a real estate killing on his previous house.
“Your previous house—was it nearby?”
“It was over in White Rock.”
“How much did you sell it for?”
“About three hundred.”
“How much equity did you have in that house?”
“About fifty, sixty.”
Only fifty or sixty. That answered that question. There
Fordyce gave Novak another reassuring smile. He flipped the pages of his notebook. “Now, getting to these emails that were found in Crew’s account.”
Novak looked relieved to see the change in subject. “What about them?”
“I know you’ve answered a lot of questions already about this.”
“Always ready to help.”
“Good. Could those emails have been planted?”
The question hung in the air for a moment.
“No,” said Novak at last. “Our security is foolproof. Crew’s computer was part of a physically isolated network. There’s no contact with the outside world, no Internet connection. It’s impossible.”
“No contact with the outside. How about by somebody
“Again, impossible. We work with highly classified material. Nobody has access to anyone else’s files. There are layers and layers of security, passwords, encryption. Trust me, there’s no way, none, that those emails could have been planted.”
Fordyce made a notation. “And this is what you’ve been telling investigators?”
“Certainly.”
Fordyce looked at the man. “But you have access, don’t you?”
“Well, yes. As the security officer I have access to everyone’s files. After all, we have to be able to track what everyone is doing—standard operating procedure.”
