Death of a Bankster by David Bishop Read Free Book Online Page B

Sam Crawford had been murdered other than the claims of Paige Crawford, her neighbor, Carla Roth, and a phony FBI card showing the name of Special Agent in Charge, Dennis Powell. All of it, taken together, came up short of spelling murder.
    “So,” Sue asked, “what else you got going today?”
    “I’ve got an electrolysis appointment at 4:30,” Maddie said. “Hope I make that. Another sign I’m getting older is the need to have my random facial hairs zapped.”
    “Sort of a plug and play refacification system you got going, girl.”
    “I love your made-up word, but you’re spending way too much time with your computer, Sue.”
    “You got that right,” Sue said, a chuckle leaking out of the corner of her mouth.
    As they walked from the car to the door of the station, Sue brought them back to the Crawford case. “Did you notice Mrs. Crawford’s body language when she spoke of her husband’s secretary?”
    “I sure did,” Maddie said. “She bit off the name Blanche. I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman named Blanche except in fiction, Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire .”
    “She did say the secretary was named after her grandmother, maybe it came from there. But yeah, Paige’s arms crossed and her tone turned cold.”
    “I’m not exactly certain what that body language meant,” Maddie said with her eyebrows raised, “but it sure didn’t mean, my husband was so lucky to have a wonderful secretary like Blanche.”
    * * *
    “Unless you need us for something else, we should be on the plane in about three hours, heading back to Oregon.”
    “Anything more to report since we last spoke?”
    “No, the wife suspected nothing. She bought us as FBI agents. We’ve got Sam Crawford’s only computer, a laptop, and his only cell phone. We went through his house and his personal files. There’s nothing else. He kept it all pretty close … No. We found no safe. Whatever he had must be in his laptop or in some unknown location, maybe in his office at the bank, but not in his home. … What? Oh. We told Mrs. Crawford we saw dust kick up on a distant hill, but that was bull. We didn’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean the shot wasn’t fired from up there. I left Crawford’s laptop and his smart phone at the drop. What do you want us to do now?”
    “I’ve picked up the computer and phone. They’re being gone through as we speak, but it doesn’t look like there was anything much I didn’t already know. The real point in your taking them was to keep the locals from getting them and finding evidence of the laundering. Sounds like your end went off without a hitch. The shooting of Sam Crawford was totally unexpected. Your improvisation at the scene was excellent. Good thing we had you take the FBI cards in case you needed them.”
    “We had brought along the full FBI credentials you provided, but they only asked for the card. The relief man we had been using during the surveillance, an early retiree from CIA services, was outstanding as the local medical examiner. He stayed at a distance, near the body, leaning down most of the time. He spoke only to me, as Agent Powell, and in minutes was out of there with the body, no questions asked.”
    “The locals are undoubtedly figuring you two as the shooters. We have to be very careful to avoid getting mixed up in a local murder. Your man’s initiative on where to park the body was pure genius. That way, we only needed to handle the body once. Your man obviously did much more than he thought he had signed up for. You say he’s retired?” After an affirming grunt, the voice continued. “Double his pay and throw in an extra two hundred for a job well done.”
    “That’s generous, will do.”
    “Are the widow and her neighbor going to be able to identify you two?”
    “No real chance. I’ve removed the mustache I grew for the occasion. I had let my hair grow longer and lengthened my sideburns while we were in Phoenix. My hairs short again