A Case of Vineyard Poison (25 page)

“How'd you find all this out?”

“Luck and a long nose. Besides, money makes noises that a lot of people eventually hear. Two hundred thousand dollars may not be a fortune to John D. Rockefeller, but it is to most people. It's hard to move that kind of money around and not have anybody find out about it, so I think that whoever is running this particular scam is pretty good, because so far he hasn't gotten himself arrested. Maybe he never will be. Anyway, now I want to hear your side of it.”

“It's a long story.”

“It's a long night.” She didn't say anything. I was conscious of my sore back. After a while I said, “All right, let me tell you what I think, then you can tell me how wrong I am and what's really going on.”

“Don't bore me.”

I looked at her through the darkness. She was holding her purse in her lap with both hands. Her knees were together, and she was looking at me. Her face was dim and cold.

“Stop me when you've had enough. I think that Glen Gordon is in the middle of it. He's a math and computer guy, and after college he got a job with Frazier Information Services, an outfit that does accounts for a lot of businesses including banks. He's a good worker and soon became very trusted. Since a lot of banks are converting to their own computer systems these days, they don't need FIS to do that work for them anymore, so FIS guys work with bank guys to help transfer accounts to the new system.

“I imagine that Gordy did that sort of work down in New York and was good at it. I think he probably started thinking about how to steal some money while he worked there, but, being the systematic type, took his time setting things up. Getting identity papers for himself and the people he'd need to help him, and that sort of thing. Probably he got the ID's the usual way: checked for deaths in the paper, then later sent for copies of the birth certificates of the dead people and used them to get drivers' licenses,. Social Security cards, and the other ID stuff that he'd need.

“Before he went to work for FIS, he had a fling with you. And then, a couple of years later, another one with Kathy Ellis. Told her he was still in college, so she wouldn't get her folks worrying about their little girl getting involved with an older man, I imagine. Anyway, both of you fell pretty hard for him, I figure. Kathy Ellis, at least, was the loving sort who would do anything for her man. Not a bad deal if you're the kind of guy who likes a love slave, and a very good deal if you needed a couple of people who'd do anything for you, even shady stuff. His only problem was that you and Kathy were both going to be working on the Vineyard during the summers. What to do?

“Well, God works in mysterious ways his wonders to
perform. One day Gordy hears from a guy working on the Cape that the Vineyard Haven National Bank is going to convert to its own computer system. The guy wants to come to New York, and Glen wants to get close to his girls and to the bank. FIS, being the flextime sort of place it is, makes it easy for the guys to trade places.

“Now Gordy's got everything he needs- a gang, a bank, and the ID's to hide the money trail. He sets up a company called the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company, with Cecil Jones as its treasurer and a woman named Marilyn Grimes as Jones's assistant. They're both authorized to take money out of the company checking account at the Zimmerman National Bank, over in Hyannis. Jones is actually Gordy himself, more or less in disguise. He probably learned about makeup when he used to do theater work in college, just like you and Kathy Ellis did. As a matter of fact, that's where Gordy met you both. In college theater.

“Anyway, once Gordy had a legitimate account where he could put money he planned to steal, he had you and Kathy Ellis open checking accounts at the Vineyard Haven National Bank. You were both glad to go along with him because he told you there was no way you'd ever get caught, because you loved him and would do anything for him, and because you were both going to make some money that you needed, more money than you can earn bartending in the Fireside, for sure.

“When everything was ready, Gordy got to work on the transfer of accounts to the bank's new computer system. He was a ringtailed wonder, often working alone all night long, supposedly so he could take advantage of FIS's flexplan system to get beach days off, but really so he'd be left alone to do his business with the accounts.

“What he did, I think, was something that he could only do when these sorts of account transferals take place. I think it was probably the only time one person would have access to all the computer systems, including the security systems that would normally prevent people from getting into unauthorized files. It worked something like this.”

I tried to remember what Matt Jung and Helen Fine had told me. “The system they're using is called Demand Deposit Accounting. Every customer has an account number and a balance is maintained in that account. If a check is cashed, the money is subtracted from the account and if a deposit is made, money is added. Everything has to balance.

“Now here's the interesting part. Customer accounts are split up into cycles of about a thousand accounts each, and the cycle, like individual accounts, has to balance. If it gets out of balance, say by somebody taking money by means other than a legitimate withdrawal, it would be noticed right away. What Gordy did, I think, was to figure a way to shuffle the money from a dormant account with a couple hundred thousand in it to your account and Kathy's. It's not uncommon for a dormant account to have that much money in it, and for the account to be unused for months, so nobody would notice that the money was missing. And because Gordy made sure that your accounts and the dormant account were in the same cycle, the cycle was never out of balance. The only withdrawals were legitimate: the checks that you and Kathy wrote. Since there was supposedly no activity involving the dormant account, the computer didn't pay any attention to it. No wonder, since Gordy was programming it.

“So Gordy put the money in your accounts and you wrote checks and, I imagine, gave them to Gordy, who, as Cecil Jones, deposited them in the salvage company account. A week or so later, after the checks had cleared, he or Marilyn Grimes withdrew the money in cash.
Voilà!
Lots of money for Gordy. How am I doing so far?”

“You're sharp as a tack, you are.”

“You want to take it from here?”

“No. You're so smart, you keep going.”

“High praise for a man with a permanently unbalanced checkbook. Okay. I think that Gordy probably knew he only had a certain amount of time to get this job done and to disappear with the dough. There'd be an audit, probably, as soon as the transfer was complete. Something like that.

“Anyway, about this time, things began to go wrong. Maybe Kathy Ellis began to get cold feet. That sort of thing happens among thieves. The cops get a lot of people just because other people crack and begin to talk. Anyway, Kathy Ellis ate something she shouldn't have, and Gordy looks like a likely source of whatever it was she ate. But Kathy's death created danger that wasn't there before, since an odd death always interests the police, and once the police start to nose around, they begin to find out things. Anyway, I figure that Gordy decided he couldn't afford to wait the time it would normally take to have you write checks in amounts less than ten thousand dollars, the kind that don't attract the government's eye, but to have you write the big one for a hundred thou. You did and he deposited it.

“I think maybe he told you to bring it over to him in person, so he wouldn't have to go to the island. I think maybe that's why you pulled your disappearing act. You
say you were in New Bedford with a new lover. Maybe so, and maybe if you were, it saved your life since you were just another girl who knew too much. I know that I, at least, was worried about you being the next one to die. When I told you at the bar that I was glad to see you back, I was telling you the truth.”

“Gee, a smart guy who's nice, too. Lucky me.”

“Once Gordy had the second hundred thou in his salvage company account, all he had to do was wait for the check to clear, draw out the cash, and disappear. He got a jump start on the disappearing part by working nights so he could get four days off, presumably to go to Boston to a rock concert. But there's no rock concert in Boston this weekend, which means that after Marilyn Grimes drew out the cash yesterday, Gordy and Marilyn probably split with the money. Or maybe he split from Marilyn, too. Or maybe Marilyn is lying in the woods someplace on Cape Cod.

“Or, to be fair, maybe none of this happened. Maybe I'm just full of shit.” I turned to look at her. “What do you think? Any additions or deletions? Any editing or criticism? Speak up. The podium is yours.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” she said. “You may think you're a smart bastard, but you're more stupid than smart.”

In the dim light, I saw that Denise had a hand in her purse and was fumbling around. When her hand came out, there was a small revolver in it. She aimed it at me and shot me in the stomach.

I was rising when the bullet hit, and I felt as if I had been struck in the belt buckle by a hammer. I fell backward over the log, spilling the flashlight from my hand. I heard another shot, but it passed above me as I fell. I remember thinking very clearly that Denise must have been blinded by the muzzle flash of the first shot.

I hit the ground and rolled away as Denise shot again. She should have taken her time, but like some other killers she was overanxious. I was afraid I'd be too weak to escape her, but when I tried to get up I succeeded beyond my dreams. I was on my feet in an instant and running into the trees. She fired after me, but it's very hard to hit someone with a pistol when you're impatient and the night is dark. I was instantly in the trees, branches whipping at my eyes, clutching at my clothes.

I stopped running and got a hand to my belly, feeling for the wound, for blood. Instead, I touched the revolver I'd stuck in my belt, and I felt a surge of joy, knowing immediately what had happened: her bullet had hit the pistol. I pulled out the old .38, thumbed the hammer, and rolled the cylinder. It still worked.

My belly ached, and I felt sick, but I had no time for such concerns. I looked back toward the clearing and, very dimly, could see Denise at the log, searching the ground with her hands. I knew what she was after: the flashlight. I eased away through the trees, circling to my
right. Behind me, the flashlight suddenly went on, illuminating the trees into which I had run. The light swung first one way, then the other, as Denise listened for my movement. I stopped.

When I saw the flashlight move, I moved again, still circling to the right. When the light moved, I moved. When it stopped, I stopped. As the light went into the trees, I moved out of them, coming into the clearing behind the Land Cruiser. I stuck the .38 back under my belt, knelt, and ran my hands over the ground. I came up with an empty beer can and beer bottle. The light bobbed through the trees. I went to the far side of the Land Cruiser and eased the door open, glad, for once, that the interior light didn't work.

In the trees, the light swept first one way, then the other. I threw the beer can as far as I could in front of the Land Cruiser, and it landed with a satisfying clatter. The light swung in that direction and began to bob forward. I waited until it reached the edge of the clearing, then threw the bottle in the same direction as the can. The bottle clinked nicely, and the light went rapidly out into the clearing. I pulled out the .38, and when the flashlight was forty feet or so in front of the Land Cruiser, I flipped on the headlights. Then I dropped to the ground.

Denise was in the center of the lights, little revolver in one hand, flashlight in the other. She spun toward the truck.

I yelled, “I've got a gun, Denise! Toss that pistol away, or I'll shoot you!”

A good yell will stop some people cold. But not Denise. Instead, she pointed the gun and her light at my voice and fired. I heard the bullet sing off the hood of
the Land Cruiser. “Try that trick on somebody else,” she said, and came trotting toward me.

“Put down the gun and stay where you are!” I yelled.

“What an incredible asshole you are,” she said. “You're even stupider than Gordy was, even stupider than that bitch Kathy.”

I had time to aim, so I shot her in the right thigh. The bullet knocked her leg from under her and spun her around so that she hit the ground very heavily. A grunt exploded from her lungs, and the revolver and flashlight flew from her hands. She grabbed at her thigh and blood began to stream out between her fingers. Moans and oaths mixed in her mouth as tears burst from her eyes.

I went out and picked up the flashlight and pistol, then got on the C.B. and called for the cops and an ambulance. By the time they got there, I had a pressure bandage on the wound, and Denise was feeling the pain. I told the O.B. cops what had happened, and gave them the guns involved. While some of the cops went with Denise to the hospital, the sergeant, who had stayed behind, leaned forward and flashed his light on me. I looked down and saw that there was blood on my clothes and legs.

“I think that some of that's yours,” said the sergeant.

So they took me to the hospital, too.

After I was nicely bandaged, I went to the O.B. police station. By that time, Corporal Dominic Agganis of the State Police had showed up, not too pleased at having been routed out of bed at that time of night, and I got to give my statement all over again. Then I got the guys to take me back to my Land Cruiser, so I could drive home. It was getting pretty late.

Not too late for Quinn and Dave, though. They heard me come in, and came out of their bedroom, in ill humor.

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Quinn, rubbing his eyes.

I was hurting and feeling out of sorts. “Who are you? My mother?”