The Taking of Libbie, SD (11 page)

I followed First Street until I reached a sprawling grain elevator located at the western edge of the town. The name Miller was painted in black across a row of corrugated steel bins and on a sign over an office building in front of them. Beyond the elevator, there were green-brown fields that seemed to stretch to the horizon. It was an impressive vista, just not something that could hold my attention for long. I preferred people in my landscapes.

I scanned the gravel parking lot. There were several cars, SUVs, and pickups but no drivers. I was about to walk away when a door marked authorized personnel only opened and Church stepped out. He was limping slightly, and his right hand was encased in a plaster cast except for his fingertips. He stopped, slipped a cigarette between his lips, and lit it with a disposable lighter. That’s when he saw me. I gave him what Victoria Dunston called a microwave—holding my hand up and moving my fingers a fraction of an inch. He abruptly turned for the door. He slipped on his bad leg, and I thought he would go down until he managed to catch the door handle and steady himself. He gave me a hard look, spit the cigarette onto the gravel, and stepped back inside the office, pulling the door shut behind him. Chief Gustafson’s words floated back to me.
Church is one of those guys who likes to plot his own revenge, so be careful
.

I kept walking, heading north, until I discovered a set of railroad tracks that served the elevator. The tracks seemed to divide Libbie in half between north and south, and I wondered which side was the wrong side. There’s always a wrong side of the tracks.

After I crossed the tracks, I came upon a cemetery large enough to need three entrances. A block of large, well-kept houses bordered the cemetery, and I followed the sidewalk until I came across a man digging a grave, using a small, rubber-tracked excavator with a backfill blade on the front. I stopped to watch as he scooped out the dirt and deposited it into a bucket attached to the back of the machine. The gravedigger gave me a wave, and I waved back. There was something surreal about it all, and it made me think of the hours I’d spent in the trunk of the kidnappers’ car. There had been a few moments when I thought …
Never mind what you thought
, my inner voice told me. I turned and followed the road north.

The road ended where the cemetery ended, and I went east. There were more homes, some of them quite ambitious, a small park with playground equipment, and a high school surrounded by a football field, tennis courts, a baseball diamond, and a parking lot. The school building couldn’t have been more than a dozen years old. As near as I could tell, it was closed for the summer, and I wondered, if you were a teacher in Libbie, South Dakota, what did you do when school was out? Probably what all teachers do, I told myself, although that still didn’t answer my question.

I kept moving east until I found a second cemetery. This one was considerably smaller than the first, yet its monuments seemed bigger and grander. There was a black iron fence surrounding it. The entrance was closed but not locked. The name Boucher Gardens was written in metal above it. A gated community, I thought. Out loud I said, “I bet people are just dying to get in here.” I laughed at the joke. Sometimes I crack myself up.

I went south, skirting the eastern edge of Libbie, recrossing the railroad tracks. The houses were smaller now, and less impressive. There was a retirement home that seemed a hundred years older than the high school. Next to that was a lot where a man in a small shack decorated with flags and streamers sold mobile homes, prefabs, and RVs built for people who wanted to be someplace but weren’t exactly sure where. Farther along I found Libbie’s sewage treatment plant.

“Well, now I know which is the wrong side of the tracks,” I said.

I went west again, moving past a small, relatively new industrial complex that seemed to be bustling with energy. There were plenty of vehicles driving in and out of parking lots, plenty of people walking in and out of doorways, going about their business. No one paid any attention to me. Why would they?

A coffeehouse named Supreme Bean was located on the corner, and I went inside. Along with coffee it sold assorted bakery goods, sandwiches, and soup, but I settled for a sixteen-ounce hazelnut, no cream, no sugar. While I waited, I noticed a high school boy sitting at a small table. A high school girl sat across from him. She was wearing the uniform of a waitress but didn’t work there. If she wasn’t the Libbie High School homecoming queen, it could not have been for lack of effort. What is it with this town and its women? I wondered. She had to frown before I recognized her—Miller’s daughter, Saranne, the girl he slapped at the Libbie cop shop. She didn’t notice me, probably because she only had eyes for the boy. She twisted her long red-brown hair and fluttered the lids of her blue-green eyes, only the boy didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy talking about himself. I felt like slapping him upside the head and shouting, “The girl is interested in you, dummy. Pay attention to her.” Instead, I snapped a lid over my drink and stepped outside. After all, I had learned the hard way what it took to impress women; why not him?

I was nearly to the street when I heard a voice calling after me, “Hey, hey.” I stopped and turned. Saranne moved to within a few yards of me and no closer. Her eyes were wide and thoughtful and a little sad; she shielded them from the rising sun. Her smile was as fragile as a china cup.

“You’re McKenzie,” she said. “The real one.”

“Yes.”

“The one I saw at the jail.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re here to find Rush, aren’t you, like they want.”

“I’m going to give it a try.”

“Why? What good will it do? Do you think it’ll change anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“People have to live with their mistakes.”

“Only the ones they can’t fix.”

She gave it a moment before answering. “Only an adult would say that.” When she said adult, she meant old.

“Sometimes you have to be an adult before you figure it out,” I said.

She gave that a moment, too.

“Whatever,” she said.

I watched as she spun about and walked back into the coffeehouse.

Off in the distance, I could see the shining towers of the grain elevator—they had never been entirely out of sight—and I followed the road until I reached them. Once on First Street again, I hung a right and moved toward the hotel. When I reached the front entrance, I glanced at my watch. I had walked the entire perimeter of Libbie. It had taken me just over two hours. I didn’t think it was possible to walk around the Mall of America in that short a time.

Tracie Blake was not happy. She was standing in the lobby of the Pioneer when I arrived, and she started barking before I was halfway through the door.

“McKenzie,” Tracie said. “Where have you been?”

Sharren Nuffer was behind the reception desk. She seemed more concerned than angry.

“We didn’t know where you were,” she said. “You left without telling anyone.”

“Ladies,” I said.

“Well?” Tracie said. “Where were you?”

“I was taking a walk around town.”

“You said you wanted to meet for breakfast.”

“I said I wanted to meet after breakfast. What’s the big deal?”

“We were worried,” Sharren said.

Tracie looked at her as if the remark caught her by surprise.

“Worried?” I said.

“Rush, the first McKenzie, he disappeared, too,” Sharren said. “Just walked away and never came back.”

“He didn’t walk,” Tracie said. “He ran.”

Sharren shrugged as if she didn’t appreciate the difference.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

“Well?” Tracie said again, this time with a fist planted on each hip. “What are we going to do now?”

“Are you always this cranky in the morning?” I said.

Behind Tracie’s back, Sharren made a gesture with her thumb and four curled fingers that was meant to mimic someone taking a drink. Tracie caught me watching Sharren and quickly glanced behind her. Sharren suddenly found something very important on the reception desk to occupy her attention.

“I don’t need this,” Tracie said.

She headed for the door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. Before the door could close, she spun around, grabbed the handle, held the door open, and spoke to me across the threshold.

“Well, are you coming?”

“Sure,” I said.

I felt the heat on my face and arms as I stepped outside. The temperature seemed to have risen dramatically during the few minutes I had been inside the hotel. From the spot in front of the hotel I could see several blocks up the street to the electronic display of First Integrity State Bank of Libbie alternating between time and temperature.
87° F
.

“Is it always this hot?” I said.

“In the summer,” Tracie said. “It’s not unusual to have a string of hundred-plus days for weeks at a time. Usually, though, the temperature drops to around sixty degrees at night, which makes it comfortable.”

“If you say so.”

“Well,” she said—I wished she would stop saying that word. “Do you have a plan? Last night you said you had a plan.”

“There’s an old saying,” I said. “When in doubt—”

“Yes?”

“Follow the money.”

Red velvet and gold lamé wallpaper and a thick red carpet greeted us when we entered the First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. An L-shaped teller cage of deep red wood and etched glass stood facing the front doors. Behind the cage, an enormous brass door stood open to reveal a small vault holding perhaps a hundred bronze safe deposit boxes. There was an inner room that, I assumed, contained a safe where the cash and coin were stored. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the center of the lobby. Arrayed beneath the chandelier were a cotton sofa, wicker chairs, and a low, highly polished table with coffee and rolls that were free to customers.

“Jon Kampa owns the bank,” Tracie said. “It’s been in his family for almost a hundred years.”

“Well, if things don’t work out, he could always turn the place into a bordello,” I said.

Only five people worked there, including a man sitting behind a large desk made of the same wood as the teller cage. He was wearing a charcoal suit and a red tie that he adjusted as he came over to greet us.

“Tracie,” he said. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“Jon,” Tracie said.

Kampa extended his hand toward me. “And you, sir?”

“My name is McKenzie.”

“Ahh, yes. Mr. McKenzie. Well, well, well…”

“Well,” I said.
Now you’re doing it
, my inner voice told me. “Nice little bank you have here.”

Kampa seemed to bristle at the remark.

“Hardly little,” he said. “We have twenty-eight-point-five million dollars in assets. Given our charter, we feel that is plenty big enough.”

“What is your charter?”

“To serve the good people of Libbie and Perkins County. Now, sir, what can I do for you?”

“Tell me about the Imposter,” I said.

“There is very little information I can provide. Rush—Mr. McKenzie—how shall we refer to him? The Imposter, you said. He talked the city into opening an escrow account with us. The city poured money into it, and so did many of our leading citizens.”

“How much money?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“Oh, c’mon. Can’t you give me a hint?”

Kampa glanced at Tracie. Tracie shrugged.

“No, sir,” he said. “I do not believe that I can.”

“More than a million?”

“Not so much.”

“A half million?”

“I’ve already said too much.”

I had the distinct impression that he was a man prone to saying too much if you pressed him, but I didn’t.

“How did the Imposter manage to steal the money?” I said.

Again, Kampa looked to Tracie.

“McKenzie is trying to help us get it back,” she said.

“Good luck with that,” he said. “The money was transferred to a financial institution in the Cayman Islands, and from there God knows where it was sent. That’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it—hiding money in the Caymans—yet that’s what he did.”

“Is there any way to trace the money?”

“Only to its first destination. After that—I suppose the FBI could do it if you convinced them that it was an act of terrorism. They seem more interested these days in chasing shadows than in solving actual crimes.”

“How did the Imposter loot the account?”

“It was easy. The city set up an escrow account and transferred money into it from its general operating fund. Terms and conditions of the trust allowed the Imposter to access the account online. After that it was simply a matter of punching in account numbers. He could have made the transfer in less than a minute, anytime day or night.”

“Why would you give him access to the account?”

“I didn’t,” Kampa insisted.

“He wanted to monitor account activity,” Tracie said. “He wanted to know when funds were deposited, when checks cleared, etcetera.”

“There were safeguards in place,” Kampa said. “He shouldn’t have been able to withdraw or redesignate funds without permission of the city.”

“What safeguards?” I asked.

“A password was required. A password generated by the city and known only to designated city officials.”

I turned toward Tracie. “Who knew the password?”

“The mayor, the other four of us on the city council, and the city manager and director of economic development,” she said.

“Seven people.”

“Six. The city manager and director of economic development are the same person.”

“Okay. Now we have a place to start. Just out of curiosity, what was the password?”

“It needed to be twelve characters long with at least four of them being numbers. We wanted something everyone would remember.”

“And…?”

“L - I - B - B - I - E - S - D - 1 - 8 - 8 - 4.”

“You picked your name and birthday? Seriously? A name and birthday that’s on every sign leading into this town?”

Tracie found a spot on the carpet that demanded her attention. Kampa sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

“You people deserved to be robbed,” I said.