“What?” Gillian asks.
I don’t answer. I shake my head, lost in the screen. Searching for more, I click on the box marked Deposits. A smaller window opens, and I’m staring at Duckworth’s full account history. Every deposit on record from start to-
“How the hell did he… I-It’s not possible…” I stumble, scrolling down the digital pages of the account. The more I scroll, the longer it goes. Deposit after deposit. Sixty thousand, eighty thousand, ninety-seven thousand. They don’t seem to stop. I’ve got that gnawing pit in my stomach. It doesn’t make sense…
“Just say it!” Charlie begs.
Startled, I turn around.
“What? You forgot we were here?” Gillian asks, surprisingly curt.
Letting go of the monitor, I move back from the screen so they can squeeze in. “See this right here?” I ask, pointing to the box for Deposits.
Charlie rolls his eyes. “Even I know how a deposit works, Ollie.”
“It’s not the deposit,” I say. “It’s where it came from.”
“I don’t understand…”
Behind us, the elevator dings and Charlie angles his neck back toward its opening doors. Two elderly women holding each other’s hands come out. Nothing to worry about. At least, not yet.
“Check out each of the deposits,” I say as Charlie turns back to the screen. “Sixty-three thousand… ninety-two thousand… eighty-seven thousand.” I motion to the other deposits before them. “See the trend?”
He squints toward the monitor. “You mean, besides being buckets of cash?”
“Look at the amounts, Charlie. Duckworth’s account has over two million dollars moving in every day – but there’s not a single deposit that’s over a hundred thousand dollars.”
“So?”
“So, one hundred thousand is also the threshold amount where the bank’s automatic auditing system kicks into place – which means…”
“… anything under a hundred grand doesn’t get audited,” Gillian says.
“That’s the game,” I reply. “It’s called smurfing – you pick the amount that’s just small enough to squeeze under the monitoring threshold. People do it all the time – especially when clients don’t want us questioning their cash transactions.”
“I don’t get what the big deal is. So, he’s a smurf.”
“He’s not a smurf. He’s smurfing. Smurfing,” I say. “And the big deal is that it’s the number one way to keep it below the radar.”
“Keep what below the radar?”
“That’s what we’re about to find out,” I say, turning back to the screen.
65
Stuck in a strangle of traffic on Broward Boulevard, Joey reached over to the passenger seat, fished through her purse, and pulled out the photo of Duckworth and Gillian. At first glance, it was dad and daughter, happy as could be. But now that she had it in the light – now that she knew…
Damn, that’s a rookie mistake, she told herself as she slammed the steering wheel. Holding the photo up close, she didn’t know how she missed it before. It wasn’t just the bad proportions – even the shadows were skewed. Duckworth had the shade on the left side of his face; Gillian had it on the right. Total rush job, she decided. Rushed, but still decent enough to pass.
Pulling into a strip mall parking lot, she flipped open her laptop and went back to the digital photos of the Greene Bank offices she took the first day. Oliver’s, Charlie’s, Shep’s, Lapidus’s, Quincy’s, and even Mary’s. One by one, she took another pass, flipping through the…
“Rat bastards,” she muttered as soon as she saw it. She leaned down toward the screen, just to make sure she was right. The hair was a different color and straightened, but there was no mistaking it. There it was. A single headshot. Right in front of her the entire time.
Joey pumped the gas, and a whirlwind of dust blew behind her. Her hand went right for the phone. Speed-dial.
“This is Noreen.”
“I need you to run a name for me,” Joey announced.
“You got something new?”
“Actually, something old,” Joey said as the car flew toward the offices for Neowerks. “But if the dominoes tip right, I think I finally have the real story on Gillian Duckworth.”
66
“See this deposit right here? The eighty-seven thousand?” I ask, pointing Charlie and Gillian to the most recent addition to Duckworth’s account. Before they can answer, I explain, “That’s from Sylvia Rosenbaum’s account. But for as long as I can remember, she’s had it set up as a trust with specific beneficiaries.”
“Which means?”
“Which means once every quarter, the computer automatically makes two internal transfers: a quarter-million-dollar transfer to her son, and a quarter-million-dollar transfer to her daughter.”
“So why is this wealthy old woman transferring money to my dad?”
“That’s just it,” I say. “Besides her family and the once-a-year payment to her advisors, Sylvia Rosenbaum doesn’t transfer money to anyone. Not your dad, not the IRS, no one. That’s the whole purpose of the trust account – it runs on its own and makes the same exact payments every quarter. But when you look here…” I scroll up through Duckworth’s records and point to one of the first deposits – another eighty-thousand-dollar transfer from Sylvia’s account. This one’s dated June. Six months ago. “See, this shouldn’t be here either,” I explain. “It doesn’t make sense. How the hell could he-?”
“Can you please slow down a second? Whattya mean, it shouldn’t be here?” Charlie asks. “How could you possibly know?”
“Because I’m the one who handles her account,” I say, struggling to keep my voice down. “I’ve been checking this woman’s statements since the first day I started at the bank. And when I checked it last month – I’m telling you – these transfers to Duckworth weren’t there.”
“You sure you didn’t just miss them?” Gillian asks.
“That’s what I was wondering when I first saw it,” I admit. “But then I saw this one…” I highlight another internal transfer that recently came into Duckworth’s account. $82,624.00 transferred from Account 23274990007.
“ 007,” Charlie blurts, reading the last three digits. He doesn’t miss a beat.
“That’s the one,” I shoot back. Seeing that Gillian’s lost, I explain, “007 belongs to Tanner Drew.”
“The Tanner Drew?”
“The man himself – newest member of the Forbes 400. Anyway, last week, he threatened our lives until we transferred forty million dollars into one of his other accounts. All of that happened on Friday at exactly 3:59 P.M. Now check out the time that Tanner Drew made this transfer to Duckworth…”
Gillian and Charlie lean toward the screen. Friday – December 13 – 3:59:47 P.M.
I see a single teardrop of sweat run down from my brother’s sideburns. “I don’t get it,” Charlie says. “We were the only people accessing the account. How could he possibly be transferring his cash to Duckworth?”
“That’s what I’m saying… I don’t think he did,” I suggest. “In fact, I know he didn’t. Once we transferred the money, I checked Tanner Drew’s account half a dozen times, just to make sure it was on its way. Know what the last transfer was? Forty mil.”
“Then where did this eighty-two thousand come from?” he asks.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. But whatever hat Duckworth pulled it out of, it’s clear that he had his hand in almost everyone else’s business. I mean, half these accounts – here, and here, and here…” I point one by one to all the different account numbers that’re listed under Deposits. “Every one of them is a client of the bank – 007 is Tanner Drew. 609 is Thomas Wayne. 727 is Mark Wexler. And 209… I’m pretty sure that’s the Lawrence Lamb Foundation.”