The Taking of Libbie, SD Read online

  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 tell
er 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.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Kampa said.

  “Was the bank hurt by the fraud?”

  He waggled his hand.

  “First Integrity doesn’t normally do much commercial lending, and when we do it tends to be on a small scale,” Kampa said. “Unfortunately, in addition to the city, several of our commercial customers insisted on investing in the mall despite our strenuous recommendations against it. There was a growing consensus that most of the town’s retail businesses would move there, and those that didn’t would experience difficulty, and we”—Kampa paused as if merely speaking the next few words gave him pain—“we loaned them the money. Now, because of their losses, a few customers might have a difficult time meeting their obligations. That doesn’t help our loan portfolio. However, we’ll work something out. Like I said, this is a community bank. We’re here to serve.”

  “Where are your assets invested?”

  “About thirty-five percent is in agriculture and ranching. The rest is in residential lending.”

  “Mortgages?”

  “Mortgages and loans to developers.”

  “The housing market has taken an awful beating lately.”

  “That’s true. Certainly we’re not immune to that. However, our loan-loss provisions are substantial enough to cover our losses.”

  “Even with this setback?”

  “Yes, even with this setback.”

  “When did the FDIC last examine your books?”

  “Fifteen months ago. They gave us a two rating. What’s the matter, McKenzie? You don’t believe me?”

  “Fifteen months. You’re about due for another audit, aren’t you?”

  “Early next month. Why don’t you come back then? Bring your pocket calculator with you.”

  “I meant no disrespect.”

  The expression on his face suggested that he didn’t believe me.

  “You said your customers invested in the mall against your advice,” I said.

  Kampa was looking directly at Tracie when he said, “I was one of the few people in town who advised caution.”

  “Why didn’t they listen?”

  “People never listen to the man who tells them they are not going to make money. They only listen to the guy who promises to make them rich.”

  The sign was flashing 90° F. by the time we left the bank.

  “The weatherman said we might break one hundred,” Tracie said.

  “Geez.”

  I might have said more, except my cell phone began playing the old George Gershwin tune “Summertime.” The caller ID said Nina Truhler was on the line.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You’re up,” she said.

  Tracie and I passed under the bank sign, heading back toward the hotel. 9:57 A.M., it read. To most people, it was midmorning. To those of us who were rich, unemployed and spending late evenings in the company of women who owned jazz clubs, it was early.

  “Libbie is an exciting, twenty-four-hour t
own, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it,” I said. “A little early for you, too, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, I’m still in bed.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making a nuisance of myself.”

  “You do that so well.”

  “Practice, practice, practice.”

  “Any progress?”

  “I just started.”

  “Let me know what happens. You know how I love your adventures.”

  That made me chuckle. “You say it, but we both know it’s not altogether true.”

  “Is Tracie what’s-her-name with you?” Nina asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “What?”

  “Do. You. Love. Me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Say it.”

  “I love you.”

  “Did she hear?”

  I glanced at Tracie. She continued walking with measured, graceful strides, looking straight ahead, her face without expression.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Okay,” Nina said. “Have a nice day. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  After Nina hung up, I slipped the cell phone back into my pocket.

  “Was that your girlfriend?” Tracie said.

  “Yes.”

  “Nina?”

  “Yes.”

  “She sounds needy.”

  “Does she? I hadn’t noticed.”

  We were nearly back to the hotel before Tracie spoke again. “Now what?”

  “The mayor first, I think. Eventually we’ll get to everyone who knew the password.”

  “They’re all suspects?”

  “Yep.”

  “Including me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why would I help Rush steal our money?”

  “When does your ex-husband get out of stir? Eighteen months? What happens to your allowance then?”

  “It’ll go to him.”

  “What will you do? Go back to modeling?”

  “I’m a little old for that.”

  “Exactly.”

  “My God, McKenzie, you’ve got a suspicious mind.”

  “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

  I drove. Tracie directed us west out of town and then north until we came to the intersection of Highways 20 and 73. She said the southwest corner was where the Imposter proposed building the outlet mall. A combination gas station and convenience store called Miller Big Stop occupied the northeast corner. A restaurant with a bar called Grandma Miller’s was next to it. A new and used auto dealership that seemed to specialize in pickup trucks called Miller Ford was next to that.