Mid-July. The peonies were long gone, the roses were just hanging on, but the day lilies were about to bloom. I was making the rounds of my garden with weed killer, trying to control nature in my little corner of the universe. With me was my friend, Fouad al Hamra, who was targeting crabgrass for demolition. Fouad owns his own landscaping business, but unlike some business owners, he still does most of the work himself. Although I only see him during the growing season, Fouad is one of my closest friends. Indeed, I owe him my life, a fact which he, with his characteristic sense of modesty, refuses to concede.
He leaned over the day lilies. “You have not been tending your garden, have you, Ellie?” Fouad was tall and dark, with eyes that could pick out deception a hundred yards away. His once lean frame was just a bit doughy these days. His hair, once black, was mostly silver now, and there was less of it. He’d shaved off his mustache a year ago—his wife Hayat said it was getting too bristly. He straightened and wiped a handkerchief across his brow.
He was right about the garden. “I haven’t had much time,” I answered guiltily. Now that he was chiding me, I kicked myself for not mulching, composting, and trying to reduce my carbon footprint a degree or two. At least I wasn’t turning farmers into indentured servants like Voss-Peterson.
“Tell me something, Fouad.”
“What is that?” He was now over by the mums, examining the tightly furled buds, as if sheer concentration could coax them into bloom.
“What would you think about a corporation that buys up farmers’ land, hires them back to raise the crops, then takes all the profit?”
He stroked the skin above his lip where his mustache used to be, then stopped, as if he’d just now realized it wasn’t there. “What crops are we talking about?”
“Corn.”
“Ahh...” His eyebrows arched. “Corn is the new global currency. In some quarters it’s as valuable as gold.”
“Yes, but does that entitle a multi-national to rob farmers of their share of the pot?”
Fouad tends to remind me when I’m grandstanding, and he was smiling now. “I suppose it depends on what the situation was before. As one of your presidents used to say, are they better off now than they were?”
“The farmers sold the land for a bunch of money. And they get a salary now. Plus an acre or two to keep for themselves. But that’s barely enough for a truck farm,” I added.
“Still, it sounds like an honest deal.”
“But the corporation took advantage of the farmers when they were down.”
“Some might say they saved them. No more worrying about next season or whether there will be enough money to feed the family.” Fouad frowned. “And do not forget, the land is still being farmed.”
“What do you mean?”
“It could have turned into a condo development.”
I was surprised at Fouad’s attitude. I wouldn’t have pegged him as so Adam Smith.
He gave a little shrug, as if he could read my mind, then bent over the mums. “These plants, Ellie. You must take care of them.”
“They’re not in bloom.”
“Unless you fertilize now, they may not bloom at all. And if they do, the blossoms will be tiny and sparse.”
I nodded and looked impatiently at my watch. I’d rushed back from Lake Geneva so I could cook Shabbos dinner tonight for Rachel and Dad. Rachel had invited her new boyfriend, and I wanted him to know that Rachel came from a family that still gathered round the table for a home-cooked meal. At least on Shabbos. He didn’t have to know it only happened once in a while. I started making a mental shopping list. Brisket was my father’s favorite, but in order for it to cook its allotted four hours, I had to drive to Sunset Foods now.
Fouad went back to the daylilies. “It seems as if the deer are already finding the lilies.”
The deer wander over from the Forest Preserve every year to snack on my daylilies, but this was early, even for them. I peered more closely. Sure enough, I saw a few naked stalks that looked like they’d been chewed.
Fouad wiped his brow again with his handkerchief. He was sweating more than usual. Fouad was probably somewhere in his sixties, but he’d always seemed ageless in the way men of wisdom often are. But now that I was noticing, his olive skin tone looked pale, and he was breathing hard.
“Fouad, is something wrong? Are you ill?”
He didn’t answer.
“Fouad?”
He wouldn’t look at me.
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
He waved away my concern. “I am fine.”
Typical. I drove to the grocery store, still worried. I thought about calling his wife, Hayat, but decided not to. If he didn’t seem better the next time he stopped by, I would. I ran into Sunset and hurried to the meat department. I was waiting for my brisket when my cell trilled.
“Ellie, it’s Georgia.”
“Hey, Georgia. How are you? Did you get back okay?”
“Do you remember the IT guy from the bank you took for a drink? The one who first told you about the service charges?”
“Cody. Cody Wegman.”
“Do you still have his number?”
I remembered the card he’d shoved into my hand when we left the bar. I still had it somewhere. “Yes. Why?”
“I need you to call him.”
“Oh? And what am I going to say?”
“You’re going to convince him to help me get into the teller department so I can find out where Delton Security’s three million dollars went.”
• • •
Cody Wegman, Georgia, and I met outside Midwest National bank on Saturday, a morning so hot and humid the office buildings looked like they were sweating. I’d called Cody when I got home from Sunset. He was surprised to hear from me. His surprise turned into shock when I made my request.
“Are you kidding? You want to break into the teller department?”
“Technically, I wouldn’t call it a break-in.”
“Okay. I know you were bullshitting me when you bought me a drink, but now you need to tell the truth. What’s going on?”
I’d been half expecting him to tell me where to go and then hang up, so I was cheered by his response. I told him the truth. Or as much of it as Georgia allowed. “Cody, a private investigator I know is looking into Chris Messenger’s death. A critical part of that investigation involves three cashiers’ checks the bank made at the beginning of June. We need to know who those checks went to. We were told the teller department keeps hard copies of every cashiers’ check the bank issues.”
“Maybe.”
“Please. We need to find out. And we can’t ask you to go online to track them down. It’s too risky.”
“You can say that again.” He went quiet. Then, “I could get fired for helping you. Maybe even go to jail.”
“That assumes we’re going to get caught.”
He blew out a breath. “And what makes you think I even know anyone who could help?”
I hesitated. “Sandy thought you might.”
“Sechrest? How is she?”
“How would I know?”
He cleared his throat. I recalled how he’d given me the information that led Georgia to Sandy in the first place.
“She’s safe,” I said after a pause.
“The bank thinks she’s on sick leave.”
“In a way, she is.”
He was quiet again. “If I help, am I going to have to disappear, too?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I hadn’t wanted to take advantage of Cody, but I’d overstepped that boundary when I bought him a drink. And it was clear someone wanted to stop us from uncovering information and was willing to kill to keep it hidden. When you added Delton Security to the mix, there was no guarantee any of us would stay absolutely safe. I had to be honest. “I don’t know, Cody.”
Silence. Then, “Chris was my boss.”
“I know.”
“I liked her.”
“I know.”
He sighed. “The teller operation is high security. For obvious reasons.”
“Do you know anyone?”
“The only person I know is Joan Hiller.”
I held my breath.
“I’ll call her.”
Now, as we waited for her outside the bank building, Cody said, “You’re lucky, you know. We just started having Saturday hours. Lobby’s open until noon.”
I checked my watch. It was ten-thirty.
“We should have plenty of time.”
Georgia frowned. “We?”
Cody shifted his feet. “Well, uh, yes. You need us to help you go through the log, right?”
Georgia had her shades on, which was good. I didn’t want Cody to see the expression I knew was there. “Cody, you’ve been really helpful, but this isn’t 24. It’s a murder investigation.”
Cody slung his hands in the pockets of his shorts. His shoulders hunched.
“You won’t be coming in, either.” Georgia turned to me. “Just Hiller.” She turned back to Cody. “Are you sure she’s coming?”
Cody shifted again. “She said so.”
Ten minutes later, Georgia said, “Why don’t you call her? See where she is.” She paused. “You do have her number?”
A flash of irritation came over Cody, but he made the call. “Where are you? He listened, then turned his back on us and walked away, but I could hear him pleading. “You’ve got to. You can’t leave me hanging. Come on, Joan.” Then he grunted and snapped the cell shut. As he walked back, it looked like a two hundred pound weight lay on his shoulders. “She’s not coming. She’s too scared.”
Georgia’s lips tightened so much they almost disappeared.