When Hauck got back to the station, Munoz jumped out from behind his desk. He and Steve Chrisafoulis followed him in.
“You had us checking into Sanger, LT…”
Steve dropped a thick folder on the round table next to Hauck’s desk. Steve was short, barrel chested, with wiry, graying hair and a dark mustache. He was a ten-year veteran of the NYPD who did the crossword puzzle every day, had moved up here eight years ago for an easier life, and handled most of Hauck’s fraud and bunko cases.
“What’d you find?”
Steve arranged a couple of piles. They seemed to be photocopies of bank and telephone records bound together with black clasps.
“First, I took a look at the guy’s phone records, Lieutenant…” He picked up a stack and put the sheets in front of Hauck. “His cell. What you’re seeing goes back to April…
That’s as far as I pulled.”
There were dozens of handwritten annotations Steve had made in the margins, identifying most of Sanger’s calls. Most of them seemed to be office related or to his home. Several had been highlighted in green marker. Hauck noticed these all belonged to the same number.
203-253-7797.
“Guess whose?” Freddy Munoz rested his foot up against the table.
Hauck shrugged.
“Kramer,” Steve Chrisafoulis said. “Victim Number Two.”
Hauck leafed through the calls. There seemed to be twenty or thirty of them going back six months. Sometimes in clusters—two or three in a matter of days.
They’d been speaking a couple of times a week up to the day Sanger died.
“Then there’s this…” Steve brought over a new stack, feeding Hauck individual sheets. “I looked through his bank records…You can see for yourself, they’ve got several accounts in the Fieldpoint Bank, right here in town. Checking, savings, a couple of CDs, fifteen, twenty thousand, one for each of the kids. Under forty grand, the whole ball of wax. He and his wife are the lone signatories on all accounts. There’s also an investment IRA at Smith Barney in his and his wife’s name. A shade over a hundred and fifty grand in it…”
Hauck shrugged. “The guy’s a government employee, not a hedge fund manager.”
“Yeah.” Chrisafoulis nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. So then what do you make of this?”
He pulled out another couple of pages. He slid them to Hauck. “He’s got this other account…Not in Greenwich. Not with his wife’s name on it. But up in Hartford. Bank of America. And just him on it—no one else.”
Hauck leaned over the detective’s shoulder and read.
“I mean, the guy’s a federal attorney, right? So I figured, he’s just parking away a few bucks for the kids’ college fund.”
At the top, where the current balance was, it read $427,651.
Hauck stopped on it.
Freddy Munoz was grinning. “Like you said, LT, the guy’s just a government employee, right?”
“Check out the size of these deposits,” Steve said, sliding a pencil down the page. “Forty-three K, thirty-one thousand. Twenty-eight…And the withdrawals…Generally thesame—fifteen to twenty grand. Why does a government lawyer keep a private account with twice what they have jointly to their names stashed away there and totally separate from his wife?”
“And more to the point, where does a guy who pulls in ninety, maybe a hundred grand even get those kinds of funds?”
In itself, it didn’t prove anything. It could all be family money he didn’t want to commingle with his wife’s. Or investment income from something they hadn’t found yet.
“I don’t know,” Hauck said, “but I think we’re going to find out from Wendy.”
“Before you do…” Chrisafoulis took a last sheet out of the folder. “There might be one last thing you want to ask her, sir.”