.
talk to me for a second?”
He stuck out his bottom lip. “I suppose you could go over there and ask her yourself.”
“I think we’d both prefer if she and I talked here, where it’s a bit private.” Kate touched his arm. “Would you consider asking her to join us here for a moment? You could tell her I’d be happy to share what I’ve learned about the Fultons.”
Beeson glanced toward his daughter.
“No harm in asking, I suppose. The girls are just waiting there for other investigators.”
Beeson went to the group, talked to his daughter and pointed to Kate. Immediately, Jo Ballinger’s attention, and that of some of the others, shot to Kate, who was standing seven or eight parked cars away. Several moments passed before Beeson accompanied his daughter to Kate, who introduced herself.
Jo Ballinger was uneasy.
“I don’t want my name in the papers. You can’t use my name.”
“I’ll just say a source close to the case.”
“Okay, but I really can’t tell you much,” Jo said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, but Dad said you knew something about what’s happened?”
“I know a little, Jo, and I’ll help you if you help me, okay?”
“I will if I can. Did they find Dan?”
“Not yet. The SWAT team and bomb squad searched his house.”
Jo cupped her hands to her face.
“They found nothing. No sign of Dan, his wife or his son,” Kate said.
“Oh, my God!”
“Can you tell me what happened here earlier this morning? You were there when it happened, right?”
“Yes. This is my week to open with Annie, Annie Trippe, the head teller. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”
“Jo, I’m going to get most of the details anyway. You can help me make sure I get it right. I won’t use your name at all.”
Jo hesitated and bit her bottom lip. “Well, we went through our usual procedure for opening, then Dan came in and told Annie there was an inventory problem at South Branch. He drafted a directive for her to cosign about an emergency interbranch transfer that he was going to deliver himself.”
“So he planned to personally take the money himself to the other branch?”
“Yes.”
“Is that how transfers are usually done?”
“No, of course not! It’s a violation of procedure. Annie refused to sign it.” Jo glanced at the group. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this... I should get back.”
“Wait, Jo, just a few more seconds. Do you know how much money was going to be transferred?”
Jo hesitated before answering in a quiet voice, “A quarter million.”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
“Yes. He just walked into the vault, put the cash in a bag and walked out.”
“So, what about the bomb he was supposedly wearing? Did he say anything about bombs?”
“He wrote a note on the directive, I guess so Annie would see it. Something about being held hostage, and that they all—him and his family—had bombs strapped to them. I really should get back.”
“Hang on, take these.” Kate reached into her pocket and gave Jo several business cards. “Pass them to your coworkers and ask them to call me. I’ll share any updates when I get them. Okay?”
Jo nodded and rejoined the group accompanied by her father, who’d decided to wait with her. Kate was glad to see Jo passing out her cards and the others glancing toward her. She was relieved that no other reporters had seen her interview Jo.
Kate used the hood of a car and reviewed her notes, confident that she now had the inside track on the story. She called the newsroom and asked for Reeka. It took a few seconds to transfer the call.
“Reeka Beck.”
“It’s Kate at the bank.”
“What do you have?”
“Dan Fulton, manager of the SkyNational Trust Banking in Roseoak Park, Queens, takes a quarter million dollars from his own branch after scrawling a note that ‘they’ have placed bombs on him and his family.”
“That’s solid? You’ve got it confirmed, Kate?”
“A person who was there when it happened detailed it for me. I don’t think anyone has what we have, Reeka. I think this is a national interest case. We don’t know where the manager is, or where his wife and nine-year-old son are. They’re all believed to be strapped with bombs, and no one seems to have a clue who’s behind it all.”
“Okay, get this on our news budget and give me a story within the hour. Did we get art with it?”
“Yes. Gabe Atwater’s got some dramatic stuff.”
“All right.”
“There’s still a few people I need to talk to.”
“I want a story in an hour, Kate. You can update through the day.”
“And the conference?”
“We’ll send a stringer.”
Kate ended her call.
As she turned to look for Gabe, she stepped directly into FBI agent Nick Varner.
“You’re something else, Kate, I’ll give you that.” He was tapping her business card in his hand and shaking his head. “You want to know everything, and you want to know it now.”
“I’m a reporter, Agent Varner. It’s what I do.”
“You’re doing a helluva job.”
“Well, that’s what I’m paid for. What’s your problem, anyway?”
“I’m telling you for the last time.” Varner jabbed a finger toward Kate. “Do not jeopardize this case.”
“And I’m telling you, I’m not going away.”
Roseoak Park, New York
Gabe Atwater’s Jeep Patriot accelerated down Orchard Boulevard. Destination: Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance, Lori Fulton’s employer.
Kate eyed the dashboard clock.
Like all reporters, she worked to a perpetual deadline ticking down on her. Most would be writing their story right now. They would’ve made a quick phone call to the company, plugged in its response and filed.
Not Kate.
She was old-school and still believed in digging for information face-to-face, abiding by the wisdom a rumpled old police reporter in San Francisco had once passed to her. Phone somebody, you get one story. Talk to them in person, you’ll get more than one story.
“Almost there,” Gabe said, glancing at his GPS.
Kate would make her deadline. She was a fast writer. She reviewed her notes, mentally shaping her story, still vexed by Tilden and Varner for jamming her at the Fultons’ house. Why were they in her face? Especially Varner, the good-looking FBI agent. Why was he being a hard-ass when she was only doing her job?
Maybe I’m getting close to something...
“Here we go.” Gabe stopped in front of a six-story rectangle of blue-tinted glass that reflected the small plaza across the street. “You’re