extreme weather.”
Jackson moved the last case of chili con carne and pulled open the closet doors. Inside sat a dark trunk with a musty, faintly familiar smell. A trickle of fear ran through his chest. Gently, he pushed open the lid and leaned forward for a closer look.
Oh god. He turned to Schak in the hall. “Call the bomb squad, please.”
CHAPTER 7
Friday, November 11, noon
Michael Quince walked through Northwest Federal to a small office in the back. The bank’s internal investigator stood, introduced himself, and shook Quince’s hand. The man’s flushed red cheeks made him look uncomfortable, even though his voice was confident.
“Detective Michael Quince, Eugene Police.” He still got a kick out of saying that, even after five years at that rank. A decade ago, he’d started as a dispatcher with the department, thinking it might be more interesting than factory work. If someone then had told him he’d end up a detective, he would have asked what they were smoking.
The two men sat down, and Quince got right to the point. “We seem to have a tragic case of fraud, and as you know, cyberthieves disappear quickly. I’d like to access Molly Pershing’s records and begin an investigation immediately.”
“Because Mrs. Pershing is dead, I can give you the relevant information. But her daughter is also on the account, so for extensive records, I’ll need a subpoena.”
“Fair enough. For starters, I need to know where the money went.”
After a moment of clicking through files on his computer, the bank investigator said, “It was transferred to an account in an online bank called American Heritage. To a business account with the name Veterans Relief Fund. It was her second transfer to that account.”
Quince wanted to get out his netbook and google the name, but it could wait a few minutes. “How much was the first transfer?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“And today’s transfer?”
“Seven thousand.”
Quince made a whistling sound. “Wow. How was the transfer made?”
“Molly set up an automatic monthly payment, initially in the amount of fifty dollars.” The banker paused as he scanned a file on his computer. “The amount was changed late Tuesday night, and the seven-grand transfer went through on Wednesday. If we’d had more time, we would have caught it and notified her.”
“Will you give me a printout of those transactions?”
“Sure.” The banker clicked a few keys. “What can I do to help the investigation?”
“Type up a statement summarizing what you just told me. I’ll need it to get a subpoena to access the data from the perpetrator’s account.”
An hour later, Quince sat on a bench outside Judge Marlee Volcansek’s office, waiting for her to take a break from court. Netbook in his lap, he keyed in Veterans Relief Fund , and awebsite came up. Surprised the perp hadn’t taken down the site yet, or at least renamed it, Quince clicked through its simple pages. The website hosted photos of injured soldiers and appealed to people’s sympathy. It asked for donations and offered three ways to send money: through PayPal, by setting up an automatic monthly donation, or by mailing a check to a post office box. He determined the internet protocol address, then logged in to the American Registry for Internet Numbers. He clicked Whois and keyed in the IP address for the charity site. While he waited for the search to complete, he crossed his fingers and hoped the website was hosted by a legitimate company he could subpoena for information about the site’s owner.
Nothing came up. The site wasn’t hosted in North America. Quince swore under his breath, then looked around the wide courthouse hall to see if anyone had heard him. If the website had free hosting from a provider out of China or Russia, he had no chance of tracking the owner. He keyed in the IP address again to make sure he hadn’t typed it wrong. This time, Gorilla Social Services came up, and he heaved a sigh of
Jackson moved the last case of chili con carne and pulled open the closet doors. Inside sat a dark trunk with a musty, faintly familiar smell. A trickle of fear ran through his chest. Gently, he pushed open the lid and leaned forward for a closer look.
Oh god. He turned to Schak in the hall. “Call the bomb squad, please.”
CHAPTER 7
Friday, November 11, noon
Michael Quince walked through Northwest Federal to a small office in the back. The bank’s internal investigator stood, introduced himself, and shook Quince’s hand. The man’s flushed red cheeks made him look uncomfortable, even though his voice was confident.
“Detective Michael Quince, Eugene Police.” He still got a kick out of saying that, even after five years at that rank. A decade ago, he’d started as a dispatcher with the department, thinking it might be more interesting than factory work. If someone then had told him he’d end up a detective, he would have asked what they were smoking.
The two men sat down, and Quince got right to the point. “We seem to have a tragic case of fraud, and as you know, cyberthieves disappear quickly. I’d like to access Molly Pershing’s records and begin an investigation immediately.”
“Because Mrs. Pershing is dead, I can give you the relevant information. But her daughter is also on the account, so for extensive records, I’ll need a subpoena.”
“Fair enough. For starters, I need to know where the money went.”
After a moment of clicking through files on his computer, the bank investigator said, “It was transferred to an account in an online bank called American Heritage. To a business account with the name Veterans Relief Fund. It was her second transfer to that account.”
Quince wanted to get out his netbook and google the name, but it could wait a few minutes. “How much was the first transfer?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“And today’s transfer?”
“Seven thousand.”
Quince made a whistling sound. “Wow. How was the transfer made?”
“Molly set up an automatic monthly payment, initially in the amount of fifty dollars.” The banker paused as he scanned a file on his computer. “The amount was changed late Tuesday night, and the seven-grand transfer went through on Wednesday. If we’d had more time, we would have caught it and notified her.”
“Will you give me a printout of those transactions?”
“Sure.” The banker clicked a few keys. “What can I do to help the investigation?”
“Type up a statement summarizing what you just told me. I’ll need it to get a subpoena to access the data from the perpetrator’s account.”
An hour later, Quince sat on a bench outside Judge Marlee Volcansek’s office, waiting for her to take a break from court. Netbook in his lap, he keyed in Veterans Relief Fund , and awebsite came up. Surprised the perp hadn’t taken down the site yet, or at least renamed it, Quince clicked through its simple pages. The website hosted photos of injured soldiers and appealed to people’s sympathy. It asked for donations and offered three ways to send money: through PayPal, by setting up an automatic monthly donation, or by mailing a check to a post office box. He determined the internet protocol address, then logged in to the American Registry for Internet Numbers. He clicked Whois and keyed in the IP address for the charity site. While he waited for the search to complete, he crossed his fingers and hoped the website was hosted by a legitimate company he could subpoena for information about the site’s owner.
Nothing came up. The site wasn’t hosted in North America. Quince swore under his breath, then looked around the wide courthouse hall to see if anyone had heard him. If the website had free hosting from a provider out of China or Russia, he had no chance of tracking the owner. He keyed in the IP address again to make sure he hadn’t typed it wrong. This time, Gorilla Social Services came up, and he heaved a sigh of
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