relief. It was a new provider he hadn’t heard of yet, but at least he could contact the company and ask them to release the name of the person who paid for the website service. It could be a ten-minute task or turn into a ten-day ordeal while he waited for callbacks, wrote a subpoena, and pressured them for a response.
He quickly found the host’s contact information and made the call. An answering service picked up, which was not a good sign. Quince left a message, stressing the urgency of a callback. While he talked, he spotted the judge coming down the hall. Damn, she was good-looking. Too bad about the ugly robe. He wondered when that silly tradition would go away. As the judge came near, he stood and smiled. “Can I have a minute of your time, Judge Volcansek? I have an important subpoena.”
Back at his desk in the department, Quince called the online bank, American Heritage, got a manager on the phone, and explained what he needed and why.
“Fax me the subpoena,” the banker said. “We’re not releasing information about our client without it.”
Quince got the fax number and wrote it down. “The two-page document will be there in a moment. Please call me right after you read the subpoena.”
“I’m on my way to a meeting, and this is Friday afternoon. I appreciate the importance of your investigation, but you may not hear from me until Monday.” The banker clicked off before Quince could press his case.
Well, hell. That sucked . Maybe the website-hosting company would come through for him. For now, it was time to track down Molly’s connections. Earlier in the bank, a patrol officer had found the dead woman’s cell phone in her purse and called her daughter, so at least he didn’t have to deal with that issue. But he needed to find out how the perp had come into contact with Molly and somehow accessed her banking information. What if there were other victims out there?
Quince pulled into Rosehill Estates, surprised by the number of cars in the parking lot. The senior community in South Eugene contained both independent apartments and an assisted-living center, but he hadn’t expected many of its residents to still be driving. Molly Pershing had lived here, and accessing her personal records was an important step in tracking what had happened to her money.
Cold rain plopped on his head as he jogged across the parking lot. His short hair offered little protection, but he rarely wore a hat. Too much to keep track of.
A receptionist led him to the director’s office, where she barged in with only a knock and made a breathless introduction. “Mrs. Fowler, this is Michael Quince, a detective with the Eugene Police.”
The director, a fifty-something woman, stood and shook his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to inform you that one of your residents, Molly Pershing, died of a heart attack this morning.”
“Oh no.” The director’s face fell, and she sat back down. “Molly was so sweet. We’ll miss her dearly.”
“I have more bad news. She was the victim of fraud, and that’s why she had the heart attack.”
“That’s terrible. What kind of fraud?”
“I’m still investigating, and I need to look through Molly’s personal documents and computer, if she has one.”
The director hesitated. “I should contact her daughter. She’s listed as Molly’s next of kin, and I think I need her permission.”
“Another officer called her this morning, so she already knows what happened.”
She looked relieved. “That’s good. I’ve notified a lot of families about the death of their loved ones. It never gets easier.”
“I tried contacting the daughter about entering Molly’s apartment, but she’s not answering her phone. It would help my investigation if I didn’t have to wait. Other residents may be at risk or have already been conned.”
“That concerns me,” the director responded, “but privacy issues are so important these days. We have to wait until we
He quickly found the host’s contact information and made the call. An answering service picked up, which was not a good sign. Quince left a message, stressing the urgency of a callback. While he talked, he spotted the judge coming down the hall. Damn, she was good-looking. Too bad about the ugly robe. He wondered when that silly tradition would go away. As the judge came near, he stood and smiled. “Can I have a minute of your time, Judge Volcansek? I have an important subpoena.”
Back at his desk in the department, Quince called the online bank, American Heritage, got a manager on the phone, and explained what he needed and why.
“Fax me the subpoena,” the banker said. “We’re not releasing information about our client without it.”
Quince got the fax number and wrote it down. “The two-page document will be there in a moment. Please call me right after you read the subpoena.”
“I’m on my way to a meeting, and this is Friday afternoon. I appreciate the importance of your investigation, but you may not hear from me until Monday.” The banker clicked off before Quince could press his case.
Well, hell. That sucked . Maybe the website-hosting company would come through for him. For now, it was time to track down Molly’s connections. Earlier in the bank, a patrol officer had found the dead woman’s cell phone in her purse and called her daughter, so at least he didn’t have to deal with that issue. But he needed to find out how the perp had come into contact with Molly and somehow accessed her banking information. What if there were other victims out there?
Quince pulled into Rosehill Estates, surprised by the number of cars in the parking lot. The senior community in South Eugene contained both independent apartments and an assisted-living center, but he hadn’t expected many of its residents to still be driving. Molly Pershing had lived here, and accessing her personal records was an important step in tracking what had happened to her money.
Cold rain plopped on his head as he jogged across the parking lot. His short hair offered little protection, but he rarely wore a hat. Too much to keep track of.
A receptionist led him to the director’s office, where she barged in with only a knock and made a breathless introduction. “Mrs. Fowler, this is Michael Quince, a detective with the Eugene Police.”
The director, a fifty-something woman, stood and shook his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to inform you that one of your residents, Molly Pershing, died of a heart attack this morning.”
“Oh no.” The director’s face fell, and she sat back down. “Molly was so sweet. We’ll miss her dearly.”
“I have more bad news. She was the victim of fraud, and that’s why she had the heart attack.”
“That’s terrible. What kind of fraud?”
“I’m still investigating, and I need to look through Molly’s personal documents and computer, if she has one.”
The director hesitated. “I should contact her daughter. She’s listed as Molly’s next of kin, and I think I need her permission.”
“Another officer called her this morning, so she already knows what happened.”
She looked relieved. “That’s good. I’ve notified a lot of families about the death of their loved ones. It never gets easier.”
“I tried contacting the daughter about entering Molly’s apartment, but she’s not answering her phone. It would help my investigation if I didn’t have to wait. Other residents may be at risk or have already been conned.”
“That concerns me,” the director responded, “but privacy issues are so important these days. We have to wait until we
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