“Yeah. I thought maybe you caught him or something, but…”
“Sorry. Not yet, but you may be able to help us on that end.”
“How?”
I glance down at the file, scanning it while she watches. “Who handles the finances in your family?”
“I pay the bills. Why?”
“Do you know anything about an account in Switzerland? Have you ever set one up for your son Michael?”
“A what?” she asks.
I pass her the file. There’s account information in her son’s name, social security number, and several deposits totaling $250,000, the last one the day before the escape. She reads it, confused as hell. “I take it you knew nothing about this,” I say.
The widow looks up, eyes bugging out of her head. “$250,000? What? How?” Her voice is so desperate I can’t help but believe her. “I—I’ve never seen this before in my life.”
“Could your husband have?”
She gazes back down at the file and it dawns on her. The realization seems to begin at her eyes which grow again, then moving to her mouth which shrinks, then down her back which straightens. From the look she gives me, I believe the mouse is about to roar. “Absolutely not. I know what you’re implying, and how dare you? My husband was the best man I ever knew,” she says, her voice breaking. “He was proud of his job. Proud he was helping to keep us all safe. You said it yourself, it cost him his life. There is no way in hell he would help that psychopath. Not even for a million dollars.” She shoves the file back at me.
“Then how do you explain the account? And the fact that the other C.O., Logan Dodd, said your husband was the only one in the room when Ryder was let out?”
“He’s lying!”
“Mrs. Moore, you have to see this from our point of view. A limited number of people had access to James Ryder. Of those, only two were there the night he escaped, and only one of those has a secret account with hundreds of thousands of dollars.” I lean back in my chair. “Now, I know you loved your husband and what I’m suggesting is unthinkable, but you have to face facts. This,” I say, pointing to the file, “is the only lead we have right now. So anything suspicious, anything you might know or suspect, no matter how small, might be the key to finding him. Did he act out of the ordinary at all? Buy extravagant gifts?”
“No, because he didn’t do anything.”
“There’s nothing? Not a single moment when you thought, ‘There’s something wrong,’ or just a feeling?”
“No, and I am done with this.” She bolts up.
Ah, love. You always make my job such a pain in the ass. “Mrs. Moore, you should know we have a search warrant for your home.”
“What? You can’t—”
I stand up too, closing the file. “I’m sorry. I’ll have a patrol car take you home.” I leave as she calls me nasty names and return to the control room. Mirabelle and Kowalski smirk and cluck their tongues. “Shut up.”
“You two going to have a sleepover and braid each other’s hair?” Kowalski asks.
“Like you could have done any better,” I say. “She doesn’t know a damn thing.”
“You don’t think she’s lying?” Mirabelle asks.
“No way.”
“I agree,” Kowalski says.
“Then let’s hope we have more luck with the warrant,” I say.
“We’re going there right now. You have a date with the press,” Kowalski says.
“Sure you wouldn’t rather do it? Lotte would love to see your handsome face on the screen.”
“No, thanks,” Kowalski says. “Besides, I don’t think that woman will want you anywhere near her house.” He glances at his partner. “You either. I’ll take Cam.”
“We’re sure he’s our guy?” I ask.
“Seems like it,” Mirabelle says.
“Then I might actually have something to feed to the jackals.”
On my way out I peek into Harry’s office, but he’s not there. I need to know whether or not to release this information. We should probably wait for final confirmation. There’s always tomorrow. I’ll play it by ear. After a quick hair and make-up fix in the ladies room, I grab the prepared statement and walk out.
About two thirds of the usual lot are not there. V is front and center, but I only recognize a few others. Guess the big guns are onto better things. I read off the bland account of our progress, and few even bother to take notes. Going through the motions, I open it to questions.
“Can you comment on—” V begins.
Out of nowhere Mrs. Moore, with Cam and Kowalski close behind, saddle up to me. Her rage is palpable enough for the reporters to perk up. I’m too shocked in that moment I can’t think of a thing to say. Kelly Moore doesn’t have this problem.