The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7)

“Is there any way to trace the money?”

“Only to its first destination. After that—I suppose the FBI could do it if you convinced them that it was an act of terrorism. They seem more interested these days in chasing shadows than in solving actual crimes.”

“How did the Imposter loot the account?”

“It was easy. The city set up an escrow account and transferred money into it from its general operating fund. Terms and conditions of the trust allowed the Imposter to access the account online. After that it was simply a matter of punching in account numbers. He could have made the transfer in less than a minute, anytime day or night.”

“Why would you give him access to the account?”

“I didn’t,” Kampa insisted.

“He wanted to monitor account activity,” Tracie said. “He wanted to know when funds were deposited, when checks cleared, etcetera.”

“There were safeguards in place,” Kampa said. “He shouldn’t have been able to withdraw or redesignate funds without permission of the city.”

“What safeguards?” I asked.

“A password was required. A password generated by the city and known only to designated city officials.”

I turned toward Tracie. “Who knew the password?”

“The mayor, the other four of us on the city council, and the city manager and director of economic development,” she said.

“Seven people.”

“Six. The city manager and director of economic development are the same person.”

“Okay. Now we have a place to start. Just out of curiosity, what was the password?”

“It needed to be twelve characters long with at least four of them being numbers. We wanted something everyone would remember.”

“And…?”

“L - I - B - B - I - E - S - D - 1 - 8 - 8 - 4.”

“You picked your name and birthday? Seriously? A name and birthday that’s on every sign leading into this town?”

Tracie found a spot on the carpet that demanded her attention. Kampa sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

“You people deserved to be robbed,” I said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Kampa said.

“Was the bank hurt by the fraud?”

He waggled his hand.

“First Integrity doesn’t normally do much commercial lending, and when we do it tends to be on a small scale,” Kampa said. “Unfortunately, in addition to the city, several of our commercial customers insisted on investing in the mall despite our strenuous recommendations against it. There was a growing consensus that most of the town’s retail businesses would move there, and those that didn’t would experience difficulty, and we”—Kampa paused as if merely speaking the next few words gave him pain—“we loaned them the money. Now, because of their losses, a few customers might have a difficult time meeting their obligations. That doesn’t help our loan portfolio. However, we’ll work something out. Like I said, this is a community bank. We’re here to serve.”

“Where are your assets invested?”

“About thirty-five percent is in agriculture and ranching. The rest is in residential lending.”

“Mortgages?”

“Mortgages and loans to developers.”

“The housing market has taken an awful beating lately.”

“That’s true. Certainly we’re not immune to that. However, our loan-loss provisions are substantial enough to cover our losses.”

“Even with this setback?”

“Yes, even with this setback.”

“When did the FDIC last examine your books?”

“Fifteen months ago. They gave us a two rating. What’s the matter, McKenzie? You don’t believe me?”

“Fifteen months. You’re about due for another audit, aren’t you?”

“Early next month. Why don’t you come back then? Bring your pocket calculator with you.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

The expression on his face suggested that he didn’t believe me.

“You said your customers invested in the mall against your advice,” I said.

Kampa was looking directly at Tracie when he said, “I was one of the few people in town who advised caution.”

“Why didn’t they listen?”

“People never listen to the man who tells them they are not going to make money. They only listen to the guy who promises to make them rich.”

The sign was flashing 90° F. by the time we left the bank.

“The weatherman said we might break one hundred,” Tracie said.

“Geez.”

I might have said more, except my cell phone began playing the old George Gershwin tune “Summertime.” The caller ID said Nina Truhler was on the line.

“Hi,” I said.

“You’re up,” she said.

Tracie and I passed under the bank sign, heading back toward the hotel. 9:57 A.M., it read. To most people, it was midmorning. To those of us who were rich, unemployed and spending late evenings in the company of women who owned jazz clubs, it was early.

“Libbie is an exciting, twenty-four-hour town, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it,” I said. “A little early for you, too, isn’t it?”

“Actually, I’m still in bed.”

“I like the sound of that.”