was an honorable man and the duty he owed his fellow officers and the people of Longboat Key would likely override his emotional attachments to a couple of friends. On the other hand, if J.D. were truly dirty, I would be putting Lester’s career in jeopardy.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, more sharply than I meant to.
Jock drove in silence for a few moments. “Let me make some calls.”
We pulled into a Crispers Restaurant on Cortez Road. We hadn’t eaten since a quick breakfast on the way to the airport that morning. I went inside, leaving Jock in the car with his cell phone. He came in a few minutes later and joined me in the ordering line.
“My director is calling the bank president. National security concerns open a lot of doors.”
“How’s this going to work?”
“The director will tell the banker that I need to look at his security tapes from yesterday morning. That we’re tracking a terror suspect and we think he might have been in the bank yesterday. No names, no fuss, just a routine follow-up by a field agent. Me.”
We ate our lunch in silence. Jock’s phone rang, he answered, said “okay” and hung up. “We’re in,” he said. “Let’s finish up and get to the bank. The president is expecting us, and he’ll have the tape ready.”
The bank was a small independent establishment, one of those set up by entrepreneurs who get funding and grow the deposits with the hope of selling out at a big profit to one of the large chains. The president came to the lobby to greet us and took us back to his office. Jock flashed his credentials and introduced me as his associate. The banker plugged a flash drive into the computer on his desk.
“This starts at nine a.m. when we open the doors,” he said. “It goes until noon. If you need more tape, we can get it for you.”
“This should do fine,” said Jock. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Always glad to help. I don’t like the thought of a terrorist in my bank.”
“It’s probably nothing,” said Jock, “but we have to follow up any lead.”
“Okay. I’ll leave you alone.”
Jock and I huddled behind the desk reviewing the security tape on the monitor. It was a small bank and there were only two teller windows. One of them was closed. The camera was placed behind the tellers so that we could see the faces of the customers. We had a clear picture of the bank lobby and the entrance.
Just before nine forty-five, a woman came through the entrance. She was a brunette, her hair shoulder length. She carried herself with that assurance that cops adopt, not exactly a swagger, but a stride of confidence that hinted that she was in charge of her surroundings. As she neared the counter her face came into focus. I told Jock to stop the video. We had a fairly close-up view of the woman cashing the check. No doubt about it. The lovely face, the one that could break into a smile that lit up a room, belonged to Detective J. D. Duncan.
CHAPTER SIXTY
We went to the lobby to talk to the bank president. Jock said, “I noticed that your teller had the person cashing the check make a thumbprint.”
“Yes, we do that for security. We check ID, but that’s easy to fake. We have to cash checks on our customer’s accounts, so we require the thumbprint. If the ID was fake and we gave cash to a somebody other than the payee on the check, we’ll have a way to find them and prosecute.”
“Could we get a copy of the print on a certain check?” asked Jock.
“Yes, but the checks have already been sent to the processing center.
I can probably get somebody there to find it for you, but it’ll be at least tomorrow morning before I can get it back.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d get right on that,” said Jock.
I held up the flash drive with the security video. “We’re going to need a copy of this.”
“Take that one,” said the banker. “We’re giving blank flash drives away to new customers. I’ve got a boatload of them in the storeroom.”
“Do you want to bring Lester in on this now?” Jock asked. We were driving back to the key. I felt as if a dark cloud was slowly engulfing me, turning me into block of stone, unable to think or move or feel. Was J.D. really dirty? It seemed so.
“Not yet,” I