Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,73

off an internal alarm, nothing suggesting the receipt of large amounts of cash, no suspicious website traffic.

Next, the analysts Bonita Sexton and Eric Pullman. Nothing there, unsurprisingly. Pully spends almost no cash, using his debit or credit cards for everything, though “everything” in his case is the innocuous stuff of today’s mid-twenties computer geek—video games, computer software, techno-savvy items. Rabbit continues to live her bohemian existence, spending more than Pully but nothing extravagant, most of it going to health-food stores and charities and yoga classes.

The field agents—done. The analysts—done. And he has almost nothing to show for it. The only people left are at the top of the food chain—the heads of the divisions. And the people above them.

That’s what has occupied him for the past ninety minutes. He started with the basics—bank statements, a list of expenditures and receipts.

And something is wrong.

He checks and rechecks them. He goes back six months. Nine months. Maybe he’s misreading them. So he pulls some records from one of the field agents who uses the same bank. No, he’s not reading these statements incorrectly. The account holder’s ATM transactions are located in a particular spot at the top of each month’s statement.

He’s reading them correctly. And there’s something wrong.

There’s something missing.

“Do it again,” he tells himself. “Be sure.”

He flips through the statements again, going back a full year. Checking the spot on the statements for ATM transactions. Looking at the few checks she’s written. Scouring her credit card transactions.

“Wow,” he says.

Rewind to a year ago. Then she was transacting in a normal way. Took out cash at an ATM every few weeks, usually two hundred dollars a pop, sometimes more, sometimes less. Used her credit card at Starbucks in the morning, at someplace near the office for lunch, at the supermarket for groceries, at Target for clothes or other items. She bought gas for her car. Purchased clothes and shoes at standard places like Neiman Marcus and Nordstrom and at some local boutiques—she does dress quite nicely, he’s noticed.

But nine months ago, that changed. She still used her credit card, on autopay, for some bigger-ticket items like car and insurance payments, her mortgage, a club membership. Multiple expensive dinners and several hotel stays are on there too. But groceries? Coffee? Lunch? Gas? Dry-cleaning? Even clothes? Nope. Not a single debit or credit card transaction.

She’s been buying all those things with cash.

Yet she hasn’t made a single cash withdrawal from an ATM or bank branch in the past nine months.

So where is Elizabeth Ashland getting all that cash?

“Didn’t find what I was looking for,” says the customer, giving Books a perfunctory wave.

Books looks up at him, nods, and smiles, and the customer leaves the store. “I think I just did,” he whispers to himself.

72

THE NEXT morning, weary from staying at the office past midnight, I enter the Hoover Building holding Dwight’s cup of coffee. We are so close now. This is no time to piss him off.

I smirk at Roberta and knock on Dwight’s office door as I enter. He’s on his landline and raises a hand to me. Then he covers the phone and says, “Emmy, that’s not necessary.”

I sigh and play my part, keeping my voice up. “I just wanted to show my appreciation—”

“No. Hang on. Let me put you on hold,” he says into the receiver and he hits a button. Then he directs a stare at me. “For real. Stop bringing me coffee. Just don’t do it anymore. Stop.”

He hits the button again and resumes his phone call, leaving me wondering what in the heck just happened. I walk out of the office, shrugging at the question on Roberta’s face, and go down the hallway.

I pass Elizabeth Ashland’s office and then stop. Normally, I speed up as I go by her office, wanting to limit contact as much as possible. But she did stick up for me yesterday—a little bit, at least—when I was pressing my theory about Mayday’s death.

And she was in Dwight’s office yesterday morning when I delivered his coffee, and she’d looked quite puzzled by what I was doing.

She is at her desk, reading something on her computer screen and glancing down at something on her notepad. As usual, she’s immaculate—sharp navy suit, hair pulled back in a perfect chignon, beautifully manicured nails with pale pink polish. That must be tiring, I imagine, always getting everything just so. And how many gorgeous suits does one person need?

When I knock on the open door, she looks up. “Dockery,”