“Name?”
“Fred Shutz.”
He tapped into the computer and shook his head. “Nobody here by that name.”
“Exactly.” I explained the problem and showed him the canceled check.
“We don't use this bank,” he said.
“Maybe you have a second account there.”
“Yeah,” Lula said, “a local liquid account.”
“No. All the offices are the same. Everything goes through Citibank.”
“Then how do you explain this check?”
“I don't know how to explain it.”
“Were Martha Deeter and Larry Lapinski the only office workers here?”
“In this office, yes.”
“When someone mails in their quarterly payment, what happens to it?”
“It goes through here. It's logged into the system and deposited in the Citibank account.”
“You've been very helpful,” I said. “Thanks.”
Lula followed me out. “Personally, I didn't think he was all that helpful. He didn't know nothing.”
“He knew it was the wrong bank,” I told her.
“I could tell that turns you on.”
“I sort of had a brainstorm while I was talking to Allen Shempsky.”
“You want to share that brainstorm?”
“Suppose Larry Lipinski didn't enter all the accounts. Suppose he held out ten percent for himself and deposited them someplace else?”
“Skimming,” Lula said. “You think he was skimming RGC money. And then Uncle Fred come along and started making a stink. And so Lipinsky had to get rid of Uncle Fred.”
“Maybe.”
“You're the shit,” Lula said. “Girlfriend, you are smart.”
Lula and I did a high five and then a down low and then she tried to do some elaborate hand thing with me, but I got lost halfway through.
Actually, I thought it was more complicated than Fred getting disposed of because he made some noise over his account. It seemed more likely Fred's disappearance was related to the dismembered woman. And I still thought that woman might be Laura Lipinski. So it did sort of tie in together. I could construct a possible scenario up to the point of Fred seeing Lipinski dump the garbage bag at the real estate office. After that, I was lost.
We were about to get in the car when the side door to the building opened, and Stemper stuck his head out and waved at us. “Hey,” he yelled. “Hold up a minute. That check is bothering me. Would you mind letting me make a copy?”
I didn't see where that would do any harm, so Lula and I returned to the office with him and waited while he fiddled with the copier.
“Damn thing never works,” he said. “Hold on while I change the paper.”
Half an hour later, I got my check back with an apology.