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  “Here it is,” Howell said with satisfaction.

  When he signed the card, Tom noticed that there were years his father didn’t open the box at all; however, John Crane had been to the bank vault twice in the six-month period prior to his death. Mr. Howell led Tom into the vault and inserted his key in box number 429. Tom did the same. They turned the keys and opened the brass cover.

  “Take your time. I’ll be at my desk when you finish.”

  Tom put the box on a high narrow table in the center of the room. Lifting the lid, he took out a stack of documents: his parents’ marriage certificate signed by Elias, who performed the ceremony, honorable discharge papers for Tom’s grandfather who’d served in the army, and Tom’s original birth certificate. Beneath these older papers he found a newer unsealed envelope. Scribbled on the front in his father’s handwriting was “DTA – 35-89.” Tom caught his breath.

  He took out a deposit slip and a thin checkbook. Printed across the top of a deposit slip were the words “Designated Trust Account.” The meaning of the slip of paper he’d found at the office now made sense: “Designated Trust Account—Safe-Deposit Box.” The figure entered at the bottom of the deposit slip caused Tom’s mouth to drop open.

  It was $1,750,000.

  Tom read the number twice. He opened the cover of the checkbook. It was a starter set with one check missing. The check register was blank.

  In addition to a general trust account, attorneys could open designated trust accounts that contained funds from a single client, often held for a specific purpose. The file number on the envelope provided circumstantial evidence that Harold Addington was the owner of the funds; however, nothing written on the deposit slip, recorded in the checkbook, or included in the safe-deposit box specifically identified him as the source of the deposit.

  Tom held the checkbook up to the light and tried to see if there was an imprint by the pen used to write the missing check that might have completely wiped out the account. Nothing could be seen. Tom put the trust account envelope and its contents in his back pocket.

  “Thanks, Mr. Howell,” he said when he left the vault.

  “Anytime, Tom.”

  Tom walked directly across the lobby to Clayton Loughton’s office. Loughton had been president of the bank for ten years and occupied an office with a glass front at the far end of the main floor. Tom peered through the glass. The banker motioned for him to enter.

  “Have a seat, Tom,” Loughton said. “Let me show you something.”

  The banker picked up a golf ball and tossed it to him. Loughton, a brown-haired man in his late forties, routinely finished in the top flight of the local golf tournaments.

  “Do you know what that is?”

  “It’s a golf ball.”

  “Not just any golf ball.” Loughton held up his index finger. “It’s a golf ball with a story. Last week I hit an eight iron on number seventeen, you know, the short par three with the water hazard in front of the hole.”

  Tom nodded. It was the signature hole for the local golf course.

  “I didn’t hit the ball solid and it was heading for the edge of the pond when all of a sudden . . .” Loughton paused. Tom tried to look interested. “A turtle popped to the surface of the water. My ball hit his shell, skipped onto the green, and stopped a couple of inches from the cup. I tapped in for a birdie.”

  “That should be in the newspaper.”

  “It was, but I figured you hadn’t heard about it.”

  Tom returned the ball to Loughton, then reached into his back pocket. “I found something in my father’s safe-deposit box and need your help. It’s about a designated trust account.”

  Tom placed the envelope on the banker’s desk. Loughton didn’t touch it. His jovial face turned serious.

  “You’re the executor of his estate, right?” the banker asked.

  “Yes, I sent a certified copy of the letters from the probate court to Lisa Randolph at the bank about a month ago.”

  Loughton swiveled around and began typing on his computer keyboard. “Is this the designated trust account your father set up earlier this year?”

  “Yes.” Tom raised his eyebrows.

  “Don’t be surprised. We’re a small bank. If that much money is deposited, I know about it immediately. And even though the interest on lawyer trust accounts is paid to the state, it’s something we keep an eye on.”

  “Is the money still here?” Tom asked, leaning forward in his chair. “There is a check missing from the checkbook.”

  Loughton entered numbers into his computer.

  “Yes, as of this morning there was $1,750,000 in the account. And if someone tried to present a check now, it would be stale. Too much time has passed since your father’s death, and he was the only signatory on the account.”

  Tom retrieved the envelope from the banker’s desk.

  “It’s my duty to locate the owner. Can you tell me where the funds came from? I have an idea, but I need to confirm it.”

  “No, I can’t,” Loughton replied without checking his computer.

  “You can’t tell me, or you don’t know?”

  “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I’ve already researched that issue. Your father didn’t talk to me when he opened the account. He set it up through the bank officer on duty and made a deposit via a cashier’s check with no name listed on the remitter line. I examined the check myself.”

  “What bank was it drawn on?”

  “It came from Barbados.”

  “Arthur Pelham’s bank?”

  “No, we’re used to seeing transfers from his bank. This came from a different bank, one with connections in the UK.”

  “What kind of connections?”

  “I looked it up online. It was linked to a correspondent bank with offices in London, Liverpool, Newcastle, Glasgow, and a couple of other places I can’t remember.”

  “Newcastle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever ask my father about the account?”

  “No, I thought it probably had to do with a real estate closing. When the funds were still there after his death, I knew it would be up to you as his executor to sort it out. Do the records at his law office identify the owner of the funds?”

  “There’s a reference to a file number, but that’s not enough. Dealing with this much money, I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  “Of course not.”

  Loughton’s phone buzzed.

  “Mr. Albright on line 2,” a female voice said. “He says it’s important.”

  “I’ve been waiting for this call,” Loughton said, placing his finger on the Response button. “I hope you get the ownership of the account sorted out.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Tom returned to the office. He put the deposit slip and starter checkbook in the middle drawer of his father’s desk and locked it shut. He tapped the top of the desk with his pen. Neither Esther nor Rose Addington seemed to know about the money or the account. He needed to take his investigation to another level.

  Tom took out his cell phone, scrolled down to Arthur Pelham’s cell phone number, and pressed the Send button.

  “Hello, Tom, what can I do for you?” Arthur answered.

  “I know you’re busy, but it’s something I’d rather talk about in person. I promise not to take too long.”

  “Tom, I’m here for you. Don’t talk to me like one of my managers who’s afraid of my shadow. What’s this about?”

  “Harold Addington. I’ve found something and need to ask you about it.”

  Arthur was silent for a moment. “I’m in between meetings if you’d like to come by,” the older man said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  The Parker-Baldwin house was two minutes away on Oakdale Street. Tom left the deposit slip and checkbook locked in his father’s desk. If he didn’t have something with him, he couldn’t show it. He parked in front of the antebellum white-columned house. It had been impeccably restored
and meticulously maintained. The gardeners responsible for upkeep of the property didn’t allow a dead leaf to spend more than twenty-four hours on the ground before scooping it up. The lawn was lush, green, and devoid of weeds. Tom approached the house on a sidewalk of brick pavers laid in an intricate geometric design. Parked beside the house were Arthur’s sports car and a large sedan with dark windows. A husky man standing beside the car nodded when Tom approached. Arthur Pelham had reached the unfortunate status in life that he required 24/7 personal security. Tom wondered where the bodyguards had been concealed when they ate supper at Rick and Tiffany’s house.

  He rang the doorbell. Arthur opened it. The older man was wearing an expertly tailored gray suit.

  “Come in,” Arthur said. “I’ve been in meetings all day and walked in the door a few minutes before you called.”

  To the left of the foyer was a large formal living room. On the right was a much smaller parlor. Beyond the small parlor was a sunroom. Arthur led the way into the parlor. Like the entire house, it was furnished with period antiques.

  “No cigars in this house,” Arthur said affably. “I can’t risk smoke getting into the fabric of these chairs. Have a seat.”

  Tom gingerly sat down in a side chair.

  “It’ll hold you,” Arthur replied with a smile. “It just looks fragile.”

  “If Rick and I had been turned loose in this house when we were eleven years old, we would have torn it up and caused a huge spike in your insurance premiums.”

  “Those were good days, much simpler and more carefree than life now.” Arthur put his hands together in front of him. “Tell me, what have you found?”

  Tom cleared his throat. “You mentioned at Rick’s house that you were disappointed in Addington as an employee. Would you be willing to tell me why?”

  “Personnel matters aren’t subject to public discussion, and even though you’re a close friend of the family, I can’t discuss something like that outside the company.”

  “I would never do or say anything that might have a negative impact on you, your family, or your company.”

  “And I believe you,” Arthur replied. “But you’re going to have to go first with this conversation.”

  Tom took a deep breath and decided to get straight to the point.

  “Did Harold Addington misappropriate Pelham funds prior to his death?”

  A muscle in Arthur’s right cheek twitched. “If that occurred, do you have an idea where those funds might be located?”

  “Maybe.”

  They sat for a few moments in awkward silence.

  “You’re a smart lawyer, Tom,” Arthur said, a smile returning to his face. “If you can help me deal in a discreet way with a matter I’d prefer not become public knowledge, it will be greatly appreciated. That would be the case with Harold Addington or anyone else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your assistance would not go unnoticed or unrewarded. If you decide to return to Atlanta, I’m confident you’ll eventually join a quality law firm and land Pelham Financial as one of your clients. If you take Rick’s advice and open a practice in Bethel, I’ll make sure you have a steady flow of business in your area of expertise that can serve as a financial foundation for your future.”

  “I really appreciate that.”

  “So, can I count on you to follow through with anything related to Harold Addington in a professional manner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Arthur clapped his hands together. “Keep me current on further developments. I’m leaving town tomorrow, but you know how to reach me at any time. Let’s talk next week. In the meantime, I’ll make a few phone calls.”

  “Okay.”

  Tom felt relieved that he could pass some of his responsibility off to Arthur. The older man checked his watch.

  “Look, I’m glad you called. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes at the country club and need to get going.”

  Arthur walked Tom to the door. “Have you decided whether you’re going white-water rafting with Rick this weekend?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I hope you’ll spend time with him. You’re a good influence.”

  “Hopefully better than when we were kids.”

  “I’m sure of that.” Arthur patted Tom on the shoulder. “Rick could use a healthy dose of your drive and ambition.”

  As Tom left the Parker-Baldwin house he was certain of one thing. Harold Addington stole at least $1,750,000 from Pelham Financial, and Arthur Pelham wanted to get the money back in a way that would avoid negative publicity for his company.

  ______

  Returning to the office, Tom took out a legal pad and diagrammed what he suspected had taken place. Addington hatched a scheme in which he would use the confidential nature of the designated trust account as a means to launder the money to buy a tangible asset like real estate or purchase rare stamps. Tom knew his father was gullible, especially when it came to someone who liked to fish and enjoyed talking about religion. The thought that Addington may have manipulated John Crane made Tom mad.

  The office phone rang. Instead of letting it go to the message machine, Tom decided to answer it.

  “Is this Mr. Crane?”

  “I’m Tom Crane, his son. My father passed away a few months ago—”

  “You’re the one I’m supposed to talk to. This is Junior Jackson. I cut Rick Pelham’s grass. He told me to give you a call.”

  “Sure. Just a second. Let me get the file I need to ask you about.”

  Tom retrieved Freiburger v. Harrelson.

  “I know this is a long shot,” Tom said, picking up the phone, “but did you witness an accident involving a car hitting a pedestrian several months ago?”

  “At Poplar and Westover?”

  Tom checked the accident report.

  “Yes.”

  “Saw the whole thing. I was on my way to the elementary school to pick up my least young’un from school. She was sick, and my wife couldn’t get off work to get her. I wish I’d grabbed her up a few minutes later, ’cause as soon as she got in the truck she hurled all over the front seat. That stuff runs down in every crack and cranny and you can’t get the smell out for nothing. It’s an old truck, but I try to keep it nice and—”

  “You say you saw the accident. Does that mean you can tell me where the pedestrian was standing when the car hit him?”

  “Shoot, yeah. He was standing at the edge of the curb waiting to cross. The guy in the car was probably dialing on his cell phone or sending a text message and jumped the curb. His front bumper sent the man flying like a rag doll. I thought the fellow might be dead, but he sat up right quick. I rolled down my window to make sure he was okay, then headed on to the school.”

  “Where did the man land?”

  “In the street. It didn’t look nothing like what you see in the movies. You know, a stuntman makes things like that look—”

  “Why do you think the driver of the car was using his cell phone?” Tom interrupted. “Did you see him holding it?”

  “Nah, but he probably was. Why else would he run off the road and up on the curb?”

  “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “Lincoln or Buick, something.”

  “Do you remember the color of his car?”

  “Uh, silver, I think.”

  Tom glanced at the accident report. The car was a silver Lincoln sedan, a rental vehicle.

  “Did you notice a pothole in the road?”

  “There’s potholes all up and down that road. Most of them opened up after the snow and ice we had last winter. Do you remember when it stayed in the teens for over a week? I used to work for the county road department, and when that happens the asphalt around here turns to chalk. As soon as you plug a hole it pops open worse than before. That whole street needs to be repaved, but I think it’s a state highway. If that’s so, the state has to be the one to do the work. We used to get calls all the time from folks complaining that�
��”

  “If you’re asked under oath, would you testify that the silver car left the roadway and hit the pedestrian standing on the curb?”

  “I’d have to. That’s what happened.”

  “But you can’t swear to the cell phone business or whether a pothole could have caused the car to swerve off the road?”

  “Is the driver claiming he hit a pothole?”

  “I haven’t talked to him.”

  “I didn’t see no huge pothole. If you ask my opinion, the man in the silver car is lucky the fellow he hit didn’t bust his head open like a ripe watermelon. How bad was he hurt?”

  “It messed up his leg, and he had to have surgery.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I should have hung around. My uncle has a bum knee. People don’t know it, but that sort of thing can be aggravating.”

  “He’s had to miss work while he goes to physical therapy.”

  “And you’re his lawyer?”

  “My father was. I’m trying to help him find another one.”

  “Just out of curiosity, who was a-driving the silver car? I saw his face but didn’t know him.”

  “His name is Harrelson. I think he lives in New York, but he was here on business.” Tom hesitated but knew he needed to ask a follow-up question. “If Harrelson is an executive with Pelham Financial, would that be a problem for you testifying about what happened if this case goes to court?”

  “You mean ’cause I work for Rick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nah. Rick don’t care about that sort of stuff. He’s a good ole boy. This Harrelson fellow needs to take his New York driving back where it belongs. If he lives up there he ought to know how to drive around a pothole. I hear New York City is one big pothole.”

  “What’s your address and phone number in case someone needs to contact you?”

  Tom wrote down Jackson’s personal information.

  “I can’t promise to always answer that cell phone number,” Jackson said. “If I’m up to my armpits in mud or something worse out at the horse barn, I ain’t going to touch that phone.”

  “I understand. Thanks for calling.”

  “No problem. Rick says you might be out here on the property sometime. Holler at me. It’ll give me an excuse to take a break.”