Multiple Suspects

By Jerry Radford

William Rollins, Special Agent in charge of the bank robbery division of the FBI, has the call. Special Agent Stephanie Drysdale gets the assignment. Shes young. Shes aggressive. Shes a star in the making in the Richmond, Virginia office. A deposit of bills with sequential numbers shows up in a bank in LaPlata, Maryland. The bills originated with the robbery of Short Pump National bank nineteen months earlier in Richmond. She and Rollins trace the bills to a church in King George, Virginia. A second deposit pops up in Richmond. Then a third. And a fourth. In each case, bills have been donated anonymously to a worthy cause. The bills keep coming. Capturing and prosecuting two bank robbers is at stake, but something is amiss.


PRAISE FOR JERRY RADFORD

No One Can know
The story alone is the stuff of bestsellers and hit movies, but the real fun here is the authors talent with dialogue and edgy characters. If you like Harlan Coben and Dennis LeHane, then youll like Jerry Radford. Larry Brooks, Bestselling author of Bait and Switch, Serpents Dance, Pressure Points, Darkness Bound, and Whisper of the Seventh Thunder

One After Another
An impressive edge-of-your-seat trifecta of horse racing, bank robbing, and special effects. You cant predict or second guess the plot twists and story lines in a Radford novel, which might not work in betting the ponies, but results in an absolute jackpot for the reader. Jamie Layton, Ducks Cottage Bookstore


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jerry Radford is a former advertising agency president who won hundreds of creative writing awards in print, television and radio. His creative juices now flow through the pages of suspense novels, introducing readers to gripping plots full of vivid characters who come to life with snappy dialogue, humor, and a grittiness that demands a turn of page. A sense of place infuses realism and insight. Twists, turns, and stunning conclusions are his trademark.

A native of Richmond, Virginia, Radford now resi

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496924858

Jerry Radford

Jerry Radford is a former advertising agency president who won hundreds of creative writing awards in print, television and radio. His creative juices now flow through the pages of suspense novels, introducing readers to gripping plots full of vivid characters who come to life with snappy dialogue, humor, and a grittiness that demands a turn of page. A sense of place infuses realism and insight. Twists, turns, and stunning conclusions are his trademark. A native of Richmond, Virginia, Radford now resides in Virginia Beach, Virginia.

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2014 Jerry Radford. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/11/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2482-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2485-8 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

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Also by Jerry Radford

FICTION

What About Mario

The Banks Club

Off Track

Fateful Night

One After Another

Captured Audience

No One Can Know

Swimming in Terror

Follow the Money

NON-FICTION

Superscout Women’s Basketball Recruiting Guide

Special Thanks to:

Mary Hall

Who provided me with the encouragement to write another

book, and the support needed to do so, from start to finish.

US

Bill Wood

Who provided me with legal guidance

regarding interrogation of suspects.

TEAM

PROLOGUE

Roger Cook used both hands and strong shoulders to work his Igloo cooler into a tight spot next to the twelve-foot johnboat behind the cab of Tony Burke’s 2012 Ford-150 pickup. The cooler housed a twenty pound bag of crushed ice along with a couple of one-gallon plastic milk cartons full of frozen water. Sweat beads popped out on his brow reflecting a street light just a few feet away. He also squeezed in a smaller cooler stuffed with sandwiches and snacks and three bottles of grape Gatorade. The first rays of morning sun were a good ninety minutes or so from making an appearance in a day forecast to be in the low nineties with minimal wind and clear skies. Perfect for the twelve hour float trip down the James River from Bremo Bluff to Columbia.

It took two vehicles to make the float. Roger had his own Ford-150, purchased in 2009. His was silver. Tony’s was black. Roger’s was to be left at the take-out spot at the south end of the bridge at Columbia, then he’d hop in Tony’s truck and they’d transport all the gear and boat to the access at Bremo Bluff just under the Route 15 bridge on the north side.

As Roger carefully placed two Shakespeare Ugly Stick spinning rods and a tackle box, containing two extra reels and an assortment of spinners and jiggin’ minnows, next to Tony’s tackle box, he said, I was out in the driveway after dinner last night spooling new line on my ultralight reel when Mrs. Hurley came over from next door, all friendly-like, and asked if I was going fishing. I nodded and told her what you and I were up to. Suddenly, she got this serious look on her face and asked me if I was taking a gun.

A gun? Why’d she say that?

I asked her why I needed a gun and she gave me a one word answer.

And what was that?

"Deliverance."

Tony spread his arms and said, I don’t get it.

I didn’t either … at the time. She’s full of herself, you know. Much younger-thinking than her years. I think she recognized the ridiculous look I probably had on my face and decided to toy with me a little. She turned and stuck her butt in my direction, pointed to it three times with her right index finger, then shot me a little wave over her shoulder and headed for her car in her nurses uniform. I already knew she was one of ten working the night shift this month over at Henrico Hospital. As soon as she pulled out of her driveway, I got it. It’s an old movie staring Burt Reynolds and some guy named Ned, or Ed, something like that. A couple years back, before Mrs. Hurley’s husband passed away, they invited me over to watch the movie on video.

Any good?

Yeah, a guy flick for sure.

Why’d she bring it up?

It’s about four guys canoeing down a river full of rapids, rocks, and drop-offs. A float trip sorta like we’re going to make. All kinds of scary shit happens in the movie.

Such as …

Weird-assed, banjo-picking, no-teeth crazy loonies live in the woods along the river.

And?

They follow the two canoes as they make their way downstream.

Follow how, like in their own canoes, or what?

Darting through the forest using the foliage as cover. The guys in the canoes can hear them. Shadows dance. It’s spooky, believe me. Sinister, too.

Intense, huh?

Oh, yeah. About as unsettling as it gets. Burt’s group makes the mistake of beaching the canoes.

Tony leaned forward and his fingers danced as though making fun of Roger. Chuckling, he said, And what happens next?

One of the weirdos rapes the Ned guy.

Really?

Right up the ass after tying him to a tree.

What’s Burt do?

Shoots the bastard with an arrow. Kills him.

Damn. The most exciting thing that’s ever had happened on one of our float trips is when you fell out of the boat along with your open tackle box. You and several top water plugs floated downstream while I laughed as smallmouth bass gobbled up the baits.

I could have drowned, you know.

Yeah, but you didn’t.

You still own a gun, right? Let’s stop by your place and pick it up for the trip.

Tony smiled and said, Come on Rog. Nothing bad is going to happen to us.

1

William Rollins, Special Agent in charge of the bank robbery division of the FBI, was done for the day. Or so he thought. He was slipping his left arm into his wool overcoat when his special ringtone let him know he had a call on his secure line. He tossed the coat over the back of one of the two chairs facing his desk. Hurrying around the desk, he lifted the receiver, ready for a conversation before quickly easing into a sitting position in his high back leather chair. He never had a chance to say hello. The caller went right to it.

William, Nick over at Treasury. I have one of our carriers on the way to your office with a package containing two one hundred dollar bills. Both look as crisp as those coming off our presses today. But they’re not new. They were issued directly to Short Pump National Bank’s branch on West Broad Street in Richmond, Virginia two weeks before the bank was robbed. . . what … nineteen months ago?

Yeah, I’m sorry to say it’s one of hundreds of bank robberies we haven’t solved since the economy started its southward spiral in 2007. You’d think Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were back in action.

Awwww, shiiit.

Rollins chuckled at Nick’s reference to the classic movie scene before he said, It would be nice to catch a break. How did the bills end up at Treasury?

Sharp teller at Southern Maryland Bank in La Plata. Name is Denise Willis. Married, two teenage kids. Been with the bank for twelve years. According to branch manager, Ron Stevenson, she’s been offered several managerial positions, but refused them because she really likes the client contact and always has a line of customers in front of her despite other lines being open.

Service is alive and well. That’s refreshing to hear, but go on.

The bills were part of a large cash deposit from the local Walmart. Stevenson said Mrs. Willis brought him the bills after executing the paperwork. She’d pulled both then signed into our site to run the serial numbers, which she had recognized as being sequential. She couldn’t put her finger on why she did that other than chalking it up to her intuition. Something was amiss.

Rollins said, And she was right. She’s been trained well.

And obviously, she’s conscientious. We got the call late yesterday afternoon. I sent a carrier to pick up the bills first thing this morning.

We’ll run the bills through our lab and see if technology leads us anywhere. At this point, the bills are nothing more than a lead. I’ll send a couple of agents down to the bank to interview Mrs. Willis and Stevenson, get a name of the depositor from Walmart and proceed from there. I’m thinking right now that I may dive into this one myself. I’m not sure if we’re fortunate the bills showed up at a Walmart, or not. Lots of cameras and Walmart’s record keeping is top notch, but determining who brought the bills to the store is going to be an exhausting task.

But if you do determine who that person is, it could be significant.

Rollins nodded as though Nick was standing right in front of him. I could fall in love with significant. He was about to make another comment when he heard a tap on his door before his secretary walked in and laid the carrier envelope on his desk. He thanked her and said to Nick, Bills just arrived.

Now you have two leads.

Rollins chuckled. Yeah, for one bank robbery. I’m sitting hear staring at my wall map with all the pins stuck in it indicating unsolved bank robberies. Every state is represented. I’ve come to the conclusion that I have more pins than an Olympic wrestling champion.

Nick laughed. Blame it on the government.

We are the government. As those four words left his mouth, the thought of government intervention in the housing market reared its head and he added, One arm establishes The Community Reinvestment Act, the major cause of an extended recession, and another arm deals with the consequences of that action.

Layoffs, foreclosures, assaults, stocks plunging, and the big kahuna just for you … bank robberies.

The truth shall set you free.

Nick laughed again, I just sent you free money.

I hope it buys me two bank robbers.

Could happen.

I need to make it happen.

2

Rollins was back to slipping into his overcoat as he stepped over to the window of his third floor corner office at FBI headquarters in Washington. In his office, everyday was different. Different problems. Different solutions. But below, on the corner of 9th and E Streets, everyday was the same. Same vendor selling shirts, jackets, caps, and warmup suits sporting the acronym of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Same long line of tourists forking over the loot. Didn’t matter if it was a sweltering hot summer day or a cold misty late afternoon in November, as it was on this day. He shook his head as he turned and walked slowly up to the big map, his eyes scanning the states. Lifting the pin that located the robbery at Short Pump National Bank in Virginia, he turned it over, stared at the point and said, It’s happening. Then he stuck the pin back where it belonged. For now.

Twenty minutes later, Rollins was rolling along with the traffic on George Washington Parkway heading south toward Alexandria and then onto Route 1 and Mount Vernon. His house was about a half-mile from where George Washington used to pick cherries. He had both hands carefully gripping the steering wheel just in case bumper cars came into play. The car was FBI issue, a new charcoal Ford Fusion with bells and whistles unavailable to the public, technology Captain James T. Kirk and crew would appreciate.

During the previous few minutes he’d called the bank manager to let him know he’d be at the bank when it opened tomorrow and would like to immediately meet with Mrs. Willis. He’d already made the decision to be fully involved in the interviewing process at both the bank and Walmart. He was looking at multiple interviews with the store manager, employees, and possibly some customers. He needed some help, an agent with good people skills and tons of insight. Since the bills originated with the robbery in Richmond, someone from that office should be in the mix. He had been impressed with Special Agent Stephanie Drysdale after working with her for several days reviewing tapes of the Short Pump robbery. According to Lou Gatto, Special Agent in charge of the Richmond office, Drysdale was a star in the making. Rollins had agreed with his assessment.

Decision made.

With his hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, Rollins spoke and Bluetooth technology processed his request. Seconds later, Drysdale answered. He explained the situation asking her to meet him at 7:30 a.m. at the entrance to the LaPlata Walmart. They could use the time before the bank opens to get a feel for that particular store, then grab a cup of coffee at a nearby Starbucks where they could formulate a strategy.

3

Stephanie Drysdale was jazzed, to say the least. The call from the big boss in D.C. had stirred her emotionally, nervous tension in play before the call ended. She couldn’t sit down. Couldn’t stand still. Couldn’t stop the pacing. Her enthusiasm soaring to higher levels as the minutes flew by. This was an opportunity to show her stuff, bring her A game.

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks and smiled. Be the first one on the court and the last one off. Words of wisdom she had taken to heart when she went out for her high school basketball team as a freshman. Her dad had been right. Those same words followed her to college where she became an all-conference two-guard at five seven. The words continue to follow her as FBI Special Agent Stephanie Drysdale.

A year ago she purchased a condo in the Nolde’s Bread Condominium complex, a two story yellow brick building on Church Hill in the eastern part of town. The former commercial bakery sits across the street from Saint John’s Church where Patrick Henry famously said, I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me Liberty, or give me death! She thought the historic location was a perfect spot for an agent of the FBI to reside. Her one bedroom plus den unit was located on the first floor near the parking garage. She could be in her car within seconds if duty called.

As far as she was concerned, duty had called and she was not going to wait until tomorrow morning to answer to that duty. With John Mayer providing the background music from her stereo, she lifted a small travel bag from the floor of her bedroom closet, placed it on top of her bed and unzipped it. Quickly, she packed it with clean under garments, toiletries, black dress shoes and a paperback novel by Michael Presscott featuring FBI agent Tess McCallum. She momentarily stared at the novel, thought about what she was about to undertake, then grabbed it and stuck on her bedside table. She’d been listening to the music while lounging in a nice soft fleece warmup suit when the call came from Rollins. She stripped down and added the warmup to her travel bag, just in case. In case of what? She had no idea, but the warmup would travel with her. It was November. After slipping into jeans, she pulled a teal sweatshirt over her head. She liked this particular sweatshirt because, with one quick zip, it became a turtleneck. Seconds later, she tied on a pair of neon green Nike running shoes. She’d look nothing like an FBI agent. And that was a good thing. For tonight.

For tomorrow morning’s meeting with Rollins, she unfolded a hanging bag, zipped it open then selected an understated white blouse and a dark gray pant suit, eased the two hangers through the opening at the top and, with the shoes already packed in the travel bag, she was good to go. Except for her Sig Sauer 9mm. She stuck that in a holster that would fit behind her back when wearing the suit. She slid it into her medium-sized pocketbook. Just before leaving her condo, she stuck an O’s baseball hat on her head. She was a fan. Well, sort of. Actually, she had a hat representing every major league team. It was a when duty calls thing. Walmart was open 24 hours a day. She planned on searching throughout the store for rollback bargains.

Or cameras you couldn’t buy.

4

Five minutes later, Stephanie was tooling west on East Broad Street in her take home FBI Dodge Charger. The gun medal gray four door lived up to its name. She liked that. As soon as she exited onto I-95 north, she tapped the accelerator until the speedometer hit 65 miles per hour without a hiccup. Smooth. Traffic was sparse. The night was clear, stars twinkling, the moon revealing a quarter of its size. She’d placed her iPhone in the cup holder just in case Rollins got back in touch. She