I make a couple of calls to set up meetings for tomorrow and then head for home. I give Tara and Reggie some celebratory biscuits, and then we go out for a long walk.
After I take them home I head for Charlie’s to watch some baseball and drink some beer with Pete and Vince. “Congratulations,” Pete says in a surprising burst of humanity.
“You gonna win?” Vince asks.
“Is this off the record?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I shrug. “I hope so.”
He frowns his disdain. “You sure I can’t use that? Because that’s the kind of quote that sells newspapers.”
I update Pete on what we learned about the chopper crash, and I give him the names of Mike Carelli, Dr. Gary Winston, and Anthony Banks, the other people on the flight, just in case he has anything on them. He says that certainly nothing comes to mind, but that he’ll check.
“I called a friend in the State Police to see if I could find out any progress they’re making on the highway shooting,” Pete says.
“Thanks.” I had asked him to do that; even though the shooters were dead, a full investigation would certainly take place. “You find out anything?”
He nods. “The case was turned over to the FBI.”
This is a stunning development. “FBI? Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” he asks with annoyance. “You think I get letters confused? Maybe they said they’re turning over the case to the DMV? Or maybe LBJ?”
His sarcasm doesn’t make a dent on me; I’m too focused on this news. “What the hell could the FBI have to do with an attempted murder on a New Jersey highway?”
“That, counselor, is something you might want to figure out.”
* * * * *
IF YOU WANT to live thirty stories above New Jersey, the place to do it is in Fort Lee at Sunset Towers. It sits on the edge of the Hudson River and offers its upscale tenants spectacular views of the New York skyline. Its lobby and basement areas include a grocery store, cleaners, and drugstore, making running errands an easy jog. The place is so classy that the doorman is called a concierge.
I’ve come here to see Donna Banks, widow of Anthony Banks, the second lieutenant who, the records show, died in the same helicopter crash as Archie Durelle. I called yesterday and explained who I was, though I did not say why I wanted to talk to her about her husband. She agreed to see me this morning, though she did not seem pleased about it.
I left Kevin the job of trying to reach Cynthia Carelli, the widow of Mike Carelli, the chopper pilot listed as killed in the same crash as Durelle and Banks. She lives in Seattle, a rather long trip to make in person, considering the small likelihood that he has anything to do with our case.
I stop at the “concierge” and tell him that I am here to see Ms. Banks. He nods, picks up the phone, and dials her number. There must be hundreds of apartments in this building, and his not having to look up the number is impressive.
He receives confirmation that I am expected and sends me up to her twenty-third-floor apartment. The high-speed elevator has me there within seconds, and Donna Banks answers the door within a few moments of my ringing the bell. She is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, but dressed and carrying a handbag as if ready to go out. Not a good sign if I’m hoping to have a long interview.
“Ms. Banks, thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Come in, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m quite busy,” she says.
I nod agreeably as I enter. “We could do this some other time, when you’re not as rushed.”
“I’m afraid I always seem to be rushed.”
“What is it you do?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I mean your work-what it is that keeps you so busy?”
She seems taken aback by the question. “Volunteer work… and I have many friends… You said you needed to talk about Anthony.”
I sit down without being offered the opportunity and take a glance around the apartment. It is expensively furnished, and neat to the point that it doesn’t even looked lived in. “Are you married, Ms. Banks?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I really am in a hurry, Mr. Carpenter. Can we chitchat a little less and get to why you’re here?”
“Sure. How much did the Army share with you about the circumstances of your husband’s death?”
“They said he was on a helicopter that went down in enemy territory. They weren’t sure at the time if hostile fire was involved.”
“And did they ever become sure?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t pursue it.”
“Does the name Archie Durelle mean anything to you?”
“No.” Her answer was instantaneous; she’s not exactly racking her brain to remember.
“Antwan Cooper?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had any reason to question the Army’s account of the helicopter crash?”
“No. The circumstances are not important. Anthony was important, and his death was important. Whether they were shot down or had a mechanical failure doesn’t change anything.”
I ask a few more questions and get similarly unresponsive answers. When she takes out her car keys and stands up, it’s rather clear that her volunteer work and friends can’t wait another minute. I thank her for her time and leave.
There is nothing about this woman that I trust. She was completely uncomfortable talking to me, yet if that came from an ongoing grief over her husband’s death, she hid it really well. There I was, asking what should have seemed like out-of-the-blue questions about the event that turned her into a widow, yet she showed no curiosity about where I was coming from. All she cared about was when I would leave.
I don’t believe she was rushed, and I test that by waiting at the elevator for five minutes. Even though she had her handbag and car keys in hand, there’s no sign of her.
I go down and get my car out of the underground parking garage. I wait another half hour, positioned to see the garage exit and the front door of the building. It’s my version of a stakeout, without the doughnuts.
She doesn’t show up, which comes as no surprise to me. I head back to the office, calling Sam Willis on my cell phone as I drive. I tell him that I have another job for him.
“Great!” he says, making no effort to conceal his delight. He’s probably hoping it results in another high-speed highway shooting.
“The woman’s name is Donna Banks. She lives in apartment twenty-three-G in Sunset Towers in Fort Lee. I don’t have the exact address, but you can get it.”
“Pretty swanky apartment,” he says.
“Right. I want you to find out the source of that swank.”
“What does that mean?”
“I want to know how she can afford it. She doesn’t work, and she’s the widow of a soldier. Maybe her name is Banks because her family owns a bunch of them, but I want to know for sure.”
“Got it.”
“No problem?” I ask. I’m always amazed at Sam’s ability to access any information he needs.
“Not so far. Anything else?”
“Yes. I left her apartment at ten thirty-five this morning. I want to know if she called anyone shortly after I left, and if so, who.”
“Gotcha. Which do you want me to get on first? Although neither will take very long.”
“I guess her source of income.”
“Then say it, Andy.”
“Say what?”
“Come on, play the game. You’re asking me to find out where she gets her cash. So say it.”
“Sam…”
“Say it.”
“Okay. Show me the money.”
“Thatta boy. I’ll get right on it.”
I hang up and call the office, to make sure Kevin is around. I want to tell him about Donna Banks and my distrust of her. He’ll think my suspicions are unfounded and vague, which they are, but he’ll trust my instincts.