They’re late, my inner voice said.
A few moments later, Jon Kampa joined us, his eyes sweeping first over me, then the chief, then back to me again. He was no happier that I was abusing his furniture than the old woman had been but said nothing about it. He adjusted his red tie. It was the same tie that he wore when we first met, the same charcoal suit.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he said.
I glanced at my watch again.
Dammit, Harry.
“You could confess,” I said, “but in a few minutes, it really won’t be necessary.”
“What are you talking about?” Kampa said.
“You looted the city’s account. You killed Nicholas Hendel. Nick Hendel was the Imposter’s real name, by the way. You probably didn’t know that.”
What surprised me was that Gustafson seemed more surprised by my revelation than Kampa. The chief turned a deep crimson and started breathing in and out as if he had just completed a marathon. Kampa, on the other hand, didn’t display any emotion at all. He spoke as if he had been practicing the phrase—“I will not answer any of your questions without my attorney present.”
“That’s okay with me,” I said. “I don’t have any questions.”
From his expression, the chief, on the other hand, had many, many questions.
“Think about it,” I said. “The Imposter was last seen alive at about 10:00 p.m. According to your report, Kampa said that the city accounts were looted at about midnight. Now I have been told since I started this investigation that just about everybody had access to the account numbers and password. I don’t believe that’s entirely true. For example, the Imposter didn’t have access. He didn’t have the password. His accomplices didn’t steal the money, or they wouldn’t have taken the risk of trying to help me find Hendel; they were just as surprised when he disappeared as you were. Who does that leave? It leaves the one person who knew that Hendel wouldn’t be around to ask what happened to the money; the one person who knew that, because he had disappeared, Hendel would be blamed for looting the account.”
I pointed at Kampa.
“The man who killed him,” I said.
“You can’t prove anything,” he said.
“It’s not my job to prove it. It’s theirs.”
By then, finally, the front door of the bank had flown open, and a dozen men and women dressed in suits entered, spreading out across the interior like a SWAT team, moving swiftly to the cashier cages and to the computers on top of the desks. Kampa took half a dozen quick steps toward the door. The chief grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back beneath the chandelier. More suits poured into the building. The old woman screamed. A man standing near the cashier cages raised his hands into the air. Apparently he was surrendering to a tall, silver-haired man who found a spot in the center of the bank and addressed the bank employees and customers in a loud, formal voice.
“My name is Daniel Hasselberg,” he said. “I am with the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation. The FDIC has just taken control of First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. Please remain calm. All of your deposits are safe. Nobody is going to have any problems with their money.” He paused for a moment, then added, “It’s going to get a bit crowded in here.”
Kampa squirmed against the chief’s grip.
“This is my bank,” he shouted.
Hasselberg studied him for a moment.
“Are you Jon Kampa?”
“Yes.”
“It’s my bank now.”
I saw a familiar smile from behind Hasselberg’s back. Harry moved around the government official and joined us beneath the chandelier, letting his credentials lead the way. He spoke first to the chief.
“Good afternoon, Officer. I’m Special Agent Brian Wilson, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Chief Eric Gustafson, Libbie Police Department.”
“Geezus, Harry,” I said from the sofa. “You’re a half hour late. If I had known you were on government time…”
“Did you do this?” Kampa said. “Did you call the FDIC?”
I gave him my best “Who? Me?” shrug. “If your bank wasn’t in trouble, why would you steal all that money?” I said.
“Oh, stop it, McKenzie,” Harry said. “The FDIC was already on it. After we spoke yesterday I made a few calls. The FDIC was going to close down the bank next month after its audit. They decided to accelerate their plans because they were afraid your accusations would cause a panic. Seems the bank was in trouble because its capital reserves had evaporated and the delinquent loans on its books have more than doubled during the past year. Most of the loans were tied to the housing market. The bank has been quietly up for sale for months, but there have been no takers.”
“That explains motive,” I said.
Harry nodded at Kampa, who was still being held by the chief. “Who are you?” he said.
The chief answered for him. “This is Jon Kampa. He owns the bank. He’s my prisoner.”
“What’s the charge?”