She felt stumped. She replaced the March statements, refilled the envelope, and reached back for February. She withdrew the February statements, another three pages, and scanned them as well. There was a two-hundred-dollar cash withdrawal on February 1, 8, 15, 22, and 28. She noticed they were all around lunchtime at the same ATM, Blakemore Plaza, at the hospital. Again, not suspicious.
Mindy put the February statement back and reached into the drawer for the January statement. But when she pulled it out, she noticed that it wasn’t from their joint account—it was a February statement from Evan’s account. They had opened the account for him, and the balance was about $32,000. Evan deposited money he got from them and from Paul’s wealthy parents, who had been generous with gifts for their only grandson. The statement was still sealed, since she never bothered to open them when they came in. Evan didn’t bother either, evidently taking it for granted, defeating her purpose in opening the account in the first place. She could almost hear her father’s voice, saying, you have to teach him the value of money, and that had been her intent, but somehow she ended up with a son who had affluenza.
Mindy tore open the envelope, which read at the top, Dr. Paul & Mrs. Mindy Kostis in custodianship for Evan R. Kostis, and she scanned down to the bottom for the balance, which was $22,918. That was a lower balance than she remembered, but she could have been mistaken. There had been no deposits that month, but oddly, there had been a withdrawal, in the amount of $5,000.
Mindy gasped. Why had there been such a large withdrawal, or any withdrawal at all? Who had withdrawn it? She, Paul, and Evan were all authorized to make withdrawals, and no permissions were required. Mindy hadn’t withdrawn the money, so that left Paul or Evan. She didn’t know if Paul had withdrawn the money to buy his new girlfriend a present, or if Evan had withdrawn the money to buy whatever girlfriend he had a present.
Mindy felt flabbergasted. In the past, Evan had bought presents for his girlfriends at Central Valley and other high schools, probably five gifts in total, but he had never used his money to do it and the most he’d ever charged was three hundred dollars, which was when she’d laid down the law that he had to ask first. So what could Evan have possibly done with $5,000? Or Paul, for that matter?
She set the statement aside, went back in the drawer, and started looking for the previous statement, which she found, also unopened. She was kicking herself now. She’d simply assumed Evan’s account was dormant.
She examined the envelope, postmarked February 12, then extracted the statement, scanning it. She spotted a withdrawal of $3,000 on January 16. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Why would Evan take so much money out of his account? Why would Paul? How many gifts where they buying? What was going on? Where was all of Evan’s money going?
Mindy’s heart began to hammer. What was going on in her own house? Her own family? She set the statement aside, went back in the drawer, and rummaged until she found the December statement for Evan’s account. She tore it open, pulling out the single-page statement with hands that had begun to shake. Again, on December 13, about a month previous, there was another withdrawal, for $2,000.
Mindy’s mind raced with possibilities. Drugs? Gambling? She went back to the drawer, collected all of the statements from Evan’s account, and opened every envelope, checking to see if there were any cash withdrawals. Half an hour later, she’d found none earlier than December.
Mindy sat cross-legged on the floor, the statements around her in a circle. So there had been three withdrawals, totaling $10,000 in cash, but she didn’t know if they were by Evan or Paul. Her heart told her that they had to have been made by Paul, but she knew a way to answer her own question.
She returned the statements to their envelopes, put them back in the kitchen drawer, then hurried from the kitchen and headed for Evan’s room.
She was going to get to the bottom of this, right now.
Chapter Thirty-one
Chris sped toward town, his head pounding. It drove him crazy that there could be ammonium nitrate fertilizer in the Kiefermanns’ shed and he was leaving it behind. He’d already called and texted the Rabbi to set up a work-around, but the Rabbi hadn’t called or texted back yet, and Chris suspected it couldn’t happen until tomorrow or the next day. Which could be too late.
Chris accelerated down the country road, racing past dark farms and fields. He gripped the wheel tight, grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw. He knew he was right about a bomb plot at CVHS and he wasn’t going to stop digging until he stopped them. He felt a rush of adrenaline that focused his thoughts and clarified his mission, a drive that dedicated him to a higher purpose—protecting people, saving lives, serving justice.
He glanced at the speedometer and saw he was nearing a hundred miles an hour. He let off the gas. Central Valley lay ahead, and he followed the route to Dylan McPhee’s house. Chris had been making nocturnal rounds of the four suspects since he moved to town, regularly cruising their homes. Now he knew that with Trevor, he’d been staking out the wrong house, a split-level in Central Valley proper. No wonder he hadn’t seen Trevor there. Trevor didn’t live there. Chris was kicking himself, but it showed why an undercover needed an unwitting.
He took a right turn off the main road, then wended his way through the upscale Golfing Park neighborhood, where the homes were large, with a stone or brick façade. Most were built fifteen years ago, when the developers came in to support the outlet boom. He turned onto Dylan’s street, Markham Road, and parked at the corner, giving him a diagonal view of the house, number 283, three doors down.
He cut the engine, not wanting to wake anyone up. The street was quiet and still. Houses lined up behind the hedges, and perennials sprouted through fresh mulch. Newer cars sat in the driveways, though some houses had garages. Several of the garage doors were left open, indicating that the residents felt safe and secure, but Chris knew otherwise. People thought no harm could ever come to them, but the harm was already here.
He sat eyeing Dylan’s house, a standard four-bedroom on two acres, bordered by a high stone wall that enclosed a kidney-shaped pool and a small putting green—Chris knew from Google Earth, which had given him every detail of the homes he staked out. Dylan’s bedroom was around the back, and the boy’s was the only window that stayed lighted after the family had gone to bed. Chris had binoculars and he used them to see Dylan through the open curtains, the boy’s head bent over the lighted screen of his laptop, sitting at his desk until almost one in the morning, every night.