Death of a Bankster by David Bishop

mention his stupidity at keeping the victim’s credit card at his house along with the victim’s underwear. We have two witnesses who have positively identified him, his fingerprints at the scene, and the other hard evidence you already know about. The D.A.’s got it. It’s a slam dunk.”
    * * *
    Wednesday morning, Paige Crawford called Maddie to move their meeting from ten to eleven-fifteen, claiming Carla Roth had given her a sleeping pill late last night which had made her oversleep and left her groggy. She needed more time to get herself together.
    A hot dry wind was tossing Maddie’s hair this way and that when she and Sue left the station to drive to the Crawford home. The hot desert breeze was more like a tic on the corner of a mean mouth, than a real breeze, at least down low. Higher up, the tall palm trees on Central Avenue, reaching for the sky like giant giraffes, were swishing back and forth like tails on nervous cats. She had always marveled that more of them didn’t just snap off. They did sometimes, but it was rare. Survival instincts apparently applied even to tall palms. Thinking of survival, she now only had today and tomorrow to prove that someone had snapped off survival instincts for Sam Crawford.
    * * *
    When Maddie rang the doorbell at the front of the Crawford home, the door opened in the hand of an older, reedy woman nicely dressed in expensive black slacks, open-toed tan pumps, and a beige top with a modest cowl neckline. Her earrings, necklace, and bracelet were all copper embedded with small turquoise stones. She introduced herself as Barbara Davis, Paige’s mother. After a few minutes Paige joined them wearing an outfit similar to her mother’s, only featuring gold and dark brown. She wore a watch and her wedding ring, no earrings or other jewelry.
    They all sat in the family room just off the kitchen. Barbara Davis, a woman who looked young to be the mother of Paige Crawford, motioned Maddie and Sue toward two copper colored leather chairs while she and Paige sat on a matching two-cushion couch. The walls were adorned with art by Bev Doolittle. The coffee table in the center of the sitting area held a carafe of coffee, a pitcher of iced tea, a plate of crackers and some slices of cheddar and pepper jack cheeses. The place held the visual enticement of a social gathering, amidst the emotional trapping of a wake.
    Paige Crawford made a simple hand gesture to indicate Maddie and Sue should help themselves to the refreshments, then asked, “Sergeant Richards, have you found my husband’s body?”
    Maddie looked down as she poured a glass of iced tea, and then sat forward, her knees apart as though they were a couple in the midst of an argument. She looked straight into Paige’s eyes and answered. “No. We have a working acceptance of his murder. But his body was taken by persons unknown and could be anywhere. I’m sorry to say it so straight out, but you asked directly so I assumed you wanted a forthright answer.”
    “How could this have happened, Sergeant?” Barbara Davis asked. “I mean a man’s … body can’t just up and vanish.”
    Sue answered Ms. Davis. “Literally speaking, that’s true. Still, Phoenix, Arizona, the world, for that matter, is a big place. We knew nothing of this until the fourth days after the occurrence. In those four days, your son-in-law could have been taken anywhere. We hope to find answers, but it’s simply unrealistic for you to expect them this afternoon.”
    Paige leaned forward and put two crackers and some cheese on her plate before pushing the tray closer to Maddie and Sue. “I do understand that,” Paige said, “but this is all … so hard. One day he is here. Then he is dead. Then his body disappears. Then I learn the FBI agents were imposters.” Paige stiffened. Her eyes shut tightly, her delicate lashes long and perfectly colored. She ran her hands down the legs of her black slacks and crossed her legs at the ankles. Then she looked