Page 74 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

Reviewing the recordings had been tedious work. There were customers coming and going, employees moving between desks, and people standing at counters for transactions that had nothing to do with Harvey. I watched the footage in sections, noting the relevant times and checking the surrounding recordings whenever something caught my attention. Eventually, I found the confrontation. Harvey was clearly involved in a heated exchange with a man who appeared to be close to his own age, though the footage couldn't tell me who he was or what had brought him there.

I watched the encounter several times, paying attention to the man's face, his movements, and the way he reacted to Harvey. I also went back through the rest of the recordings, looking for the same man elsewhere in the bank or in the company of someone who might help identify him. I didn't find anything conclusive, but I now had a clear image of his face. That was more than I'd had before.

The phone company still hadn't responded to the warrant relating to the threatening text Max had seen on Harvey's phone. The message referred to something that should have been left buried twenty years ago, but it hadn't named the person or event involved. I had reason to believe the number might lead us somewhere useful, and I wasn't prepared to let the matter drop simply because the company hadn't yet provided the records.

Between the footage, the phone inquiry, and the work surrounding Harvey's possessions, I had more than enough to keep me occupied. The difficulty was that none of it happened in isolation. I had deputies to supervise, reports to review, calls to return, and the daily problems that came with being sheriff. A disturbance at a local business could take an hour to sort out. A complaint about property damage could require statements from several people. Even when nothing particularly serious happened, the administrative work still had to be done.

I could feel the hours slipping away while the case remained unresolved. The worst part was that I hadn't managed to make much time for Max. We'd exchanged texts during the week, and I'd checked in to make sure he was doing alright, but our conversations had mostly been brief. I'd promised to keep him informed when I could without compromising the investigation, and I'd tried to honour that promise. Still, I knew the difference between sending someone a message and actually spending time with them. Max had been patient about my workload, but I didn't want to mistake his patience for a lack of need.

We'd spent too many years apart for me to assume that simply being back in his life would be enough. I'd left him once without giving him the explanation he deserved, and I knew that rebuilding trust meant more than apologizing and expecting him to believe everything would be different. I needed to show him that I could make room for him even when life was complicated, not only when everything else had settled down.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I was trying to solve a murder that involved an old secret, while attempting to repair a relationship damaged by a decision I'd made years ago. Both required patience, honesty, and the willingness to face things I'd rather not examine too closely. Unfortunately, neither offered a convenient timetable.

On the following Monday morning, I was working through a report at my desk when my phone rang. The caller identified himself as Daniel Samuels from Chesapeake Shore Community Bank, the institution where Harvey had held his account. I'd arranged for the bank to notify me if the missing fifteen-thousand-dollar check was presented, and I sat up straighter as Daniel explained why he was calling.

“We've had confirmation that Harvey Sinclair's check for fifteen thousand dollars was presented through Harborstone Community Credit Union,” he said. “It hasn't cleared yet. We've been notified of Mr. Sinclair's death, but we haven't received a death certificate or documentation from an estate representative. We also haven't received a stop-payment instruction, so the check is still being processed.”

I considered that for a moment. Harvey had written the check on the Sunday he died, and someone had presented it five days later. I knew his death didn't automatically invalidate the check or immediately prevent the bank from processing every outstanding transaction. Under Maryland law, a bank could still pay a check drawn on or before the date of death during the following ten days, even after learning of the death, unless someone claiming an interest in the account ordered a stop-payment. We were still within that period, and I had no indication that anyone had tried to stop it.

“Alright. Please preserve the relevant records, including the transaction details that will identify who presented it, and let me know if its status changes. I'll follow up through the proper legal channels for the information we need.”

“Of course. We'll retain the records and update you if the status changes.”

I thanked him and ended the call, then sat back in my chair and considered what we'd learned. The check had been presented through Harborstone Community Credit Union, but that didn't tell me who had deposited it. Nor did it explain why Harvey had written it in the first place. The checkbook stub had been marked personal, and there was no matching transaction on the bank statement I'd reviewed. Someone had taken the check and put it into circulation, but until we obtained the transaction records, I couldn't say who or why.

I made a note of Daniel's call and added a reminder to follow up on the legal request for the transaction details. I also wanted confirmation that the bank would notify me if the check cleared, was returned, or was otherwise stopped. We couldn't assume that its current status would remain unchanged, and I didn't want a potentially important piece of evidence slipping through the cracks because I'd failed to ask the right question.

The fact that the check had been presented through a credit union in Baltimore was interesting, but I had to be careful not to attach too much significance to it. Harvey had written a substantial check on the day he died, and someone had decided to present it within the following week. That was worth investigating, but it didn't establish a connection between the recipient and the murder. I needed the records before I could make that judgment.

I looked at the notes on my desk. The unidentified man from the bank, the threatening text, the missing check, and the reference to something that had happened twenty years ago might all be connected. They might also lead to different people and different explanations. Shelby's name had appeared in my notes after Max mentioned it, but I still didn't know what connected her to Harvey, beyond the fact that Ricky knew her as possibly his boss's sister and that she'd died several years ago. It was a name worth checking, not an answer.

I rubbed a hand over my face and glanced at the clock. There were still calls I needed to make, and I had another report waiting for my attention. I could have spent the rest of the morning staring at the evidence until something revealed itself, but that wasn't how investigations worked. I needed to keep moving, follow each lead properly, and accept that some answers would take longer than others.

Even so, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was allowing the investigation to take over every part of my life. The case mattered, and Harvey deserved a thorough investigation, but Max mattered too. I didn't want him to feel as though he'd been fitted into whatever scraps of time remained after everything else had been dealt with. If I was serious about making a future with him, I had to behave like it.

I picked up my phone and sent him a message.

Are you home this afternoon? I'd like to come by if you have time.

His reply came a few minutes later.

I should be. Sylvester has decided that my laptop is an excellent place to sleep, so I'm not making much progress anyway.

I smiled despite myself. I could picture the orange menace sprawled across Max's keyboard, completely untroubled by the fact that his presence was interfering with someone else's work.

Sounds like you've got a demanding supervisor. I'll come by when I can.

Bring coffee, and I might forgive you for interrupting my writing.

I'll see what I can do.

I put the phone away and returned to my paperwork, feeling a little less weighed down than I had a few minutes earlier. The messages hadn't solved anything, but they were a reminder that there was still a life waiting for me beyond the case. I needed to make sure I didn't lose sight of it.

By the time I finished the most urgent reports, the morning had slipped into early afternoon. I called the bank back to confirm the preservation request was noted, then made arrangements to obtain the transaction records through the appropriate legal process. I wasn't going to ask Daniel to disclose information he wasn't authorized to give me, and I wasn't going to jeopardize the investigation by taking shortcuts. We needed evidence that could stand up to scrutiny, not a convenient answer that might fall apart later.

I still didn't know who had presented Harvey's check, whether the threatening text had come from the man in the bank footage, or what had happened twenty years ago. The autopsy had established the fatal injury, but not the circumstances of the fall. The watch had proved mechanically sound, but its stopped hands offered no reliable timeline. The scene examination might give us more to work with, and the bank and phone records might finally put names to some of the questions in my notebook. For now, I had to accept that progress came in small steps. I could document what we knew, pursue what we didn't, and avoid pretending the gaps were answers. It wasn't satisfying, but it was the work.

I gathered the notes I needed for the afternoon and prepared to leave the office. Before I did, I glanced once more at the message from Max. I'd told him I would come by, and I intended to keep that promise. I couldn't tell him when the investigation would be finished, or whether the next lead would bring us closer to the truth. I could, however, make time to sit with him, drink coffee, and talk about something other than a dead man and a twenty-year-old secret. The investigation had finally moved forward, and in a quieter way, so were we.