A Maidens Grave

tools—
    “The tools, yes,” Potter said, as LeBow typed. He turned to Melanie. “Did you see him use them?”
    No, Melanie answered. But I was in killing room for most of time. Toward end I remembered them walking around looking at the machinery and fixtures. I thought they were taking a nostalgic look at the place, maybe they were looking for something, though.
    Potter snapped his fingers. “Dean told us something similar.”
    LeBow scanned through the incident chronology. He read, “ ‘Seven-fifty-six p.m. Sheriff Stillwell reported that a trooper under his command observed Handy and Wilcox searching the factory, testing doors and fixtures. Reason unknown.’ ”
    “Okay. Good. Let’s put the tools on hold for a minute. Those are the things he had with him when he went in. What did we give him?”
    “Just the food and the beer,” Budd said. “Oh, and the money.”
    “The money!” Potter cried. “Money he didn’t ask for in the first place.”
    Angie typed, And he never tried to bargain up the fifty thousand. Why not?
    There’s only one reason a man doesn’t want money, LeBow typed. He’s got more than he needs.
    Potter was nodding excitedly. There’s money hidden in the building. It was part of his plan all along—to stop at the slaughterhouse and pick it up.
    That’s why he had the tools—to get the cash out from where it was hidden, Budd managed to type. Potter nodded.
    “Where did it come from?” Tobe wondered.
    “He’s a bank robber,” Budd said wryly. “That’s one possibility.”
    “Henry,” Potter said, “jump into Lexis/Nexis and let’s read about that most recent robbery of his. The arson.”
    In five minutes LeBow was on-line with Mead Data. He read newspaper accounts and summarized, “Handy wasfound with twenty thousand stolen from the Farmers & Merchants heist in Wichita.”
    “Had he ever burned anything before that?”
    LeBow scrolled through the news accounts and his own sixteen-page profile of Louis J. Handy. “No prior arson.”
    Then why the fire? Potter typed.
    He always has a purpose, Angie reminded.
    Melanie nodded emphatically then shivered and closed her eyes. Potter wondered what terrible memory had intruded into her thoughts. The agent and Budd looked at each other, four eyebrows arched. Then: “Yep, Charlie. That’s right.” Potter reached down to the keyboard. He wasn’t there to rob that bank at all. He was there to burn it down.
    LeBow was reading the profile. “And he shot his accomplice in the back when they’d been trapped by the troopers. Maybe so no one would find out what he was really doing there.”
    But why did he do it? Budd typed.
    Someone hired him? Potter asked the question. LeBow nodded. “Of course.”
    “And whoever did,” Potter said, “was paying him a ton of money. A lot more than fifty thousand. That’s why he didn’t think to ask for cash from us. He was already a rich man. Henry, get into the Corporation Trust database and get me the corporate documents on the bank.”
    The intelligence officer went off-line with Mead and was soon scrolling through the articles of incorporation, bylaws, and securities filings of the bank. “Closely held, so it’s limited public information. But we do know that the directors are also the officers. Here we go: Clifton Burbank, Stanley L. Poole, Cynthia G. Grolsch, Herman Gallagher. The ZIP codes are close together. All near Wichita. Burbank and Gallagher live in the city proper. Poole lives in Augusta. Ms. Grolsch is in Derby.”
    Potter recognized none of the names but any one of them could have some connection to Handy. As could, say, an embezzling teller, a former employee who’d been fired, the spurned lover of one of the directors. But Arthur Potter would much rather have too many possibilities than none at all. “Charlie, what hotels are near that pay phone where Mr. X called Ted Franklin? In Towsend.”
    “Hell, there’s a bunch. Four or five at least. Holiday Inn, a Ramada, I think a Hilton and some local one. Towsend Motor Lodge. Maybe another one or two.”
    Potter told Tobe to start calling. “Find out if any of those directors were registered in the hotels today or if anybody from any of those towns was registered.”
    In five minutes they had an answer. Tobe snapped his fingers. Everyone, except Melanie, looked at him. “Somebody registered from Derby, Kansas. Same as Cynthia Grolsch.”
    “Too much of a coincidence,” Potter muttered, taking the phone. He