Follow the Dotted Line by Nancy Hersage Page A

outside when the bank opened at 10:00 a.m. A very young man in pressed pants, wearing a short sleeve shirt and tie, held open the door as they walked inside. As soon as he repositioned himself behind the teller cage, Andy stepped up and asked to see the manager.
    “Can I ask why?” The newly minted teller looked as if her request might mean the end of his job.
    “I want to ask about an account.” Andy said, flashing her I’m-okay-you’re-okay smile.
    “You mean, you have an account with us?”
    “Well, no. Not my account.” This was the hard part, and she knew it wouldn’t go down well. “An account belonging to Mark Kornacky.”
    “Mr. Kornacky,” he said, as if he knew the name. “Oh. Okay. I guess. Sure. Let me get the manager.”
    Sandra Berry, executive officer, was a slip of a woman in her 40s with dark framed glasses and stupendous auburn hair that gyrated up and down every time she took a step. She led Andy and Harley into her office and directed them to take the chairs directly in front of her desk, which were upholstered in a pattern that featured longhorns, cactus flowers, and the logo for the FDIC.
    “You want to know about Mr. Kornacky’s accounts, is that right?” she began.
    “We do,” Andy answered, a little surprised the woman hadn’t turned them away in the lobby. Even Texas had laws governing privacy, she assumed.
    “Are you Mr. Kornacky’s former wife?”
    Sandra Berry asked the question, as if she already knew the answer. Andy’s resolve disappeared, replaced by mild panic. No one had yet demanded identification. And how did the woman know Mark had a ‘former’ wife?
    “Ah,” she stammered. “Yes, actually, I am.”
    “I’ve been expecting you.”
    Could you be arrested for simply asking about another person’s accounts? Had that teller pushed some kind of silent alarm?
    “Really?” she managed.
    “Damn right. Somebody ought to be in here asking questions.”
    Nodding slowly, Andy reached down deep for an appropriate response and came up with another, “Really?”
    “Well, I’ll tell you this much,” the manager said, gravely, “that man has certainly grabbed himself a handful this time.”
    Another nod. “He has? And by that you mean—?”
    “The Trivette woman,” snapped Sandra. “Talk about a piece of work.”
    Andy leaned forward. Harley followed suit. She put her hand on his knee and pinched him just below the patella. He shot back in the chair.
    “Can you, you know, talk about that particular piece of work?” Andy prodded. “Without violating some rule?”
    “I don’t know why not. All the Kornacky accounts have been closed. So I don’t know whose privacy we’d be protecting. That woman walked out of here with a certified check made out to herself for nearly $300,000 last Monday.”
    “She did what?”
    “She drained the accounts. Just like that.”
    Harley was back on the edge of his seat.
    “Did Mr. Kornacky come with her on Monday?” he said, before Andy had a chance to muzzle him.
    The executive officer shook her head. “Nope. He put the money in our bank years ago. His life savings, he said. Seemed completely happy with our services. Then he added her name to the account after they got married. Next thing you know, she’s taking it all out.”
    Andy was still trying to get past the idea that Mark had so much money and that Tilda was the one walking around with it, when Harley followed up. “Did you talk to him about the withdrawal?”
    “I tried,” Sandy said. “But have you called his cell lately? It’s out of service. The whole thing gave me the heebie-jeebies.”
    “Did you call the police?” Andy pressed.
    “About what?” she snapped, irritated by her own powerlessness. “It was a joint account. The withdrawal was perfectly legal. Nothing I could do. Honestly, I’ve just been waiting around for someone, anyone from the family, to come into the bank and ask me what happened. Just so I could get it off my chest.”
    The trio