Bertone pulled back his jacket, exposing the butt of a heavy black pistol that was stuffed into his belt without a holster. With smooth, easy motions he pulled the gun, pointed it at the spot between Foley’s eyes, and slipped the safety.
Foley acted out of reflex, bringing the silenced muzzle of the MP5A to bear on Bertone’s midsection. His finger curled around the trigger.
Too late Foley remembered the open bolt, the empty magazine.
Bertone smiled thinly. “Tell me again how equally vulnerable we are.”
The silenced muzzle wavered, then sagged. Foley tried to focus on something other than the open eye of death staring at him.
“Fine,” Foley said angrily. “As usual you have the upper hand. What’s your plan?”
Bertone lowered the pistol, engaged the safety, and slipped the weapon back into his belt.
“We must find Kayla,” Bertone said matter-of-factly. “I sent a man to the apartment she rented. No one was there. He went to the ranch she just sold. No one was there.”
“Beautiful,” Foley said sarcastically.
“She’s a young woman of limited means and less imagination. She’s probably still somewhere in Phoenix. Call in any markers you may have with the personnel department or whatever it’s called nowadays.”
“Human Resources,” Foley said. “It’s the weekend, but I can get to her files. I have remote access to the corporate computer.”
“Find out whatever you can, her extracurricular activities, friends, boyfriends. We will find her.”
“And then what?”
“Give her to Gabriel, of course.”
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Foley said. “At least, none has ever picked her up at work or taken her out to lunch. She has some friends in the private bank division. I can get you a list of names.”
“Call them yourself,” Bertone said.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to be too closely-”
“You’re already in over your head,” Bertone cut in. “Unless you want to take the responsibility for my correspondent account, find Kayla Shaw.”
Royal Palms
Saturday
Then Steve Foley,” Kayla said to Grace, “told me to open a correspondent account with the transmitting overseas bank and deposit Bertone’s check while Steve went to the CEO for advice on the Bertone account.”
“Did you?” Grace asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
“What did the bank’s CEO say?” Faroe asked.
“I haven’t heard from Foley. Not one damn word.” The look on Kayla’s face said she was scared.
And angry.
“How long does it usually take for Mr. Foley to reach the CEO?” Grace asked.
“A phone call. At most, maybe an hour or two of phone tag. Foley is a golden boy at the bank.”
Grace nodded, sipped lemonade, and said, “Tell me more about this correspondent account. How is it different from an ordinary account?”
Rand chewed a mouthful of cold cuts and listened. Grace had been a federal judge. She knew how to cut to the heart of the matter, but she could do it without pain if she liked the person.
So far, she’d been kid-gentle with Kayla.
He didn’t know if that was good or bad. All he knew was that he’d warned Kayla. After that, the choices she made were hers. She was a woman fully grown.
And his palms itched for the feel of her skin.
“I’m no expert on correspondent accounts,” Kayla said slowly. “My expertise is domestic rather than international banking.”
Grace waited.
“Usually,” Kayla said, “correspondent accounts are arranged on a bank-to-bank basis. Someone on the sixth floor had to walk me through the process.”
“Why did your boss ask you to do something out of your usual area?” Faroe asked.
“Steve said that using a correspondent account would subject our bank to slightly different rules. In effect, it would shift responsibility for knowing about the customer’s background from us to the transmitting institution. We could cash Bertone’s check and still…” Kayla’s mouth flattened.
“Have a defensible position if the feds came calling?” Grace suggested.
“That’s my take,” Kayla agreed. “But I’m small change in the banking world. What I see might not be what I think I see.”
“I think you have excellent vision,” Grace said.
“Whatever. The account worked. Too well, if you ask me.”
“Meaning?” Faroe said.
Kayla’s slender hand became a fist around the silver dollar. “When I checked the account yesterday afternoon, it had almost doubled since I deposited the first check.”
Grace and Faroe looked at each other.
“How much money are we talking about?” Grace asked.
Kayla hesitated, then opened her palm. The silver dollar gleamed. “I’m not sure our ‘prenup’ covers information that specific.”
Grace laughed.
“How about if we tell you?” Faroe said.
“Excuse me?” Kayla said.
Faroe went to the table that held the scrambled fax machine. He flipped through papers until he found what he wanted. “According to our figures, Bertone has transferred two separate sums to your bank. The transmitting bank was the Bank of Aruba on the island of Aruba. Total deposits were slightly less than forty-two million bucks, U.S.”
Kayla swallowed hard, then nodded. “I guess you wasted your silver dollar. You don’t need me.”
All Grace said was, “Is that money still on deposit at your bank?”
“Last time I checked.”
“Do you expect more deposits in the future?”
Kayla hesitated, then sighed. “Yes. Bertone said he’d make more, and quickly.”
“When did that conversation take place?” Grace asked.
“Earlier this evening, just before-” Her voice broke at the memory of the shadow man, the garden, the knife.
“Just before he tried to have you removed from the scene,” Grace said.
“Just before he tried to have her killed,” Rand muttered.
“I like her version better,” Kayla said.
“Putting lipstick on a pig doesn’t change the oink factor,” Faroe said.
Kayla made a tight sound that could have been laughter.
Faroe lowered himself to the couch next to Grace and asked, “On the paperwork that went into creating that new correspondent account, who is the responsible bank employee?”
Kayla closed her eyes. When she opened them, Faroe was watching her with something close to compassion.
“Me,” she said bleakly. “My name is on the account. Everything will come back on me. God, I’m so screwed.”
Faroe glanced at Grace. Both of them looked at the corner of the room, where a very discreet security camera recorded everything that happened.
The fax whined and spit out sheets of paper.
Faroe got up and retrieved them. He nodded to Grace. Then he turned to Kayla.
“If you’d disappeared tonight, like you were supposed to,” Faroe said, “you’d have gone down for money laundering when that bank account was flagged by an auditor.”
“But you didn’t disappear,” Grace said. “You didn’t hop a plane for Ecuador or Uruguay. You’re still here, still alive. If you let us, we’ll make sure your side of the story gets told.”
“I could get on a soapbox and sing arias for a grand jury,” Kayla said bitterly, “but that wouldn’t change the fact that it’s my word against my golden-boy boss. Guess who comes out on the losing end of that scenario?”
“You’re right, Rand,” Faroe said. “She isn’t as innocent as she looks. And thank God for it.”
“Does that mean she’s off your short list of suspects?” Rand asked.
“His what?” Kayla asked.
“My shit list,” Faroe said. “We had to decide if you were a sacrificial lamb or a crooked banker taking bribes to launder millions of dollars in dirty money.”
Kayla looked from Faroe to Rand.