Cash Burn

by Michael Berrier

  He’d been shuffling wires back and forth in various amounts and had conducted a series of conversations with the bankers in those countries to prepare them for the big payday he’d promised when he opened the accounts.

  He typed in wire instructions to the Nevis account that now contained most of his money, entered a PIN, and sent a chunk of it over to Panama. The wire fees and foreign exchange fees were enough to choke a lesser corporation.

  Brenda leaned over his back and kissed his ear. “You’re a wizard at this stuff, Jason. You’re a natural.” She kissed his neck. “I can’t wait to get you on a beach in the Mediterranean.”

  Jason checked the time in the corner of his screen— 4:45 a.m. They’d been at it all night, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. He swiveled around, and Brenda stood away.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said. “We need to get out of here. I’ll go into the office at eight. You come in at your usual time. Nothing can be out of the ordinary. Do you understand? This is just another workday. The day before Thanksgiving. We have plans with our families tomorrow. You’ll tell everyone you’re flying to Pennsylvania.”

  “I already bought a ticket.”

  “Good. What about the flight you’re really taking?”

  “Orange County to New York. From there to Zurich.”

  “Good. We’ll meet in Lucerne. My flight’s out of San Diego tonight. You have your new cell phone?”

  She nodded. “Oh, Jason. It’s really happening. You and me. Forever.” She nestled into his lap and threw her arms around him. Her kiss transported him out of this cheap room and into a place of warmth and passion and freedom.

  It was almost enough to make him forget the danger. “Brenda,” he said. His hand pressed to her cheek, softness, heat. “Today is the most important day of our lives. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “You’ve done everything so well. I’m so proud of you.”

  “All right. Now go home. But when you go into the office, remember—nothing unusual. You’re packed for a weekend out of town. Nothing else. Got it?”

  “I got it. I’m just so excited.”

  “No. You’re not.” His grip on her wrist tightened. “It’s a normal Thanksgiving weekend trip. Turkey and cranberries. That’s all.”

  “Right. Normal.” She tried to twist her arm away from his hand.

  He let her loose. “Now go.”

  She kissed his cheek, brushed her lips against his, and stood.

  He watched her go to the door, his eyes soaked in the shape of her, the movement. This was what he was doing it for. This and revenge. As she slipped outside, he caught a glimpse of her profile, the upturned nose, the curve of cheek and chin in the glare of the light in the outdoor hallway. And she was gone.

  Revenge. Vince and Mark had done everything they could to squash him under their petty rules and regulations. He’d endured the weight of them for years. For a long time he’d found ways of operating within the rules to do his job to his advantage. But over the past year, Vince had made the rules his personal weapon to destroy Jason. And Vince had wielded them more expertly than Jason could have ever expected. The fat man had even brought Mark along by the nose until the CEO was like his little puppy, whimpering, expectant.

  It was time to make them pay.

  Jason shut down his laptop. He rubbed his eyes. Another few hours. Work until 2:30 or 3:00, say Happy Thanksgiving to whoever might still be hanging around the office, and hit the freeway for San Diego. It would be a grueling drive in Thanksgiving Eve traffic, but he had plenty of time until his 9:00 flight. Jerome Michaels—that was his name on this flight. He would go by Jerry.

  His cell phone vibrated. He checked the readout and saw Serena’s name again. What good could it do to answer? He clicked Ignore and tried not to think of her.

  He didn’t want to love her anymore. He wanted a new start with Brenda, and he was going to get it. Serena and her cheating lies, her lawyerly self-confidence. The law game had made everything a negotiation with her, a bend of words, a twist of implication and blame. She was good at it. He had to give her that.

  Let’s be honest. Here in a cheap hotel room with stains on the carpet and dust crowded into the corners, let’s be honest before we do this. You’re jealous of her, aren’t you? Jealous of her success, that she made partner and a lot more money than you. That her hard work and brains produced more results and respect than anything you’ll ever do.

  Yes, why not be honest? Here and now, alone with your little plot, let’s strip away all the excuses. You’ve been looking for a way out for a long time, haven’t you? The backstabbing and politics were just a way to keep things interesting. The truth is, you’ve been bored to death with the forms and the rules and the regimentation. You’ve resented Serena’s success and the growing sense that she wasn’t your wife but that you were the lawyer’s husband. That was a big part of it, wasn’t it? Jealousy. Boredom. Resentment. Growing every day by millimeters, worming deeper and deeper into the soil of your soul until Brenda Tierney brought her eyes and her body into your office with a means of escape.

  Well, they’ll never forget you. That much is sure.

  You won’t be another gray-haired banker shuttled off into retirement with a gold watch and a kick in the ass. No, not you. They’ll talk about you for the rest of their lives. You’ll give them something to spice up their cocktail parties, something to talk about over lunches and dinners. “Did you hear the one about the banker who stole the thirty million?”

  But how would their stories end?

  He gathered the paperwork. Something nagged at him. The signatures were perfect. For the loan documents themselves, he’d used old legal documents his attorney had prepared for other transactions, drafts e-mailed back and forth in formats easily manipulated. Just change the dates and dollar amounts. It was easy.

  So what was wrong?

  His eyes focused on the signatures. He compared them to the authentic ones.

  They were perfect. Absolutely right. Not a curve, not an angle wrong. As if Randy and the others had themselves set their pens to these papers. Even the printed CFO could have been penned by Randy’s hand. Really, it was remarkable how she’d copied it so well.

  He slid the documents inside the envelope and ran his hands along its edges.

  Honesty, now at least. Before you get these fraudulent documents to Loan Ops. Before the wires fly. Before you step onto a plane a felon with thirty million dollars and that blonde waiting for you. Let’s be honest.

  Serena was right about you, wasn’t she? Everything always comes back to that night twenty years ago, back to Danah. Ending your marriage won’t change that. Thirty million dollars won’t. The memory will always haunt you no matter how much money you’ve got or who you’re with or where you are. What you did to Danah will always be there. And come on, let’s really be honest here. What you did to your brother.

  You’re a liar. You’re a cheat. You’re a murderer.

  57

  Bankers drifted in late today. From his office, Jason listened for them and watched them pass. Some called good mornings to him. Billy sent out a Happy Thanksgiving e-mail.

  Phones sat idle. The whole feel of the bank was different on a day like this. People were here and yet not here, their minds elsewhere. On this abbreviated day, not much was expected. Projects would be postponed and more time spent in idle conversation than on anything impacting the business.

  But Jason sat with his hands knotted together underneath his desk, his arms straining with the clutching of his fingers. After the hours of watching the staff enter, he tried to keep his face pointed at the papers before him. Rows of numbers, columns of them. Sixteen years he’d been eyeing these things, searching for trends and trying to look beyond them into the uncertainty of the future to ascertain the likelihood of repayment. But now these figures lined up on a sheet had lost any meaning. They might as well have been skimmed from a bowl of alphabet soup to be sor
ted and bunched by a child’s hands.

  He’d delivered the documents. Walked them down to Loan Ops himself to explain the importance of funding the loan today. At this second they were being reviewed by the Loan Operations department. The processing staff would compare the documents to the approval memo for accuracy. Right now, one of them was probably going through a checklist, making sure the package was complete, the terms correct, the signatures valid. Next they would make entries on the bank’s computer system, taking from the documents the name of the borrower and the total commitment amount and entering it into the bank’s system along with the date the bank expected principal and interest payments that only Jason and Brenda knew would never be received. The staff would check and double-check the input before finalizing everything in the bank’s computer systems. Then, once the loan was properly entered, they would instruct the wire room to send out the funds.

  Today as always the Loan Ops staff would be conscientious. They lived for details, for accuracy. They judged their performance by the absence of mistakes and one-upped one another with their perfection. Catching an error was a highlight of their existence. Correcting it was a bonus.

  But nothing could go wrong now. He’d received the approvals he needed. The loan committee had blessed it. The memo bore the committee secretary’s stamp and the signature Loan Ops would be looking for. The documents were based on the very templates prepared for other credits to Northfield. The signatures Brenda had forged were perfect.

  But still his heart thudded in his chest like a caged man pounding on a wall. Thirty million. Sure, he wanted revenge against Vince and Mark. But this would sink the bank. The jobs of every one of the people bantering outside his office would be jeopardized. The jobs of branch employees, tellers, the guys in the mail room. The FDIC would invade this place with their plans and suitors, and before a week was out, BTB would be either absorbed by another bank or shuttered. Another ten-billion-dollar bank on the skids. But not because of toxic assets this time. Because of fraud.

  He stared at his phone. He could pick it up and call Loan Ops and tell them the whole thing was off. The customer had changed his mind. The acquisition had fallen through. Something. Anything. The thirty million dollars hadn’t left the bank. He could tell them not to post those debits and credits. The loan wouldn’t be funded.

  The readout on the phone read 10:42 a.m. Another couple of hours, and he could walk out of here forever. With Brenda, ready for a life of travel and pleasure.

  Or into shackles and a prison cell if anything went wrong.

  No. He’d considered every angle. It was perfect. In its timing. This day. No one would suspect anything today. No one would be surprised that he and Brenda were both taking a day off on the Friday after Thanksgiving. In its execution, it was flawless. The documents were right. Every letter of them. The signatures.

  His computer chimed. An e-mail from Nancy, head of Loan Ops. He nearly crushed his mouse clicking on the icon.

  The lawyer’s consistency letter was missing from the package.

  A grunt escaped from his throat. How could he have forgotten the consistency letter? It usually came over e-mail along with the final set of loan documents from the bank’s attorney.

  Brenda was at his door. Eyes wide, she glanced over her shoulder and back at him. She’d been copied on the e-mail, as usual.

  She marched to his desk. “What’s a consistency letter?”

  Jason sorted his e-mail for everything he had from

  Casey Flynn. He’d used Casey for every loan he’d ever done for Northfield. There had to be a consistency letter saved somewhere in his e-mail.

  But no.

  “It’s a letter that lists out everything they prepared. It says the docs are consistent with the bank’s approval and the bank’s standards for documentation. It put the onus on the law firm for mistakes in the documents.”

  He went to his archived e-mails. There were hundreds of e-mails from Casey. “I’ve got to have one here someplace.” He began clicking on every e-mail with an attachment. Casey never labeled his documents with anything decipherable. The attachments were always coded with a series of numbers broken by underscores. Some kind of code within the firm that made it easy for them to find a particular piece of paper but made it impossible for Jason to differentiate between a consistency letter and a collateral search.

  Jason reached for his phone. Nancy picked up.

  “Hey, Nancy. It’s Jason. Can we get this thing boarded without the consistency letter? I don’t know if I’ll be able to track Casey down.” He opened another attachment. A security agreement. Next.

  “Sure, just need credit admin’s approval. Cynthia’s covering today. Do you want me to e-mail her?”

  It was the last thing he wanted.

  Every attachment he opened took a lifetime to load. His archived e-mails were someplace in the bank’s cyber-warehouse, so who knew how many firewalls and links each document had to pass through.

  “No, I’ll see if I can track down Casey.” He struggled to keep his voice level. Just a documentation glitch. It happened with nearly every single legitimate loan ever boarded. “How do the rest of the docs look?”

  Brenda paced back and forth on the other side of his desk. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  Nancy said, “Everything else looks good. Rebecca’s just about done with the data entry. Just need that consistency letter to board. Do you need any help tracking down Casey?”

  “No, I’ll try his cell. I’ll take care of it.”

  They clicked off. He found the execution documents for his last deal for Northfield. Eight attachments. He began opening them.

  The last one was Casey’s consistency letter. “Here.” He printed it. “Check the printer.”

  Brenda spun for the door and was back in seconds, reading the letter. “Do we list out the same documents?”

  “Give it to me. There are too many people out there. Somebody might look over your shoulder.” He put the letter in his lap and prepared to type it out. He looked up at her. “What do we do about the letterhead? It’s got to be on their letterhead.”

  “Just type it out.” She returned to her desk.

  He heard a noise. When he looked up, she was in the doorway again. “E-mail it to me when it’s done. With the other one.” She closed his door.

  He had the list of documents typed out when the door opened and the two parole officers walked in, looking ready for a fight.

  58

  “You come in too, baby.” Hathaway talked to Brenda like she was his pet. “Come on.”

  “I’ve got work to do.”

  “This won’t take long.” He winked at her, chomping at his gum.

  Tom faced the brother. No tie today. Bankers dressed down the day before Thanksgiving, apparently.

  “What do you want? I haven’t seen him. I’ll call you if I see him.”

  “Yeah,” Hathaway said. Tom heard the door close behind them. Hathaway ushered Brenda into the little circle they formed with Jason. He hadn’t moved from behind his desk.

  Jason looked at Hathaway. “We’re trying to get some things done around here so we can take off for the holiday. What do you want?”

  “You haven’t heard from him?” Tom asked.

  “No. I would’ve called you.”

  “Well, you won’t. He’s dead.”

  A breath escaped from Brenda. Her hands clenched and went to her abdomen.

  The banker laughed. People did that sometimes. “No way.”

  “Trash men found him in an alley this morning about a mile from your house.”

  His face started twisting. Here was what Tom wanted to see. Jason fell back in his chair and his head turned away. His top lip snarled upward.

  “Well, lookie here.” Hathaway leaned forward to get a better look at Brenda. She tried to get away from him, but Hathaway caught her by the chin. “I told you, Tommy.”

  “Get your hands off her.” The banker came out of his chair. Papers fell f
rom the edge of his desk onto the floor. He was around the desk and ready to shove into Hathaway, but Hathaway chopped the banker’s arms away. He caught Jason by the shoulder, twisted him around and had his arm ready for breaking by the time he pinned his chest against the wall.

  “I understand you’re in a state of shock, brother Dunn,” Hathaway breathed into the banker’s ear. “So maybe you’re not responsible for your actions. But you don’t want me to haul you in for assault, do you?”

  Tom kept his eyes on the girl. She blinked away tears. Her arms folded across her chest and then fell back to her sides. She couldn’t seem to keep her feet still.

  Hathaway backed away from the banker and shoved him toward his desk.

  Jason’s sport coat had been ripped at the shoulder. He looked down at it, stripped the coat off and threw it at Hathaway. “Why did you come here? What did you expect to find out?”

  The girl wouldn’t look at them. Hathaway got in her face. “Trying to think about something else, aren’t you? Don’t want to think about Flip.”

  “I don’t even know him. It’s Jason’s brother, that’s all.”

  Tom looked close. “Just feeling sorry for your boss, is that it?”

  She nodded. But tears brimmed her eyes.

  Hathaway’s head shook back and forth, and a smile warped his mouth. “No, no, no.” He pointed at her face. “You knew him.”

  “She’s never even met him,” the brother said. He supported himself with the desk. Tom could see the anger draining from the banker’s face. “I’ve got to call my father.” The words came out vacant of emotion.

  Tom and Hathaway watched as Brenda touched away a tear escaping from her left eye.

  She lifted her chin and shook her head as if she’d just come out of the water. “Can’t you get out of here? Poor Jason’s just lost his brother. Don’t you have any decency?”