Innocent as Sin sk-3

by Elizabeth Lowell

Rand closed his eyes and saw his brother’s blood.

  Everywhere.

  “Come back to me, Kayla.”

  She brushed her hand over his cheek, his lips. Then she grabbed her purse and walked quickly to the bank entrance.

  This will work.

  It has to.

  57

  Phoenix

  Sunday

  1:22 P.M. MST

  Kayla slid her employee ID card through the card reader. The latch on the glass door released.

  One down.

  How many to go?

  The guard looked up from his Guns and Ammo magazine. He was a Latino with a buzz cut and a gentle leer.

  Kayla didn’t recognize him.

  “What’s a pretty thing like you doing working on Sunday?” he asked, laying the magazine aside and reaching for the entry log.

  “I’m here to rob the bank,” she said cheerfully. “Sunday seemed like a good day.”

  The guard spun the log and offered a pen so she could sign in. “Need any help?”

  “If the bags are too heavy, I’ll holler.”

  “Bet there’s a handcart in the janitor’s closet,” he said, watching her write. “Just let me know.”

  As Kayla signed in, she saw that she was the first employee to log in since Saturday. She had the run of the place.

  Time’s a-wasting.

  She turned toward the elevator.

  “Uh-hummm.” The guard cleared his throat.

  “Is there something else?” Kayla asked, hesitating.

  “You don’t know the drill, do you? I need to verify your ID.”

  She handed over her ID card. “I keep my weekends to myself. But this time…” She shrugged. “No help for it.”

  “I guess it’s only executives who put in the long hours.”

  “Yeah.” On the golf course.

  Something bankers and judges apparently had in common.

  The guard compared Kayla’s signature to the name on the badge, then consulted an employee directory.

  “Private bank. Third floor, right?” he said, handing the badge back.

  Kayla nodded.

  “Don’t go anywhere else.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “The security chief has issued new regs. He doesn’t want anyone wandering after hours. You want to use a bathroom, come back to the lobby.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. What I have to do will only take a few minutes.”

  “Whatever,” the guard said, glancing over his shoulder at the elevator status board on the wall behind him. “I can check every floor from here to the roof with closed-circuit television monitors, so just go right to your office and come right back.”

  “Closed-circuit TV? That must make for some interesting videotapes.”

  The guard grinned. “I caught one of the vice presidents last weekend. He was polishing the wall of the elevator with his secretary’s panties. She was still wearing them.”

  “Too much information. Way too much information.”

  “It’s just for your protection, chica, so I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I feel safer already.”

  She headed for the elevator.

  Forty seconds later, the doors slid open. As she walked into the third-floor corridor, she waved at the television camera mounted in a bracket just below the ceiling. Then she went directly to her office, turned on the lights, and looked down at the parking lot.

  Rand was leaning against the SUV’s front grille and staring up at her window. She waved. He waved back, then made a “spoolup” motion with his right index finger, telling her to hurry.

  “Yeah yeah yeah,” she muttered.

  She dropped her purse on the desk, sat down at her chair, and booted up her computer.

  It took forever.

  The machine labored over the start-up page, then whirled and whirled before processing her log-in to the operations server.

  Password Invalid

  Her heart slammed.

  Is there a special weekend access code?

  She took a deep breath and logged in again. The computer accepted her with a welcoming bong.

  Ten keystrokes later she was inside the Bertone account.

  Holy holy hell!

  Two hundred and fifty million dollars.

  Her fingers shook over the keyboard. Numbers, that’s all. Just numbers in a column. Put it here. Put it there.

  No big deal.

  Hell, the bank has deposits of more than twenty billion-that’s bee-boy-billion-dollars.

  Next to that number, Bertone’s working fortune was lite beer.

  But it could buy a lot of misery just the same. It could take apart a weak African nation, murder every citizen who objected, rape every natural resource, and leave behind starvation, disease, and ruin.

  Her fingers were poised over the keys.

  Trembling.

  Here goes nothing. Well, not quite nothing. More like a quarter of a billion dollars.

  She keyed in instructions that shifted the contents of the Bertone account to a Bank of America account in Tucson, punched enter, and waited. Seconds later, the screen confirmed that the money was now in her late grandmother’s account a hundred miles away.

  Grinning, she pushed back from her workstation and stood up, turning toward the door.

  And right into Steve Foley’s silver-plated pistol.

  58

  Phoenix

  Sunday

  1:25 P.M. MST

  What are you doing here?” Foley demanded.

  Kayla stared at the shiny pistol and thought of the trophies he had in glass cases in his office.

  Games, that’s all. Paper targets or tin cans or bowling pins.

  “Answer me!”

  Fear slammed through Kayla. Fight or flee, and she couldn’t flee. Her inner bitch rose up and snarled. “It’s my office. What are you doing here?”

  “Listen, bitch-” he began.

  “Watch the sexist stuff,” she cut in, forcing her voice not to tremble. “The company manual is real clear on that.”

  “Shut up or I’ll shoot you where you stand. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking at you.”

  His knuckles whitened on his pistol hand. “If Andre didn’t want you alive…”

  “But he does,” Kayla said. And she sure hoped he didn’t change his mind before St. Kilda found her. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Killing you wouldn’t be stupid. It’s your fingerprints all over Bertone’s account. You’re alone in the world. I could bury you in the desert and play dumb. The bank and the FBI would look for a long time and finally decide you’re living in Venezuela or Brazil.”

  Carefully Kayla raised her trembling hands and backed around her desk, away from Foley.

  Toward the window.

  “Stop!” Foley said.

  She looked at the black circle aimed right between her eyes.

  She stopped.

  “Bertone is a bad enemy,” she said quietly. “If you kill me, he’ll kill you.”

  “There’s a lot I can do that won’t kill you. You’ll wish it had. And what I can’t think of, Bertone will.”

  No argument there, so she waited.

  Rand, I need you.

  Now would be a good time to bring on Plan C.

  But Rand was in the parking lot, fifty yards and a world away.

  “Sit at your desk,” Foley said sharply. “Hands in front of you.”

  Kayla put a leash on her inner bitch and her fear. She sat with her hands in plain sight. Foley’s eyes were too wide, almost wild. She didn’t want to get him so mad he forgot he needed her alive.

  But being angry felt so much better than the icy fear coiled in her gut.

  He kept the pistol trained on her and walked to the window. A brief glance was all it took. “Couldn’t get your stud past the lobby guard, huh?” Impatiently he yanked the cord that closed the blinds.

  Like the computer, it wasn’t something he was used
to doing for himself. The blinds jammed partially open.

  “He knows I’m here,” Kayla said. “He’s expecting me in about three minutes. He knows everything I know. It’s over, Steve. Put down the gun. I have friends who can help you. You won’t even go to jail. It’s Bertone they want, not you.”

  “You went to the feds? I’ll kill both of you!”

  “Kill me, and you’re a dead man. The only question is who gets to you first, the man in the parking lot or Bertone.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” Foley backed away from the window. “Andre Bertone is one of the most powerful men on the planet. You’ll be a smashed gnat on his windshield.”

  “So will you.”

  Foley looked at the gun in his hand and smiled. “I can take care of myself.”

  “You’ve shot a lot of paper targets. You’ve got a lot of trophies. Any of them have blood on them?”

  Foley flinched. “You really are a bitch, aren’t you? And here I believed your girly-girl act.”

  “Shit happens. People change.” And a whole lot of shit has come down on me lately. Stand tight or run.

  Can’t run.

  So she would do the best job of standing she could.

  “Call up Andre’s account for me.” He pulled out a notebook with the account numbers Bertone had given him. Not once did the muzzle waver from the space between Kayla’s eyes. “I need to make some transfers.”

  Too late, she thought with fierce triumph.

  But she did what he asked.

  “It’s up,” she said.

  “Show me.”

  She pivoted the screen so that he could see it. His glance flicked down to the bottom line. Widened.

  “You’ve got the wrong account,” he said flatly.

  She switched the screen back and made a show of looking at numbers. “No, this is Andre Bertone’s new account.”

  “It can’t be. There’s nothing in it!”

  “Yeah.” When in doubt, brazen it out. “I guess you’re not the only bank employee he bought.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simple,” she said, lying through her straight white teeth. “When I checked the account just before you came in, it was empty. Bertone must have bought someone else in our bank to do his account juggling.”

  Foley was too shaken to question her words. He was staring at the screen and seeing his own death.

  Kayla tensed to spin in her chair, hoping to knock the gun out of his hand, but Foley stepped back suddenly. He kept the silver pistol aimed between her eyes.

  “Where’s the money!” he demanded.

  “I told you. It was gone when I got here a few minutes ago.”

  Foley’s face went red, then white. His hand jerked, but he didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he backhanded her so hard that his signet ring left a bloody line across her cheek.

  “Bitch. I don’t believe you.”

  She blinked against the tears that wanted to come. Not fear or hurt.

  Pure bitch fury.

  “Feel better now?” she asked.

  He lifted his hand again, then saw that she was ready to spring.

  “On your knees,” he said.

  She thought about refusing. The sheen of his eyes didn’t encourage her. She slid out of her chair onto her knees.

  Foley exchanged his notebook for a cell phone and hit speed dial. “Andre? Your account is empty.”

  59

  Phoenix

  Sunday

  1:31 P.M. MST

  Rand McCree looked at his watch-six minutes to go-then shifted his focus from the front entrance to the windows of Kayla’s office.

  The blinds were mostly drawn.

  Is it a signal?

  The habit of a woman working alone?

  Are the blinds on a sun/temperature sensor?

  Watching the window, he walked to the far end of the business block that held the bank headquarters. Nothing changed. Nothing showed. No shadows moved in the small openings between the blinds.

  And the lights were still on.

  “Spool up, beautiful,” he muttered. “We’re on a short clock.”

  Five minutes to sign in and get to her desk was generous. She’d said transferring the money would take no more than a few keystrokes.

  So where the hell is she?

  He paced back to the car, then glared at the window again. Nothing new.

  Except the back of his neck felt like fire ants were crawling there. He hadn’t been this jumpy since Camgeria.

  Rand jerked his phone off its belt clip and dialed.

  “Faroe.”

  “We’re at the bank,” Rand said. “I couldn’t get past the lobby guard. Kayla’s upstairs. She has five more minutes, but she should have been back by now.”

  “Bad feeling?”

  “Real bad. I need some men to cover the exits, in case someone tries to sneak in. Or out.”

  “I’ll see who’s loose.”

  “I’ll try to slide past the guard, but Kayla says they’re off-duty Phoenix PD.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I’ll need it,” Rand said. “At least I might find out if there’s anybody else in the building. Call and let me know how many bodies you’re sending.”

  “Bodies. Sounds grim.”

  “Manpower, how’s that?”

  “Personpower. Grace would like that better.”

  “She Who Must Be Obeyed.”

  Faroe laughed. “Get used to it. You’re next.”

  The fire ants crawling on Rand’s neck disagreed. He cut the connection and headed for the lobby door.

  Four minutes left.

  60

  Castillo del Cielo

  Sunday

  1:33 P.M. MST

  Elena watched Bertone’s face go from laughing to murderous seconds after he picked up the phone. When he looked like that, she feared for her children.

  “Come, Miranda,” Elena said quickly. She scooped up the little girl and retreated beyond Bertone’s reach. “Poppa’s busy.”

  A torrent of gutter Russian spilled out of Bertone.

  “But he said he’d-” began Miranda.

  “Later, sweet,” Elena cut in. She kissed her daughter’s pouting lips. “You can teach Momma your game now.”

  “You know how to play.”

  “But I don’t know how to beat you at it.”

  Miranda’s dark eyes brightened. “Won’t teach you.”

  “I’ll tickle you until you do.”

  Miranda giggled and snuggled against her mother. “You smell good.”

  Elena nuzzled the girl’s hair as she carried her to the door. “You’re wearing the same perfume.”

  “I smell good, too.”

  “The best,” Elena said, carrying her out of the room. “The best-smelling little girl ever.”

  Bertone shut the door behind Elena.

  And locked it.

  “Again,” Bertone said into the phone. “Tell me how you lost a quarter of a billion dollars.”

  61

  Phoenix

  Sunday

  1:34 P.M. MST

  Kayla was tired of being on her knees. She made a show of meekly staring at the floor, but she was listening to Foley’s end of the cell phone conversation. Whatever Bertone was saying to Foley, he didn’t like. He was pale, greasy.

  He stank of nervous sweat and fear.

  She was sure she did, too.

  “I told you,” Foley said to the cell phone. “The fucker is empty. No money. No funds. Nothing! You sure you didn’t have someone else trans-”

  Kayla couldn’t hear Bertone’s answer, but the roar of sound told her that he was throwing a fit.

  Poor Elena. Does he beat her when things go wrong?

  If he did, he never left a mark on her perfect face.

  “Okay, okay, I hear you,” Foley said. “I didn’t move a penny, you didn’t move a penny, and that leaves Kayla, who got here about a minute before me. That’s hardly enough time to log in, mu
ch less-” He stopped talking and listened. “She told me, that’s how. Wait. Let me check something.”

  More sound and fury poured out of the cell phone when Foley set it down. Then silence. He put the muzzle of the pistol in Kayla’s mouth.

  “If you make a sound,” he said, “I’ll kill you and take my chances with Bertone.”

  Kayla understood that Foley was under the kind of pressure that made people crack apart like a dropped egg. She held herself very still, breathing around the pistol muzzle, tasting metal and something darker. Fear and the rage of a cornered animal fought for control of her mind. Neither won. Or lost.

  Foley wiped his forehead, picked up the office line, and punched in three digits.

  “Yeah, this is Henning up in Operations,” Foley said. “I was supposed to meet Kayla Shaw at her office a few minutes ago, but she’s not here. Can you tell me whether she logged in and when?”

  He listened, nodded, and glared at Kayla. “Okay, thanks. She must be around here somewhere.” He started to hang up when the lobby guard asked him a question. “Oh, yeah, I came in from the executive garage,” Foley said easily. “Used the card lock on the service elevator.” He listened, then rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know I was supposed to log in with you. I’ll stop by in a few minutes, soon as I finish with Kayla.”

  He hung up.

  Kayla watched the floor.

  “You’re a real lying piece of ass, aren’t you?” Foley said, leaning on the pistol until she gagged.

  Instead of killing her the way he wanted to, Foley yanked the muzzle out of her mouth and picked up the cell phone again.

  “She’s been here for almost fifteen minutes, more than enough time to kick the transfer out.” He flinched, watched Kayla over the barrel of his silver pistol, and listened. “No, I can’t reconstruct the transfer. Maybe some ass-wipe geek in IT could, but I’m a big-picture man.” More listening. He glared at Kayla, set down the cell phone, and with no warning backhanded her again.

  Kayla lifted her hands to block another blow, but instead of hitting her, Foley grabbed a handful of her hair and twisted.

  “What did you do with the money?” he demanded.

  She lashed at him with her left hand, curling her fingers over her thumb the way she had been taught by her dad, aiming for Foley’s throat as she surged up off the floor. He managed to block the blow, but had to let go of her to do it.