[2013] Flash

by Tim Tigner

  No sooner had they taken up their positions in back than the driver reappeared. He started the truck and drove forward about forty feet, stopping again behind the Pet Palace. This time when he entered the rear compartment in search of the appropriate packages, he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. “Hello Marvin,” Emmy said, her tone calm and serious. “I need you to take off your clothes.”

  Marvin held up his hands, his look as much amused as concerned. Despite the gun, Tinkerbell did not appear overly threatening.

  Troy stepped forward and pulled him into the back of the truck. “No worries, friend. We just need to borrow your truck and uniform for a few minutes.”

  “Tampering with the mail is a federal offense, you—”

  “We’re not going to touch a single package,” Emmy interrupted. “As my colleague said, we just need to borrow your uniform and truck. You behave yourself and you’ll be back on your route within the hour. We’ll even give you five hundred dollars American for your trouble.”

  Marvin shifted his gaze from the gun to Troy. “No shit, mon?”

  “No shit, mon,” Troy replied as Emmy placed the gun in the pocket of her windbreaker. It was just a plastic toy, so she did not want Marvin getting a good look.

  Troy was into Marvin’s clothes and behind the wheel in no time. He drove the truck on a circuitous route from the Pet Palace to SBT so that Marvin could not track their movements in his head. Without the knowledge of their destination, the only evidence Marvin would have was the green kind, and Troy felt safe in assuming that he would not want to present it.

  Troy double-parked the truck directly in front of the bank’s door. He looked back at Emmy who nodded but said nothing. He said, “Just borrowing this,” to Marvin as he hoisted a random package onto his shoulder to hide one side of his face from passersby. Already spending the evidence in his mind, Marvin said, “Good luck, mon.”

  The interior of Solomon Bank & Trust was solid but stylish, a gentleman’s bank. Only big money need apply. The designer had selected white marble floors and cream-colored walls with a few oil paintings depicting classic island scenes. Troy headed for a central stone pedestal supporting an enormous bouquet of fresh tropical flowers. He recognized the birds of paradise and lilies but the rest were just yellows, oranges and pinks to him. He stopped as if to admire the arrangement while surveying his options. Beyond the lobby, four teller windows split the room off to his right. Centered across from them a clerk’s desk stood guard before two glass-walled offices. The focus of the back wall was a very solid-looking door, presumably leading to the vault and the safety deposit boxes.

  The clerk, Thomas Delacroix according to the nameplate on his desk, was an impeccably dressed man with a thick mop of blond hair slicked back atop his head. Although Troy suspected that he was only in his late twenties, Thomas already wore the permanent obsequious pucker of a seasoned executive banker. The office immediately behind Thomas’s desk belonged to a haughty-looking woman named Agnes Andrews. Agnes wore her black hair up, her reading glasses on a gold chain, and apparently went to great lengths to avoid sun exposure. The corner office housed a thin fortyish gentleman named Gunter Gustafson. Gunter wore what Troy guessed was the only bow tie on the island.

  Troy decided to start with Thomas.

  As Troy approached his desk, Thomas stood and held out his hands to accept the package. “I’m actually here for personal business,” Troy said. “I’m on my lunch break.”

  “I see. Well then, it would be my pleasure to help you,” Thomas said, a little too halfheartedly by Troy’s reckoning.

  “I need to access my numbered account.”

  “Very well,” Thomas said, a bit more interested. He pulled a white index card from a drawer and slid it across the table. The card was blank except for the SBT logo in the corner and twelve short lines printed across the center in the same golden-brown ink.

  Troy’s hand trembled as he reached for the pen. That was twice now. The infirmity was beginning to give him serious concerns. He would have to give up surgery if the shaking became chronic. His immediate concern, however, was passing the handwriting test. Praying that it was nerves and not nerve damage, he dropped his arm below the table and shook it out before penning a longhand number in each of the twelve blanks.

  Thomas accepted the card with a polite nod, fanned it twice as if to dry the ink, and slid it into a machine reminiscent of a bill changer. “This will only take a minute,” he said, but began frowning at his computer screen a few seconds later.

  Seeing Thomas’s face contort, Troy knew that the smart move would be to run, but he held his ground, met Thomas’s eye, and asked, “Problem?”

  “Yes, ah no, ah sort of,” Thomas replied. “This is a valid account number, but not for a numbered account. It’s a traditional bank account.”

  “A traditional account?” Troy repeated. “Not a safety deposit box?”

  “No,” Thomas said, his voice growing thin. Dealing with deliverymen who could not keep track of their pennies was obviously beneath him—the mighty clerk of Solomon Bank & Trust. “It’s just a checking account,” he continued. “That does not mean that the contents are any less secure or your privacy any less sacrosanct, it just means that your name is associated with the account rather than your handwritten account number.”

  Troy was flabbergasted. Why would he choose to make his lifeline the number of a traditional checking account? He must have sat there with a dumbfounded look for a bit too long because Thomas finally asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Troy ignored him as the old saw about the best place to hide a grain of sand ran through his mind.

  “Anything else?” Thomas repeated.

  Finally Troy looked up. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I accessed this account—obviously. There was a fire and I had to move and …” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Would you kindly call up an account summary?”

  Thomas made “But of course,” sound amazingly like “Piss off,” but his attitude changed visibly a second after hitting the enter key.

  “I have your summary here, sir, and I would be most happy to print you out a copy for your perusal. Perhaps some espresso and scones? We do have private courtesy rooms that you would be more than welcome to use.”

  “Just the summary report would be fine,” Troy said, biting back both his excitement and the urge to leap over the table to study Thomas’s computer screen. “It’s most kind of you to offer, but I’m on a schedule.”

  “Of course. Now, I’ll just need to see your identification.”

  Chapter 27

  Guess who’s coming to dinner

  FARKAS FINISHED sanding his fingertips just as the UPS truck pulled away. He leaned back in the balcony chair, put his feet up on the rail, and began sharpening the edge of his right thumbnail, pleased to have an unobstructed view of the bank’s entrance once again.

  He checked his watch. Eleven o’clock. Twenty-five hours down, five to go. He did not actually expect Troy and Emmy to appear in his crosshairs. The odds against their clambering back on Luther’s trail were a million to one, not to mention that only fools would stick around an island plastered with posters of their wanted faces. These two were not fools.

  The tinkling of a bell drifted to his ears through the open doorway to his back. The sound put a deep double crease between his thick eyebrows. He did not have time for George and Ilene right now.

  He checked the street as far as he could see in both directions, looking for anyone the height and color of Troy or Emmy. Seeing no contenders, he walked to the bathroom, pulled the wedge from beneath the door and flung it open. “I told you not to ring if it wasn’t a dire emergency. You’ve got your tea, your biscuits, and your toilet. So what is it? Do I need to give you another shot of sedative? Or do you want me to tie you down to the posts of your bed?”

  George stood shielding Ilene behind his stooped body. “Yes sir, sorry sir …” His voice cracked and he had t
o pause. Ilene put her trembling veined hand on his bony shoulder.

  Farkas felt like a heel for terrorizing them, but he had learned long ago that in this world, you had to do what you had to do to take care of yourself and your own. Damn the rest. Besides, any trauma the Wootens were experiencing would soon be forgotten. And, since he was such a nice guy, not much else. He had set his UV-C flasher to its lowest wavelength so the radiation would only affect memories formed within the last thirty days. Given the Wootens’ lifestyles, they probably wouldn’t even notice the loss. No harm, no foul. Right?

  George got his voice back and said, “It’s just that, well, my son is going to be coming for dinner at six. I thought I should warn you so there wouldn’t be an overreaction.”

  Farkas narrowed his reptilian eyes. “Overreaction?”

  “Yes, you see, Martin is the Deputy Chief of Police.”

  Chapter 28

  Reversal

  EMMY LOOKED OVER at Troy as they waited at a stop light. He continued staring straight ahead down Elisabeth Avenue, looking at nothing.

  “Well?” she asked, eager to hear what he had learned in the bank.

  “I’m completely confused,” he blurted, turning to face her. “It’s not a numbered account. It’s a traditional checking account.”

  “What about the safety deposit box?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “The light’s green.”

  “What?” His mind was spinning in a rut. He couldn’t get past the fact that there was no box.

  “The traffic light is green. Drive.”

  “Oh.” Troy pressed the accelerator and continued north along Seven Mile Beach toward West Bay. He did not know where to go next, but wanted to keep them on the move.

  “How much is in the account?” Emmy asked.

  “I don’t know. You need identification to access a regular account. I don’t even know what name is on the account. The only good news is that there’s a lot of money in it. At least I assume there is. The snotty clerk perked up considerably when he saw the balance.”

  “You don’t even know what name is on the account,” Emmy repeated sotto voce. At the next stoplight she said, “Troy, remember when you caught our earlier mistake, when we had been assuming that the number would lead us to the initials, rather than the other way around?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, maybe we’ve got it backwards again. Maybe the important thing is not what’s in the account, but who owns it.”

  Troy chewed on Emmy’s idea for a moment, liked the taste, and started thinking out loud. “So why not just tattoo his name on your foot, or at least his initials? Why write his bank account number?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked, clearly enjoying her moment of power.

  “Not to me.”

  “We didn’t know his name, just his bank account number. We came to Grand Cayman to learn his name. That’s when we popped up on his radar and he erased our minds.”

  We came to Grand Cayman, Troy repeated to himself. Obviously Emmy was continuing to assume that they had been together prior to the erasure. Deep inside he wanted to believe that she had placed the ring on his finger. His attraction to her—emotional, intellectual, and chemical—dwarfed any compulsion he could recall. His little voice, however, was expressing big doubts. Until he could figure out why, he knew the prudent move was to keep his feelings locked inside.

  Troy forced his mind back to business. Emmy’s analysis of the clues was nothing short of brilliant. “You’re a genius,” he said, and had the pleasure of watching her light up. “As long as you’re on a roll,” he added, “why don’t you hypothesize on why we would have done that.”

  “Hypothesize, huh …”

  As she teased him, Troy knew that he had walked right into her trap.

  “My pleasure. It’s the oldest trick in the detective’s handbook. We were following the money.”

  “What money?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Is there an amnesia business? In any case, I vote that we keep following it.”

  That had Troy’s vote too, but he decided to push back for the sport. “I might buy your scenario, were it not for one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We’re not detectives.”

  Emmy’s eyes telegraphed checkmate. “Are you sure?”

  Chapter 29

  Vogue

  TROY AND EMMY spent the rest of the morning formulating their plan of attack over a basket of conch fritters and a pot of strong coffee. Then they drove to the heart of George Town’s shopping district where Emmy disappeared to do her thing while Troy hit an internet café for his. It took him about thirty minutes and ninety dollars in information brokerage fees to get what he needed.

  After another errand, Troy returned to their designated meeting spot and sat on the edge of a fountain to wait for Emmy. He was restless by nature, but the setting invited him to a respite long overdue. He enjoyed deep leisurely breaths of the jasmine scented air and listened to the medley of bird calls and cascading water. As he watched a passing woman pry her stiletto heel from the cobbled walk, his mind returned to Emmy’s are you sure we’re not detectives comment. He noted how naturally they were working together to plot what amounted to a covert operation and felt a strong and sudden sense of déjà vu. He knew it was a nonsense feeling, the dividend of reading a thousand thrillers. He would never have given up his scalpel and stethoscope for a cloak and dagger—even for a woman as amazing as Emmy—unless …

  Troy rose and began circling the surrounding plaza, massaging his right forearm and thinking the unthinkable. After an indeterminate number of laps he found himself standing before the window of an upscale children’s clothing store. They had the cutest pink and white outfit in the window, with a pleated skirt and white ruffled blouse and tiny matching shoes all decorated with bows. For some inexplicable reason, the display buoyed him with enough warmth to lift him out of his funk.

  No sooner had he sat back down on the fountain’s edge than Emmy called his name. She gave a twirl as he looked up, shopping bags sailing out to her sides. Her stunning appearance all but sent him toppling backwards into the water. She wore a turquoise and teal suit the likes of which he had only seen on news coverage of fashion shows. The top exposed her entire beautiful back as it looped around her neck and down in what was little more than ribbons over bare breasts to cross again just above her belly button before fastening in back. The pants started well down her hips where they clung tightly all the way down to her knees before flaring out for the remainder of the journey to her ankles. Troy was vaguely aware that she was wearing matching strappy high heels, but his attention was riveted higher. She had obviously spent some time at the makeup counter and now appeared to have blossomed from the pages of Vogue. “Wow,” was all he could manage to say.

  “Did you get the video camera?” she asked, holding up a small matching handbag while ignoring his stupor. “I picked one that will make the hole difficult to detect. Built the whole outfit around it.”

  “Not that anyone will be looking,” he said, adding “Wow,” again for good measure.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you like it, but please don’t say that again. Tactics like this make me feel cheap. Since we don’t have a lot of tools in our bag, I’m not going to be foolish enough to ignore those that will work based on principle, but I still don’t enjoy it.”

  Troy felt the shame of a chided schoolboy sweep over him, but just for a second. “Sorry. And thank you. I do appreciate your … flexibility.”

  “Let’s go. The bank closes at four. You can tell me what you dug up on Gustafson while we drive.”

  Chapter 30

  Visible

  THEY PARKED on a side street two blocks from Solomon Bank & Trust. Emmy gave her platinum-blonde wig a final inspection in the mirror before getting out. Between the new hairdo and four-inch heels that propelled her up to average height, she would not be easy to recognize. She was hiding in plain s
ight.

  She would have preferred Troy’s approach, but that did not fit with her need to be distractingly sexy. He had purchased a sweat suit and padded it with towels and a pillow. Together with a baseball cap and sunglasses, that left his chin dimple as his only tell. She could have disguised that as well with stage makeup, but the bank’s four o’clock closing precluded its procurement.

  “Yas ready?” he asked, his intonation reminding her of a Bronx gangster.

  Emmy crinkled her nose. “First Irish, then the Bronx. What’s with the voices?”

  “Been doin’ ‘em ever since I’s a kid.” He switched back to his normal voice. “I don’t want Thomas to recognize my voice if he overhears me talking.”

  Emmy nodded her approval while digesting the voices news. “So you used humor to compensate for the Waardenburg syndrome?”

  Troy stopped dead in his tracks. “How on earth—”

  “I can see that you only wear one contact, and that it’s tinted cobalt blue to make your right eye match your left. And when I examined your scalp I saw the roots of the shock of white hair starting to show beneath the dye job. The rest is simple deduction. Kids are cruel. You’re obviously very bright and you found a way to compensate.”

  “No one outside of the medical profession had ever detected my condition before. I don’t have the hearing loss that commonly accompanies Waardenburg. My ailments are purely cosmetic, and in this day and age, that means they’re easy to assuage. At least for an adult. Everything is harder when you’re a kid—and double that for orphans.”

  “I hope I didn’t embarrass you,” Emmy said. “It’s just what I do. I’m always observing people, compiling and analyzing little bits of data and history like that for use in my work. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.”

  “No worries. My skin is far from thin.”

  “Psychologists do the same thing, you know. I just look for ties to your social desires or career aspirations rather than your mother.”