by A. W. Gray
“Right-o,” Sheila said. She gave a long, exasperated sigh. “No news is good news, Sharon. You may as well have your dose of the bad tidings now. I just got them yesterday afternoon, and it’s taken me overnight to get to where I can talk rationally about it.” Sharon leaned back, switched ears with the phone, felt a weakness come over her. “I hope no one’s died.”
“No, but I nearly did. It’s that damned school.”
St. Thomas Episcopal again. The trendy private school kept both single mothers drained of funds as the tuition climbed in geometric progression; the inner-city problems in Dallas public schools gave the privates a throat lock on all who would have their children read, write, and not worry about gunfire in the halls. Sharon said, “How much this time?”
“They didn’t raise the rates in mid-year for a change, thank God, but the new dictum is, all tuition money paid up-front by the first of December for the spring term. No exceptions. Ante up or they’ll kick your little darling out on the street. I hadn’t budgeted for it until January, Sharon.”
Sharon bit her inner cheek as anger flooded over her. Private schools had engaged in legalized extortion for a decade or so, operating under the philosophy that, hey, you want this good future, this safe enviroment, you have to go through us to get it, so ante up, bud. Private universities were even worse, and it was Sharon’s dream eventually to send Melanie to SMU. Perhaps she should go into partnerships with Tired Darnell in the burglary business, make one big score or something. She said, “Surely they’ll make exceptions.”
“Oh, yeah? You know Trudy Munslow, her daughter’s in Trish and Melanie’s class. This is the third child she’s put through St. Thomas, and Trudy lives on semi-annual royalties. She got down on her hands and knees, begging for additional time, and the headmistress told her they hoped her child would be happy busing to public school. I don’t know how I’m going to make it.” Sheila’s voice broke at the end, and Sharon had a surge of sympathy. Sheila Winston was probably the most upbeat person she knew, and if the school situation was getting Sheila down …
Sharon said, “I can loan you the money until January.”
“For sure. And where are you planning to get it?” “Darla’s going to pay a hefty fee in the long run. Plus for the short run, Rob has ante’d up three months’ child support. I’m temporarily flush. You should strike while the iron is hot.” Sharon smiled.
“You could say I’m sort of robbing Rob, to coin a phrase.”
Sheila assumed a haughty tone. “I shall not beg.”
“With all the times you’ve taken care of Melanie while I flit about the courtroom, you should have the right to demand. How much do we owe?” Sharon grabbed a pen and turned one of the photos over to doodle on the back.
Sheila dictated the figures, the size of which caused Sharon to take a firm grip on the ballpoint. She didn’t speak until her emotions calmed. She laid the pen aside, thought, That freaking bank, and felt anger growing once more as she said, “I think I’d better negotiate Rob’s check out here, while I’m in town.”
“Bouncy-bouncy?”
“Not likely. Not even Rob would have the nerve for that. No, this is Bloodsucking National I’m thinking about, my bank. A couple of years ago I deposited an out-of-town check which was larger than my balance at the time, so my lovely banker froze the funds for thirty days until the check cleared. Rob-oh’s check is about fifteen times my current balance, so this time they might hold the money until the turn of the century. Given experience, I’m going to be a step ahead of them. I’ll stop off at Rob’s bank out here and have the money wire-transferred to my account in Dallas. Just thinking out loud, Sheil, but you can rest at peace. By the time I’m home, I’ll have us the bucks for school.”
“I feel rescued,” Sheila said.
“I feel like I’m reducing a debt by a small portion,” Sharon said. “Don’t forget, Sheila, two fifty-four. American’s usually late, but they might fool you.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I love you, Sheil,” Sharon said, and meant it, then hung up and thumbed through the photos once more. Three sets of prints, the scene in front of Planet Hollywood plus one shot each from the L.A. evening news and Nightline, all featuring the handsome blondish man in various poses and states of dress. She looked up and smiled across the table at Mrs. Welton. “You should be proud of these,” Sharon said. “They’re perfect.”
“Not to brag, mum,” Mrs. Welton said, “but I’ve shot more difficult lots of times.” She slid one set of the pictures in front of her and lovingly admired her own handiwork. “The telly screens weren’t moving. Compared to some, these shots were easy as pie.”
Sharon wrote a long I-love-you and rah-rah-school note to Melanie and left it with Mrs. Welton, then squirmed with guilt in the back of the limo on the ride into L.A. She should be there for Melanie in person, dammit. She checked her makeup in her compact mirror, halfway expecting her lipstick to be applied at a forty-five-degree angle and her cheeks to show cartoonish swipes of eyeliner. Despite all the last-minute rushing around, she hadn’t done a half-bad job in fixing her face. She straightened her skirt and adjusted the top of her navy courtroom suit, telling herself that her appearance didn’t matter that much, that she had work to do. Right, dodo, she thought, with the eyes of the world on you, you’re cool as a freaking cucumber. She supposed that in the long run she was every bit as vain as Milton Breyer. She stuffed the compact into her purse with a vengeance.
Rob’s branch of the Bank of California showed an address on DeLongpre Avenue in Hollywood, and as Gray steered the limo onto the Vine Boulevard offramp, Sharon had a look around. Yesterday had been clear and crisp, but today smog had crept in. The San Gabriel peaks were wispy outlines, and the Capitol Records Building was barely visible through the haze. Sharon dug out Rob’s check and read Curtis Nussbaum’s signature. The agent signed his name in typical man-in-a-hurry fashion, a C preceding a long horizontal slash, and N before tiny, illegible hen scratchings. She picked up one of Mrs. Welton’s photos, the one taken on the movie set, and looked closely at the agent. Nussbaum was bald as an egg with a big, bent nose and cruelly pursed lips. The one time she’d seen him in person, back in Dallas, Nussbaum had worn a permanent smirk. He had the same expression in the photo. Long before now Sharon hadn’t particularly liked this guy. As the limo rolled smoothly through Hollywood, her distaste for Curtis Nussbaum grew by leaps and bounds.
The building was glitzy and modern, with eight-foot midget palm trees lining the sidewalk in front. Sharon supposed it was an in place for depositing money, just as there were in restaurants, in shopping areas, and in places for using the bathroom in this fantasy world of a town. She left Yadaka and Gray in the limo and hustled up the sidewalk toward the entry, checking her watch, her handbag swinging by its strap from her forearm. Five after nine; she had to get a move on. As she pushed through the transparent glass door into the lobby, she fumbled with a walletful of ID: driver’s license, credit, and Social Security cards. She tore a deposit slip from her own checkbook and added the slip to the stack of paper and plastic in her hand. She passed two ATM machines and an information desk, and went directly to the teller windows to wait in line.
She stood in a roped-off area, first on one foot and then the other, while a man cashed a check and a woman deposited what seemed to be, God, a thousand rolls of change. Finally the teller waved her up. Sharon went to the window, laid her ID on the counter, and passed the check in through the opening. “I want to negotiate this, please,” she said, “and wire-transfer the money to this”—she handed over her deposit slip—“account.”
The teller was a young black woman wearing pinkish lipstick. She smoothed the check out on the counter. “Rob Stanley,” she murmured.
Yep, Sharon thought, that Rob Stanley, king of the wild frontier or whatever. “I’m in a bit of a rush,” she said in a businesslike manner. “So if you could—”
>
“Gee, Rob Stanley. I’ll have to…” The teller rattled keys on her computer, hit the Enter button, her eyes moving left and right in her head as she read from the monitor screen. She nodded curtly as if agreeing with herself, then shoved the check and deposit slip back over the counter. “You’ll need to see Mr. Holtzen,” she said.
Sharon already had her pen out, ready to endorse the check. “Look, I’m due in court at ten,” she said.
The teller blinked impersonally. “Everyone’s in a hurry, lady. This is L.A. And any transactions on this account, you’ll need to see Mr. Holtzen.” She pointed at a row of glass-fronted offices. “Second door from the right. And not to worry. Mr. Holtzen, he’s a very nice guy.”
Mr. Holtzen didn’t seem like a nice guy at all. He was the consummate banker, complete with white shirt, navy blue tie, and wire-framed, I’m-smart glasses. As Sharon entered his office, Holtzen stood in front of a paper-spewing ink-jet printer. The printer head zipped back and forth, back and forth, with a series of electronic humming noises. The paper inched its way through the plate as the banker eyed Sharon suspiciously. He folded the perforation, ripped the page free, and scanned a row of figures. Then he turned to Sharon like Rumpelstiltskin guarding the gold. “You’re the woman with a check on the Rob Stanley account?” he said.
“Yes, Sharon Hays, from Texas.” She waited for the banker to offer her a chair. When he didn’t, she sat down on her own and crossed her legs. “I know it’s an imposition on your time, sir,” she said, “but I’m really hustling.”
Holtzen was in his forties and exhibited a paunch. He snapped his fingers. “Sharon Hays. I knew you looked familiar. Darla Cowan trial, right?”
“Actually, it’s a hearing, but yes. Mr. Holtzen, could you…?”
Holtzen made no move to sit at his desk, holding the printout at chest level. “Let me see what you’ve got.”
Sharon stood and handed him the check. “A simple wire transfer, sir,” she said. “Surely it can’t be that much of a problem.” She frowned “As long as Rob has the money in his account. He does, doesn’t he?” Holtzen squinted at the draft, comparing the figures with those on the printout. His glasses slid to the end of his nose. He removed the frames and let them dangle from his fingers by an earpiece. Rob’s check might have been the most astonishing thing he’d ever seen. “Rob Stanley gave me that in person last night,” Sharon said. “If you’d like to call him—”
“No, no need to call. You I can identify from your picture on television. It’s this…” Holtzen waved the printout around, looking frustrated.
Sharon smiled at him.
Holtzen walked to the door. “Don’t move,” he said. Then he raised a hand and said, “Wait right here,” and hurried off through the lobby. He went behind the teller booths, knocked on a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, spoke to someone through the crack as the door opened, then went through the portal and disappeared from view.
Sharon wondered what in hell was going on. Couldn’t be the check. Rob made three times the amount per freaking episode.
Holtzen had left his computer on. The monitor was tilted so that Sharon could see the rows of figures on the screen. She didn’t have to wonder where Holtzen had taken the printout; he’d made a beeline for the corporate offices to talk things over with his superior before acting on Sharon’s wire-transfer request. She peered through the glass toward the paying and receiving windows. Tellers worked steadily, heads down, cashing checks, rattling keyboards and peering at computer monitors. No one looked in her direction. She fought an inner battle with herself.
Feeling guilty, certain that any second someone would scream at her from the lobby, Sharon went behind the banker’s desk. She bent over his chair back and squinted at the computer screen. The account entitled “Robert Jarrett Stanley Trust” showed a current balance of $547,239.76. In the upper left-band comer was an image of Curtis Nussbaum’s signature. God, Sharon thought, there’s plenty of money in the account, what could be…?
The instructions at the bottom of the screen said to press the up arrow to view yesterday’s transactions.
For dates prior to yesterday, one was to press Code plus the date desired, and then hit Return.
Icicles tickling her backbone, Sharon peered once more into the lobby. Still no Holtzen. Men and women in business dress bustled back and forth through the spacious bank and paid her no heed.
She sat down in front of Holtzen’s keyboard and hit the up arrow. Yesterday Rob’s balance bad been a thousand dollars higher than today, with a couple of insignificant checks coming in for payment in the interim. God, Sharon thought, half a million dollars. Looked like a substantial account to her. She pressed the Code key and backed the screen up to the previous Friday. She blinked.
On the day of David Spencer’s murder, Rob’s balance had been $14.68. She checked to be certain she wasn’t missing a comma or a string of zeroes. Nope, fourteen sixty-eight it was. Looks like my account back home, Sharon thought. She tilted the banker’s chair and scratched her chin.
She viewed Monday’s transactions, then Tuesday’s. On Tuesday someone bad deposited $600,000 to Rob’s account. Which explained why the banker was running around like a chicken with its bead cut off. Before he approved the wire transfer be wanted to be certain that the deposit was in certified funds, not in the form of a check which could bounce, thus leaving the Bank of California holding the bag.
My agent does all that, Rob bad said. According to Darla, Curtis Nussbaum handled most of his clients’ financial affairs. Sharon stared at Nussbaum’s signature as it appeared on the screen.
She stood and scanned the area in front of Holtzen’s office. No one looked in her direction.
By the time Sharon made up her mind she was already in action, hitting the Print key, typing in the desired pages in response to a monitor prompt, and tightly closing her eyes as she pressed Return. The printer on her left whined into action, the print head zipping back and forth across the page. As the paper inched its way upward, Sharon stood and walked nonchalantly around Holtzen’s office. She looked at the ceiling and whistled a tune.
The first page rolled through the platen, then the second; Sharon had called for a total of four sheets. She continued to pace, averting her gaze from the printer as if she didn’t know it existed. She looked toward the teller’s window.
Holtzen came through the door, circled the cages, and made a beeline in her direction. One end of Rob’s check fluttered from his fingertips.
Sharon panicked, and came within a hairsbreadth of ripping the sheets from the printer and stuffing them in the wastebasket. Holtzen watched her intently as he approached. The jig’s up for sure, Sharon thought. She tried to think of a legitimate excuse, a reason why she was running a printout of Rob Stanley’s checking account. Nothing came to her. A flush of embarrassment crept into her neck as the banker drew nearer and the printer continued to hum.
Holtzen halted in mid-stride, gave Sharon an apologetic smile through the glass, and returned to one of the teller stations. He handed the check over the counter and issued instructions, jerking his head in Sharon’s direction as he did.
The printer stopped humming, and the platen came to a standstill.
Sharon spun, ripped the paper from the platen like a wild woman, crumpled the pages together, and shoved the whole mess into her purse. She sat down quickly, dropped her handbag on the floor, and smoothed her skirt as the banker crossed the lobby and entered his office at a fast clip. Sharon offered her best smile of innocence.
Holtzen’s attitude was friendlier than before. “I’ve approved the transaction, Miss Hays. Just go to the third window, and the lady will take care of you.” He offered his hand. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”
Sharon stood and wrapped her own hand around the banker’s. “No problem, Mr. Holtzen,” she said. “To tell the truth, I did some serious thinking while you were gone.”
19
As the limo rolled toward the Criminal Courts Building, Sharon used the cell phone to call Mrs. Welton at Darla’s house. As she spoke, she smoothed the pilfered printout over her lap and looked at the figures once more. It was five after ten; Rob was late as usual and hadn’t brought Melanie home. Sharon gave the cell phone number to the Englishwoman and told her to have Rob call pronto, then stuffed the portable phone into her purse along with the printout. She wondered if Rob would return her call, and decided that the odds were about fifty-fifty. By now her old flame would be wishing he’d never heard of her. Well, if the condition of Rob’s bank account didn’t shock him, their conversation would be a short one. Sharon straightened in her seat as, visible over Lyndon Gray’s broad shoulders, the Criminal Courts Building came into view.
A circus, Sharon thought, a three-ringer complete with trapeze artists and a pony show. Reporters and cameramen formed a mob on the building’s front steps, and four brightly decorated mobile units were parked across the street. A bearded man had set up a booth near the news trucks and was selling T-shirts. As the limo passed the booth, Sharon squinted toward the huckster as he exhibited his wares to three teenage girls. The shirt bore Darla’s image on the front, a silk screen of one of her more deranged-looking poses from Fatal Instinct. As Sharon watched, the man switched the tee around for a view of the back, showing David Spencer’s likeness.
Gray hit a switch, and the transparent panel hummed open. “Through the jail, mum?” the Englishman said.
“No, I’ll be taking the head-on approach today. I’d rather deal with the swarm before court than after.” Sharon sighed in resignation. She eyed the steps, looking for the pathway through the mob.
“I think we should escort you up.” Gray wheeled to the right and pulled to the curb. A knot of reporters approached.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll battle on alone. You guys have other things.”