by David Lewis
We hung up, and I dialed Sara’s cell, getting the voice mail. Most likely, the girls were in class and the phone was switched off.
After leaving a message and hanging up, I took a shower and grabbed a quick bite of toast. I drove to the corner grocery store and picked up an assortment of boxes. Back at the house, I continued organizing. With Donna’s and Alycia’s things gone, there wasn’t much to pack.
Images from last night’s dream continued to pick away at me, but at the moment, I had more important considerations. I needed to focus my attention on the matter at hand: the money. Two point four million phantom dollars sitting in an offshore account with my name on it.
Alycia called at nine-thirty. “Where were you?”
I apologized profusely and promised to pick her up after school. She didn’t even bother to object.
“Three o’clock, Dad. Right in front. You promise?”
“I’ll be there,” I said, and we hung up.
I went to the living room, picked up the phone and dialed Donna’s number again, hoping to alleviate her worries, but she didn’t answer. Maybe she’d left the apartment.
I spent the remainder of the morning organizing and packing. At noon, I stuffed some more cereal into my mouth, and at about one o’clock, I tried the apartment again. This time, Donna answered on the third ring. I summarized my conversation with Alycia, and Donna seemed relieved.
After we said good-bye and hung up, I received the call that changed everything.
Cary Epstein, another high school buddy and the jewelry store manager across the street from the office, was concerned. There were two men rifling around in the office … and Cary wanted to alert me.
“Where’s Larry, anyway?” Cary asked.
I promised to get back to him and promptly hung up. Sitting in the living room, I put my head into my hands and tried to think. My heart galloped like a gazelle being chased by a cheetah. The paper in my pocket had the account number and password. What if the authorities came now? What if they searched me?
Up in smoke, I realized. Two point four, gone, just like that.
Yet I still hadn’t determined for sure if the money truly existed. Before I decided anything, I had to discover for myself the reality of the accounts. Then, and only then, could I plan my next move.
“They’ll be here in days,” Larry had said.
Missed it by a weekend, I countered.
If I used any of my computers, and if the money was real, I’d be finished. They’d find the evidence on my hard drive and seize the contents. Only one alternative remained. I reached for my cell phone and tried to call Alycia through Sara’s phone, but neither answered. I put the phone in my shirt pocket.
For her sake, I told myself again, heading out to the car. In minutes, I was on Highway 12, heading east out of town. I glanced at my watch. In two hours, I’d be in Milbank, where no one knew me.
Minutes later, I called Alycia again. Still, no answer. As I drove, I kept trying. About three thirty-five, Sara finally answered and handed the phone to Alycia. My daughter’s voice was ragged. “Where are you?”
I had to go out of town, I almost said, thinking better of it. “Something came up. Can we talk on the phone?”
“You promised, Dad.”
“How ’bout seven? Can we talk then?”
“I’m meeting him at seven!”
Him? I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Then right after?”
She didn’t reply.
“Alycia?”
Silence. I almost hung up, convinced I’d lost the connection. Finally, she whispered into the phone, her voice flat and emotionless. “I’ll call you.”
“Where will you be?”
Again, silence.
“Alycia, please…”
No answer.
“Alycia?”
She was gone.
I’m doing this for her, I argued against the clamoring inner voices. I can be back to see her before she leaves at seven.
When I got to Milbank, I found the library, commandeered the corner public computer, and nervously typed in the address to the international bank Web site.
When the information flashed, my mouth literally dropped open.
The account truly existed. Swallowing hard, I navigated through a series of screens and located the account total. My body shuddered again.
Larry was wrong. There wasn’t two point four million in this account. There was nearly two point five million dollars. More precisely: Two million, four hundred ninety-eight thousand, twenty-nine dollars, and seventy-two cents.
I stared at the number for a minute or two, waiting for it to suddenly disappear.
Stolen money.
Money earned by giving tax advice. Illegal tax advice.
Money earned fair and square.
I quickly closed the screen. On my way out, the gray-haired librarian smiled cheerfully. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, averting my face.
I drove back to Aberdeen on Highway 12, my thoughts whirling.
Two point five million dollars.
I grabbed the phone from my pocket, redialed that cell phone number. No answer. I tried Sally’s apartment. No answer.
I stepped on the accelerator, checking the rearview mirror. I had to get to Aberdeen and find Alycia.
As I drove, I created a mnemonic string of exaggerated mental images to help me remember the account number and password. I rehearsed it for nearly an hour until satisfied that I wouldn’t forget, and then ripped the paper into tiny pieces and threw the evidence out the window. For the rest of the way back, I imagined every possible interrogative question, and then formulated and practiced reasonable responses.
I tried to contact Alycia again but still no answer. When the apartment phone rang without anyone picking up the receiver, I knew there was no point in going there to find Alycia.
I turned onto my street at six forty-eight, and my worst fears were confirmed. A nondescript white sedan was parked in the street, and the front door of my house was standing wide open. I parked on the street, took a deep breath, and got out. I strolled up the sidewalk, wondering, Do I pretend surprise? Do I feign anger?
Two men in dark suits—one was blond of average height, the other balder, shorter, stockier—appeared to be stunned when I walked in.
Having decided on a response, I did my best to appear aghast.
“Stephen Whitaker?”
“What have you done here?” I demanded.
“Would you please come with us?”
“You can’t just walk into my house—”
One of the men flashed a piece of paper. A search warrant.
I glanced at the clock. 6:50. They watched me carefully, and I struggled for what I hoped would appear to be a believable length of time to recover my composure.
“May I make a quick call?” I asked.
The blond-haired agent in a black suit and striped blue tie smiled. “You’re not in a position to be making requests.”
He ordered me to raise my arms. I did so and submitted myself to the first legal search of my life. While he patted me down, I badgered him with questions to which I already knew the answers. Without responding, he removed my wallet, my keys … and my cell phone, and placed them in his pocket.
“They’ll be safe with me,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE
With my hands handcuffed behind my back, the two men escorted me down my front steps, across the sidewalk and into the car.
We drove in silence to the sheriff ’s station, a small squat building off Main Street. As we drove, I mentally rehearsed the account numbers and password. In the backseat, I felt like a criminal, vulnerable to observation. Play dumb, I thought. It’ll soon be over.
At the station, they led me up the sidewalk, in through the door, down a hallway to a folding chair, one of several lined against the wall in a roomful of desks. I searched for a clock and found one acros
s the room. 7:35.
The blue-tied agent who’d searched me now changed my handcuffs to fasten me to the chair.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked.
He grinned, and when I requested permission to make a phone call, he only glanced at his shorter partner.
“Just give us a moment to get the paper work started.”
Forty-five minutes passed, and no phone call. I sat there, alone, open to observation. Finally, the two men casually emerged from around the corner, uncuffed me, and led me to a small drab room designed for questioning.
I sat there for another fifteen minutes or so before the blue-tied man came in carrying a coffee cup. If I hadn’t been so nervous, the whole thing would have seemed a little silly, as if they’d watched a few too many episodes of Law and Order.
“Can I get you something, Stephen?”
“How ’bout that call?”
He gave me a patronizing smile. “Who was it you wanted to call again?”
“My daughter,” I replied.
He frowned. “Most people call their lawyers.”
“I promised her.”
He turned to his buddy. “Do you think he’s calling his daughter?”
The other guy shrugged and flashed a perplexed smile. “Sounds like a story to me, Jake. Like maybe you’re going to give someone a message or something.”
“Please,” I whispered.
Jake smiled. “Just tell us what we need to know, and I’ll let you call anyone you want.” He smiled at his partner. “He can even call the president if he likes.”
His partner, the heavyset man, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, made a mocking frown. “I don’t think the president would take the call.”
Jake joined the frown. “Hmmm. I guess you’re right.” He turned to me. “You might want to keep your calls restricted to the kind of people who might actually pick up the phone.”
“Two minutes,” I whispered, startled by their level of sarcasm.
He shrugged good-naturedly, reached in his pocket, and removed my cell phone. He placed it on the table. “I’ll make you a deal, Stephen.”
My eyes darted to the phone and back to his face.
“Just tell me you have the money”—he snapped his fingers—“and you can make a call immediately.”
I let out a deep breath.
He raised his eyebrows. “Seriously.” He picked up the cell phone, extended it to me, and I reached for it. He withdrew it at the last second but kept it poised within reach. “So tell me, Stephen, do you have the money?”
I hesitated. “What money?”
“The money that disappeared from your Wells Fargo account.”
“Which account is that?”
He made a face: Give me a break.
Actually, I didn’t know anything about the Wells Fargo account. It must have been secretly opened by Larry.
I placed my hands on the table. He extended the phone again, but I didn’t fall for it this time. His voice came out mockingly innocent. “It’s yours … right now … if you just tell me … the truth.”
He dangled the phone in front of my face again, just inches above my hands.
“You promised,” Alycia had said.
I swallowed. I was now breathing heavily, and the two men were enjoying my pain. They waited.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmured and closed my eyes.
Jake sighed, shrugged, and put the cell phone in his pocket. “That’s too bad. You seemed pretty desperate there.”
The other guy nodded. “Yeah … well, maybe not desperate.”
Jake agreed. “Eager, then.”
“Yeah…” the other guy echoed. “Eager.”
Jake stepped out of the room for a moment, then came back, sitting down on his side of the table. He opened a thick file and proceeded to study it. A few minutes later, a female office worker delivered a box of donuts. She set a cup of coffee in front of me. I took a sip.
Jake winked. “Good, eh?”
The formal interrogation began.
“Your partner wasn’t exactly low-profile,” he began. “We’ve been watching him for months.”
“We have witnesses who recall seeing you and your partner at the Steak House, just before he disappeared.”
My gut clenched.
“What did he tell you?”
I did my best to fudge, but they weren’t buying my ignorance. More questions followed. I told them everything, exactly as it happened, except for one tiny important detail—the detail they wanted.
Finally, a short man came in with a sheet of paper—a transcript of Larry’s bank accounts. The two men examined the paper and then frowned at me. The sarcastic smiles were gone. We’d come back to the crux of the matter, the aspect of the case that would determine their own personal failure or success.
“So … where’s the money?”
“I have no idea,” I lied.
They asked the same question again and again, only in different ways. I answered again and again, over and over, until Jake announced, “You’re not even a good liar.”
They have no proof, I reminded myself.
“So where is it?” he asked again.
The phone rang. My phone. In Jake’s pocket. They looked at each other and smiled. “Could that be for you?”
A trickle of sweat slid down the side of my face. “It’s my daughter.”
Jake pulled out the phone and squinted at it, reading the caller ID. The phone buzzed again.
He glanced at me. “I’m thinking she’ll call again.”
My eyes watered. “Please…”
Another ring. They watched me. “Where’s the money, Stephen?”
I blew out a breath.
He extended the phone to me, I reached for it, and once again, with a quick flick of the wrist, he withdrew it at the last moment. He raised his eyebrows. “Are we talking yet?”
“Please.”
He shrugged. “She’ll call again.”
The phone stopped ringing. “Sir … I need to speak to her.”
Again, that maddening smile. Jake raised his eyebrows in an unconcerned manner, and turned to his buddy. “Is that our problem, Hal?”
Hal shook his head. “Not our problem, I’m thinking.”
My blood boiled. Jake placed his hands on the table and leaned in. “I’m good at spotting lies, Stephen. And I’m spotting a big fat one. See … all you have to do is tell me the truth. Why is that so hard?”
I swallowed again; my rage was building.
“Where’s the money, Stephen? Oh, and while we’re at it, where’s your buddy?”
The phone rang again. My body shuddered, and they smiled. Once again, and with dramatic flair, he withdrew the phone from his pocket and looked at the ID. “It’s for you, I think.”
I leapt out of my chair and lunged for the phone. Jake jumped back, grinning, and I lost it. Without thinking, I went after him, but Hal grabbed me just before my fist connected. Restraining my arms, he pulled me back, then pushed me against the wall. I hit it hard.
Hal put his forearm against my neck. I couldn’t breathe. I glanced at Jake across the room and watched with horror as he answered the final ring.
“Hello?”
He listened, and then: “Just a sec.” He raised those eyebrows again. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Please…” I gasped.
Hal pressed against me. “Don’t you have a question to answer?”
My resolved buckled, but I didn’t answer. Jake spoke into the receiver. “Your father said he’s too busy.” He snapped the cell phone shut just as I screamed. “Okay! Okay!”
They smiled triumphantly. “Okay what?”
“I have the money,” I said. “Now let me call her.”
Jake looked at Hal. Lowering his forearm to my chest, Hal turned to Jake. “I wonder if he’s just saying that.”
Hal nodded. I struggled again, and Hal pressed harder against me. I was dumbfounded with fury, but no m
atch for Hal. “You promised,” I hissed.
Jake nodded. “Give me the name of the bank, the number, and the password, and we’ve got a deal.”
He pushed a notebook and pencil across the table, and Hal released me with a warning in his eyes—are we cool?
Gasping for breath, I sat down and clutched the pen with my shaking right hand. Holding the paper with my left hand, I wrote the name of the bank. And then swallowed. What was the number?
Jake smiled. “Cat got your brain?”
I saw images of scrap paper flying into the wind.
Unbelievable. “I can’t remember.”
Jake shrugged, putting his hand on the doorknob. Hal joined him by the door. “Knock on the door when you do,” he said. “And then you can call the president if you want.”
Hal slapped his back. “I think you forgot, Jake. He doesn’t want to call the president.”
“Oh that’s right,” Jake said, “I did forget. Thank you for reminding me.”
“You’re welcome. Any time.”
They pushed out of the room.
For three long hours I sat there, and although I finally remembered the password, without the number it was useless.
Alycia’s fine, I consoled myself. She’ll understand.
When they returned at last, I changed my story. “I was bluffing.”
They didn’t buy it, and I didn’t care. When I demanded to speak to my lawyer, they finally relented. Sitting on the table, Jake dialed the number for me, and when my lawyer answered, Jake handed me the phone.
Frustration shuddered through me as I realized I should have demanded Stan immediately, and then he could have called Alycia.
She’s fine, I reminded myself.
Stan the Man was a brusque, no-nonsense type who liked to cut to the chase. He was good at what he did and borderline ethical at best, which is why Donna never got near him during our class-actionsuit defense.
“I’ve been waiting for your call, Stephen,” he said. “News travels fast. So what’s up? What’ve you done now?”
I explained the situation as briefly as possible, and the more I talked the more animated he became. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“Good boy.” Stan chuckled. “So … Larry actually skipped town…” He exhaled into the phone. “Well, if that don’t beat all.”