The Job (45 page)

“Do me a favor, Mr. Allen, and refrain from answering that question. Because it’s not my business to know such things. And-I really do not want to know. One small thing, however-Mr. Schubert should have supplied you with a reference from a financial institution with which he has an account. But given that he is your boss-and therefore involved with the fund-I think we can waive that requirement.”

“He’ll be very grateful.”

He disappeared with the computer case. When he returned fifteen minutes later he was carrying a small deposit book. He handed it to me. It was made out in the name of Jerome D. Schubert.

“The account is officially opened.”

I handed him back the book.

“You can keep this on file here,” I said.

“You mean, Mr. Schubert won’t want to see a record of his deposits?”

“He trusts me.”

“Of course he does,” Mr. MacGuire said, beginning to write out the receipts.

“I mean, I’ll be turning over the deposit receipts to him.”

“Of course you will.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Doesn’t Jerry Schubert get Excalibur Fund statements sent to him?”

He gave me a withering glance.

“Excalibur is not his account, Mr. Allen.”

“Of course,” I said, covering my gaffe.

“It’s traceable to no single individual. And therefore, no one receives its statements.”

“Precisely. But…” He motioned me toward him. “.. . I’ll let you in on a little secret. The fund’s lawyer, Mr. Parkhill, rings me here every time you visit us with a deposit, just to make certain that the money has arrived. And he always inquires as to the amount you have deposited.”

“And what will you tell him, now that the money is being spread between two accounts?”

“I will continue to do what I have always done: inform him of the total sum you deposited… and say nothing more. Unless, of course, he demands to know the balance of the fund’s account-which I will be obliged to tell him.”

“May I ask a favor?”

“Try me.”

I chose my words carefully.

“If he does ask you for the overall balance, would you please call me?”

He thought about this for a moment.

“Well … I don’t suppose a phone call would contravene bank regulations. So…”

He pushed a pad toward me. I scribbled down the number of my cellular phone. Then I stood up to leave.

“I really appreciate your help,” I said.

He shook my hand.

“You are playing a very curious game, Mr. Allen. I hope there is some strategy behind it.”

No, I just make it all up as I go along.

Before leaving the bank I managed to execute a maneuver I had planned while en route to Nassau. I stopped by the front counter to say hello to Muriel, who always called me a cab after I concluded my business with Mr. MacGuire. She was a thickset woman around fifty, with a bouffant hairdo and heavily rouged lips. She was also a skillful flirt. As I approached the counter, she said, “Hey there, rich man-how much money did you give us today?”

“Not enough to win you over, Muriel,” I replied.

“Damn right. I’m sure it’s not enough-because I don’t come cheap.”

“I bet you don’t.”

“Cab to the airport, hon?”

“Please.”

There was no phone behind the counter, so Muriel headed into a back office. As soon as she was out of sight (and I had glanced around to make certain no one was watching), I made a fast grab for two items on the counter: an unused receipt book and an official bank stamp. The entire theft couldn’t have taken more than three seconds, and the booty went straight into my case. When Muriel returned there was one nervous moment when I thought she noticed the missing items-but it passed, and she gave me a big smile.

“The taxi’ll be here in a second, hon.”

“Are you going to run away with me this time?” I asked.

“You pro positioning me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Man, you are one fast worker.”

“The fastest.”

“Think I better talk things over with my husband first. He might not like the idea-and I think you’ve got enough problems already, hon.”

All the way back to Miami, Muriel’s comment kept pestering me. Making me wonder if I radiated worry-or if Mr. MacGuire and his colleagues knew more about my little predicament than they let on. Surely they were more than a little curious about the origins of the one million dollars I had banked with them this week. I was rather curious as well.

In the departure lounge at Miami Airport I broke a $5 bill, deposited $3.75 when requested, and called Lizzie.

“Did you open the account?” she asked.

“I did.”

“No nrohlems?”

“There were a few raised eyebrows-but then the manager, Mr. MacGuire, saw the four hundred and ten grand I was depositing and decided he could live with any doubts he might have about the account’s legitimacy.”

“Anyway, it is a legitimate accountin Jerry Schubert’s name. Did you get both receipts?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’d better find a safe place to hide the ones pertaining to Jerry’s account.”

“I even scored a Bahamian Bank of Commerce receipt book and official deposit stamp.”

“Was that difficult?”

“It turns out I’m a natural as a shoplifter.”

“Listen, I’ll be flying to New York on Sunday. I just found out that the company’s found me a three-month sublet on Seventy-fourth and Third.”

“Can I meet you at the airport?”

“Ned, we’re separated. We’re staying separated.”

“I just thought…”

“What?”

“You’ve been great, that’s all.”

“I’m just trying to help-because, God knows, you need help. But it’s nothing more than that. Understood?”

“Yeah-understood.”

“Call me tomorrow with an update. Oh-and see if you can somehow break into Jerry’s computer. The only way you’re going to get out of this is if you find out exactly how the fund works, and what landed Peterson under that train.”

At a newspaper shop near the departure gate, I asked the clerk if they stocked ink pads.

“The only one I’ve got comes with a complete set of Disney characters.”

“Sold.”

The flight to New York was half full. I had two seats to myself. After takeoff I opened my computer case, pulled out the receipt book, and filled in a deposit slip in the name of the Excalibur Fund for the amount of 410 thousand U.S. dollars. Then I retrieved the bank stamp, opened the Disney ink pad, inked the bank stamp, and slammed it down on the receipt-giving Jerry alleged proof that the entire Dallas deposit was safe and sound in the fund’s account.

I didn’t reach New York until after ten that night. The lights were off in the loft-but I was taking no chances. Before taking the elevator upstairs, I left my case in a broom cupboard at the rear of the little downstairs lobby. But Jerry wasn’t lying in wait for me, wondering why his passport was missing. The loft was empty. So I returned his passport to his desk drawer, then powered up his computer. Immediately, a prompt appeared:

ENTER PASSWORD.

Damn. Damn. Damn. But not unexpected, as Jerry was ultra-cautious on the security front. I rummaged through his desk drawers, hoping that he might have written down the password in an address book or on the inside cover of his computer’s instruction manual. But the very fact that he left his desk unlocked told me what I already knew: Nothing of a confidential nature was kept there. So I tried a variety of password variations:

J.S.

When my inventiveness began to peter out I tried his date of birth. No dice. So I reversed that number. Still no luck. But just as I dug out his passport and was about to type in its number, I heard a telltale clunk in the outside hallway. The elevator had stopped on our floor. Frantically I shut the computer down, just managing to turn off the monitor and dive onto the sofa as Jerry walked through the door.

“You’re up late,” he said, tossing his bag by the door.

“Everything go okay in Dallas?”

“Not a hitch,” I said, trying to appear relaxed.

“And you made your connection to Nassau?”

“With a half hour to spare.”

“You’ve got the receipt?”

“Yeah,” I said, reaching into my shirt pocket and handing it over. He glanced at it briefly, then slipped it into his wallet.

“How was L.A.?” I asked.

“Great trip. Plenty of interest in Mr. B.“s new book on the Coast-and I found a new client for the fund.”

“I see.”

“So it looks like you’re off on Monday afternoon to the City of Angels. I phoned our travel agent. She’s got you on the three P.M. American flight, you’ll be at LAX by six, you’ll have a couple of hours at the airport to deal with all your ‘business,” then you’re booked on the ten P.M. red-eye to Miami, changing there for the seven A.M. flight to Nassau.”

“Whatever,” I said, thinking that two transcontinental flights in a day would give new meaning to the expression jet lag.

Jerry opened the fridge, pulled out a beer, screwed off the top, and took a long swig.

“I need to ask you something, Ned. And understand: I’m doing it as a courtesy.”

“Yeah?”

He took another swig of beer.

“What would you think if I started going out with Lizzie?”

I tried to show no emotion.

“We’re separated, remember? So it’s not really my call who she sees.”

“We had lunch yesterday.”

“What?” I said, sounding thrown.

“We had lunch yesterday in West Hollywood. Strictly business, of course-there’s a lot to talk about, vis-a-vis the launch of Mr. B.“s book. But, I’ve got to tell you-she is one exceptional woman.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“So, naturally I got to thinking about… well, how I’d like to start seeing her. Especially since she’s moving back here. And especially since I definitely sensed that she’s interested, too. Of course I could be wrong, but…”

I stood up and headed toward the door.

“You could be right, too,” I said.

“I’m going to get some air.”

“I’ve upset you.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You have.”

I didn’t bother to wait for the elevator. I charged down the stairs, grabbed the computer case out of the broom cupboard, marched out the door and straight to the nearest pay phone. It was now midnight. As it was her last day in the L.A. office, I gambled on Lizzie working late. Before she could say hello, I yelled, “What the hell were you doing having lunch with Jerry Schubert?”

“Talking business. And lower your voice, now.”

“He said sparks were flying between you like a forest fire…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake …”

“… and that he really felt you were giving off this big romantic vibe.”

“In his dreams. Now will you please grow up….”

“I miss you, goddammit. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.”

Silence. She waited until I stopped sobbing.

“Are you okay?” she finally asked.

“No.”

“Ned, trust me here. I think Schubert is a total asshole.”

“Okay.”

“But I’ve got to work with him. And I do think it’s worth flirting with the guy. Because, like most men, he shoots his mouth off when he thinks he might just have a chance. And yesterday afternoon …”

“Yeah?”

“He asked me if we were ever friendly with Ted Peterson and his wife.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“But why?”

“Well, trying to be really casual, he mentioned how he’d read about Peterson’s death in the paper, and how he knew you had a history with the guy… and he was just also casually wondering if we’d ever met Mrs. P. And was she somebody who was close to her husband, or knew much about his work. I told him the truth: I’d never met either her or her late jerk of a husband. But it got me thinking…”

A long pause. Finally I said, “He’s worried that Mrs. Peterson might have stumbled upon some sort of evidence that Ted left at home?”

“Bull’s-eye, Sherlock.”

Two things stopped me from rushing up the next morning to meet Meg Peterson in Old Greenwich. The first was a headline I saw in the New York Times. It was on page three of the Metro section:

HOME OF DEAD COMPUTER EXECUTIVE RANSACKED DURING FUNERAL

Just over a week after Ted Peterson’s death on the Metro-North line in Old Greenwich, a new twist has been added to the case, which Connecticut police have been calling “highly suspicious.” Upon returning home from his funeral service yesterday, Mr. Peterson’s family discovered that their house in Old Greenwich had been robbed.

According to Capt. James Hickey of the Greenwich police department, “The perpetrators took very little of value from the house, yet still ransacked it thoroughly.”

The major thefts took place in Mr. Peterson’s study and bedroom.

“Either these thieves were looking for something specific,” Capt. Hickey said in a prepared statement, “or they mistimed the breakin and had to flee when they heard the mourners returning to the house. Whatever the scenario, their actions are beneath contempt.”

Fucking Jerry. The guy was beyond ruthless. He had no scruples whatsoever. Lizzie’s instincts had been right on the money. Worried that Peterson might have kept some incriminating papers at home, he decided to stage a breakin at chez Peterson, disguised to look like a robbery. Only, of course, instead of grabbing jewelry and the family silver, they nabbed Ted’s desktop computer, his floppy disks, his papers. And with impeccable, humane timing, Jerry organized the robbery to take place while his family and so-called friends were saying prayers over the guy’s body.

So much for me getting to Mrs. Peterson first. Jerry had closed down that possibility.

The second thing that stopped me from visiting Mrs. Peterson was the police. Around 9:00 A.M. Monday morning-only a few hours before I was due to fly to Los Angeles-I received a call at the office from a Detective Tom Flynn of the Connecticut state police. He “just happened to be in Manhattan today on business,” and would greatly appreciate the opportunity to stop by my office and ask me a few questions about Ted Peterson. When I explained I was going to L.A. that afternoon, he said, “No problem. I’ve just wrapped up an interview with someone on East Forty-eighth Street. I could be at your office in half an hour.”