The Tin Man (21 page)

“Hamilton,”
Thea answered without hesitation. “Just look around. Look at the last presidential election. Anyone who doesn’t think the White House was purchased for Richard Freeman with corporate money is blind, a damn fool, or both.”

“Be careful there,
Thea.” Buchanan chuckled. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

“I don’t disagree with either of you,” Witherspoon said, “but it could also be argued that the biggest chasm between Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Hamilton had to do with foreign trade policy. Mr. Jefferson, a southerner with agricultural interests, favored free trade while Mr. Hamilton, a leading proponent of manufacturing, championed protectionism.”

Protectionism, Buchanan knew, was the economic policy of restraining trade between nations by imposing things like tariffs on imported goods, restrictive quotas, and other regulations aimed at leveling the playing field between foreign and domestic competitors. The policy contrasted with “free trade,” where governmental barriers to trade and the movement of capital were minimal by design.

“It quickly escalated into a battle between northern manufacturers and southern planters
,” Witherspoon went on. “The slave-holding states, which enjoyed low-cost labor, wanted to be free to buy manufactured goods wherever they chose. The northern states, by the same token, wanted to protect emerging industries until they were strong enough to compete with foreign importers. The fight continued throughout the nineteenth century—between the Northern Whigs, who favored tariffs, and the Southern Democrats, who bitterly opposed them. Eventually, the Whig Party collapsed, making room for the fledgling Republicans, who also opposed free trade. During the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, the first Republican president, imposed a forty-four percent tariff on imports. The defeat of the South and the elimination of slavery, which ended free labor and thereby forced mechanization, assured Republican dominance—and the dominance of protectionist policies.” 

“Wait a minute,”
Thea said, looking confused. “Don’t the Republicans favor free trade? Aren’t they all about globalization and deregulation?”

“The tables radically turned at the beginning of the
twentieth century,” Witherspoon told her. “The Southern Democrats rose from the ashes, joining with the Northern Progressives to oppose runaway corporate conglomeration. The Progressives supported free trade as a way to achieve global cooperation and world peace, and to undermine the Republican power base. Then came the First World War and the Great Depression. Roosevelt, a Democrat, blamed the protectionist policies of his Republican predecessor, Herbert Hoover, for the nation’s economic collapse. Protectionism fell out of favor, but so did the Progressive’s vision of a one-world government. And, of course, by then, American industry had established a solid foothold in the international market.”

Buchanan
, although fascinated, couldn’t help but notice that Thea was now eyeing him intrepidly.

“As interesting as all of this is,” she said
when he met her gaze, “aren’t we forgetting something?”

“Right,” Buchanan said,
looking at Witherspoon. “Have you come up with the name of the bank?”

“I can’t believe I couldn’t remember,”
Witherspoon said, coloring a little. “It’s as plain as the nose on my face. Citizen’s Bank. Like it says on the card. Hamilton. Citizens. And I’ll bet you anything, 1776 is the number of the safe deposit box containing the very thing everyone is looking for.

* * * *

The curator had told the journalists there was a branch of Citizen’s Bank a few blocks away in the old Corn Exchange Bank building on Chestnut, just past Second Street. It was a real architectural gem, he’d said. They were on their way there now, striding up Third with brisk determination.

The late morning air was crisp and the sky was that deep shade of autumn azure
Thea relished. But it was also chilly, and her sweater wasn’t heavy enough to keep out the cold. She longed for a coat with pockets for her hands, which were starting to ache. She glanced longingly at Buchanan’s tweed. Maybe he’d offer it to her again if she dropped a hint. She gave him a meaningful smile as she feigned a shiver. To her vexation, he merely hobbled along, oblivious. Setting her jaw, she folded her arms across her chest, tucking her hands into her armpits for warmth.

A city bus roared by, shaking the sidewalk and kicking up an icy gust.
She moved closer to him, yearning to, at the very least, put her arm through his and snuggle against him. Would he stiffen? Would he shake her off? Unwilling to risk it, she sucked it up and quickened her pace, leaving him behind.

She reached
Chestnut a few steps ahead and cut the corner toward the right, charging past restaurants, hotels, an architect’s office, and an espresso shop. As she slowed to inhale the tantalizing aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, he caught up with her. She didn’t look at him.

She
could see the bank now, half a block ahead. Witherspoon was right. It was beautifully festooned with concrete moldings, portals, corbels, balustrades, and window frames. Rising out of the nearest corner was an elaborate clock tower capped with a verdigris copper dome. On the side, in chiseled concrete letters, were the words: Corn Exchange National Bank. Over a smoked-glass door, under a scrolled federal pediment, a green canvas awning advertised:

Citizens Bank

Open 7 days

“Impressive, isn’t it?”
she said.

“
Indeed,” he returned, stepping up to open the door.

As he held it for her, she squeezed past,
letting her hips brush against the front of his slacks. He cleared his throat, but didn’t pull away. Wearing a smile, she proceeded to the lobby, which offered an impressive display of towering pillars, soaring coffered ceilings, and inlaid marble. She stepped to the center, pausing there to wait for him. When he came up behind her, she was hyper-aware of his radiant energy. And his smell—a feral blend of manly musk and stale smoke. As her blood began to heat, she drew a jagged breath and stepped away.

Collecting herself, s
he scanned the space. To her right, a short line of people waited by velvet ropes for the tellers. On the left was a cluster of desks. She waited for one of the managers to look her way. When a heavy-set African-American woman did just that, Thea moved toward her. The woman was wearing a navy-blue blazer and shiny red lipstick. The sign on her desk read: Sharon Mabry.

“How can I help you?”
Sharon’s smile was broad, her teeth straight and dazzling white.

“My grandfather left me this,”
Thea told her, being deliberately vague as she produced the key, “and I was hoping you could tell me if it’s from this bank.”

Thea
set the key in the woman’s outstretched palm. Sharon took a few moments to examine it carefully.

“It certainly looks like one of ours.” Sharon handed the key back to
Thea. “Do you have your grandfather’s account number? And legal proof of the bequest?”

“I have the box number and key,”
Thea replied, swallowing hard. She found the assumption that her grandfather was dead deeply unsettling. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sharon replied. “At the very least, I’ll need to see a
copy of your grandfather’s will—to confirm that everything’s on the up and up.”

“But that could take time,”
Thea protested, playing along. “And I’m only in Philadelphia today.”

“I’m sorry,” Sharon said, her smile fading. “As much as I’d like to help, I’m also bound by the rules.
For security reasons. I’m sure you understand.”

Thea
turned to look at Buchanan, who was behind her. “What do we do now?”

He
stepped closer to Sharon. “Can you at least check to see if her grandfather has an account at this branch?”

“Of course,” Sharon replied, smiling again, “what’s the name?”

As he told her, Sharon’s red fingernails started clacking away on her computer keyboard. A few moments later, she looked up at him with a puzzled scowl. “Could the account be in another name?”

“Try
Dorothea Hamilton,” he suggested, squeezing Thea’s shoulder.

They waited while Sharon checked.
After a minute, she looked up and said, “There is an account in that name. Opened a week ago. If you can show me some identification, I can take you back to the vault right now.”

Buchanan
, anticipating her, offered Thea the briefcase. She set it on the floor, dug out her wallet, and showed her driver’s license to Sharon, who nodded and opened one of the drawers in her desk. She took something out and slid it across the blotter toward Thea.

“I’ll need you to complete a signature card,” she said, handing her a pen.

“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” Sharon offered as Thea filled out the card.

“Thanks,”
Thea said, handing her back the card. “Can my friend come with me?”

“I’m afraid not, but
he can wait for you over there.”

Sharon
pointed toward a pair of wingback chairs not far away, then stood. Thea grabbed her purse and briefcase and followed Sharon across the lobby, heart beating faster. Whatever was in that box felt menacing all of a sudden. She threw an anxious glance at Buchanan, who was moving toward the wingbacks.

Sharon
took her through a black metal door and down a passageway, their footsteps echoing in unison. Thea’s pulse was starting to race and her palms to perspire. People had died for whatever was in that box. And she and Buchanan could very well be next.

Half an hour had passed since Thea went into the vault and Buchanan, feeling antsy, was now pacing the lobby’s marble floor. His focus shifted intermittently from the travertine tiles to the metal door through which she had disappeared with Sharon Mabry. When the cell in his jacket pocket started ringing, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Fishing it out, he checked the screen.

Bloody hell.
It was Helene.

“Hey,” he said
, feigning nonchalance, “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

“Where are you?” She sounded upset. “I just got home and
heard about what happened to your staff.”

“I’m in Philadelphia,” he
told her, “and it’s a very long story. Too long to go into over the phone.”

“I was hoping I’d find you here when I got back,” she told him. “There’s something I’ve
been wanting to talk to you about.” She hesitated. “I did a lot of thinking in Guatemala—about us—and I was kind of hoping that maybe, now that I’m back, we might take things to the next level.”

Buchanan, being so preoccupied with his own troubles, wasn’t sure he understood.

“The next level?”

“You know,” she said. “Be a couple. Live together.”

He could feel the blood draining from his face.

“
Alex? Are you there?”

“
I am,” he said, now breathless. “But—well, you’ve caught me a bit off my guard.”

“
Sorry. Do you need some time to think it over?”

“Eh, Helene,” he stammered, unsure
just what to say. “I’ve, em, kind of met someone else.”

Icy s
ilence.

When he could endure it no longer,
he said, “We did say no strings, eh?”

She huffed.
“Are you sleeping with her?”

“
No,” he said, feeling defensive. “I was waiting to talk to you, to do things properly.”

He heard her
sigh. “Are you in love with her?”

“I don’t know,” he said, swallowing.
“Maybe.”

There was another oppressive silence.

“Who is she? Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied,
not wanting to have this conversation in the middle of the echoing lobby of a bank. (Or anywhere, frankly.) “She’s a reporter. I dated her once a few years back. Long before I met you.”

“Is she with you now?
In Philly?”

“
Aye,” he said, keeping his eye on the door to the vault for any sign of Thea. “We’re working on a story.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I can’t really say.” He licked his lips. “But…are we square?”

“I guess.”
Her voice was strained. “But I think it would be best if you moved out.”

His jaw clenched.
Women. Bloody hell. If he had a nickel for every time one of them had said “no strings” and later reneged on the deal, he’d be as rich as Milo Osbourne.

“Fine,” he said, jaw still tight. “I’ll ring you when I get back to New York.”

“Fine,” she snipped before hanging up.

Buchanan
, shaking his head, put his phone away. His heart was pounding and his palms were wet, but he’d done what he felt was right. And now, he was free to pursue things with Thea, if and when he decided to move forward.