by Linda Howard
Rapidly she assessed the situation. “How long after she places the order does it take for you to receive the cash? The next day?”
Mrs. Pearson hesitated again. “I’d be glad to discuss this with you in person, but I really don’t like to give out that information over the phone.”
Again, she couldn’t fault the woman, who didn’t know her from Adam’s house cat; for all she knew, Drea was planning to rob the place and was trying to find out when they’d have the most cash available.
Things were not working out the way she’d planned. Instead of getting the cash and disappearing, it looked as if she’d have to hang around Grissom for at least a week. Grissom was a small town, and from what she remembered had only one tiny motel, which would make finding her incredibly easy.
She could limit her vulnerability, though, by staying, say, within a hundred miles but moving around and never staying more than one night in each place. This was turning out to be a pain in the ass, but if she wanted to break the paper trail she had to do it somewhere, and she’d prefer sooner rather than later.
“I understand,” she said. “I know this is a problem. I’ll be there sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“I hope we can work something out,” said Mrs. Pearson, which Drea thought was probably bank-talk for I hope you come to your senses.
She made it to the bank the next day about twenty minutes before closing; she had miscalculated how long the drive would take her so she’d had to get up at four that morning and drive hard all day long. She was tired, a little punch-drunk from three days of driving, and definitely frazzled. Her hair was a curly mess because she hadn’t had time that morning to use the blow-dryer to straighten out the permed-in curls, but at least with curls she more resembled the photo on her driver’s license. She couldn’t imagine what a mess it would be if the bank didn’t believe she was who she said she was. How could she prove her identity? Get a letter or something from Rafael? Yeah, right.
As it happened, her bedraggled appearance worked in her favor. Mrs. Pearson turned out to look like a fugitive from the old Dynasty television show, but her eyes were kind and her big-shouldered power suit was buttoned over a motherly heart. By that time Drea had worked up a sob story to use, involving an abusive ex-husband who had been stalking her, but the story was useless. The bank manager’s mother had died overnight; he had left for Oregon and wouldn’t be back until after the funeral. No one wanted to bother him, and likewise no one at the bank would take responsibility for placing such a huge order for cash outside their normal routine.
God in heaven, Drea thought despairingly, why couldn’t she have gotten an account at a large national bank that probably got cash every day, or several times a day, rather than this podunk bank in a podunk town of not-quite three thousand residents?
She could drive to a larger town, maybe Kansas City, set up another account, and wire the money there, but larger cities meant more drug money came into play, and that gave Rafael more influence. She would be able to get her money faster, but she’d be in more danger while she did it.
As this was now late on Friday afternoon, the earliest she could set up an account would be the following Monday. Even if she then transferred the funds immediately, they wouldn’t be posted, probably, until late that day. So it would be Tuesday before she could request cash, and the bank might or might not be able to get in that much the same day. On the safe side, she had to figure the following Wednesday would be the earliest she could get the money from another bank, whereas it would take her two days longer, the next Friday, to get the money here.
Two days longer, weighed against the greater danger. Neither choice looked great, but they were the only two choices she had. The only better possibility was if the bank manager’s mother was buried this weekend and he came back to work on Monday, which she doubted would happen.
“I suppose I’ll be staying for a few days,” she said with a thin, exhausted smile. “Can you recommend the motel, or should I go to the next town?”
SHE WOULD NEED three things, Simon thought: cash, a car, and a cell phone. As smart as she was, she probably had a secret bank account somewhere nearby, so he’d assume she had the cash. A car, though; where would she get a car? Not in New York; she had last been seen in a taxi entering the Holland Tunnel, crossing into New Jersey. A different state made more sense, so he’d look in New Jersey. And somewhere nearby; she wouldn’t waste money taking a taxi any great distance.
Not a new-car dealership, either; she’d try to fly under the radar, which meant a used car, fairly good condition but nothing spectacular.
He hacked into the DMV to get a copy of her New York driver’s license. A native of the city might not have a license, might not even know how to drive considering how available public transportation was, but in his experience people who moved to the city tended to keep their licenses up-to-date. Once he had the photo, he played with the image, using his computer to cut her hair and darken it. Then he printed out the result, because now was the time for some legwork, and he had to have a picture to show.
He hit pay dirt on Monday, and a hundred bucks later had the make and model of the car, plus the tag number. New Jersey issued two tags, one for the front bumper and one for the back, and some unscrupulous individuals made money by stealing just the front tag and selling them to people who wanted a tag on the rear, just to avoid being pulled over for having no tag at all, and who weren’t intending to stay in New Jersey. It was amazing how many people passed through New Jersey, and how many needed just one tag. Once out of state, a smart person could play license plate roulette and keep ahead of the computer system.
A cell phone, though, was more problematic. She could buy a prepaid cell phone and keep her name out of the system. Damn it, that was probably a dead end.
That left the IRS.
He was like everyone else; he didn’t like to fuck with the IRS, but the taxman was the only way he could find where Drea had sent the money. Any currency transaction involving ten thousand dollars or more triggered a report to the IRS, which was why he moved his own money in increments, and all of it to an offshore destination. Handling money was a hell of a lot of work.
The IRS, however, had a really pissy computer system, which was good luck for him and really bad news for Drea.
On Tuesday, he learned that she had transferred her two million dollars to a bank in Grissom, Kansas.
* * *
12
IF BOREDOM WAS LETHAL, DREA THOUGHT, THEN SHE wouldn’t live long enough to get her money. She’d left her hometown and eventually worked her way to New York City precisely because she didn’t want to live in a town like Grissom, Kansas. She’d grown up in a small town; the life wasn’t for her.
It wasn’t the people. The people were generally nice, if not nosy. And even though her life in New York hadn’t been all glamour and excitement and an endless round of parties—Rafael wasn’t one of the Beautiful People, unless there was a subgenre of Beautiful Thugs—and she’d spent a lot of time in her room, at least it had been an extremely comfortable room. She hadn’t gone to the theater or movies, but there was always pay-per-view on the television. She didn’t have even that in the tiny, dingy room she got that Friday night at the tiny, dingy Grissom Motel, which lived down to its unimaginative name. And she couldn’t go to a movie, because Grissom didn’t have a movie theater—or much of anything else.
There was a small café, and one fast-food restaurant staffed by bored teenagers. For shopping, there was the hardware store, the feed store, the farm-supply store, and a dollar store. For a wider selection, the citizens drove to a neighboring town thirty miles away, which had a Wal-Mart. Big whoop.
She could remember when going to Wal-Mart had been a big deal to her, because that was where she’d bought most of her clothes. If she’d managed to scrape together enough money to buy something at Sears, she was as proud of it as if she’d gotten it at Saks Fifth Avenue.
And here she was again, wearing Wal-Mart clothes. The dif
ference was that she had two million bucks in the bank, and she knew that soon she could wear anything she wanted. In the meantime, living in the boondocks again was driving her nuts. Maybe she hadn’t done much when she’d been in New York, but at least she could have.
Nerves ate at her; she felt as if the waiting was scraping her skin raw. After one night in Grissom she checked out of the motel and drove thirty miles to the town that boasted a strip mall, but on second thought kept going, to the next town down the road. The extra distance from Grissom would make it just that much more difficult for anyone to find her.
The next day, she checked out of that motel, and drove some more.
She did that for the next three nights. Living out of a cheap suitcase, not bothering to unpack because she was spending just one night in each place, bothered her on some bone-deep level. Every decision she’d made since the day she’d left home, such as it was, had been made with her eye on one goal, which was to have money, security, and a home. She had money now, even if she couldn’t get it yet. A home? She was afraid to stay in one place long enough to unpack her suitcase. She’d had somewhere to stay, but it wasn’t hers, a place where she belonged and could let her guard down. Maybe “home” and “security” actually meant the same thing—in any case, she knew she hadn’t found it yet.
She was holding her breath, waiting to start living.
On Wednesday she found herself driving in a wide, meandering circle around Grissom, as if she were circling a drain. There was nothing to see except miles and miles of flat land, green with the summer crops, and the wide blue bowl of sky overhead. Traffic was sparse, because I-70 was a long way to the north, and down here in farm country the only people driving around were the people who lived here—and not many did.
Maybe it was the long days of solitude, or the mostly empty road that meant she likely wasn’t in grave danger if she let her mind wander, but with nothing to occupy her time except her thoughts she began to feel…uneasy. That was the only way to explain it. She’d made a mistake somewhere, somehow.
All the steps she’d taken ran through her head, and she examined each one. She tried to think what she could have done differently, and other than transferring all the money to the Elizabeth bank and taking her chances with an extended stay in the area, she came up blank. On the other hand, was she taking a bigger chance by hanging around Grissom for so long?
Was she relying too much on the assumption that Rafael wouldn’t go to the police? She didn’t think so. Rafael would want to take care of her his way, the permanent way, which precluded any cops. Her other assumption was that Rafael, who had lived his entire life first in Los Angeles and then New York, would have no idea how to track her through middle America. This was her territory, not his. But what if she was wrong?
What if he hired out the job?
A chill shot through her. That was what she’d overlooked. Rafael wouldn’t try to hunt her down himself, he wouldn’t send his men out to beat the concrete bushes of New York. She’d stolen two million dollars from him, smashed his ego, and thrown his newfound “love” back in his face. To him, the last two reasons would be even more powerful than the first. For an offense that serious, he’d hire the best.
And the best was…him.
Her heart began hammering and her breath came too fast. Jerkily she pulled to the side of the road and gripped the steering wheel as she fought off the panic attack. She couldn’t panic; she couldn’t afford the wasted time. She had to think.
Okay. The bank wouldn’t give out information about her account to anyone without a search warrant, which obviously Rafael wouldn’t be able to get. But…what about a hacker? The assassin made his living tracking down people, and he was damn good at what he did, or he wouldn’t be able to charge the huge amounts he did. He earned the money by producing results. It followed, then, that he’d either be really good himself at getting into supposedly secure computer sites, or he knew someone who was.
Drea took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds, did that several times to slow her heartbeat. Think it through, think it through.
To hack into a bank’s computer system, he’d first have to know which bank, but, damn it, he’d have the starting point because he’d know which bank Rafael used. Or he could get into the IRS system, knowing that every transaction over ten thousand dollars triggered a report to the tax agency, and from what she’d read the IRS didn’t have the best computer system around. By the same token, Rafael’s bank was one of the huge national banks with billions and billions in assets, so it followed that the bank would have a kick-ass security system on its computer network.
While she’d been wasting time driving aimlessly around looking at fields and sky and not much else, he could have tracked the bank transfers, and be waiting for her in Grissom.
The best thing she could do was walk away from the two million, at least for now, and stay safe. She still had the cashier’s check for eighty-five thousand from the bank in Elizabeth, so it wasn’t as if she was broke.
As soon as she deposited it somewhere, though, so far as she knew that would trigger another of those damn currency transaction reports, which would lead him straight to the bank where she’d put it.
There had to be a lag time, though, even a short one, between the bank and the IRS. She had an advantage with the cashier’s check, because that should mean it would be immediately honored. She needed to go to a large city, use the cashier’s check to open an account at a large national bank, let them know ahead of time she was wiring in two million dollars, and make arrangements to get at least a chunk of it in cash.
Suddenly, she knew how she’d work it. With the cash, she’d open up several different bank accounts, in different but neighboring towns, always less than ten thousand dollars so the bank wouldn’t have to file those damn reports. Then, in a flurry of activity, she could wire smaller sums out of the Grissom bank to all those other banks, and one by one she could go to those other banks, close out the accounts, and get the money in cash. She would fly under the radar. Getting the entire two million would take longer—a lot longer—but unless he could hack into the bank’s computer system she should be home free.
Well, almost home free. At the least she would buy enough time to get a new identity and start over. With a new name, a new Social Security number, she could disappear.
Pulling out her cell phone, she checked the level of service. One bar. Not good enough. She’d have to get closer to a town. That was another thing about the wide-open spaces; they were too wide open, too many long miles of no people, no traffic, no houses, just fields as far as the eye could see. An ear of corn had no need for a cell phone, whereas her ear definitely did.
She drove for almost an hour, keeping an eye on the service indicator on her phone. When the number of bars abruptly jumped to three, she decided to give it a try, and pulled over.
Her first try, she got Mrs. Pearson’s voice mail. “Mrs. Pearson, this is Andrea Butts. Something has come up and I don’t want the two million in cash. I hope your head cashier hasn’t put in the order yet. I really need to talk to you, but I’m afraid to come to the bank. Please call me back at—” She stopped, completely blanking on the number for her new cell phone. “I’ll call you back,” she said hurriedly, and ended the call.
Damn it, what was that number? She turned off the phone, then turned it back on, and watched the screen as it flashed the info. Grabbing a pen from her bag, she scribbled down the number and called Mrs. Pearson again.
To her surprise, Mrs. Pearson herself answered. “Hello, Ms. Butts, I just got your message. I was seeing some clients off and missed your call by seconds. I’m giving a note to Judy right now, about the cash order. I have to say, I’m relieved you’ve changed your mind, but…is something wrong?” She lowered her voice. “You’re afraid to come to the bank?”
“It’s my ex-husband,” Drea said, glad that her hard-luck spiel was making itself useful after all. “I don’t know how, but he’s followed
me this far, and knows I have an account with you. I’m afraid he’s watching the bank, and if I show up there, he’ll follow me.”
“Have you called the police?” Mrs. Pearson asked, a gratifying amount of alarm in her tone.
“So many times I’ve almost worn the numbers off the phone buttons,” Drea said wearily. “It’s always the same answer: until he actually does something, they have no grounds to pick him up. He’s a salesman for a large agricultural firm, so he has a good reason for being in just about any area, and I don’t have a right to keep him from doing his job, blah blah blah. I guess this is what I get for covering for him all those times he hit me, saying I fell down the steps, or closed the car door on my hand when he’s the one who broke my finger.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Mrs. Pearson murmured. “No, you certainly shouldn’t come here if you think he’s watching. But…what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” She did know, she just hadn’t worked out the particulars yet. “He thinks he’s entitled to the money because we were still married when my parents died and I inherited my share of their estate.”
“Ah…an inheritance is the personal property of the heir, I think.”
“So the law says, but he thinks he earned it by putting up with me.” Drea put bitterness in her tone. “I just need to break the paper trail, so he can’t keep following me.”
“Your account information is confidential. How does he—”
“He has a friend who works for the IRS.”
“I see.”
The fact that nothing more needed to be said told Drea that her reasoning about the IRS was more on target than she wanted it to be.
“I’ll have to work something out, but I don’t know what.”
“I’m afraid that any transaction you do will have to be reported to the IRS,” Mrs. Pearson said regretfully. “Banks are required to make currency transaction reports on any movement of funds involving ten thousand dollars or more, so your two million will certainly leave a paper trail.”
