Show Me the Money
Page 11
She called Mary and Gracie to see if anyone was up for a shopping trip or needed help with anything or was dying for a happy hour together, even if they only did it on Zoom. She drummed her fingers on her new desk then picked up her phone.
Chapter 32
The hotel in London wasn’t nearly as elegant as the Ritz. “Apologies that I was not able to get us in at the Savoy,” Pen said. “Sometimes a hotel truly is full, and even a bestselling author can’t angle her way in.”
Sandy plopped her bag down on one of the twin beds in the smallish room. “It’s fine, really. Mainly, we just need to get decent rest so we can be at the bank first thing in the morning when it opens.”
She indulged herself in a moment of regret—while Pen put a few items in the bathroom—that she’d not seen more of Paris. The City of Light had been a lifelong dream of hers, and Sandy knew she would figure out a way to go back sometime. And although she wanted to lecture Amber (just a little) on the fact that she’d taken up with a man she barely knew, Sandy now saw the allure of the beautiful city and how a romance there could easily bloom.
She sighed and hung her jacket in the small wardrobe just as Pen emerged, face scrubbed clean and dressed for bed.
They were standing outside the HSBC Bank at Woodstock Terrace at five minutes to ten the next morning, waiting for the doors to open.
“At least this time we don’t need to worry whether the manager speaks English,” Sandy joked. “Even if he throws out British idioms, you can translate for me.”
The he turned out to be a she, and the manager’s well-dressed assistant led them directly to an inner office. As before, Sandy provided all the numbers needed to find the account and Ms. Love looked it up. Pen knew they were in for a disappointment when a frown crossed the woman’s face.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid it looks like this account has been closed.”
“When?” Sandy asked, dreading the answer.
“Well, yesterday afternoon. It seems the account owner came in just before closing time and withdrew all his funds.”
Same scenario. Cash converted to American dollars. Only this time the amount was more than two hundred thousand.
“You had that amount of US currency on hand?” Sandy asked, incredulous.
“Well, we had to pull from several sources,” Ms. Love admitted. “One of our branches services a major American corporation and the currency was meant to fill their order. We had to transact an urgent-request transfer from the central bank, but managed to shift all the money to the proper channels on time.”
“You would go to those lengths for just anyone who came in off the street?” Pen asked.
The banker shifted slightly in her seat. “Normally, no. We would insist they give us at least twenty-four hours to make the arrangements.”
“But …”
“Apparently, he had put in the request in advance using our online banking service, and once we checked the account credentials, we really had no choice.” Her mouth tightened slightly. “Plus, I understand there was something of a dustup between the client and the assistant manager who was helping him. He wouldn’t seem to accept no as an answer.”
Sandy wondered if that was typical of Cody Brennan, and she realized how very little they really knew about the young man. They thanked the woman behind the desk and left.
“I cannot believe this,” Pen said once they reached the street. “We are seemingly right on his trail and yet he manages to always get there first.”
Sandy felt her frustration grow. They started walking in the direction of a park their taxi had passed on the way to the bank. “So, what next? It’s hard to believe there’s a man walking around with well over two hundred thousand …” She lowered her voice and looked around to be sure no one was close enough to overhear. “… in cash, on his person. What can he be thinking?”
“And what can he possibly do with it?” Pen mused.
“If he plans to go back to the States, he’s going to have the same problem Amber did—how to get it past Customs without being caught and arrested.”
“Perhaps he has no plans to go back.”
“Or he’s out here, looking for another young woman to woo and convince to do this favor for him.”
“It would be fairly sketchy to just choose someone he has never met, to entrust her with that amount.”
They paused under a maple tree with brilliant red leaves and looked straight at each other. “Unless he’s already chosen someone. He could be pulling the very same thing he did with Amber!” Sandy said.
“My thoughts exactly. How did she say they met? The internet. They became chummy over time and he pretended to live and work in Paris … What would be so difficult about setting up the same story, using London, convincing another American young woman to meet him here?”
“Or more than one,” Sandy suggested. “Surely he knows he lost the hundred grand that Amber was carrying. He might try another tactic. Two women, each carrying fifty thousand.”
“He has more than two hundred with him.”
“All right, four women. Or ten women, each carrying twenty. Or twenty women, each carrying ten—”
“Which would be legal, and he wouldn’t run the risk of losing it.”
Sandy thought about that, her eyes focused on a bed of chrysanthemums in shades of orange and purple. “It makes sense, in a way, but where is he going to find twenty women, all traveling from here back to the US at the same time—assuming he wouldn’t want to drag the operation out too long. There’s too much risk of losing track of everyone.”
“And he would surely want to be close by, on the same flight, if possible, or following no more than a day behind.”
“As he claimed he was doing with Amber. Remember, she said he was supposed to be on the next flight.”
“How would one man manage to do that?” Pen asked, staring toward a duck pond in the distance.
“With a tour group. Could he somehow have targeted a group? I’m thinking mainly young women, since he seems to have a certain charm that might not work so well with men. They would need to be young. Older folks are going to be suspicious and more likely to know the laws.”
“If this were one of my novels, I should have to place the characters where I wanted them at the precisely right time,” Pen said. “But I don’t have a clue how a person could set that up in real life.”
Chapter 33
Cody felt conspicuous on the street, pulling a wheeled suitcase. When his phone rang with Pop’s ringtone, he ignored it. The old man was starting to get on his nerves, and he had enough worries already. Most of them caused by his father. Seriously? Why did all this money need to be in cash?
He passed an alley with a name—Montlake Wynd. Whatever that meant. But it was dim and wound out of sight, and he didn’t like the idea that some thug could come popping out of such a place and rob him in a flash. He needed to get off the street.
He’d slept fitfully last night, and when he learned his hotel didn’t offer room service he’d decided to bring his suitcase along while he got some breakfast. He had a ticket for the train north to Edinburgh this afternoon, but what to do in the meantime? Well, he hadn’t officially checked out of the hotel yet, so he might as well go back there. He could spend some time online and see what Amber was up to. If she’d been arrested for the embezzlement, it would surely make the news back in Arizona.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. A cop gave him the eye, a guy with a day-glo green vest on. Silly looking, and why did the cops here all have to be named Bobby—seemed stupid. Cody hurried on. His hotel was on the next block, just past a park with an iron fence around it and a duck pond in the middle.
Then he spotted her, the tall woman with the gray hair. A jolt shot through him. It was the same woman he’d seen outside the Ritz in Paris. Had to be. She was wearing the same jacket and there was a shorter, blonde woman with her. They were standing near a big leafy tree, talking intently. Shit!
It did and he ducked inside. Who the hell were those women? It was beyond weird that he’d seen them outside the bank in Paris, then near the luggage shop where he’d purchased Amber’s bag, and now in London. They had to be cops, but they sure didn’t look like anybody named Bobby. Plus, that wouldn’t work in Paris and here, both. They had to be undercover.
And if that was the case, how many more were there? He’d only spotted these two. Maybe the US Customs Service had a greater reach than he’d ever imagined, and maybe they’d sent agents here to track him down. He forced his breathing to slow as he approached the elevator, scanning the lobby before he stepped inside.
The maid was cleaning his room when he arrived, so he gave her an extra tip and said she could quit with what she’d already done.
“You don’t want me to hoover the room, sir?”
He had no clue what that meant, but he said, “Nah, it’s fine. I’ve got some work to do so I need to be alone.”
She flashed him a smile as she carried her bucket of cleaning products out. For a nano-second he wondered if she would be someone he could approach about transporting the cash back to the States for him. No way, he decided. He’d checked out Amber pretty carefully, and look how that turned out. He couldn’t take a chance with the rest of what he’d worked so hard to get.
He locked the bolt on the door and set the suitcase on the bed. What was he going to do with all this? For probably the twentieth time he cursed his father. Then cursed himself for listening. Sure, Pop was the pro, the guy who’d pulled jobs all his life, but the old man didn’t live in the modern world if he thought flashing cash all over the place wouldn’t raise some eyebrows.
Cody realized he would either need to take the chance on having more than two hundred thousand on him after he finished in Scotland, or he would have to recruit somebody—several somebodies—he could trust. Or he would have to electronically transfer the money.
He got out his laptop and set it up.
Chapter 34
Pen and Sandy strolled through the theater district, meandering their way toward Covent Garden.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” Sandy said. “All the history … these places I’ve read about in novels, all my life. I wish we could stay a month.”
“This was one of my favorite places to visit as a child,” Pen said, pointing out the stalls, with their wide variety of goods for sale. “Of course it has changed dramatically. All these high-end designer shops, and the restaurants. Look, there are themed ones now—Harry Potter, Game of Thrones.”
Sandy gave them a glance but found her eye drawn to a pole with some flyers stapled to it, in the more traditional market section. She walked toward it, and Pen followed.
“We wondered where Cody might find a group of American women traveling together and heading back to the US soon—look at this.” Sandy gripped Pen’s arm and pointed toward a poster.
Women’s College Football Playoffs – Britain vs America in the Finals!
The photo showed a soccer player in midair, making an astounding kick, and the smaller print said the big game was this afternoon at 2:00.
“Football,” Pen said. “Even at the college level it’s immensely popular here.”
“So … if Cody knew someone associated with the American team …”
“Or if he could talk his way into something such as becoming their luggage handler or something …”
“He might even pretend to be an airport official, if he could get hold of credentials that looked somewhat convincing,” Sandy said.
“We need to investigate further.” Pen stared out toward the street.
“But how? Even if we knew what hotel the teams were staying at or could somehow get into the game at the last moment, how would we get the chance to speak with their coaches, to warn them?”
“What we really need is to get near enough to spy Cody with them, hanging near the edges or such.”
Sandy gave her friend a sideways look. “Again, how?” Then she began to bounce on the balls of her feet. “Wait—what about this? There’s surely a pre-game press event of some type. Could you talk your way in there as a writer?”
“Journalists need credentials, badges.”
“Okay, you are who you are—international bestselling novelist—and your next book is going to be about women’s soccer leagues, and you’re doing research.”
Pen laughed. “It might just be audacious enough to work. Now, how do we go about being in the right place at the right time?”
“You’ll want to speak with the American coaches, or even the team …” Sandy pulled out her phone and did what everyone does. She Googled it.
* * *
The small press room at Wembley Stadium was jammed when they arrived. Almost immediately, it became apparent Pen would not get a chance for any kind of meaningful exchange with their targets from their standing-room-only spot at the back of the room. She nudged Sandy.
“At this point, let’s just learn their faces and what they are wearing. We’ll have to catch up with them later,” she whispered. “Meanwhile, if we get very lucky, we might spot our true quarry, Cody, somewhere nearby. Keep a sharp eye.”
Sandy agreed. Crammed in here with more than a hundred sports reporters from all over the world, there was no way a novelist had any standing whatsoever. But it didn’t mean theirs was a lost cause. She edged her way along the wall, vying for a spot closer to the front from which she could study faces, watching for Cody’s. Pen would wait near the exit, doing the same thing when the press conference broke up.
As it turned out, the crush of bodies was simply too much. Sandy did manage to tug at the sleeve of an American assistant-assistant coach who was standing at the sidelines and pull her aside long enough to ask if they could have a word, just a few questions, please.
Because of her lowly position, most likely, the young woman actually met her eye and smiled. “It’s insane right now,” she told Sandy. “If you need to talk to the head coach, tomorrow is going to be best.”
“Who handles the luggage for the players, going back home?”
“What—gosh, um. The girls mostly handle their own, but I help out some.”
Those at the front table, the coaches with microphones bristling toward them, suddenly stood and the head coach gave a sharp little whistle aimed at the woman Sandy was talking to.
“Uh, sorry. Gotta go.”
“Can I catch you later?” Sandy called out.
The woman shrugged. “You can try.”
While the important people filed out through a doorway at the front of the room, the reporters all made for the exit, presumably to take up their assigned places somewhere at the field where they would broadcast the action, to their heart’s delight.
Sandy caught up with Pen at the back door. “Any sign of him?” she asked.
Pen shook her head, continuing to watch the last few departing faces.
“So now what? If we can hang out through the game, I do at least have an in with that coach I was talking to.”
“It’s probably worth a try,” Pen said. “Are you a sports fan?”
“I suppose I can become one.”
Chapter 35
“Amber Zeckis?”
Four flattened cardboard boxes flew from Amber’s grip at the sound of the unexpected male voice.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. Detective Mark Howard. Remember me?”
“Of course.”
She walked the last ten feet to the recycling bin concealed in an enclosure in the parking garage and tosse
d in the three boxes she hadn’t lost. He picked up the dropped ones and followed her.
“I have some more questions. Would you rather we speak here or downtown?”
Dumb question. Who in their right mind wants to get caught up in the maze of a big government building? On the other hand, did she want to invite him into her home? Was there an answer like, C, none of the above?
“Here’s fine.”
A white-haired man, a resident, walked up carrying a bag of household garbage and excused himself as he had to pass close by to access the dumpster.
“Are you sure?” said Howard after the man had walked away. “It’s not very private and voices do carry.”
She held her ground.
“All right. In that case, can you tell me the last time you logged in with your Blackwell-Gorse Technologies employee credentials?”
Amber felt her confidence slipping. Had he somehow found out about the copy of the hard drive? “I’ve been on administrative leave for a week.”
“I’m aware of that. It doesn’t answer my question.”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s been reported that the company is missing a whole lot of money, and your login information is all over the transactions. Amber Zeckis, you’re under arrest for embezzlement.”
While he snapped handcuffs on her wrists and recited her rights, thoughts flew through her head—she had nothing with her but her house key. He guided her up the ramp from the garage and into a squad car waiting at the curb. Her mind went blank. She couldn’t remember anyone’s phone number but her parents. And she was wearing grubby clothes after a day of house cleaning.
The next two hours were a blur of photos, fingerprints, and questions. As she sat, stony faced and silent, she forced herself to calm down and clear her mind. Finally, Gracie’s phone number came to mind.