Black Horizon (35 page)

Benson was a slow walker, showing his age, but finally he reached the group. He gave Jack his business card and shook hands.

“These are friends of mine,” said Jack. “Michael and Theo.”

“I didn’t catch your last name,” said Benson, offering his hand.

“Brunelli,” said the agent.

So much for no surnames.

Theo said nothing, adhering to Jack’s rule.

“And you are?” asked Benson.

“Me? Nobody,” said Theo. “I’m here with Valerie Bertinelli.”

“Brunelli.”

“Sorry. Valerie Brunelli.”

Benson shot a curious expression at Jack. “I think it’s best if Mr. Swyteck and I go inside alone.”

“That’s the plan,” said Jack. “Take a walk, men.”

Brunelli led Theo away, and Jack overheard him muttering beneath his breath as they started down the sidewalk. “I swear I’m gonna freakin’ smack you.”

Get in line
, thought Jack.

Jack crossed the street with Benson, who led the way up the marble stairs to the front entrance. Jack peered through the diamond-shaped window in the door. The brass chandeliers were on, revealing more Italian marble, rich walnut paneling, and museum-quality artwork. It was no stretch for Jack to imagine someone walking in with fifty thousand dollars in cash. A security guard emerged from the shadows and came to the door. A woman was with him, and she clearly recognized Benson through the glass.

“That’s the bank manager,” Benson told Jack. “Samantha Walters.”

The guard opened the door, allowing Jack and his local counsel to enter. Benson and the manager were obviously friends, and they exchanged pleasantries about their families as Jack followed them across the bank lobby to the manager’s office. Her desk was at one end of the spacious suite, but she led them to the oval conference table near the window. Walters graciously let Jack have the view of Nassau at night and, seated with her back to the window, she took the lead.

“I understand that you are interested in the identity of the customer who made the deposit into your client’s account on the fifth of September. Do I have that correct, Mr. Swyteck?”

“Yes,” said Jack. “I know this may sound unusual, but my client didn’t know this account existed until after her husband died.”

“That’s not unusual at all in our line of work,” said Walters. “But if I may ask: Why do you need to know who made the deposit?”

Jack had prepared for that very question.

“If the deposit was made by an American, I understand that we may have an FBAR issue.”

FBAR—Foreign Bank Account Report—is an information form that American citizens must file with the U.S. Department of the Treasury if they hold more than ten thousand dollars in a foreign bank account.

Walters cleared her throat, then spoke. “Mr. Benson should be able to provide your client with more specific legal guidance. But let me offer two general thoughts. First, it doesn’t matter who made the deposit. Your client is a U.S. citizen, and she is the beneficial owner of an account in excess of ten thousand dollars. Second—and I say this in strictest confidence—the filing of a Foreign Bank Account Report is an issue only if your client chooses to make it an issue. This bank does not hand over its clients to U.S. law-enforcement authorities for the mere failure to file an information report with the U.S. government.”

“I appreciate that,” said Jack. “Legalities aside, my client would sleep a lot better at night if she knew who made the deposit.”

“Very well,” said Walters. “We’ll do the best we can.”

“The best you can?” asked Jack. “You don’t have a record of who made the deposit?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Walters. With a jiggle of the mouse on the pad in front of her, the computer screen brightened, and a bank deposit slip came up on the LCD. She adjusted the monitor so Jack could have a clear view from the other side of the table. “As you can see, there is no signature line or other identifying marks on our deposit slips.”

“The bank accepts deposits anonymously?” asked Jack.

“Yes, of course. It’s a numbered account. The deposit is made when the account holder communicates his or her acceptance to the bank.”

“So you can’t provide me a name?”

“As I said: No.”

Jack considered his options. “It may actually be more helpful to know what the person looks like. Would there be any surveillance video of the transaction that we can review?”

Walters nodded. “Since the deposit was made here, at our main facility, surveillance cameras would have captured a digital image of the lobby at various angles about every ten seconds.”

“I would love to see that,” said Jack.

“I thought you might,” said Walters, “which is why I asked my head of security to retrieve it before you arrived. Unfortunately, it seems that the data no longer exists.”

“What happened to it?”

Walters didn’t miss a beat, no sign of concern or embarrassment. “Frankly, we don’t know.”

Jack’s lawyerly instincts were on alert, but he did his best not to react too strongly. “The deposit was made barely five weeks ago. You don’t know what happened to last month’s surveillance footage?”

“Under the bank’s retention policy, surveillance data is kept for at least ninety days. We have located the data for the Saturday before and Tuesday after the Monday in question. But we have been unable to find the data for the specific date of interest to you.”

“If your policy is to keep it for ninety days, it should be there. Can you check again, please?”

“Our search was quite thorough. It’s gone.”

Jack’s instincts were churning. His gaze drifted back to the image of the deposit slip on the computer screen. “What about the actual hard copy of the deposit slip?”

“What about it?” asked Walters.

Jack had fingerprints in mind, but he didn’t want to make the bankers think that
he
worked for the FBI. “Can my client have the hard copy?”

“We don’t release original bank records to anyone,” said Walters. “Not without a court order.”

Jack glanced at Benson, trying to get the Bahamian barrister to weigh in on his behalf. “I don’t want to make this adversarial,” said Jack. “But if that’s the way things are done, should we be seeking a court order?”

Benson was about to speak, but the bank manager interjected. “I think we can save you some time in that regard,” said Walters.

“You’ll give me the original?” asked Jack.

“No, no,” she said. “What I mean to say is that getting a court order would be a complete waste of your time. The original deposit slip appears to have gone missing.”

“Like the surveillance video,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said Walters. “Just like it.”

Jack smelled an island rat. A Bahamian bank opens its doors on a Saturday night for the American lawyer of a widow who holds a measly fifty-thousand-dollar account. And all the bank manager could tell Jack was that the most crucial information had curiously or conveniently gone missing.

Benson rose. “Well, that about covers it,” he said, shaking the banker’s hand. “Thank you so much, Samantha. Mr. Swyteck and I very much appreciate the bank’s courtesy.”

“You are most welcome,” said Walters, escorting the men from her office. “I don’t suppose you and the missus would be interested in watching the members-only match tomorrow at Lucaya Cricket Club, would you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Benson. “Love to, love to.”

“Excellent,” she said, showing them to the main exit. “Henry and I will pick you up at seven a.m. sharp. The bank’s jet will have us in Grand Bahama by nine. There will be eight of us going. We’ll make a day of it.”

“Sounds delightful.”

The security guard opened the door. Another round of handshakes.

“Mr. Swyteck, it was such a pleasure meeting you,” said Walters, smiling. “And let me assure you that you are in very good hands with Mr. Benson.”

“I would expect you to say no less,” said Jack.

“And I’m so sorry that the bank could not be of more help to you,” she said, still smiling as she directed him out the door.

“I’m sure you are,” said Jack, his tone less than sincere. The door closed behind him.
I’m sure you are
.

Chapter 57

N
oori followed her taxi to LaGuardia Airport.

From their first meeting in the back room of N.Y.C. Gadets, something about Viola had put him on alert. Their lunch at Spice Market had only heightened his suspicion. She was too eager to make a deal, but that was only half of it. Too often she spoke directly to Noori, which was rude to any elder. It was beyond rude to a Chinese elder like Long Wu, who was no mere figurehead and actually called the shots in the counterfeit business. No one would conduct business that way.

Unless her real interest was Noori.

The crowds were gone. Just a handful of cabs were outside the American Airlines terminal, dropping passengers for the few remaining flights that Saturday night. From the backseat of his taxi, Noori watched several cabs ahead of him at curbside check in. Viola had one carry-on over her shoulder, but her larger bag needed to be checked. Noori knew what was inside it. He’d been watching her for the past two hours, having followed her on the shopping spree. She didn’t look pregnant to him, but she’d hit one baby shop after another, bags and bags of gifts crammed into a wheeled duffel bag that grew fatter with each visit to another store. By the time she’d hailed a cab for the airport, she was pushing the single-bag weight limit.

Still in his cab, Noori watched her shell out the additional fee for overweight baggage. The attendant handed her a claim ticket and boarding pass. She tipped him and went inside the terminal.

Noori got out of his taxi, let the driver go, and flagged the same baggage attendant. “Excuse me, sir?”

The attendant stopped.

Noori had no luggage. Just a twenty-dollar bill in hand. “That woman you just helped,” said Noori. “I’m wondering where she’s flying to.”

The attendant hesitated only a moment, then took the twenty. “Miami. She’s on the nine-ten flight.”

“Thank you,” said Noori.

Miami.
A little curious. She’d told Long Wu that she lived in northern Virginia. But if she was buying counterfeits in bulk, tons came through the Panama Canal to the Port of Miami.

Noori walked to the taxi line for a ride back to Manhattan. A young couple was ahead of him.

“You want to split a cab to Midtown?” the man asked.

In a flash, the couple was gone, the wife dragging her husband out of the line to talk sense into him. “Split a cab? Really? This is
New York
, you idiot, not . . .”

Noori climbed into the next taxi.

“Hudson and Canal,” he told the driver.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, he checked his smartphone. Several e-mails promised to make his penis larger, but the most recent one caught his attention. The subject line would have looked like spam to just about anyone else on the planet, but Noori knew better.

NR050527, it read. It was the account number from the New Providence Bank and Trust Company.

Noori opened the message. Just two sentences long:

One million by Monday. Or the attached goes viral.

Noori clicked on the attachment. The file opened, and a series of still images appeared on his screen. Six frames in total, each from a bank surveillance camera. The date and time were posted in the corner. They were from the fifth of September, a series of shots between 10:07 and 10:12 a.m. The images were a bit grainy, but they were clear enough. It was Noori entering the bank. Noori at the teller window. Noori filling out a deposit slip. Noori handing over an envelope. Noori stepping away from the teller window. Noori leaving the bank.

You son of a bitch.

He closed the attachment and tucked his phone away. “Turn around,” he told the driver.

“What?”

“Turn around
now
,” he said harshly, his anger misdirected. “Take me back to the airport.”

Chapter 58

J
ack spent Sunday morning in the radiology department at South Miami Hospital. Andie had promised that they would do the first ultrasound together, and she’d held true to her word. Her phone call to Jack on Saturday night, telling him that she was in Miami, had come as a complete surprise. Jack got the first flight out of Nassau the next morning.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“A little,” said Andie.

She was lying on the examination table, a warmed glob of clear gel resting on her exposed abdomen and upper pelvic area. The typical recommendation for women over the age of thirty-five was an ultrasound at eight weeks. Andie was at least seven, and she had no idea where her undercover assignment might lead her for week eight. She had a one-day window in Miami to get it done. Her ob-gyn was unavailable, but the hospital worked her in.

“Just relax,” said the technician. “Nothing to worry about. The only thing you might feel is a little pressure on your bladder. It’s full, right?”

“She’s been drinking water for two hours,” said Jack.

“Good. That will help the image.” She placed the transducer on Andie’s belly. “Here we go.”

Jack watched the monitor, but the black-and-white image on the screen didn’t look like much of anything to him. “What should we be looking for?”

“Everything’s pretty tiny, so I’ll point things out as we go along. I’ll take measurements and get a more exact calculation of gestational age. At seven weeks there will be a heartbeat, so I’ll get some video of that for you.”

Andie squeezed Jack’s hand. It made him smile.

The technician moved the transducer around Andie’s belly. Jack kept his eyes on the screen.

“What are we looking at now?” asked Andie.

“That’s your cervix,” said the technician. “And there’s the uterus.”

“Where’s our baby?”

The technician moved the transducer one way, then the other. “Let me get one little picture here,” she said.

Jack still didn’t know what he was seeing on the screen. “A picture of what?”