The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (6 page)

“Who cares, Sean? It's not what people at the bank think—it's what we have between us.”

“I want it to be better between us; I want to be a better man,” Sean said, his eyes so intense that he caught Bay's attention; she could almost believe he meant it. “I want to stop—”

“Stop what?” Bay asked.

Sean had paused, bowing his head, touching his eyes. Bay had tensed up, wondering whether he was about to confess something new about Lindsey—or another woman. Now, thinking back, she wondered whether he had been about to tell her about something else.

They had gone to the Christmas party at the yacht club. Mark and Alise had greeted them warmly, with hugs and kisses. Lindsey had done the right thing and stayed across the big open room. Frank Allingham had kissed Bay's cheek and made her promise to dance with him. Mark had grabbed Sean, pulled him aside for a moment of bank business . . . thinking back, Bay remembered that Mark had been concerned about one of Sean's private banking clients.

“My husband is always working,” Alise had said, smiling wryly. “Even at the Christmas party, he can't just let Sean have a good time.”

Bay remembered being mesmerized by how radiant Alise looked, as if she didn't have a worry in the world. Glowing skin, perfect pageboy hair, diamond earrings, eyes gazing adoringly at her husband. They didn't have kids, and they ran in fancier social circles than the McCabes. Lindsey, Fiona Mills, Frank Allingham—they all looked like perfect people from another world.

Bay had felt like a wraith, burning with humiliation, just to be in the same room as Lindsey. And she hadn't missed Alise's subtle dig about Mark's seniority. But in spite of all that, she had drawn herself up tall, taken a deep breath, and smiled right back at Alise.

“My husband never minds taking care of bank business,” Bay said lightly. “You know he'd do anything for his clients, Alise.”

Now, with the police and FBI swarming through her house, she cringed at the memory. And she thought of Sean's words:
“I want to stop.”

Stop what?

“Mrs. McCabe,” Special Agent Holmes said. “When you hear from Sean, or if someone calls to tell you they've seen him, I want you to contact me.”

Bay just stared at him, frozen by memories.

“Bay
always
does the right thing, Mr. Holmes,” Tara said, drawing herself up, tossing her black hair back from her tan face. She was black Irish, all fire and nerve. “You can count on that.”

5

T
HIRTEEN DAYS PASSED.

And in thirteen days, nearly half of one precious summer month, so much happened, and so much didn't. The local press was filled with stories about Sean's alleged embezzlement and disappearance. News trucks from New Haven and Hartford parked outside the McCabes' house. Bay tried to protect the kids from all of it, but it started to feel as if they were living in a fishbowl. One reporter called to Pegeen as she came out the front door, and she started to cry and ran back inside.

“How do they know our names?” Peggy cried. “Why are they here? Where's Daddy?”

“The police are still looking for him,” Bay said. “They'll find him, honey.”

“But they're looking for him because they say he's bad,” Peggy wept. “He's not, Mommy. Tell them he's not!”

“I will, Peggy.” Bay held and soothed her, boiling inside. When Peggy had calmed down, Bay kissed her forehead, then walked to the door. She took a deep breath, then went down the steps. Flashes snapped, and hand-held video cameras were shoved in her face. Her red hair was a mess, her shirt and shorts wrinkled and salty.

“Mrs. McCabe, what do you think—”

“Where is your husband?”

“What do you say about the allegations that—”

“The bank trustees blame—”

Bay took a deep shuddering breath. The reporters, thinking she was about to reply, fell silent. She looked slowly around the crowd, saw all the microphones, cleared her throat.

“Leave my children alone,” she said quietly, with passion and menace in her heart.

A moment of shocked silence, and then the questions began again. “The bank . . . your husband . . . serious head wound . . . his whereabouts . . . the accounts . . . the allegations . . .”

Bay had said all she needed to say. Without another word, she walked back inside her house and closed the door behind her. She called Billy and Peggy downstairs; Annie had gone to Tara's. Her two younger children faced her with fear and trepidation in their eyes.

“What did you say to them, Mom?” Billy asked.

“I told them to leave us alone.”

“Didn't you tell them Daddy is
good
? I thought you were going to tell them that he's
good
! They can't keep saying such terrible things about him,” Peg said, the words spilling out. “Everyone has the wrong idea. We have to tell everyone the truth about him!”

“Yeah,” Billy said. “Peggy's right about that. We have to tell everyone what a great guy Dad is. I'm sick of those jerks writing lies about him! I'm gonna go outside and tell them the real story!”

“No,” Bay said. “I don't want you to do that, Billy. Do you hear me?”

Billy's jaw was set tight, his eyes full of fight. He was stubborn, just like his father. Bay wouldn't look away.

“Do you hear me?”

Billy nodded, but his face stayed tense.

“From now on, until the reporters leave, I want you to use the back door. Cut through the yard to the marsh, and go to the beach that way. Okay? No one's going to follow you through the mud. Don't talk to any of them. We want to give your father a chance to explain all this.”

“Is he coming home?” Billy asked.

Bay's heart thudded. “I hope so, Billy.”

“What if bad people hit him over the head and threw him overboard?” Peggy asked.

“I swear, I'll kill anyone who hurt Dad,” Billy said.

“Me, too,” Peg said.

“Don't talk like that,” Bay said gently, looking into their troubled eyes. “Your father tripped and hit his head on the table. The police told us that. Remember?”

“Yeah, he has amnesia,” Billy said, sounding more confident. “He's getting medical help somewhere and can't remember his name.”

Peggy's face twisted in agony. “If he doesn't remember his own
name,
how will he remember
us
? How will he know how to come
home
?”

“He'll remember,” Bay said, trying to stay steady and not let Peggy see her own anguish or rage—or her growing conviction that Sean remembered everything and had run away in spite of it.

Billy seemed to enjoy the idea of eluding the press, so he gathered together his and Peggy's beach things and took her out the back door. Bay watched them cross the yard, begin to walk along the marsh's soggy bank toward the beach. She saw them wave at their sister and Tara across the creek, in Tara's garden. Annie had been sleeping only fitfully, crying to think of her father somewhere alone in the world, with only her small green boat to keep him company.

Staring at her kids, aching as she thought of their pain, Bay went upstairs to lie down.

Her husband had very probably had a serious head injury, and no one knew where he was. He seemed to have fallen off the earth. Had he left them, run away because of the crimes he was accused of committing? Or were the kids' and her worst fears true—was he dead?

She cried into her pillow, and although she hated Sean for what he was putting them through, she didn't want to wash his pillowcase, because it smelled so much like him. Hearing a knock at the door, she ignored it. But it didn't stop, so she dried her eyes and walked downstairs.

It was Joe Holmes, with the reporters fanning out behind him. Bay stared through the screen door.

“Hi, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“Call me Joe,” he said. “How are you?” When she didn't reply, he reddened slightly. “I'm sorry—stupid question,” he said, and she suddenly felt self-conscious about the circles under her eyes, the fact she had lost ten pounds.

“Come in,” she said, opening the screen door.

“Are your kids here?” he asked.

Bay blinked and shook her head. Looking out the window, she could see Annie and Tara watering Tara's garden. A silver stream arched from the hose, sparkling in the sun. Bay's throat felt parched and dry. She hadn't set foot in her own garden for thirteen days, since Sean had disappeared. Joe followed her gaze, and they were silent for a moment.

“We thought we would have found Sean by now,” Joe said finally.

Bay nodded, grasping her upper arms, as if holding herself together.

“Why HAVEN'T you?” she burst out. “You said he was badly hurt—wouldn't he have needed medical help?”

“Definitely,” Joe said. “We've checked every hospital in three states. We've called doctors, clinics . . .”

“Who else was on the boat with him?” she asked. “Couldn't they help find him?”

“Whoever was there knew enough to wipe their prints away. There are other things . . . Can we talk?”

Bay nodded, and he followed her into the kitchen and sat down at a stool at the breakfast bar. A stuffed and mounted bull shark hung above. Sean had hooked it last summer, on a trip to Montauk Point. Bay had objected to a dead creature hanging in her kitchen, but Sean had won out.

“Do you love your husband?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Bay answered without hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

He stared at her, as if he could read her mind and know whether she was lying or not. Unsure herself, Bay just stared back at him and raised her chin, and repeated, “Yes.”

She had learned how to stand up for her family—at all costs—from her own mother, and from Tara's.

“Then I hope that what I have to say won't devastate you,” Joe said.

“It won't,” Bay said steadily. But inside, she was shaking.

“You probably know, I specialize in major bank embezzlement.”

“I don't know that, Joe. All I know is that you're with the FBI.”

“Fair enough. Well, I'm with the New Haven division. When a major crime comes in, they assign people who specialize in certain types of crime. I'm major—”

“Bank embezzlement,” Bay said, the words strange to her ears.

Joe nodded.

“One thing I know, have learned, is that normally the vice presidents of a bank don't find it easy to embezzle, because they don't handle money. If there's theft, it's more common to look to the tellers. Or, sometimes, the executives enlist the branch managers to help. Or, another alternative, other executives. Bank insiders.”

Bay's mouth was dry. Out the window, she could see her garden. It was horrible, really. In such a short time, she had gone from feeling so blessed, so overflowing with blessings, from having bowers of roses, peonies, black-eyed Susans, sweet peas, delphinium bloom as if by magic, to having the garden of her life, of her family, wilt and turn brown before her very eyes.

She blinked, listening.

“More commonly, vice presidents use their influence . . . lending money to fictitious corporations they've set up . . . or making ‘bad' loans they know won't be paid back . . . collecting kickbacks . . . they use their authority . . .”

“Sean couldn't do that,” Bay said. “He has a whole bank board to answer to. Trustees, other executives . . .”

“People know him, trust him,” Joe continued. He wore a pin-striped suit and navy tie with small white dots; she saw him run a finger around his neck and noticed a film of sweat on his forehead. They didn't have air-conditioning; they didn't need it, with the sea breeze. Summers were spent in shorts and bathing suits. No one wore jackets and ties for long in this house. Every night Sean would walk in, peel off his coat before he got through the kitchen.

“Exactly. They trust him,” she said, watching Joe sweat.

“He goes to the loan committee meeting, puts his stamp of approval on a questionable loan; the others might wonder, but they let it pass. They say, ‘Hey, if it's good enough for Sean . . .' They might suspect something, but if he says it's okay, they do it. They say nothing. Or, and we've just about ruled this out, he had help from one of them.”

“Are you saying there was a bad loan?”

Joe nodded slowly. “Yes, there was. Six months ago.”

Bay felt shocked. “And you're just investigating now? Besides, what makes you think Sean did anything wrong? If someone defaulted, it was their fault, not his . . .”

“The thing fell apart when the FDIC did its internal audit. A high percentage of questionable loans from Shoreline—too many obvious corners being cut. They called us in.”

Us, Bay thought: the FBI. She thought of that movie,
The Untouchables,
of how the FBI caught Al Capone through an accounting glitch. Was she really having this conversation about her husband?

“There were three different companies ‘on the bubble' with loans approved by Sean. No payments made . . . and we saw what the FDIC knew right away—that the institution shouldn't have made these loans.”

“So, Sean made a mistake.”

“That's unclear.”

“Can't you give him the benefit of the doubt?” Bay asked, her voice a cry. “What about the other officers? Isn't it just as much their fault?”

He gave her a look of pity. Those officers hadn't disappeared, hadn't abandoned their families. Bay dug her fingernails into her palms as she stared at Sean's picture on the bookshelf and tried to stay calm.

“In Connecticut, police departments and the FBI have close contact with security officers at banks. Once a month, bank security hosts law enforcement agencies and we all discuss things.”

“What things?” Bay asked, although Sean had spoken to her of those conferences. “Baby, we're keeping the bank safe for our money and everyone else's,” he would say.

“Just procedures, ways of staying ahead of problems. By law, when the bank is aware of wrongdoing, they have to file a report with the FBI. An SAR—Suspicious Activity Report.”

“Wouldn't Sean have known?” Bay said, tension building in her head and chest.

“In this case, it was filed by a young woman named Fiona Mills. She took it on herself—perhaps she wasn't sure who to trust, or who the investigation would lead to.”

Fiona—one of Sean's colleagues. Another upper-class young woman, a lot like Lindsey. Bay wondered whether Fiona had also caught Sean's eye.

Now she glanced at an old picture of herself and Sean, stuck to the refrigerator door with a ladybug magnet. Annie had found it, put it there—possibly to remind her parents of happier times. They had been so young, just out of school. She had been so happy, in love, willing to believe anything he told her, willing to overlook his recklessness. Thoughts swirling, she had to look away.

“We were following up on the criminal referral form for this loan situation when we came across some improprieties in the audit . . . several cash deposits of nine thousand nine hundred dollars each, and two money orders.”

“Regarding the loan?” Bay asked, confused, feeling unreasonable resentment for Sean's colleague Fiona.

“No,” Joe said. “It's still possible that the loans were no more than bad judgment on Sean's part. We haven't finished investigating.”

Joe Holmes sat very still, watching her carefully with steady brown eyes.

“What else?” she asked. “Is there something else?”

“Before,” Joe said. “When I asked you about the loans, you said that Sean ‘couldn't' get away with them, because of an overseeing bank board. You didn't say he ‘wouldn't' do it . . . There's a difference.”

Bay's lip trembled, but she refused to let him see. Her gaze traveled to the sink, the family's mugs lined up on a shelf between the windows.