your offshore bank.'
It was unnecessarily sarcastic. Argrow glared at him, then let it pass. 'Okay, tell me how to get the affidavit from here to the Bahamas. How does the mail run?'
'The lawyer was our mail runner,' Yarber said. 'Everything else is subject to inspection.'
'How close do they inspect the legal mail?'
'They glance at it,' Spicer said. 'But they can't open it.'
Argrow paced around a bit, deep in thought. Then, for the benefit of his audience he stepped between two racks of books, so that he could not be seen from outside the law library. He deftly unfolded his gadget, punched numbers, and stuck it to his ear. He said, 'Yes, Wilson Argrow here. Is Jack in? Yes, tell him it's important.' He waited.
'Who the hell's Jack?' Spicer asked from across the room. Beech and Yarber listened but watched for passersby.
'My brother in Boca,' Argrow said. 'He's a real estate lawyer. He's visiting me tomorrow' Then, into the phone, he said, 'Hey, Jack, it's me. You comin tomorrow? Good, can you come in the morning? Good. Around ten. I'll have some mail going out. Good. How's Mom? Good. I'll see you in the morning.'
The prospect of the resumption of mail intrigued the Brethren. Argrow had a brother who was a lawyer. And he had a phone, and brains, and guts.
He slid the gadget back into his pocket and walked from the racks. 'I'll give the affidavit to my brother in the morning. He'll fax it to the bank. By noon the next day the money will be in Panama, safe and sound and earning fifteen percent. Piece of cake.'
'We're assuming we can trust your brother?' Yarber said.
'With your life,' Argrow said, almost offended by the question. He was walking to the door. 'I'll see you guys later. I need some fresh air.'
THIRTY-FOUR
Treyor's mother arrived from Scranton. She was with her sister, Trevor's aunt Helen. They were both in their seventies and in reasonably good health. They got lost four times between the airport and Neptune Beach, then meandered through the streets for an hour before stumbling on Trevor's house, a place his mother hadn't seen in six years. She hadn'tseen Trevor in two years. Aunt Helen hadn't seen him in at least ten, not that she particularly missed him.
His mother parked the rental car behind his little Beetle, and had a good cry before getting out.
What a dump, Aunt Helen said to herself.
The front door was unlocked. The place had been abandoned, but long before its owner fled the dishes had collected in the sink, the garbage had gone unattended, the vacuum hadn't left the closet.
The odor drove Aunt Helen out first, and Trevor's mother soon followed. They had no clue what to do: His body was still in Jamaica, in a crowded morgue, and according to the unfriendly young man she'd talked to at the State Department it would cost $600 to ship him home. The airlines would cooperate, but the paperwork was tied up in Kingston.
It took a half hour of bad driving to find his office. By then, word was out. Chap the paralegal was waiting at the reception desk, trying to look sad and busy at the same time. Wes the office manager was in a back room, just to listen and observe. The phone had rung constantly the day the news broke, but after a round of condolences from fellow lawyers and a client or two it went silent again.
On the front door was a cheap wreath, paid for by the CIA. 'Ain't that nice.' his mother said as they waddled up the sidewalk.
Another dump, thought Aunt Helen.
Chap greeted them and introduced himself as Trevor's paralegal. He was in the process of trying to close the office, a most difficult task.
'Where's the girl?' his mother asked, her eyes red from grieving.
'She left some time back. Trevor caught her stealing,'
'Oh dear.'
'Would you like some coffee?' he asked.
'That would be nice, yes.' They sat on the dusty and uneven sofa, while Chap fetched three coffees from a pot that just happened to be fresh. He sat across from them in an unstable wicker chair. The mother was bewildered. The aunt was curious, her eyes darting around the office, looking for any sign of prosperity. They were not poor, but at their ages affluence would never be attained.
'I'm very sorry about Trevor,' Chap said.
'It's just awful.' Mrs. Carson said, her lip quivering. Her cup shook and coffee splashed onto her dress. She didn't notice it.
'Did he have a lot of clients?' Aunt Helen asked.
'Yes, he was very busy. A good lawyer. One of the best I've ever worked with.'
'And you're a secretary?' Mrs. Carson asked.
'No. I'm a paralegal. I go to law school at night'
'Are you handling his affairs?' Aunt Helen asked.
'Well, not really.' Chap said. 'I was hoping that's why the two of you were here.'
'Oh, we're too old,' his mother said.
'How much money did he leave?' asked the aunt.
Chap stepped it up a notch. This old bitch was a bloodhound. 'I have no idea. I didn't handle his money.
'Who did?'
'I guess his accountant.'
'Who's his accountant?'
'I don't know. Trevor was very private about most things.'
'He certainly was,' his mother said sadly. 'Even as a boy' She splashed her coffee again, this time on the sofa.
'You pay the bills around here, don't you?' asked the aunt.
'No.Trevor took care of his money'
'Well, listen, young man, they, want six hundred dollars to fly him home from down in Jamaica.'
'Why was he down there?' his mother interrupted.
'It was a short vacation.' Chap said.
'And she doesn't have six hundred dollars,' Helen finished.
'Yes I do.'
'Oh, there's some cash here.' Chap said, and Aunt Helen looked satisfied.
'How much?' she asked.
'A little over nine hundred dollars. Trevor liked to keep plenty of petty cash.'
'Give it to me,' Aunt Helen demanded.
'Do you think we should?' asked his mother.
'You'd better take it,' Chap said gravely. 'If not, it will just go into his estate and the IRS will get it all.'
'What else will go into his estate?' asked the aunt.
'All this.' Chap said, waving his arms at the office while he walked to the desk. He removed a wrinkled envelope stuffed with bills of all denominations, money they'd just transferred from the rental across the street. He gave it to Helen, who snatched it and counted the money.
'Nine twenty, and some change.' Chap said.
'Which bank did he use?' Helen asked.
'I have no idea. Like I said, he was very private about his money' And in one respect, Chap was telling the truth. Trevor had wired the $900,000 from the Bahamas to Bermuda, and from there the trail had disappeared. The money was now hidden in a bank somewhere, in a numbered account accessible only by Trevor Carson. They knew he was headed for Grand Cayman, but the bankers there were famous for their secrecy. Two days of
