There was a very formal male receptionist in the lobby, seated behind a mahogany desk. He asked, “Do you have an appointment?”
“Herr Gartner is expecting us.” Kim showed regret and her driver’s license. “Our flight was a bit late, I’m afraid.”
The receptionist looked down at a print-out with the day’s appointments discreetly listed and unreadable from Kim’s viewpoint. “Yes, I see,” he said. He sounded like a bad guy in a bad movie. “Perhaps it is possible to accommodate you. Please be seated. I will contact Herr Gartner.”
Five minutes later a middle-aged man entered the lobby through one of the heavy wooden doors on the left hand side. He said, “This way, please.” They followed him down a narrow carpeted hallway. There were grey steel doors placed ten feet apart on both sides. Twenty feet in, he stopped. He unlocked a door into a carpeted eight- by-eight windowless room. The room held a wood parson’s table and four unforgiving chairs.
Inside, he asked, “May I see your identification, please?”
They produced badge wallets. He photographed their ID first, and followed with head shots. Then he extended his device to each of them in turn. “Please.”
Both agents pressed an index finger onto the screen. A green light signaled success. The man seemed satisfied.
“Please wait here. The boxes will arrive momentarily.”
Kim marked the time. Tested the lever when he left. They were locked in. A surveillance camera was mounted at the corner ceiling joint opposite, with a red light indicating that it was operational. Kim suspected clients turned their backs on the camera while other hidden lenses created indelible records. If they failed to follow instructions, consequences would be immediate and unpleasant.
Precisely eight minutes later, the middle-aged man returned with a sturdy cart upon which rested two bottles of water, two glasses, a silver-plated coffee carafe, two cups, two saucers, two spoons, and cream and sugar.
And two heavy metal boxes.
Maybe fifteen inches by twelve by fifteen.
Each box had two locks.
The man pulled two keys from his pocket and put them on the table. “You brought depositor keys, correct? I will collect those before you depart. You may not remove anything from this room. Your authorization permits viewing only. No photographs or recording of any kind. We close in thirty minutes.”
He indicated a small rectangle on the wall. “Push this button and I shall return to escort you to the exit. Any questions?”
“No,” Kim lied. She was overwhelmed with questions.
The man left without ceremony.
Kim used the bank’s keys and Gaspar used the depositor keys Finlay had provided. They lifted heavy, hinged lids and let them rest fully open.
They peered into the boxes.
Susan Kane’s was full.
Charles Cooper’s was nearly empty.
Kim slipped latex gloves from her pocket. She said, “I’ll take Kane, you take Cooper.”
They worked quickly and followed standard protocols. They examined and sorted contents. They snapped photos surreptitiously with their smart phones, but used no dictation. Video capture by the bank’s system was inescapable, but they’d provide no sound track of their own.
Gaspar finished first. He poured coffee and moved to a chair and studied Cooper’s treasures.
Kim catalogued Kane’s contents robotically. She’d worked vice raids enough times to recognize the common sex-trade tools. They were secured inside a small canvas duffel. Harnesses, body paint, paddles, rubber belts, spiked shoes. French ticklers, satin gloves, pleasure mitten, massage oil. Polaroid camera, but no film and no photos.
A red satin pouch held slightly more exotic items. There was an elaborate dual-control vibrator labeled “Busy Beaver.” There was edible underwear. Ben wa balls were nestled in a velvet case. There was a silver egg filled with mercury. There was a matching two-inch silver band.
Underneath the nostalgic keepsakes were three obsolete flash drives snugged into a Cartier watch box: silver, gold, black. No labels.
When she’d finished, she saw Gaspar had long ago adopted his relaxed posture. She said in a level tone, “There’s nothing remarkable here. Nothing has been added for at least five years, maybe longer.”
He understood. His jaw clenched. He added this latest insult to his long list of Finlay grievances. He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. He said, “Ancient history here too.”
Kim repacked and returned the Cartier box below camera surveillance angle. She replaced the red satin bag and the canvas duffel. Her right hand slipped her phone and concealed all three flash drives until she dropped them into her pocket while her left hand retrieved the depositor key. She relocked the box. She left the depositor key in place as instructed. She took a bottle of water.
Her watch said the bank had closed ten minutes ago.
“Don’t want to get locked in,” she said.
She assumed he was as ready as she was to escape the tiny space. Five minutes, if their watchdog was close by. She reached the doorbell and pressed it before Gaspar could react. She'd misjudged his signals.
Swiftly, he body-blocked the door. His expression was unreadable. He whispered, “Take a look at those pictures. Make some copies in case mine get lost. Be sure we’ve got several backups.”
She saw four photographs from Cooper’s box spaced out on the table.
The first was of a group of Marines dressed in fatigues. Hard to judge ages, but the setting and the picture were both old. Faded color. Maybe 3 x 5 instead of the more common 4 x 6 for later photographs. She flipped it. Kodak paper. Undated. Late 1960s?
The center Marine was a young and handsome Charles Cooper. Standing next to him was a giant. Couldn’t be Jack Reacher. Reacher was much younger than Cooper. And Army, not Marine Corps. She didn’t recognize the others. A crude hand painted road sign proclaimed 472 miles to Hanoi. Her Viet Nam geography was rusty. Da Nang, maybe?
There was a knock on the door.
Gaspar called, “One minute.”
The second photo was from the same era. Similar location. Maybe the same camera and the same lab. The photo was of a man and two boys. The giant from the first, with what had to be his sons, one a couple of years older than the other.
Acid bubbled in her throat.
She pressed on.
The two remaining photos were much newer. Kim figured six months old at most. The third was Roscoe and her family. Roscoe’s stylish haircut, son Davey in basketball uniform, sulky Jack inexplicably smiling.
Fourth was a candid group shot. Outside. Picnic table. Summer. Beers and laughter. Roscoe, Brent, Kraft, Harry Black, Sylvia Black, Jim Leach, Archie Leach.
Another knock on the door. An insistent voice. “Please. We are now closed. You must return tomorrow if you have not finished.”
Kim made her copies and returned the originals to the box. Closed the lid. Glanced to check with Gaspar, her hand on the key.
“Not yet,” he said. He held out a white standard number 10 business envelope. Overfilled. She lifted the flap. Extracted a thick wad of hundreds. “Kliners?”
Through the door: “Please. You must go now. Or security will remove you.”
Gaspar called, “Two minutes. We’ll be right out.” For her ears only he said, “I can’t tell if they’re fakes. Can you?”
She confirmed all standard markers of authenticity. Her phone application quick scan discerned no metallic strips. Older bills. Could be genuine. Could be fake. Could be Kliners. What she needed was an expert.
Sharp, doubling pain in her stomach.
Gaspar pressed. “Now or never. What’s it going to be, Madame Prosecutor?”
“You’re taking on Cooper as well as Finlay now, Che?”
