“Sayonara,” said Milo, heading for the door.
I said, “I’ll walk out with you.”
“If you insist,” he said, coasting down the driveway. “But if I had a chance at some shuteye, I’d grab it.”
He’d brought Rick’s white Porsche 928. A portable scanner had been mounted on the dash since the last time I’d seen the car. He had the volume on low and the machine emitted a steady stream of mumbles.
“Hoo hah,” I said, tapping the box.
“Christmas gift.”
“From whom?”
“From me to me,” he said, accelerating. The Porsche hummed in agreement. “I still think you should go to sleep. Ramp’s already looking wilted and the kid’s running on adrenaline. Sooner or later you’re gonna be back here doing your thing.”
“Not tired,” I said.
“Too keyed up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’ll hit you tomorrow. Just in time for a panic call.”
“No doubt.”
He chuckled and gunned the engine.
The gates to the property were open. He turned left on Sussex Knoll, then left again. Giving the Porsche’s wheel a rightward turn, he oversteered a bit and had to straighten before turning onto Cathcart Boulevard. The businesses along the commercial strip were all dark. The streetlights cast an opaline light that expired before it reached the grassy median.
“Yeah, there it is, all lit up,” he said, pointing across the street to a floodlit one-story Greek Revival building. White limestone. Boxwood hedges, small lawn with a flagpole. FIRST FIDUCIARY TRUST BANK, FDIC in gold letters over the door.
I said, “Doesn’t look big enough to store cookie-sale proceeds.”
“Quality, not quantity, remember?”
He pulled up in front of the bank. To the right was a twenty space parking lot fronted by twin iron posts and a chain that had been lowered to the ground. A black Mercedes sedan sat alone in the first spot on the left side. As we got out of the Porsche, the black car’s door opened.
A man exited, closed the door, and stood there, one hand on the roof of the car.
Milo said, “I’m Sturgis.”
The man came forward into the streetlight. He had on a gray gabardine sack suit, white shirt, yellow tie with blue dots. Matching handkerchief in his breast pocket, black wingtips on his feet. Quick midnight dresser.
He said, “Glenn Anger, Mr. Sturgis. I hope Mrs. Ramp’s in no danger.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Come this way.” Pointing toward the bank’s front door. “The security system’s been disarmed but there are still these to contend with.”
Pointing to a quartet of deadbolt locks arranged in a square around the doorknob. He pulled out a ring crammed with keys, fingered one, inserted it in the upper right-hand lock, turned, and waited until a click had sounded before pulling it out. Working quickly and efficiently. I thought of a professional safecracker.
I took a good look at him. Six feet, 160, gray crewcut, long face that would probably show tan in the daylight. Nub of nose, skimpy mouth, diminutive close-set ears. As if he’d purchased his features on sale and had settled for one size too small. Thick, dark eyebrows made his pale eyes look even tinier than they were. His age was somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five. If he’d been roused from sleep, he’d made a good recovery.
Before inserting the fourth key, he stopped and looked up and down the deserted street. Then at us.
Milo’s return look communicated nothing.
Anger turned the key, pushed the door open an inch. “I’m very concerned about Mrs. Ramp. Melissa made it sound quite serious.”
Milo gave a noncommittal nod.
Anger said, “What exactly is it you think I can do for you?” Then he looked at me.
Milo said, “This is Alex Delaware.” As if that settled it. “The first thing you can do is get me the numbers on her credit cards and her checking accounts. The second is you can educate me about her general financial situation.”
“Educate you,” said Anger, his hand still on the knob.
“Answer a few questions.”
Anger moved his lower jaw back and forth. Curving his arm around the jamb, he reached in and turned on some lights.
Inside the bank was polished cherry wood, royal-blue carpeting, brass fixtures, and a ceiling with a relief of a bald eagle at the apex. Three teller’s stations and a door marked SAFE DEPOSIT took up one side; three desk-and- chair sets filled the other. In the center of the room was a service kiosk.
The place smelled of lemon wax and ammonia and money so old it had begun to grow mold. Seeing it empty made me feel like a burglar.
Anger pointed forward and took us to a door at the rear that said W. GLENN ANGER, CHAIRMAN AND PRESIDENT over a seal that looked awfully similar to the one Ronald Reagan had just stopped using.
Two locks on this one.
Anger opened them and said, “Come on in.”
His office was small and cool and smelled like a new car. It was furnished with a squat desk- bare except for a gold Cross pen and a black-shaded lamp- and two brown tweed chairs with a low square table between them. Several leather-bound books sat on the table. To the right of the desk was a personal computer on a wheeled stand. Family photos filled the rear wall, each featuring the same brood: blond wife resembling Doris Day after six months of overeating, four blond boys, two beautifully groomed golden retrievers, and a grumpy-looking Siamese cat.
The other walls were taken up by a pair of Stanford diplomas, a collection of Norman Rockwell plates, a framed replica of the Declaration of Independence, and a ceiling-high rack of athletic trophies. Golf, squash, swimming, baseball, track. Awards dating back twenty years and inscribed to Warren Glenn Anger. More recent ones made out to Warren Glenn Anger, Jr., and Eric James Anger. I wondered about the two boys who hadn’t brought home any gold-plate and tried to pick them in the photos but couldn’t. All four were smiling.
Anger took a seat behind the desk, shot his cuffs, and looked at his watch. Dark curly hair with red tips sprouted along the tops of his hands.
Milo and I sat in the tweed chairs. I looked down at the table. The leather-bound books were membership directories- rosters of three private clubs still battling the city over admission of women and minorities.
“You’re a private detective?” said Anger.
“That’s right.”
“What kind of education are you after?”
Milo took out his pad. “Mrs. Ramp’s net worth for starts. How her assets are divided. Any significant withdrawals recently.”
Anger’s eyebrow dipped at the center. “Why exactly do you need all this, Mr. Sturgis?”
“I’ve been hired to hunt for Mrs. Ramp. A good hunter gets to know his quarry.”
Anger frowned.
Milo said, “Her banking patterns might tell me something about her intentions.”
“Intentions in terms of what?”
“A pattern of unusually large withdrawals might suggest she was planning to take a trip.”
Anger gave several very small nods. “I see. Well, that hasn’t been the case. And her net worth? What would that tell you?”
“I need to know what’s at stake.”
“At stake in terms of what?”
