“Of course not. Not yet.”
“So the analysis could very well prove that the culprit is not one of our employees.”
“Or it could prove that she is. It all comes down to the question of what risk do you want to take.”
“Risk?”
“Yes, risk. If I give this glass to the authorities and there is no match, you’re in the clear. But if there is a match, the legal problems will be the least of your worries. Competition is brutal among international banks these days. This is the kind of misfortune your competitors could seize upon, I’m sure. It couldn’t be good for business if your customers were to hear that a law-abiding American doctor with three million dollars in your bank was stalked by one of your employees and robbed. You’re going to have one huge customer relations problem on your hands. I guarantee it.”
His right eye twitched. “Sir, I admit that the Banco del Istmo does not have a past that is, as you Americans say, squeaky clean. But in recent years we have worked very hard to change that image. I beseech you, do not slander our good name.”
“It’s in your hands. If you’re a hundred percent confident that it wasn’t an employee of this bank who followed me to my hotel, then you can send me on my merry way to the police. But if there is the slightest doubt in your mind, the glass is there for the taking. Consider it a gift.”
He glanced at the glass, then at Ryan. “Of course, it would make me feel terribly guilty to accept a gift from a friend without giving something of myself in return.”
“You know what I want.”
“I told you. It’s against the law.”
“I’ve never been a big fan of laws that allow criminals to shield themselves behind banks. This is not negotiable.”
Hernandez seemed in agony, like a man with a gun to his head. Suddenly he swiveled in his chair, faced his computer and typed in the account number. “I have here the entire transaction history for your father’s account. It shows every deposit, every withdrawal. Including internal transfers from other account holders at the bank.”
Ryan couldn’t see the screen from his chair. As he rose to take a look, Hernandez said, “Stay right where you are.”
Ryan retreated to his chair, confused.
Hernandez said, “As I explained, I cannot give you this information. That would be a crime. That is my final word on the matter.” He rose, then continued, “Now, I’m going to take this glass, go to the snack room, and get myself a cool drink of water. I will be back in exactly five minutes. You can remain here while I’m gone, if you wish. Whatever you do, do not look at that computer screen. I repeat: Do not look at that screen.”
The banker had cleared his conscience. He took the glass and quietly left the room. The door closed behind him.
Ryan remained in his chair, staring at the back of the computer monitor. It chilled him to think the answer was right around the desk, flashing on the screen. Yet to learn who had paid the blackmail, he would have to break the law of bank secrecy. It wasn’t an American law. It wasn’t even a law he much respected, having seen it abused by drug lords and tax evaders. Breaking any law, however, was a dangerous road. The first step had a way of leading to the second.
He paused to weigh his alternatives. He could walk away, perhaps never to know who his father had blackmailed. Or he could step around and have a look.
He waited only another moment. Then he took that first step.
28
Amy drove to Denver on faith. She didn’t actually have an appointment with Marilyn Gaslow, but she was confident she would see her. Few people had a full appreciation of the personal history between Amy and the firm’s most influential partner.
The main offices for Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz were on five contiguous floors some forty stories above downtown Denver. Theoretically, the Denver headquarters and six branch offices operated as one fully integrated law firm. Amy made sure that was the case with state-of-the-art computer links between cities. Still, there was no technological or other way to transport completely the high-charged atmosphere of the main office to its satellites. Each visit to Denver reminded Amy that it wasn’t the satellites in Boulder or Colorado Springs that made this Rocky Mountain law firm comparable to the finest firms in New York or Los Angeles.
Amy approached the secretarial station outside Marilyn’s office with some trepidation. Her secretary was a notorious snob who protected Marilyn like royalty.
“Good morning,” said Amy. “Is Marilyn here?”
The secretary raised an eyebrow, as if Amy’s use of the first name was utter insubordination. “She’s here, yes. But she’s not available.”
“Is she with someone?”
“No. She’s simply unavailable.”
“When will she be available?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
She almost glared at Amy, invoking her most snotty tone. “Whether a client calls. Whether her partners need her. Whether Jupiter aligns with Mars.”
“Please tell her Amy Parkens is here, that it’s personal, and that it’s very important.”
She didn’t budge.
Amy met her stare. “If she gets angry, you can personally type my letter of resignation.”
Smugly, she buzzed Marilyn on the intercom and delivered the message exactly the way Amy had worded it. A look of surprise washed over her face. She hung up and muttered, “Ms. Gaslow will see you now.”
Amy smirked. Never underestimate the power of an astronomer to align the planets.
Marilyn Gaslow had an impressive corner office on the forty-second floor with breathtaking views of both the mountains and the plains. The furnishings were French antiques. Museum-quality artwork decorated one wall. Another was covered with plaques and awards she had accumulated over the years, marking a lifetime of achievement that included everything from first woman president of the American Bar Association to a four-year stint as chairwoman of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission. Scattered among the wall of glory were photographs of Marilyn with every president since Gerald Ford, each signed and inscribed with a warm personal message. Behind her desk was a more personal touch — a framed but faded old snapshot of two smiling teenage girls. It was Marilyn and Amy’s mother.
“So good to see you, Amy.” She rose and gave her a motherly hug.
In some ways, Marilyn was like a mother, at least when they were together. Marilyn had been her mother’s closest friend at one time and, in her own way, had taken an interest in Amy’s well-being after the suicide. Whenever Amy wasn’t right before her eyes, however, Marilyn was simply too busy to notice that she lived from paycheck to paycheck in a tiny apartment with her daughter and grandmother. Marilyn was a career woman to the exclusion of any personal life. Her only marriage had ended in divorce twenty years ago, and she had no children of her own.
Amy gave her the latest on Taylor as they settled into their chairs. Amy sat on the couch. Marilyn took the Louis XVI armchair. Marilyn was pleasant but clearly pressed for time.
“So what’s this personal and important matter you’ve come here to talk about?”
“Our apartment was broken into yesterday. The place was completely wrecked.”
“My God, that’s terrible. Do you need a place to stay?”
“We’re okay. Fortunately we had rental insurance. We’ll just have to impose on the neighbors until the place gets cleaned up.”
Marilyn reached for the telephone. “I know the chief of police in Boulder. Let me give him a call, make sure there are more patrol cars in the area.”
“Marilyn, that’s not necessary. I just wanted your advice.”
