around the board room. It was expensively but sedately furnished. The style was some indeterminate historical period between Periclean Athens and the Fall of Constantinople. The purpose was to create an atmosphere of solidity and timelessness, even though the bank was only seventy years old. The bank was medium-sized, striving mightily to enter the top ranks, so nothing was overstated. There was a Gilbert Stuart portrait of Washington on the wall. How many of these damn things did Stuart paint? I’d seen them in at least a dozen corporate headquarters.
Finally he looked up at me and blinked. “Neat,” he said with a grim smile. I didn’t know if he meant the scheme or the way I cracked it. The concept was neat. The vice-president had used the bank’s access code to wire odd amounts from an inventory of inactive private investment company accounts in the Cayman Islands to his accounts in Curacao, Panama and the Bahamas. He kept shifting the funds from account to account. Then, before an audit, he’d wire funds back into the PIC accounts to make them whole. The only problem was that he never took a vacation. He never even took a piss. Then one day, because of the federal regulations that no one ever pays attention to, the bank made him take a vacation. A two week vacation that the regs required. Someone noticed a discrepancy. That was the start of his slide down that slippery slope. That was where I came in. My job was to make sure he didn’t find a foothold.
“Outstanding job, Mr. Rogan.”
I nodded. “Glad to help the bank restore its budget for fresh-cut flowers.”
He grimaced and smoothed his hand over his head. It was tough to judge which was shinier-his bald pate or the boardroom table.
“I want you to do one thing for me,” he said.
“Sure.”
“I’m going to destroy this report, Mr. Rogan. I want you to do the same with your copy and any back-up material you have. Do you understand?”
I nodded. I understood. He didn’t have to paint a me picture. They would take care of the bastard with their own brand of retribution.
“I appreciate your discretion, Mr. Rogan.”
“My pleasure.”
“Needless to say, your check will be in the mail this afternoon.”
He extended his hand. I shook it. As they say, one man’s misfortune is another man’s good fortune. The check would be enough to keep the wolf away from the door until some future and indeterminate date.
CHAPTER II
I got to the office earlier than usual that Thursday morning. By seven-thirty I was making calls. This was the best time to reach the guys who you couldn’t get to during the day, before the hired help started tying up the phone lines.
Mr. Coffee was giving off his usual sputtering sound. I poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup and drank it, steaming and black. Then I went back to my desk, took another sip, and slung my jacket over the back of the chair. One of the fluorescent bulbs in the outer office was dying and flickering on and off, but it was too early in the morning to replace it.
I hadn’t smoked in fifteen years but that first cup of coffee always brought back the urge. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.
It was about a quarter after eleven when I started to get hungry. I was about to head down to Grand Central to get a jelly donut to hold me till lunch when someone came into the outer office. No knock. No salutation. Talk about your good old-fashioned manners.
I swung the chair out and craned my neck around the door frame to see who it was. A couple of times there’d been clowns who wandered in where they didn’t belong, but they didn’t come back again after they were politely disinvited.
This time it was different. There were two men in moderately-priced suits, poly-wool blends with just a little too much poly. They were cops. I recognized both of them.
Gene Black was a man I could deal with. He was a worn-out cop with a new wife and a new baby and an old beer belly. We’d worked together on a case back in the not- quite-so-tranquil old days when I was in corporate security with ITT.
It was the other son of a bitch I couldn’t stomach. Forgash was his name.
Detective/Third Alfonse J. Forgash. He was a thin sour-faced man of about thirty with a mustache and slicked-back dark hair. His main problem was that he hadn’t learned that a policeman was a public servant.
They walked into my office without the courtesy of an invitation.
Forgash spoke first. “Where were you Tuesday night?”
“I was at the needlepoint show. Didn’t I see you there stitching a throw pillow?”
Forgash looked at Black. “We got a fucking stand-up comic here.” He squinted at me. “You’re in deep shit, Rogan. You’re in big trouble, is all.”
“That a fact?” I said. “Somebody steal your lollypop?”
A vein started to throb in his forehead. “Listen, wiseguy…” He started to say something but Black put a hand on his arm.
“We gotta ask you some questions, Ed,” Black said. “Bear with us, OK?”
I nodded.
“Where were you Tuesday night, Ed?” Black asked.
I tried to recall. I couldn’t think of anything out of the ordinary, so I said, “Home, I guess.”
“What were you doing?”
“Reading, probably,” I said. “Reading before I nodded off on the sofa. Nothing very exciting. What’s the furor all about?”
Forgash couldn’t hold it in. “Somebody whacked your ex-wife, Rogan. Blew her fucking brains out. We got a good idea you did it. Whadda ya think about that?”
I hoped he didn’t see my reaction. First, I couldn’t breathe. Then I felt like I was going to puke up my guts. My knees had that weak feeling you get before you go into combat. I looked down at the papers on my desk, papers arranged in neat piles that didn’t seem to matter very much any more.
“Christ,” was all I could manage.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Black asked.
When was it? I thought back. When the hell was it? At the lawyer’s office? Soft leather furniture and deep carpeting and a dozen brass nameplates on the door.
No. I didn’t see her there. Only her lawyer.
It was at her sister’s… for a birthday party. Bittersweet. Knowing we were going to split up. A glass of champagne for a farewell toast. A last slow kiss goodbye.
“Four years ago, Gene,” I said. “That was the last time. I hadn’t seen her or spoken to her till she called me Monday night.”
Forgash was busy thumbing through his little notebook. He had thin fingers that looked like they belonged to a seamstress. The way he moved those little hands made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. He was the kind of man whose fingers never stopped fidgeting.
“Why’d she call you?” Forgash asked.
“She wanted to hire me.”
“What for?” Forgash said.“I don’t know. I told her no.”
“Any idea who’d want to kill her?” Black asked. He looked slowly around the office. It was evident he wasn’t very impressed with what he saw. “What can you tell me, Ed?”
I studied his weary cop’s face with its deep lines and rheumy gray eyes. “What do you have on it, Gene?” I said.
He considered for a moment, glanced at Forgash, then back at me. “She was coked up when she got it,” he said finally.
