Don't Know Jack (36 page)

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?”

He shrugged. “I’m no revolutionary. I’m a lawman, just like you. But I know a no-win scenario when I see one.”

The assistant was pounding on the door.

Gaspar said, “I’ve got your back. I’ll tell him you’re sick; don't make me a liar. I’ll buy you five minutes.”

He slipped out into the hallway and closed the door firmly behind him.

#

Kim knew the right things to do. Either leave empty handed, or stay with the evidence. She was an officer of the law and of the court. She’d taken her oaths with pride. She still had ideals. She planned to be the Director of the FBI one day. Bright lines divided her conduct from those less ambitious and less committed. Lines she’d never planned to cross.

Yet she looked around for a disposable container, just in case.

The hundred dollar bills were solid proof. They were the only hard evidence that Kliners still existed, and that Cooper owned some.

No warrant. No time to get one, even if she could.

If she took the envelope with no warrant, not only did she break the law, but the evidence became inadmissible.

If she left the envelope until a warrant was obtained, the evidence would disappear.

She might never find another Kliner.

Cooper might go free.

She might get caught in possession and be arrested and convicted.

No more time to think.

Do something.

Create a record, at least.

Gaspar was arguing with the assistant in the hallway. Voices were rising and falling.

Working as fast as possible, shielding her actions from the cameras as much as she could, Kim photographed the envelope and its stuffing. She counted 250 bills, all of them hundreds. She laid out several on the table. She photographed them front and back. She quietly dictated a list of serial numbers, careful to keep her voice below the volume of Gaspar's argument on the other side of the door.

Now or never. Take Cooper down or let him win?

What’s it going to be?

Her trembling hand slipped four bills into her pocket. She returned the rest to the envelope and then to the box. She relocked the box. She left the depositor key in place.

She'd have controlled her stomach, but Gaspar's excuse made the effort unnecessary. She made it to the ten-inch plastic trash can in the corner before she heaved. Vomit splashed the wall and dribbled down her chin. She heaved again.

She doused her face with bottled water. Rinsed her mouth with Gaspar’s cold coffee.

She squared her shoulders. She straightened her jacket.

She rang the bell.

Gaspar opened the door. Sour vomit fumes hung in the air. The security guard fled. The assistant turned green and marched them to the exit. All but shoved them out into the night.

“The vomiting was a bit above and beyond, don't you think?” Gaspar asked.

“Not at all,” she said. She gulped exhaust laden air. She sipped the last of her water while Gaspar hailed a taxi. The four Kliners sat like nuclear waste in her pocket.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Washington, D.C.

November 4

9:45 p.m.

They landed at Dulles. Caffeine and anxiety leveraged Kim vertical. She’d spent the entire flight working. She looked like hell and smelled worse. She felt subhuman. Nothing a long shower and a hot meal and red wine and two weeks in bed and a stomach transplant and a new career wouldn’t fix.

Gaspar asked, “What’s the plan?”

Her life was circling the drain. She grinned anyway. She said, “We attack at dawn.”

He grinned with her. “I’d hug you, but you stink.”

First phase: employ secret weapon.
Gaspar thinks like Reacher thinks
.

She said, “Tell me again what happened when Hale collected Sylvia last night.”

“Not much to tell. Maybe ten minutes after you left, Hale showed up and took her away.”

“How did she react?”

“She’d been talking to her lawyer. She expected it.”

“How’d she look?”

“Like sixty-seven million dollars.”

“What, all green and wrinkly?”

“No, perfect. Clean clothes. Fresh makeup.”

“What did she take with her?”

“The Birkin bag. She’s not expecting indefinite detention.”

“Hale arrested her?”

“How long have you been doing stand-up?”

“What was he wearing?”

“Most guys only get dressed once a day unless someone pushes them into a ditch full of slimy water.”

“You fell in.”

“You touched my arm. Technically that was battery.”

She asked again, “What was Hale wearing?”

“Trench coat. Gloves. It’s cold out there, in case you forgot.”

“What, precisely, did he say?”