The Heaven Trilogy (44 page)

Borst hardly heard him. He slammed the door shut instinctively. “The money's gone!”

“What? Lower your voice and sit down, Borst. Your wig is slipping, man. Fix it.”

Borst jerked his hand up to his head and felt the toupee. It had fallen halfway down his right ear. An image of that choo-choo train pumping through the lobby with a hairpiece slipping down one cheek flashed through his mind. Perhaps he'd frightened Mary with it. A flush of embarrassment reddened his face. He yanked the thing off and stuffed it in his breast pocket.

“We have a problem,” he said, still breathing hard.

“Fine. Why don't you run through the lobby tooting a horn while you're at it. Sit down and get ahold of yourself.”

Borst sat on the edge of the overstuffed chair, facing Bentley.

“Now, start from the beginning.”

The branch president was coming across as condescending, and Borst hated the tone. It was
he,
after all, who had brought this whole idea to Bentley in the first place. He'd never had the guts to shove some of the man's medicine back into his face, but sometimes he sure had the inkling.

“The money's gone.” His voice trembled as he said it. “I went into my personal account a few minutes ago, and someone's wiped out all the deposits. I'm overdrawn thirty thousand dollars!”

“So there's been a mistake. No need to come apart at the seams over an accounting snafu.”

“No, Price. I don't think you understand. This is not some simple—”

“Look, you fool. Mistakes happen all the time. I can't believe you come storming in here announcing your stupidity to the whole world just because someone put a decimal in the wrong place.”

“I'm telling you, Price. This is not—”

“Don't tell me what it is!” Bentley stormed. “This is
my
bank, isn't it? Well, when it's your bank you can tell me what it is. And stop calling me Price. Show some respect, for Pete's sake!”

Borst felt the words slapping at his ears as if they had been launched from a blast furnace. Deep in his mind, where the man in him cowered, a switch was thrown, and he felt hot blood rush to his face.

“Shut up, Price! Just shut up and listen. You're an insolent, bean-brained hothead, and you're not listening. So just shut up and listen!”

The president sat back, his eyes bulging like beetles. But he did not speak, possibly from shock at Borst's accusations.

“Now, whether you like it or not, regardless of whose bank this is or is not, we have a problem.” Borst swallowed. Maybe he had gone too far with that attack. He shrank back a tad and continued.

“There is no
simple
accounting mistake. I've already run the queries. The money is not misplaced. It's gone. All of it. Including the small deposits. The ones—”

“I know which ones. And you ever talk to me like that again, and we're finished.” The president stared at him unblinking. “I can do to you what we did to Anthony with a few phone calls. You'd best remember that.”

Borst's ears burned at the insinuation, but the man was right. And there was nothing he could do about it. “I apologize. I was out of line.”

Evidently satisfied that Borst was properly chastised, Bentley turned to his terminal and punched a few keys. He squinted at the screen for a moment and then went very still. A line of sweat broke from his brow, and his breathing seemed to thicken.

“You see,” Borst said, “it's just gone.”

The president swallowed deliberately. “This is not your account, you fool. It's mine. And it's overdrawn too.”

“See!” Borst slid to the front of his chair. “Now, what's the chance of that? Both of our accounts wiped out! Someone found the deposits and is setting us up!”

“Nonsense!” Bentley swiveled back to Borst, dropped his head, and gripped his temples. He stood and paced to the window, rubbing his jaw.

“What do you think?”

“Shut up. Let me think. I told you that keeping those small deposits was a bad idea.”

“And who says we've kept them? It's been less than a month. They were put there without our knowing; we were going to report them, right? That wouldn't warrant
this,”
Borst said.

“You're right. And you ran a full query, right? There's no trace of where it went?”

“None. I'm telling you, someone took it!”

Bentley sat down, hard. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Menus popped to life and disappeared, replaced by others.

“You won't find anything. I've already looked,” Borst said.

“Yeah, well now
I'm
looking,” Bentley snapped back, undeterred.

“Sure. But I'm telling you, there's something wrong here. And you know we can't just report it. If there's an investigation, they'll find the other money. It won't look right, Price.”

“I told you not to call me Price.”

“Come on! We're each a few hundred thousand dollars upside down here, and you're bickering over what I call you?”

Bentley had finished his queries. “You're right. It's gone.” He slammed his big fist on the desk. “That's impossible! How's that possible, huh? You tell me, Mr. Computer Wizard. How does someone just walk into an account and wipe it out?”

A buzz erupted at the base of Borst's skull. “You would need a pretty powerful program.” He stiffened in his chair. “AFPS could do it, maybe.”

“AFPS? AFPS would leave a trail as wide as I-70.”

“Not necessarily. Not if you know the raw code.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm not sure. I'm not even sure how it could be done. But if there were a way, it would be through the alteration of the code itself.”

“Yeah, well that's not good news, Borst. And do you know why that's not good news? I'll tell you why. Because you, my dear friend, are in charge of that code! You're the brilliant one who pieced this thing together, right? Now either you stole from yourself, and from me, or someone else is using your program to rob you blind.”

“Don't be ridiculous! Those monkeys in there wouldn't have the stomach much less the experience to do anything like this. And I certainly did not mess with my own account.”

“Well, somebody did. And you'd better find that somebody, or it won't go nicely for you. Do you understand me?”

Borst looked up at the president, stunned by the suggestion. “Well, if it doesn't go nicely for me, you can bet it won't go nicely for you.”

“And
that,
my dear, fine-feathered friend, is where you are wrong.” Bentley jabbed his desk with his finger, making a small thumping sound each time it landed. “If this goes down, you'll take the fall, the whole fall, and nothing but the fall. And don't think for a minute I can't do it.”

“We will deny it,” Borst said, dismissing Bentley's threats.

“Deny what?”

“We deny that we know anything about our accounts at all. We ignore all of this and come unglued when the first sign of trouble crops up.”

“And like you said, if they run an investigation we could have a hard time answering their questions.”

“Yes, but at least it's only an
if
. You have a better suggestion?”

“Yes. I suggest you find this imbecile and put a bullet in his brain.”

They stared at each other for a full thirty seconds, and slowly, very slowly, the magnitude of what they might be facing settled on both of them. The macho stuff vacated their minds, replaced by a dawning desperation. This was not a problem that would necessarily go away at the push of a button.

When Borst emerged from the room thirty minutes later, his head was bald and his face was white. But these issues were of little concern to him now. It was the pressure on his brain that had him swallowing repeatedly as he walked back to his office. And nothing, absolutely nothing, he could think of seemed to loosen the vise that now held his mind in its grip.

KENT AWOKE midmorning and slogged out to the deck, nursing a bit of a headache. He squinted against the bright blue sky and rubbed his temples. The ocean's distant crashing carried on the wind, but otherwise silence hung heavily in the air. Not a voice, not a bird, not a motor, not a single sound of life. Then he heard the muted thud of a hammer landing on some new home's wood frame down the way. And with that thud the hole in Kent's chest opened once again. A sobering reminder that he was alone in the world.

He glanced at his watch, suddenly alert. Ten o'clock Friday morning. His lips twitched to a faint grin. By now Borst and Bentley would have discovered the little disappearing trick. Now you see it; now you don't. He imagined they'd be sweating all over their desks about now. What they didn't know was that the trick was just beginning. Act one. Strap yourselves in, ladies and gentlemen. This one will rock your socks. Or perhaps steal them right off your feet without your knowing the better.

He swallowed and thought about mixing himself a drink. Meanwhile, he was wealthy, of course. Must not forget that. How many people would give their children to have what he now had? An image of Spencer, riding his red skateboard, popped into his mind. Yes, a drink would be good.

Kent mixed himself a drink and meandered out to the deck. The soft sound of waves rushing the shore carried on the breeze. He had ten hours to burn before placing the phone call. He couldn't sit around drinking himself into a stupor this time. Not with that conversation coming on tonight. He would have to stay clear headed. Then perhaps he should clear his head out there on the waves.

An hour later Kent stood by the pier, gazing down the long row of boats, wondering how much they would bring. A small chill of excitement rippled through his gut.

“Whoa there, mate!” The voice spoke with an Australian accent.

Kent whirled to face an older seaman pushing a dolly stacked with provisions down the plank. “If you'll step aside, son, I'll be by quicker than a swordfish on a line.” He grinned, splitting the bristly white hair that masked his face. Years of sun had turned the man's skin to leather, but if the shorts and tank top were any indicator, he wasn't too concerned.

“Sorry.” Kent stepped aside to let the man pass and then followed him up the pier. “Excuse me.”

“Hold your head, son,” the man croaked without looking back. “I've got a bit of a load, as you can see. I'll be with you in a jiffy. Have yourself a beer.”

Kent smiled and trailed the man to a large white boat near the end of the pier.
Marlin Mate.
She was a Roughwater, the little silver plaque on her bow said. Maybe fifty feet in length.

“This your boat?” Kent asked.

“You don't hear too well, do you? Hold your head, mate.” The seaman hauled the dolly over the gangplank and into the cabin, grumbling under his breath. This time Kent lost his grin and wondered if the old man's head was out to sea. He could certainly use a little fine-tuning in the social-graces department.

“Now there,” the man said, coming from the cabin. “That wasn't such a long wait, was it? Yes, this is my boat. What can I do for you?” The sailor's blue eyes sparkled with the sea.

“What does something like this go for?” Kent asked, looking her up and down.

“Much more than you would think. And I don't rent her out. If you want a day trip, Paulie has—”

“I'm not sure you're answering my question. It was quite simple, really. How much would a boat like this one cost me?”

The man hesitated, obviously distracted by the strong comeback. “What's it to you? You plan on buying her? Even if you could afford her, she's not for sale.”

“And what makes you think I can't afford her?”

“She's pricey, mate. I've worked her for half my life, and I still hold a decent note on her.” Leather Face smiled. He'd misplaced two of his front teeth. “You got five hundred thousand dollars hanging loose in your pocket there?”

“Five hundred, huh?” Kent studied the boat again. It looked almost new to him—if the Australian had owned it for as long as he let on, he'd cared for her well.

“She's not for sale.”

Kent looked back to the old man, who had flattened his lips. “How much do you want for her? I pay cash.”

The man looked at him steadily for a moment without answering, probably running through those little note balances in his mind.

“Five-fifty, then?” Kent pushed.

Leather Face's baby blues widened. For a long minute he did not speak. Then a smile spread his cracked face. “Seven hundred thousand U.S. dollars, and she's all yours, mate. If you're crazy enough to pay that kind of dough in cash, well, I guess I'll have to be crazy enough to sell her.”

“I'll pay you seven hundred on one condition,” Kent returned. “You agree to keep her for a year. Teach me the ropes and take care of her when I'm not around.”

“I'm no steward, mate.”

“And I'm not looking for a steward. You just let me tag along, learn a few things, and when I'm gone you run her all you like.”

The old man studied him with piercing eyes now, judging the plausibility of the offer, Kent guessed. “You show me the cash, I'll show you the boat. If I like what I see and you like what you see, we got us a deal.”

Kent was back an hour later, briefcase in hand. Leather Face—or Doug Oatridge as he called himself—liked what he saw. Kent just wanted to get out to sea, feel the breeze through his hair, drink a few beers, distract himself for a few hours. Kick back on the deck of his yacht while Borst and Bentley chewed their fingernails to the knuckles.

By midday they were trolling at twenty knots, precisely. A permanent smile had fixed itself on Doug's face as he feathered the murmuring engine through the seawater. Thinking about the cash, no doubt. They sat on cushioned chairs, eating sandwiches and drinking ice-cold beer. The sun had dipped halfway when the first fish hit. Ten minutes later they hauled a four-foot tuna over the side and shoved it into the holding tank. What they would do with such a creature, Kent had no clue—maybe carve it up and fry it on the grill, although he'd never liked tuna. Give him swordfish or salmon, disguised with chicken broth, but keep the smelly stuff. Three more of the fish's cousins joined him in the tank over the next half-hour, then they stopped taking the bait. Doug was talking about how tuna ran in schools, but Kent was thinking the fish had just grown tired of the senseless self-sacrifice.