The Shut Mouth Society (33 page)

“
I’m already wealthy.”

“
Your books can’t have earned that much money.”

“
When I turned eighteen, my father funded a trust for me with three million dollars. When I graduated from Stanford, he added two million. They annually distribute to me all but two percent of the earnings.”

Evarts made a quick mental calculation. “In Santa Barbara, they’d say you were comfortable, but when you get those proceeds from probate, you’ll be rich by any standard.”

“
Then I guess you’ll have to sign a prenuptial agreement.”

That comment startled Evarts, but when he looked at her, she smiled in a way that conveyed that she might have been kidding. Why were they both fencing around the subject of their relationship? Did they even have a relationship?

He decided to get back to the task at hand. “Maybe the clue isn’t in the files. After all, he waited a long time to give them to you. I’m beginning to think it must have been something he told you.”

“
I’m not convinced he left me a clue.”

“
Downloading the files meant he still had faith that you would eventually join him in the Shut Mouth Society. Think about your conversations with him. He wouldn’t leave you in the lurch if something happened to him.”

“
He left me money.”

“
He left you more.”

Baldwin frowned. But Evarts saw her face slowly relax as she mentally went over her history with her father. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “I told you he once said our family had a responsibility to people who had no idea about the corruption around them. I’ve gone over all these conversations in my head, and I can’t remember anything that helps. I didn’t like being preached to, so I tuned out a lot. Maybe I missed something.”

“
No chance … rather, he wouldn’t take that chance. Any other big birthday events?”

“
No, I didn’t even want his five million. On my other birthdays, I got pretty standard presents, if you consider Saks and Barney’s standard.” She laughed. “When I attended Berkeley, they tried to buy my affections with gifts in my name to the Sierra Club and the American Civil Liberties Union.”

“
The Sherman descendants helped found the ACLU.”

“
Good memory, but I’ve found no connection to the Sierra Club. I think they knew I’d return ostentatious gifts, so they put some of their charity donations in my name.”

Evarts opened the computer lid and scrolled through the files once again. He sat back and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t think this will get us anywhere. These files contain only the numbers associated with these accounts. Did your father tell you the name of the lawyer who drew up these trusts?”

“
Why?”

“
Maybe I can figure out a way for you to examine the full text. The clue might be buried in the legal jargon.”

“
A lawyer doesn’t have them. They’re filed away at the DTCC.”

Evarts leaned forward with newfound interest. “What’s the DTCC?”

“
Depository Trust and Clearing Corporation. Some big building near Wall Street that—” Baldwin bounded off the bed. “Oh my god!”

“
Everything might be together!” Evarts said.

“
Of course. How stupid of me. I shut those trusts out of my mind.”

“
What does this company do?”

“
I don’t know.” She grabbed the laptop and connected the phone line for dial-up access. Because of the slow speed, it took almost ten minutes for her to find their website. She turned to Evarts with a smile. “They store financial records and process transfers of assets for the big financial institutions. They’re a nonprofit owned by all the big banks and brokerage houses.”

“
What’s the address?”

“
None listed. Security, I suppose, but I remember my father telling me they were in the financial district, near Wall Street.”

“
We can find them, but I don’t think we can break in. We need to figure out a way to get you authorized to view those files. Does your family’s lawyer have access to them?”

“
No, but I do.”

“
What? How?”

Evarts had never seen her beam with such joy as she grabbed her computer bag and unzipped a side pocket. With abandon, she flipped through a bunch of small, stiff plastic cards and flung them around the room. One landed at Evarts’s feet, and he saw that it was a frequent flyer card for one of the airlines. In a moment, she held up what looked like a library card. “My father made me sign a signature card when I was still in prep school.” She waved the card. “This is the account number.”

Chapter 39

In less than five minutes, they had thrown their few belongings into the Explorer and headed for the highway. They arrived in New York City two days later. Evarts wanted a base of operations away from the city, so they rented yet another cheap motel room in Newark, close by the airport. Baldwin insisted that they both dress businesslike, so the next morning they shopped. They didn’t have time for custom tailoring, so it took most of the day to find appropriate clothing that fit well enough off the rack.

They went into the city by train the following morning and took the subway to the financial district. Evarts knew there would be some risk in attempting to enter the DTCC building, but they had kept an eye on the news and had seen the barest mention of the shooting in Boston and no mention of their names. He had also checked the Internet law enforcement web pages and found no reference to himself or Baldwin. He didn’t know the security procedures for the building, but he didn’t believe they could be too onerous. Besides, he wanted to see the documents firsthand, and he needed to keep Baldwin in sight so he could protect her.

As they emerged from the subway, Evarts considered how to find the right building. He decided the best way was to ask. With Baldwin at his elbow, he approached a Wall Street type and said, “We’re lost and late for an appointment with a client at the DTCC. Could you tell us where it is?”

Without hesitation, he pointed down the block at a building that looked like all the others. “That’s the DTCC.”

“
Thanks.” So much for keeping the address secret. Baldwin had been right about dressing appropriately. People projected their own values on others dressed as they dressed.

The lobby looked like every other office building except that, behind the reception counter, no company name appeared blazoned in huge brass letters. Baldwin approached the woman behind the counter with her account card in hand. “Good morning. I’d like to access my deposit,” she said in a slightly haughty tone.

“
Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”

“
No. My attorney told me yesterday afternoon that she needed to see the originals of my trust.”

“
No problem, but there might be some delay. May I see your card?” After she examined it, she said, “My, this looks tattered. You must have been with us a long time.”

“
My family has.”

She pushed a larger card toward Baldwin. “Would you be kind enough to sign?”

“
Of course.”

After she compared the signature against her computer screen, she asked, “Have you been here before?”

“
No. I’m preparing for probate.”

“
I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Baldwin. Unfortunately, we see many of those.”

“
May my fiancé accompany me?”

“
Of course, if you sign a release. The elevator banks are behind me. Go to the reception area on the second floor. When one of our custodians becomes available, he’ll escort you to your deposit. You’ll have to sign another signature card upstairs.”

Baldwin retrieved her card and perfunctorily said thank you. Evarts noticed that the elevator required a key to go to any floor other than the second. He also spotted cameras. He presumed they would be under surveillance everywhere but in a private viewing room, and they couldn’t count on that.

The upstairs lobby had the ambiance of a private bank. The paneling, Persian rugs, and tasteful art were supposed to make a waiting client feel comfortable, but unobtrusive cameras in the corners had the opposite effect on him. He was beginning to worry that he had underestimated their security measures. They hadn’t been sitting long when an impeccably dressed young man approached them.

“
Ms. Baldwin, my name is Jonathon. I’ll escort you this morning.”

After Jonathon shook Baldwin’s hand, Evarts introduced himself using his real name. He didn’t think that Jonathon’s first name familiarity went with the refined character of the Depository Trust, but nowadays everyone, including doctors, seemed to have adopted the informality of the waitress at Mrs. Olson’s Coffee Hut. Only the police and the military continued to use proper titles and sir and ma’am.

Jonathon led them into a small anteroom that Evarts recognized as a mantrap—an elegant mantrap, but a mantrap nonetheless. The design of these rooms allowed people through an exterior door, but if they didn’t present the proper identification, it kept them locked inside until the authorities could deal with them. Jonathon waved them into two office chairs situated in front of a glossy wood desk that supported only a telephone and a flat panel computer monitor.

Jonathon opened a drawer a few inches and slipped out two three-by-five cards. “Ms. Baldwin, we need you to fill out both of these forms, please.”

The first was another signature card, and the other was a release form for Evarts’s entry. After Baldwin filled them out and pushed them back across the desk, Jonathon said, “Thank you. May I see your account card?” After he glanced at it, he chuckled. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. Our new cards carry a photograph, and a scanner reads the account information automatically.” He nodded to indicate something behind them. “After we finish, would you mind if I take your picture? I can have your new card ready before you leave.”

“
Of course.”

Evarts noticed admiringly that Baldwin didn’t flinch or hesitate to agree. He had anticipated Jonathon’s next request. He wanted picture identification from each of them. That was why he had used his real name. It was a gamble, but if they had his name on a watch list here, the game was probably over anyway. His concern grew, however, when he saw Jonathon hold the card by an edge and casually pass it below the edge of the desk while making distracting small talk. Their escort had just digitally photographed their identification, and a computer somewhere in the building now ran their names and images against a suspect file. Did the computer know every wanted person in the nation? Probably. Evarts told himself to relax—or at least to appear relaxed.

Jonathon glanced at the flat panel and said, “Aw, I see you’re a police officer in California. Have you seen a system like ours before?”

“
Nothing this sophisticated.” Evarts evaluated Jonathon’s tone but detected no alarm. “We’re a small town.”

Jonathon’s composure perplexed Evarts. If the computer identified him as a police officer, then it must contain national criminal records as well. The Los Angeles Police might not have filed formal charges against him in the Rock Burglar case, but surely the Boston shoot-out marked him as a wanted man. He studied Jonathon carefully but didn’t detect disingenuousness. Odd, but he concluded that his record must be clean.

“
We have a lot to protect. One of our vaults holds nearly a trillion dollars’ worth of old coupon bonds. Everything went electronic years ago, but we still have to deal with the old stuff. Antiquated paper.”

“
I like the sense of security that a physical piece of paper gives you,” Evarts said. “I don’t trust a bunch of ones and zeros spinning around inside a computer.”

“
A false sense of security,” Jonathan answered. “Paper can be burned, stolen, or lost. Computer records can be copied.” Jonathon made an encompassing wave with his arm. “We duplicate every computer record in this building and send a copy across the Hudson to live a lesser life in New Jersey at our Disaster Recovery Site.”

“
Sounds expensive,” Evarts said to be social, rather than because he cared.

“
Very. We spend an enormous amount of money making sure we can recover our records under any contingency. It would be a bad thing if a terrorist bombed this building, but it would be a disaster if we lost track of who owned America.”

Evarts guessed that he said that several times a day.

After another check of his computer screen, Jonathon asked if they would like a private room. Baldwin answered that they might need several hours and asked if that would be a problem. Jonathon responded that they could stay as long as they liked. After taking Baldwin’s photograph, Jonathon led them to a room that had a small aluminum table, two aluminum chairs with embedded black cushions, nothing on the walls, and a cantilevered metal counter. Jonathon closed the door, and Evarts turned the lock on the handle. He slowly walked the periphery, but seeing no surveillance devices, he realized the DTCC had used the Spartan décor to reassure clients of their privacy.