Double Vision (9 page)

C
esar stared at Esther's body where it lay in the trunk of Dennison's car. He hadn't believed Dennison when he had called him about the accident, but he believed him now. Grief speared through the haze of alcohol that had gotten him through the afternoon, and would have driven him to his knees if it hadn't been for the barrel of the .38 shoved into his side.

Dennison's hand shot out and gripped his throat, choking off his breath as he pushed him back against the wall of Lopez's garage. “We know your wife had a photographic memory, just like the kid. So why would she write down details of account numbers?”

Dennison's fingers tightened, grinding on his trachea, then abruptly released. Cesar gulped in air and massaged his throat. The snick of a blade jerked his head up. Lopez stepped out of the shadows. Warily, he studied the flick knife in Lopez's hand.

Lopez repeated Dennison's question.

Cesar's stomach rolled. The amount of money that was “missing” was nightmarishly large and right now it was balanced against his and Rina's lives. Even drunk, the logic was clear. It was too late for Esther, but if he could make Rina remember, he could get the money back.

His gaze flickered to the body in the trunk. He began to shake. Dennison had shot Esther. Lopez would have no compunction about ordering Rina's death, or his. Their only chance for survival lay in the fact that Lopez believed she had something he wanted.

Maybe his logic was flawed. He hadn't been thinking clearly for weeks, but with Esther dead and Rina lying unconscious in hospital, there was only one strategy: bluff, delay for time while he tried to think of a way out of this mess. “Esther has—
had—
a photographic memory. If she wrote numbers down, there is only one reason. She would have given them to Rina so she could memorize them.” He let out a breath. “As insurance.”

Bluff or not, nothing else made sense. She must have known Dennison was following her and panicked, otherwise she wouldn't have risked involving Rina.

“Why didn't you tell us about Esther?”

Lopez's voice was soft and sibilant, his Colombian accent abruptly strong. Adrenaline shoved through Cesar's veins, making his pulse thud jerkily and his fingers twitch. “I didn't think it mattered. She didn't know—”

But she had.

With a shock he realized that when Esther had confronted him on Monday night and the manila file with Lopez's account details had scattered on the floor of his office, she must have gotten a look at the account number. It had only been a split second, but for Esther it had been long enough. He had been stupid,
stupid—

“When did she find out?”

“Monday.”

There was a deadly silence. Cesar rushed to fill it. “I didn't know she'd seen the account number, if I had—” He swallowed. Just seconds before he'd been cold, now sweat was pouring off him. “She asked for time. She was my wife. I
believed
her.”

The fist caught him in the jaw. When he came around he was lying on the concrete floor and music was playing.

Dennison was crouched a few feet away, systematically going through the luggage from the Saab, which included a small antique music box Cesar could remember Esther buying for Rina's first birthday. The presence of the music box hammered home the fact that Esther had not only stolen the money, she had been leaving him and taking Rina with her.

Dennison upended the box with the lid open and shook it. The music stopped. A small compartment slid open. After a cursory inspection, he placed the box on the floor and picked up Esther's jewelry case.

“What do you know about Xavier le Clerc?”

Lopez's question cut through the dim shadows of the garage. He was leaning against the open trunk of the car.

Cesar pushed to his knees. His head spun and his stomach cramped, the pain agonizing, and for a moment he thought he was going to throw up.

Le Clerc? For a moment the name meant nothing, then comprehension hit. He swallowed the sour taste of bile in his throat. “Esther knew him in Bern years ago, when she investigated him for Bessel Holt. Aside from the stories in the paper, that's all I know.”

“Your wife rang a number in Bern on Monday.”

Cesar used the wall to brace himself as he staggered to his feet. Lopez wouldn't bring up le Clerc's name unless he was somehow implicated, which was crazy; le Clerc had disappeared more than a decade ago. “I didn't know that.”

“We tried the number. It belonged to le Clerc's sister. She's since disappeared and the number has been disconnected.” There was a pause. “Do you know how to reach le Clerc?”

“Why would I have any connection with him?”

Lopez's gaze was unblinking. “Your wife had a meeting with a former colleague from Bern on Tuesday. Dana Jones. She works at RCS.”

Shock reverberated through Cesar. Now, finally—too late—he could see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “I've never heard of her.”

“Dana Jones was in Bern at the same time Esther and Xavier le Clerc were there. Don't you think that's a coincidence?”

“Yes.
No.
” Cesar shook his head, trying to clear away the heavy ache. “I don't know. If I did, I would tell you.” He rubbed at his face. “If you can't find le Clerc, maybe this Dana Jones knows something.”

Lopez's expression was cold. “Finally, you're beginning to think.”

 

Annoyed at being kept late when she needed to be home for her daughter, Dana Jones lifted her head as the branch manager strode into her office.

Jeremy Prattwurst—Pratt for short—didn't look happy. His mouth was tight, and his expression cold. There had been whisperings all afternoon that someone had slipped up, big-time, and signs of stress showed in the unusual length of time spent behind closed doors in meetings, but so far none of the executive staff had spilled any details. The lack of information was, in itself, worrying. In this place, rumors spread like wildfire.

“You saw Esther Morell two days ago.”

“That's correct.” She had made sure that was no big secret. If she managed to pull even a fraction of the Morell resources under the RCS umbrella, it would be a major coup.

“Esther Morell's dead.”

“What?”
For a second Dana thought he wasn't serious. When his expression didn't change, she shook her head. “I don't believe it.”

“A car accident. The thing I'm trying to work out is why she came to see you when the Morell Group banks with Bessel Holt.”

Dana blinked. The fact that Esther still dealt with Bessel Holt was, to put it mildly, shocking. Dana had had the distinct impression that she had cut her ties and was dealing locally. “She said she was interested in making some investments.”

“She wasn't interested in making an investment. She stole a client's money.”

By the time Pratt had finished detailing how Esther had managed to bypass the account security features and transfer the funds, Dana understood exactly what Esther Morell's visit had been about. She had been using her. She had remembered her terrible memory and her trick with the card. The whole thing with the coffee spilling, and Esther helping mop up the mess, had been staged so she could lift her keyboard and get a look at the access codes.

Pratt seated himself on the corner of her desk and hitched up a trouser leg. The movement was calm and studied. “What I'm interested in,” he said slowly, “is how, exactly, she managed to get hold of our access codes. The only conclusion I can come to is that she got them from you.”

Dana swallowed. “I didn't give her anything.
I wouldn't.
It's more than my life's worth—”

He leaned forward and lifted her keyboard. Adrenaline pumped and for a raw moment she couldn't breathe. The card was sitting right where she always kept it.

He picked up the card. “Della told me about your little habit. It looks like she wasn't the only one who knew.”

Dana sucked in a breath, trying to control the rapid pounding of her heart. Della worked in the adjoining office. She must have spotted Dana slipping the card under the keyboard.

She swallowed and blinked. Her nose had begun to run. She couldn't believe it, she was crying. She hadn't cried in years. In a convulsive movement she grabbed at a tissue, and in that moment saw an instant replay of Esther Morell doing the same thing. “She spilt some coffee and lifted the keyboard. She saw the card, but only for a second. I grabbed it and slipped it in the drawer. There was no way she could have remembered that many numbers.”

“Are you telling me that you didn't know Esther Morell had a photographic memory?”

Dana blew her nose, discarded the tissues and pulled some more, her mind frantic.
A photographic memory?
If Pratt had thrown a brick at her head she couldn't have been more stunned. “I didn't know that,” she said tightly.

Pratt was silent for a moment. “If you really didn't know, that might be the only thing that saves you.”

The door opened. A lean, dark man of average height entered the room. Dana had seen him before on a couple of occasions, but only fleetingly. Alex Lopez usually dealt directly with Pratt.

Pratt straightened, handed the man the card and left the room, closing the door behind him. Warily, Dana pushed to her feet. Lopez was young, in his early twenties, and expensively dressed in a charcoal-gray suit with a diamond tiepin. He was wearing gloves.

He stared at the card for a moment, then slid it into his pocket. “Because of you, Esther Morell was able to access my account and remove a substantial sum of money.”

He mentioned the amount and Dana's head reeled. Despite working in banking for most of her life, she didn't know it was possible for any one person to hold that much money in liquid funds. If anyone did have that much
legitimate
personal wealth, it would usually be split into various forms: property, bonds, shares, blue-chip investments, mortgage funds. If a large amount of capital was available for even a few hours, it went on the overnight money market, or for longer periods on the short-term money market. For Lopez to have that amount in liquid funds meant the rumors in the office that he was involved in organized crime were true.

The slap came out of left field, snapping her head sideways. The back of her legs hit her office chair and she stumbled off balance, clutching at the desk to stay upright.

“I could break your neck.” His voice was calm, even casual. “But that's not what I need right now.”

Half-formed and horrifying visions of what he might possibly need made her feel physically sick. That amount of money could only come from one source: drugs. Despite the bank's reputation, she hadn't expected to deal with criminals. People wanting to reduce their tax bill, yes, but not real criminals.

Something warm trickled down her chin. Dana touched her mouth. Her bottom lip was stinging and she could taste blood. “What, then?”

His gaze flashed and she realized she'd pushed his buttons with that reply. A shudder worked its way down her spine. He had just assaulted her and threatened her; she could go to the police. She was sorry she had made a mistake, and sorry that he'd lost his money because of it, but hey, she only worked here. There was no reason she had to put up with any of this. She would lose her job, but that wasn't a problem. She no longer wanted anything to do with RCS.

“Where is the money?”

She flinched, expecting another blow. When it didn't come, she let out a breath. “I don't understand what makes you think I had anyth—”

“Where is the money that you and Esther and Xavier le Clerc stole from me?”

She stared at Lopez. Now she knew he was crazy. She had known Xavier, but years ago. She hadn't heard anything about him for more than a decade, ever since the tabloids had lost interest in a story and a trail that had gone cold. “What has le Clerc got to do with this?”

A flush stained his cheekbones. A gun appeared in his hand. He jammed the barrel against the side of her neck.
“Give me the account numbers.”

The instant cold metal touched her skin, she froze. “I don't know the account numbers. I don't know what Esther did with the money. And I don't know anything about le Clerc.”

His gaze didn't waver. “I have your daughter.”

Her heart slammed against her chest. Panic turned to sheer terror.
Taylor.
She should be at home, watching TV or doing homework, not—

Her jaw clamped. She had to stay calm, work this out. He could be lying. She had done a training course about coping with armed offenders. She knew the tactics: stay quiet, stay still, use soothing language, give him what he wanted. But in this case she didn't
have
what Lopez wanted. “I don't understand how I can help you. I made a mistake writing the access codes down, but I had nothing to do with Esth—”