The Heaven Trilogy (47 page)

What if, by some strange force at work in their memories, they
did
recognize him? Something about his hairline or his vocabulary or the sound of his voice. What if it struck a bell in their empty noggins, and they actually identified him? He cleared his throat and tried the voice. “Hello.” It came out squeaky, and he tried again, intentionally lowering it. “Hello, there. I'm Bob.”

Kent bit his lip, slipped on black glasses, and stepped from the car, closing his hands against a tremble that had taken over his fingers. He straightened his suit and looked up at the rising steps. Customers already streamed in and out of the revolving doors. He took three long, deep breaths and strode forward.
It's now or never, Buckwheat. Buckwheat Bob. Suck it up. Think of what they did to you.

Kent did that. He clenched his jaw and bounded up the steps, grasping madly at the sudden surge of confidence. He stepped through the revolving doors like a rooster on the hunt and stopped dead in his tracks.

It all crashed down on him with a vengeance: Zak the security guard, pacing with sagging eyes; the long row of tellers, mechanically pushing and pulling slips of paper across the green counter; the tall sailboat suspended in the middle of the lobby; a sea of muted voices murmuring on about dollars and cents; the smell of a dozen perfumes, all mixed into a potpourri of scents.

If Kent's skin had been invisible they would have all seen his heart bounce up into his throat and stick there, a ball of quivering flesh. He suddenly knew with absolute certainty that this was all a mistake. A huge monstrous mistake. He very nearly spun on his heels for a hasty getaway then. But his muscles were not responding so quickly, and he hesitated. And by then it was too late. Because by then Sidney Beech was walking directly for him, smiling as if to welcome him back into the fold.

“May I help you?” she asked, which was not what Sidney Beech normally did with just any yahoo who wandered into the bank. It was his Blues Brothers look, he quickly decided. He still had the shades on, a good thing—if she could have seen his bulging eyes she might have called security instead of wandering over with that grin on her face.

“Excuse me, can I help you with something?”

Kent cleared his throat.
Strictly business, Bob. Don't be a wuss.

“Yes. I'm here to see a Mr. Bentley. Price Bentley.”

She cocked her head, in a polite way of course. “And you are?”

“Bob.”

She waited for more.

“He's expecting me,” Kent said.

“Bob?”

“Bob.”

“I'll let him know you are waiting, Bob. If you'd like to have a seat in our lounge . . .”

“You may tell him that I'm on a tight schedule. I don't intend on lounging around waiting for him.”

She lifted an eyebrow, unable to hide a slight grin. “Of course.” Sidney motioned for the overstuffed chairs and strutted off toward Bentley's office, to tell him of the kook that had just walked in, no doubt.

Kent meandered over to the ship and studied the structure, feigning interest. Several tellers watched him curiously. Perhaps he should remove the black glasses. And maybe he should have purchased some of those colored contact lenses—his blues eyes might bare his soul.

Sidney was clacking up behind him. This was it then. He let her come.

“Bob?”

He turned and ground his teeth.
Strictly business, Bob.

“He will see you now.” She had lost the grin.

Kent strode for the office without waiting for her to show the way then realized it would be a mistake. How would he know? He turned to her. “This way?”

“Around the corner,” she said.

Better. He walked for the office, tall and mean, looking like a cybercop ought to look, gaining confidence with each step.

Kent put his hand on the brass knob, took a single deep breath, pushed the door open without knocking, and stepped in. The oversized branch president sat behind his desk like a bowl of firm jelly. His oblong face had swelled, Kent thought. The man was eating well on his newfound wealth. Bentley's suit buttons still stretched as he sat. He still wore his collar tight so that it pinched off his head to resemble a tomato. His big cherrywood desk still sat neat and stately. The air still smelled of cigar smoke. Only the look in Bentley's eyes had changed from Kent's last visit. And he wasn't sure if the man's eyes bulged from fear or from offense.

“Price Bentley?”

“Yes.” The man extended a hand over the desk. His face split with a manufactured grin. “And you must be Bob. I was told you would be visiting us.”

“You were, were you?” Kent shut the door behind him. He removed his sunglasses with a casual flip and ignored Bentley's extended hand. “Get on the horn and call Borst,” he said. “I need him here too.”

That controlled grin flattened to concern. “Borst? What does he have to do with this?”

“What does he have to do with
what,
Bentley?” Kent stared into the man's eyes, and a small tremor of revulsion swept through his bones. “You don't even know why I'm here, correct? Or am I wrong?”

He did not respond.

“Pick your jaw off the table and call him,” Kent said. “And tell him to hustle. I don't have all day.”

Bentley called Borst and set the phone down. It missed its cradle and clattered to the president's lap. He snatched it up and clanked it in its proper place. “He's on his way.”

Kent watched the pathetic man, expressionless.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

“Do I look like I need something?” Kent placed his hands behind his back and walked past Bentley toward the far window. “What did they tell you?”

The president cleared his throat. “They said you were investigating something for them.”

“Investigating, huh? And did they tell you
what
I was investigating?”

The door burst open, and Borst barged in, his face flushed. “Oh. Excuse me. I got here as soon as I could.”

“Sit down, Markus.” Bentley said, rising. “This is Bob . . . Bob . . . uh . . . I'm sorry, I don't know your last name.”

Kent faced them. “Just Bob to you. Morning, Mr. Borst. Good of you to join us.” He looked at Bentley and nodded toward the guest chair beside Borst. “You might as well have a seat over by Borst, if you don't mind.”

The president lifted an eyebrow. “In the guest chair? Why?”

“Because I told you to sit there. I want you to sit down beside Borst. Is that so difficult to understand?”

Borst turned white. Bentley's face flashed red. “Look, I think you—”

“Frankly I'm not really interested in what you think. I have no intention of standing here in some jaw-flapping contest with you. Now, when I say sit, you will sit. And if I tell you to open up your shirt and expose your hairy belly, you will do just that. Is this a problem? If so, you say so now, and I'll pick up that phone. But if you're interested in keeping the grossly inflated salary you've somehow managed to wrestle out of our Japanese friends, you should do precisely what I say. Are we clear?”

Bentley's tomato head seemed to swell. Kent looked at Borst and winked. “Right, Borst?”

His old boss did not respond. He might have swallowed his tongue, Kent thought.

“Now, if you don't mind, please sit over by your partner in crime there.”

Bentley hesitated a moment and then stormed around the desk to sit heavily beside Borst. The large man's expression teetered between rage and fear.

Kent continued. “Now, before I go any further I want both of you to understand a few things. First, I want you to understand that I'm just doing a job here. You two could be the king and his court jester, for all I care. It makes little difference. My job is to uncover the truth. That's it.”

Kent paced across the room, keeping them in his sight as he turned.

“Second, you may not approve of my approach, but obviously the people who hired your miserable necks do, or I wouldn't be here. So keep your lips closed unless I ask you to open them.
Capisce?”

They stared at him, obviously steaming at his audacity. “You see, now, that was a question. It is appropriate to open your lips in a response when I ask a question. Let's try it again, shall we? I say
Capisce,
which is Italian for
understand,
and you say . . .”

The fear had left Bentley's eyes, for the most part. Now it was just a snarl twisting those fat lips. Borst responded first. “Yes.”

Bentley dipped his head but did not speak. It would have to do for the moment.

“Good. Now, I know that you're both big shots in this bank. You're used to having a dozen or so employees follow you around eager to shine your shoes if you are so inclined. Am I right? You don't have to answer that one. Either way, I am not one of those people. Do we have this straight, or should I start over?”

Borst nodded. Bentley's lips twitched.

“Good enough. I'm here because someone obviously suspects that you two have been involved in some hanky-panky. Have you?”

The sudden question caught them off guard. Again Borst answered first. “No! Of course not.”

“Shut up, Borst!” Bentley had caught his breath. “I don't think we have to answer your questions without our attorneys present, Mister.”

“Is that so?” Kent arched an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you that your head is rather large, Bentley? Hmm? I mean, not just figuratively, but physically. I look at you, and I think . . .” He lifted a finger to his chin and looked off to the ceiling. “. . . tomato. Yes, tomato. That's what I've been standing here thinking. My, this fellow has a head that really, really looks like a tomato. Well, you listen up, Tomato-Head. There's a little document that you signed when you agreed to your bloated salary. It's called an employment agreement. I think you will find a clause in your agreement that pretty much gives me, the bank that is, full rights to investigate any matter suspect of hanky-panky. I think the word in the agreement is actually
fraud.
Same difference. Now, if you feel at a later date that we have treated you unfairly, you are free to sue to your heart's content. But until then let's keep things in perspective, shall we? Now, please answer my question. Have or have you not, Mr. Price Bentley, been involved in hanky-panky here at the bank?”

“No.” He had collected himself during that long diatribe, which was fine by Kent. A bit of a fight would not be so bad.

“No. Very good. Then I'm sure you have some exceptional explanations for my concerns. Let's start with you, Borst. By the way, please remove your toupee. I find it rather distracting.”

Borst's face flushed pink, and he looked up with a sheepish smile.

Kent nodded and waved a hand toward the black toupee. “Go ahead. Rip it off, my friend.”

His old boss realized then that he was serious, and his jaw fell open. “You . . . you . . . that's absurd!” he sputtered.

“Either way, please remove it. It's keeping me from concentrating on my job here.”

Borst spun toward Bentley, who ignored him.

Kent pushed the point. “Hurry, man. We don't have all day. Just pull it off.”

Borst reached up and pulled the hairpiece from his bald head. His face now beamed the shade of red found in a grocer's meat department.

“Good. So then, my friend, were you aware that some money is missing from the bank? Stolen electronically?”

Borst's breathing came raggedly now. “No.”

“No? That's funny, because it did indeed find its way into your personal account. Odd. And you, of all people, should know that money does not just float around the system of its own accord. In fact, isn't it your job to see that it does not?”

The man did not respond.

“Now would be a good time to move your lips, Borst.”

“No. I mean, yes. Sort of . . .”

“Well, which is it? Aren't you in charge of this new funds processing system everyone is raving about? AFPS?”

“Yes.”

“And you designed it, did you not?”

“No. No,
that
is not true!”

Bentley spoke again, furious now. “Will you keep your trap shut, Borst!”

Kent smiled. “Fighting among friends. How tragic. Which is it, Bentley? Yes, he did design AFPS, or no, he did not?”

“I barely even knew the program!” Borst blurted. “I oversee programmers, see, so I might not be as proficient about moving money around as you think. I swear I had no idea how that money got into our accounts!”

“Shut up, Borst!” Spittle flew from Bentley's lips as he spoke. “Listen to what you're saying, Meathead!”

Kent ignored the president. “But you
did
know about the money. And you knew about the money in Tomato-Head's account as well, which means he also knew about it. But we'll come back to that. I want to pursue this line of crock you're feeding me on AFPS.” He wagged a finger at them. “Didn't you two take credit for its development? Didn't you sign an affidavit claiming primary responsibility for the conception and implementation of the system? I mean, the last I checked, a lot of money was headed your way as a result of the bank's bonus program. Are you telling me there was some hanky-panky in that as well? Why don't you answer that, Bentley?”

The president looked as though he had indeed tied a noose about his neck and cinched it tight. “Of course I signed an affidavit stating I was primarily responsible for the system's development. And I was. Borst was as well. You just have him tied in knots with this dog and pony show of yours. So what do you say we get down to your real concerns, Bob? What exactly are you suggesting we did or did not do?”

“Oh, my goodness. He shows some intelligence at last. Did you hear him, Borst? Didn't that come off quite nicely? I'll tell you what I'm suggesting. I'm suggesting that you and Borst here are hiding some things. For starters, money transfers were illegally issued, neatly depositing several thousand dollars in each of your accounts, and I don't buy Borst's assertion that he had no idea where that money came from. Nobody could be such an idiot. So I guess I'm suggesting, Mr. Price Bentley, that you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. For starters, that is.”