Sink, Swim, Die Read online

  “I can walk,” I said as we left the interview room.

  We shook hands as I left the building. “You’ve got my card,” he said in parting. “Now that they’ve got the diamonds, I don’t think they’ll bother you anymore. But if you have any problems—I mean, anything—call me.”

  I assured him I would and started the long hot walk to the Ritz Carlton. As I trudged along, squinting my one good eye in the bright sunlight, I hit the wall. Every step was suddenly a struggle. I was bone tired. My head hurt. I felt depressed. I wasn’t up to the two tasks waiting for me once I was home in Orlando—arrange my father’s funeral service and figure out how to get the bank to pay me for this fiasco that got their CEO killed.

  In my wildest dreams, I would never have believed how those events would put me right back in harm’s way.

  Chapter 14

  Orlando. Ten-Days Later.

  The organist playing at St. John the Redeemer was a teenage girl with a ponytail and large glasses. She looked uncomfortable at the big organ, as if this was her first time playing it. If it was, she had a good debut.

  I was seated in the first row, LeeAnn next to me. Jennifer Barnes, dad’s nurse in the Alzheimer unit, was two rows behind us. Across the aisle, sat an older couple who’d nodded and smiled at me as if they knew me. I had no clue who they were.

  Five total at this mass of Christian burial.

  On a small square table in front of the altar sat the crimson-and-white striped urn containing dad’s ashes. He’d probably be horrified to know he’d been placed in an urn this garish. When I’d questioned LeeAnn about it, she’d said, “Honey, you can’t go wrong with the Auburn school colors.”

  Father Barry appeared, his gaze measuring the miniscule attendance, the gaudy urn, my still black and blue face. His eyes rolled back in his head as if to say, It’s come to this.

  It was a short mass.

  At the conclusion, I carried the urn across the street to the cemetery and reunited dad with mom.

  All six of us returned to the undercroft where the bereavement committee had refreshments waiting. Glass of punch in hand, I thanked Jennifer and the Clarks (long ago neighbors who remembered me as a 12 year old) for coming. Father Barry put his hand on my shoulder, offered me a prayer of guidance, and beat a quick retreat.

  Within five minutes, it was just LeeAnn, me, two untouched meat trays, various bowls of chips, dip, two dozen home-baked cupcakes, and a punch bowl with floating ice cream.

  As LeeAnn and I were making plates, I heard her mutter under her breath. “Unbelievable.”

  I looked up to see Tiffany, my ex, drama swirling around her like an aura, standing just inside the doorway. Her hair was blond now and longer, but other than that she looked the way I remembered. I saw her gaze take in the large empty room, the bereavement ladies chatting behind the food table, and finally me. She headed my way.

  LeeAnn leaned close, said quietly, “I’ll give you two some space.”

  Considering how things had ended with Tiff and my dad, her appearance was a shock. I felt the hackles on the back of my neck raise up.

  From four feet away: “What happened to your face?” As if the question wasn’t annoying enough, she had the nerve to ask it in a proprietary tone.

  “Good to see you, too, Tiff.”

  Her expression softened. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I came to say I was sorry about your dad and see how you were doing.”

  “So now you care about my dad and you’re concerned about me. Is that it?”

  She reddened. A bit flustered. “I…I came to apologize. I realize I was horrible to you and…well…I wanted to say I was sorry.”

  “I appreciate you saying that, thank—”

  She stepped closer. “Let me finish.”

  “Oh.”

  She took a breath, summoning her resolve I guess, and met my gaze. “I know things between us ended badly, but…I miss you, Will. I miss you a lot.” She reached out, rested her hand on the side of my forearm. “We can start over. We were so happy before. I know we can be happy again.”

  Wow, talk about something catching you by surprise. I was flat-out stunned. What was she doing coming here? Saying things like that? Didn’t she realize going back to an old relationship never works? We were no longer those people. It could never be the way it was.

  “Tiff, it won’t work,” I said not unkindly.

  She leaned intimately forward, face all concerned, voice all breathy. “Yes, it will.” Her hand squeezed my arm. “If you want it enough.”

  I shook my head.

  Anger flashed in her eyes. Her hand pulled away. I though she was going to slap me. Maybe she would have if my face hadn’t already been so beat-up. Instead, she walked out, the staccato slap slap slap of her heels trailing behind her.

  As I watched her go, it occurred to me it wasn’t Tiffany I was thinking about when I said it could never be the way it was, it was Su. The memory of our togetherness on the Venetian still lingered. But with each passing day, it seemed like a different lifetime, another world.

  LeeAnn reappeared. “Girl’s got nerve. Have to give her credit for that.”

  We carried our plates over to one of the folding tables and sat down.

  “You heard her?”

  “I did. Unbelievable.”

  I took a bite of my ham and cheese on rye, still annoyed by her appearance. “Get back together? Craziness. Pure craziness.”

  “Switching females—were you able to talk to Jessica?”

  I’d called Jessica, Banning Sloane’s executive assistant, to see who had been tapped to fill his chair. To my horror, I learned Tim Fleagle, the bank’s chief compliance officer—a man who was on record as saying using outside legal resources (me, in particular) was an abuse of the bank’s assets—had been appointed acting CEO by the board. Fleagle thought if a lending officer made a bad loan, that lending officer should be required to recover the entirety of that money for the bank. That wasn’t likely to happen in the real world, but Fleagle didn’t live in the real world. His was in the very black very white world of compliance where if you colored outside the lines, you were flogged until you faired better at wielding your crayons.

  I’d totaled up what the bank owned me for time and expenses on this trip and the invoice amounted to a whopping $163,800. My chances of getting any of that from Fleagle—zero.

  I shared all that with LeeAnn. “We’ll have to sue the bank to recover what I’m owed for this trip. There’s nothing in writing and Fleagle will never believe what I went through that ran up the charges.”

  “I’m sorry, Will. You lose your daddy, have a bad run-in with your ex, and now you have to deal with Fleagle. Things are downright depressin’ right now.”

  Oddly, I wasn’t depressed. Oh, I was sad about dad, infuriated with Tiffany, and annoyed that I had to deal with Fleagle. But I was alive. Sloane wasn’t. Tomorrow, I’d be attending his wake.

  • • •

  St. Mark’s, Orlando’s oldest Episcopalian parish, was where the well-to-do churched. The ornate twin-spired limestone structure was packed. I was lucky to squeeze into one of the back pews. I noted that their organ player was an older man who played with a flourish. He kept the songs light and uplifting. A gray-haired minister with a well-groomed beard delivered the long and glowing eulogy. To hear him tell it, Sloane had been a prince among men: a superb family man, kind to the poor, generous to the church, a civic and business leader assuredly responsible for Orlando’s continued growth and prosperity.

  Guess he hadn’t heard of a fellow named Walt Disney.

  The minister closed with an invitation to continue this ‘celebration of life’ at Clovernook Country Club. Since I hadn’t seen Heather at the church and didn’t want to go to another graveside cemetery, I took him up on it.

  I’d purchased a new black suit for my dad’s funeral since my old suits new longer fit the new, more svelte me. As I entered “the ‘nook”, as it was known in the right circles, the new s
uit and the classic Wayfarer sunglasses I wore to hide the discoloration around my eye allowed me to fit in with those for whom conspicuous consumption was their life’s work.

  I made a circuit through the room, chatted with a few people I knew, but didn’t see Heather. At the buffet table, I overheard a woman saying, “That’s her. She was Ban’s second wife and his third wife is also here.” That left only wives number one, four, and five for me to go Bingo. Eventually, I did see wife number one and heard that wife number four was not only glad Ban was dead but wanted to dance on his grave. Yikes.

  I was about to give up on wife number five when I spotted Lynn and Ned Jamison, friends of hers. They’d hired me to represent the Ecuadorian couple who’d served as their housekeeper and gardener in a deportation case. Lynn, a natural blond with shoulder-length hair and a runner’s slim silhouette, was a partner in a public relations firm and a social climber. Ned, dowdy in a dated checked sportcoat, was a podiatrist with a hefty practice.

  “Ned, Lynn,” I greeted them as I made my way over.

  “Hey,” Ned said giving me a bored look.

  “Good to see you guys,” I said to Ned, before turning my attention to Lynn. “I was hoping to see Heather.”

  “Oh, she’s not here,” Lynn confided in a knowing voice. “She went out of town.”

  “I was afraid of that.” I nodded and took off my sunglasses so they could see my discolored face. Their jaws dropped. “I was with Ban when he died and there are things I need to tell Heather.”

  “Tell me.” Lynn cooed, sidling closer. “I’ll pass it along.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a regretful smile, “but I’m afraid she needs to hear this from me.”

  “Can’t believe Ban’s gone,” Ned muttered.

  I ignored him. “Do you know how long she’ll be gone?” I asked Lynn.

  Her eyes turned to slits as she pouted. “No, she just said she was sorry she’d miss our party.”

  “What day was that?”

  “Why is that important, Will?” Ned wanted to know.

  “Has to do with the death certificate,” I said bluntly. It didn’t, but mentioning the death certificate shut down more nerdy Ned questions.

  “So, do you remember what day?” I asked Lynn again.

  “Of course. Our party was the 19th. She called last minute, saying something important had come up.”

  I had a feeling I knew what that something important might be. The timing was too coincidental. The diamonds had been stolen on the 18th.

  Chapter 15

  “I can’t do it,” LeeAnn protested, “I’d be cheating on Billy Jean.” Billy Jean was her hairdresser. “She’s done my hair since we met on Chi Omega pledge day our sophomore year. Are you hearing me, Will, my hair is in a monogamous relationship.”

  “This was your idea,” I countered. LeeAnn had volunteered if anybody knew where Heather had gone, it would be her hairdresser. “I certainly can’t worm information out of this guy.” He went by one name: Anton. “But you? I’ve seen you bat those eyelashes around. You’ll have him telling you Heather’s most intimate secrets. Think of the dirt you’re going to hear? I only wish had a hidden camera so I could see Anton melt when you turn on the charm.”

  Major eye roll.

  Yeah, too thick. “Blame it on me. Tell Billy Jean I made you do it for a legal matter. That way she can’t blame you. And much as I would love to stay and discuss this with you, I’ve got a meeting with Fleagle.”

  Hair drama forgotten, she gave me a hug. “Give the twerp a good poke in the eye.”

  When I arrived at the bank, I found Jessica still manning her spot at the outer office. She looked the new trim me up and down. “Wow, Will, you look—great.” Her smile dimmed a little at my discolored face. “I cleared an hour on his calendar for you.” She brightened. “Good luck in there.”

  Fleagle was seated at his desk. He was a bookish man, balding with a fringe of curly brown hair, plump cheeks and virtually no chin. His mouth seemed to rest on the bottom line of his face. Even as an adult, he looked like he was still getting his lunch money stolen. Only his eyes betrayed the frumpy exterior. Those hazel eyes were show-no-mercy hard and take-you-for-all-you’re-worth calculating. Mr. New CEO wore a brown chalk-stripe vested suit, brown shirt, and burgundy tie. Ugly in so many ways.

  He’d brought that same sense of style to the office, too. Gone was the elegance the space had enjoyed under Sloane’s tenure. The seating area by the window with its soft brown leather sofa, deep swivel armchairs, and stainless steel and glass coffee table had been replaced by three folding tables filled edge-to-edge with stacks of paper. All that remained of the wall of vanity photos were the nail heads. The photos themselves were in cardboard banker’s boxes stacked in the corner, as if they were being punished.

  Fleagle had added one new accent piece—an industrial-size shredder. The sanitizing had begun.

  He half stood as I entered and I extended my hand. “Congratulations, Tim,” I said with bumped-up enthusiasm. “You were a great choice to get the bank back on track.”

  Just for a second, his gaze darted to the piles of papers on the folding tables. Made me wonder what skeletons had been swept out of what closets.

  “Thank you, Will,” he said as he shook my hand. “That’s nice of you to say.” He indicated a visitor’s chair with a nod, said curtly, “Take a seat.” I sensed pleasantries were over.

  I sat, crossed my legs, smiled, tried to be as casual as possible as I eased into my pitch. “Thanks for seeing me, Tim. I don’t know how much you know about this matter Ban had me work on.”

  He stayed stone faced.

  I plowed ahead. “It had to do with the Cabrera loan for San Marco Square. You may remember, that was a huge non-performing loan and we aggressively went after Cabrera’s assets, getting the best return we could for the bank. We were extremely diligent and thought we had everything, but Ban hired a private investigator to be sure, and this investigator discovered Cabrera had a yacht—the Venetian—secreted in South America. You know how personal the Cabrera matter was to Ban?”

  His scowl deepened. “I’m aware, yes.”

  “Just the thought Cabrera might have slipped one over on him had Ban fuming. You know how he was. He had to have that boat, and he sent me down there to bring it back. Which I did. Now Ban thought getting that boat back here would be a simple task; it wasn’t.” I reached down in my briefcase, extracted the twelve-page document I’d prepared detailing my expenses, reached across the desk, and handed it to Fleagle. “This details why costs were incurred. The big thing was the yacht’s engines weren’t in good running order, so we were forced to travel slowly and that brought on all sorts of trouble. It’s all in there. Why don’t you read through it and I’ll answer any questions.”

  Fleagle didn’t bother to look; he just tossed it aside. “Do you have any documentation, any authorization from the bank for this trip?”

  I had an inkling things were starting to go south. “Not with me. You should have all that paperwork here. Jessica will know where it is.”

  He sat forward in his seat, wearily pressed the intercom button on the phone. “Jessica, will you join us for a minute.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said contritely. A quiet minute later, she knocked lightly on the door, entered, and stood close to the door.

  “Come in, come in,” Fleagle said in a chiding voice.

  She took a couple of tentative steps forward.

  “Tell Will what we were able to find in the way of documentation on his trip to South America.”

  Her gaze found mine. Whatever she was about to tell me, the look in her eyes said she was sorry. “We didn’t find anything.”

  “What? How can that be? You booked my flight down. You gave me a credit card to use.” I could have gone on, but her face looked so pained, I knew it was pointless.

  “Yes,” she said looking down at her hands clasped demurely in front of her, “but I did those things for Mr. Sloane, not for the
bank. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Mr. Sloane personally paid for your ticket to Rio. He paid for the phone, the credit card, everything. That’s the way he wanted to handle it; the bank wasn’t involved. That’s why there are no records.”

  My gaze went back to Fleagle. He was watching me warily. “Sloane may have done this personally,” I said pointedly, “but this was a bank matter and he was acting as an officer of the bank. That means I was acting as an employee of the bank. You may think you can get out of paying me on a technicality, but I can assure the courts won’t let you get away with it.”

  I expected a retaliatory outburst and Fleagle’s jaw did clench, but with controlled calm, he said, “That’ll be all, Jessica.”

  “Yes, sir.” She left, closing the door silently behind her.

  Fleagle sucked in a big breath of air, blew out. “Will, we’ve had our differences in the past. We haven’t always gotten along. But I assure you I’m not trying to cheat you out of—” He reached for my document, flipped to the last page. “Your $163,800. Although high, I’m sure your charges are justified. My problem is that I’m dealing with a number of, ah, irregularities.” His eyes darted briefly to the stacks of paper. “The bank examiners arrive the beginning of next week.”

  He was almost playing nice. I didn’t like it. “Tim, I appreciate that you inherited some issues, but I don’t see why that should keep me from being paid.”

  Fleagle licked his lips and stared at me. “Let me spell it out for you. Here’s what I don’t want—any connection between the bank and Sloane’s murder. Right now, nothing links the two. This boat fiasco was purely a personal action on Sloane’s part that, unfortunately, culminated in his murder. The bank was not involved in any way. If I pay you, I’m admitting a connection, admitting this matter was authorized by the bank.” His head started shaking. “I’m not about to go there.”