“Thank you,” Gia said, flashing a death-ray glare at Sean.
“Not a bit of it. You’d best keep this one, Sean, I like an old-fashioned girl. By the way, did you get the chance to look over that reverse mortgage I sent you?”
“Not yet, Ma. Things have been a bit... hectic at the bank,” he said, returning Gia’s glare. “I’ll get to it first thing after the holidays, promise.”
“All right, but one of the dates on it is in January, so—”
“Relax, Ma, I’ve got it covered. No more business. It’s Christmas.”
“You’re right.” Meg beamed, bustling back to the kitchen.
“If you look after your own accounts the way you see to your mom’s, no wonder you’re short a half million,” Gia said.
“I’m not short, the computer is. And leave my mom’s business out of this, okay? I thought you were here to—” He broke off, realizing their raised voices were attracting attention. “Maybe we’d better go for a walk. I’ll show you the old neighborhood.”
“Poker game’s starting, Sean,” Mike said, carrying beers back from the kitchen. “You want in?”
“Bankers can’t gamble, bad for our image. Watch yourself with my brother, Carl. He’s a crook.”
In the street, Sean put his arm around Gia’s shoulders. She tried to pull free but he pulled her closer.
“That Hummer limo parked down the street is Mike’s,” he murmured in her ear. “His driver’s at the wheel, watching the street and watching us. Better make it look good.”
“You were supposed to help me fit in. What are we doing out here?”
“Strolling arm in arm, like the lovebirds we’re supposed to be. In case you hadn’t noticed, the poker game isn’t co-ed. If you hang around asking questions, it’ll only draw attention to the fact you’re a stranger. Carl’s in the game and Mike’s half in the bag. If there’s anything to get, your guy’s in the right place.”
“While we do what?”
“We could neck under a streetlight, you know, to make it look realistic.”
“I’d rather walk, thank you. Where to?”
“Around the block, I guess. It’s a nice neighborhood, I grew up here. Rode my bike to school, played touch football on weekends.”
“And college ball at Michigan State.”
He glanced at her. “You’ve done your homework.”
“To be honest, you’re a bit of a puzzle to me, Mr. O’Donnell. You and your brother, both. Your mom seems like a good person—”
“The best. Salt of the earth.”
“And you grew up in a nice home, apparently didn’t lack for much—”
“Except for a father. Neither of us had one for long.”
“Lots of boys grow up without fathers these days. They don’t all become labor racketeers...”
“Or crooked bankers,” he finished for her.
“Exactly. Maybe you could explain that to me.”
“Are you asking me to incriminate myself?”
“Your bank’s computers have already done that. It’s open-and-shut. The only thing that’ll save you now is your cooperation... What are you staring at?”
“You. Mom’s right. With that snow in your hair, you’re really very lovely.”
“Save the snow job, O’Donnell. It won’t keep me from hauling you out of your mom’s house in cuffs. And by the way, you really should take a close look at that reverse mortgage she mentioned.”
“No kidding? Do you guys moonlight in real-estate loans when you’re not harassing innocent citizens?”
“No, but our office fields complaints, and lately a lot of them have involved reverse mortgages. Older people sign over their homes in return for a monthly payment — in effect, a mortgage in reverse. The problem’s in the fine print. They think the agreement promises them payments for life, but some are strictly short-term, only a year or two. Perfectly legal, but damned unfair. Your mom—”
“Leave my mom out of this. You’re not our friend. You’ve bullied your way into our home looking for dirt on my brother. How do you people sleep at night?”
“Not all that well, sometimes,” she admitted, looking away. “You’re a loan officer at the bank, right? Do you like your job, Mr. O’Donnell?”
“Sure, for the most part. I enjoy helping people improve their lives.”
“But that’s not always possible, is it? You certainly can’t approve every application, can you? Do you enjoy saying no?”
“Of course not. But sometimes it’s necessary. Why?”
“Because there are aspects of my job I don’t like either. As for your mom, I was just—”
“Butting into something that’s none of your business, Agent Sirico,” he said coldly, cutting her off. “A local real-estate broker wrote the agreement, I’m sure it’s fine. We’d better get back. You might miss something incriminating.”
The party was winding down, the last of the guests saying their goodbyes, shaking hands with one another, embracing Mama Meg, calling out “Merry Christmas” as they walked to their cars in the gently falling snow.
Inside, the poker game was well under way, men in shirtsleeves around the dining-room table, Iron Mike and his bodyguards, a city councilman, two union officers, Carl Vanston, and a reporter for the Detroit Free Press.
“Did you two have a nice walk?” Mama Meg called from the kitchen.
“Lovely, Ma.”
“Good. Be nice to this girl, son. She’s special.”
Sean sighed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Special or not, it’s been a long day,” Gia said. “I think I’ll call it a night.”
“Me too,” Sean said. “I’ll walk you up.” When they reached the top of the stairs, he said, “Your bedroom’s just two doors down from mine. And since we’re supposed to be lovers...”
“Forget it,” Gia said. “What would your mother think? And just in case you sleepwalk, I sleep with a gun under my pillow.”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“It works for me. See you in the morning, O’Donnell. And not before.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sleep well.”
In his bedroom, Sean quickly stripped off his tie, put on a leather jacket and a black watch cap pulled down low. Raising his bedroom window, he eased out over the jamb and slid silently down the TV antenna.
Keeping to the shadows, he threaded his way through deserted backyards to a side street where a nondescript black rental waited. Beeping it open, Sean fired it up and drove sedately out onto the suburban streets, his speed well below the limit.
Across town, he pulled into a McDonald’s, open twenty-four hours even on Christmas Eve. Leaving his car at the rear, he walked away, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
Over the next six blocks the neighborhood morphed from working-class to upwardly mobile professionals, two- and three-story Dutch gabled homes with three-car garages.
Checking his Palm Pilot for the address, Sean took a quick look around, then ducked behind the garage, trotting to the backyard. With a passkey, he let himself into the rec room, then moved silently through the darkened house to the master bedroom.
Easing inside, he switched on a laser penlight and crept silently to the head of the bed. Kneeling, he played the light across the eyelids of the sleeping man until they snapped open. And widened.
“Mr. Beckham?”
“What — Who are you? How did you get in here?”
“Hush. None of that matters. Peter Beckham, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“I–I don’t keep money here.”
“I don’t want money. All I want is a word. Say the right word and I’m gone.”
“What word?”
“The password. To the computers at your realty office.”