If she told anyone, anyone upstairs-well, Ackerman was going to be so pissed off, no one on the planet could be so pissed off.
There would be music to face, at some point, whatever the hell music there was. But one false move, one falling domino, and this whole enterprise would blow up in his face. And no way Ackerman and his compadres would step up and share any of the repercussions.
Aaron let the movie of the disaster unreel in his mind: the police, and the prosecutors, whoever they’d be, federal, maybe even, since it was banking? Or, hell, he didn’t know. He should know. He’d either have to rat out Ackerman and the whole thing, what he knew of it at least, or take the fall on his own.
That was a no-brainer. He was not gonna take the fall.
Question was, was there a way to stop it, right now, prevent any of it from getting out?
What would that be? Aaron lifted his head from his arms, stared into the parking lot. The bank president’s place was still occupied, that navy blue Lexus that cost Aaron’s entire annual salary, probably more. Ackerman’s space was also filled. And so was Lizzie’s. She was here at the bank, not at home.
He sat back in his seat, chewing the inside of his cheek. Imagining her journey. Her office. The parking lot. Her apartment.
Where did she park at home? Did she have to walk from there to her front door? Or did she use a back door?
So many things about Miss Lizzie he didn’t know.
Still, he knew how to find out.
“Here we are.” Peter pulled into his driveway, clicked open the garage door, but didn’t drive in. The porch light was on, even though it wasn’t quite dark. He hadn’t reset the timer for the later-lasting summer light. Harley already had his two front paws on the front bay window, and Peter could see he was barking. He smiled, remembering. Dianna used to say Harley would run to the front window before she had any idea he was coming home.
He still missed Di. But life would go on. His, at least.
“Let me run in and change my-listen. If you don’t mind the dog and a lot of newspapers on the couch, come on in and wait in the air conditioning. Unless you prefer to-”
“Thanks. I’ll hit the bathroom, if you don’t mind,” Jane said. “Nice house, by the way. I love this part of Milton. You lived here long?”
He watched her gather up her stuff, thinking again how lucky they were that he’d been able to handle the Jeep. Random, ridiculous drivers. Another lesson in how quickly one’s life could change.
“A few years,” he said. He opened the door, keyed the alarm system, defended himself against his overjoyed Lab. “Yes, I’m home, yes, you can go out, yes, this is Jane, try to behave.”
Peter waved Jane inside, grabbing Har’s thick red collar in a futile effort to restrain the four-legged goofball now attempting to wag his entire body. “He’s enthusiastic.”
“So I see,” Jane said. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Peter waggled his shoulders, rolled his neck. “Creaky, though, I guess. You?”
“Me, too,” she said. She flexed her arms, shook them out.
“We’re lucky,” he said. He saw her looking around the living room, at the photos over the fireplace, and the silver frames on the piano.
“You play?” she asked.
He knew it. Okay, then, the short version.
“My wife did. She died. Several years ago.” He waved at the pictures. “That’s her. Dianna Nesbitt. She was terrific.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jane said.
“Thanks.” Peter shook his head. Enough explanation. “Listen. Do you mind if I take a quick shower? You can use the downstairs head, I’ll go up. I’m sort of-”
“Sure,” Jane said. “I’m fine.”
Harley yanked away from him, sniffled up to Jane.
“Harley,” he said. Exasperated. “Get back here. Jane, I’m sorry, Har’s just happy to-”
“We’re fine,” Jane plopped onto the couch, Harley nudging her leg. “Go shower.”
“He can go outside, into the backyard.” Peter pointed. “Just open the kitchen door back there, okay? And you can have some peace.”
“Will do,” Jane said. “We’re fine.”
29
“Where the hell did you go? A little rain scare you off?”
Jake figured he had only a few minutes to answer Nate Frasca’s call before the flight attendant’s preflight swoop-through ensured no passenger was using a deadly electronic device in deadly out-of-airplane mode.
“Nope, you scared me off,” Jake said. “All that bullshit jargon in your files, God help anyone trying to make heads or tails. I’m boarding now, so-”
“You get anything?” Frasca said.
“Maybe,” Jake said. “Thing is, it all points to his potential guilt. Excuse me, ma’am.” Jake found seat 6A, slid past the woman with the e-reader in 6B. She’d stuck a full paper cup of coffee in the elastic seat pocket in front of her, and the cup was clearly on the verge of collapse. Exploding coffee, just what he needed. “Anyway. Turns out we’ve got a different case coming to a head back home. Suspect and all. So I’ve got to-”
“Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, this is Lois, your front cabin attendant,” squawked a voice over the PA. “In preparation for takeoff, please make sure all of your cell phones are-”
“Listen, Nate? Gotta go. They’re-”
“You said the Lilac Sunday guy’s name was Gordon Thorley, right?” Frasca interrupted. “Common spelling?”
“Yeah. At least, that’s the one who says he-well, yeah.” Jake held the phone between his shoulder and cheek, felt for the seat belt while trying to avoid poking his seatmate in the ass, clicked it on. “Ring a bell?”
“Maybe,” Frasca said. “Age?”
“Like, late thirties? Early forties,” Jake said. “What bell?”
“Maybe nothing,” Frasca said. “But-”
“Sir?” A disapproving flight attendant leaned across e-reader woman, eyeing Jake’s phone. “We cannot take off until all cell phones-”
“Gotta go.” Jake clicked off, showed the woman his black screen.
“Airplane mode, sir,” she said.
Just get me to Boston, Jake thought.
Why were numbers so easy and people so difficult?
Lizzie’s client handiwork had passed the C &C test with flying colors. She should be happy. For now, at least, no one would notice that the mortgage payments for certain families did not exactly match actual money in the actual bank. According to the records, those customers were stellar, reliable, and double-A risks.
One hundred percent untrue, of course. But Lizzie was sick of banks, marble palaces to greed and acquisition, raking in all the profit at the expense of those they ostensibly served.
Not exactly objective, of course, but when the pendulum swung so far the wrong way, it was immensely pleasurable to be able to push it back. Even just her little bit. Seeing the relief and delight on the Iantoscas’ faces, for instance, made it all worthwhile.
Lizzie tilted back, leaning into the cushion, stared at the nubby white ceiling. Technically, technically, she was robbing the bank. From the inside.
She clicked her seat back into place. Still. The bank would never miss the money, people got to stay in their homes, and she got to do a good thing. A total win-win. Well, not exactly total-total. The powers-that-were up on the fifth floor would certainly not be thrilled. Nor, Lizzie had to admit, would the federal bank examiners or FDIC or the comptroller of the currency. Or the cops. But it was a win for the good guys. And she was a good guy.
When the families were back on their feet, she would undo it. Tell them their payments had to start again, lucky that their new job, new life, inheritance, or lottery win-whatever-had come at exactly the right time. Then she’d back the numbers out, and all would be well.