Kat head spun. She tried to push away thoughts of a life in a beach villa and concentrated on the task at hand. What had the last text Dana sent her son said again? Something about having a great time and a big surprise . . .
“Anyway, Dana is getting married. She and her new husband may even decide to move down there permanently. Naturally, this is not news she wants to break to Brandon over the phone. That’s why she’s been incommunicado.”
Kat said nothing, still trying to process. A proposal. A beach villa. Not wanting to tell her son on the phone. Did all that add up?
It did.
“So Dana Phelps, what, wired the money to the home owner?”
“No, she transferred the money to herself. The real estate transaction involves some complicated local issues that require a level of discretion. It isn’t my job to pry further than that. Dana opened a legal account in Switzerland and wired money from another account to fund it.”
“She opened a Swiss bank account in her name?”
“Which is perfectly legal.” Then: “But no, not in her name.”
“Whose name, then?”
Bork was working on that manicured thumbnail again. It was amazing how all men, no matter how successful, still have the little-boy insecurity in them. Finally, he said, “No name.”
She understood now. “A numbered account?”
“It isn’t as dramatic as it sounds. Most Swiss accounts are numbered. Are you at all familiar with them?”
She sat back. “Pretend I’m not.”
“Numbered accounts are pretty much just what you think—they have a number associated with the account instead of a name. This gives you a great deal of privacy—not just for criminals, but even the most honest people who don’t want their financial situations known. Your money is safe and secure.”
“And secret?”
“To some degree, yes. But not like it used to be. The United States government now can, and does, find out about the account. Everyone looks out for criminal wrongdoing and has to report it. And the secrecy only goes so far. Many people foolishly believe that no one knows whose numbered account belongs to whom. That’s ridiculous, of course. Select employees of the bank know.”
“Mr. Bork?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like the bank name and number.”
“It won’t do you any good. Even I can’t say for sure what name is associated with that number. If you somehow take out a warrant for information, the Swiss bank will tie you up for years. So if you want to prosecute Dana Phelps for some petty crime—”
“I have no interest in prosecuting Dana Phelps. You have my word on that.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
“Give me the number, Mr. Bork.”
“And if I don’t?”
She lifted her phone. “I can still call Max.”
Chapter 22
On the way out, Kat called Chaz and gave him the Swiss bank and account number. She could almost hear his frown over the phone.
“What the hell do you want me to do with it?” Chaz asked.
“I don’t know. It’s a new account. Maybe we can find out if there’s any new activity on it.”
“You’re joking, right? An NYPD cop asking for information from a major Swiss bank?”
He had a point. This was indeed the long shot of all long shots. “Just send the number to Treasury. I got a source named Ali Oscar. If anyone issues an SAR or whatever in the future, maybe it will get a hit.”
“Yeah, okay. Got it.”
Brandon was oddly quiet on the subway back uptown. Kat had expected him to be all over her, demanding to know why he had to leave and what Martin Bork had told her. He hadn’t. He sat in the subway car, deflated, shoulders slumped. He let his body sway and rock without putting up the least resistance.
Kat sat next to him. She imagined her own body language wasn’t much better. She let the truth sink in slowly. Jeff had proposed. Or should she call him Ron now? She hated the name Ron. Jeff was a Jeff. He wasn’t a Ron. Did people really call him that now? Like “Hey, Ron!” Or “Look, there goes Ronnie!” Or “Yo, It’s Ronald, the Ronster, Ronamama . . .”
Why the hell choose the name Ron?
Dumb thoughts, but there you go. It kept her mind off the obvious. Eighteen years was a long time. Old Jeff had been so antimaterialistic in the day, but New Ron was crazy in love with an über-rich widow who was buying him a house in Costa Rica. She made a face. Like he was her boy toy or something. Ugh.
When they first met, Jeff was renting this wonderful craphole overlooking Washington Square. His mattress had been on the floor. There was always noise. The pipes shrieked through the walls when they weren’t leaking. The place always looked like a bomb had just exploded in it. When Jeff was writing a story, he’d get every photograph he could on the subject and randomly thumbtack them to the walls. There was no organization to the process. The mess, he said, inspired him. It looked, Kat countered, like when the cops on TV break into the killer’s hidden room and find pictures of the victims everywhere.
But it felt so right with him. Everything—from the smallest, most mundane activity to the crescendo, if you will, of making love—felt true and perfect with him. She missed that wonderful craphole. She missed the mess and the photographs on the wall.
God, how she had loved him.
They got off on 66th Street near Lincoln Center. There was a chill in the night air. Brandon still seemed lost in his thoughts. She let him stay there. When they got back to Kat’s apartment—she really didn’t think it would be good for him to be on his own right now—she asked, “Are you hungry?”
Brandon shrugged. “Guess so.”
“I’ll order a pizza,” Kat said. “Pepperoni okay?”
Brandon nodded. He collapsed into a chair and stared at window. Kat called La Traviata Pizzeria and placed the order. She took the chair across from him.
“You’re awfully quiet, Brandon.”
“I was just thinking,” he said.
“About?”
“My dad’s funeral.”
Kat waited. When he didn’t say anything more, Kat prodded gently. “What about it?”
“I was thinking about Uncle Marty’s—that’s what I call Mr. Bork—I was thinking about his eulogy. Not so much what he said, though it was really nice, but what I remember most was when it was over, he kinda rushed out of the chapel or whatever you call it. So he finished and he hurried out. I followed him. I don’t know. I was still blocking on the whole thing. It was like I was just at some service and I was removed and it had nothing to do with me. Does that make any sense?”
“Anyway, Dana is getting married. She and her new husband may even decide to move down there permanently. Naturally, this is not news she wants to break to Brandon over the phone. That’s why she’s been incommunicado.”
Kat said nothing, still trying to process. A proposal. A beach villa. Not wanting to tell her son on the phone. Did all that add up?
It did.
“So Dana Phelps, what, wired the money to the home owner?”
“No, she transferred the money to herself. The real estate transaction involves some complicated local issues that require a level of discretion. It isn’t my job to pry further than that. Dana opened a legal account in Switzerland and wired money from another account to fund it.”
“She opened a Swiss bank account in her name?”
“Which is perfectly legal.” Then: “But no, not in her name.”
“Whose name, then?”
Bork was working on that manicured thumbnail again. It was amazing how all men, no matter how successful, still have the little-boy insecurity in them. Finally, he said, “No name.”
She understood now. “A numbered account?”
“It isn’t as dramatic as it sounds. Most Swiss accounts are numbered. Are you at all familiar with them?”
She sat back. “Pretend I’m not.”
“Numbered accounts are pretty much just what you think—they have a number associated with the account instead of a name. This gives you a great deal of privacy—not just for criminals, but even the most honest people who don’t want their financial situations known. Your money is safe and secure.”
“And secret?”
“To some degree, yes. But not like it used to be. The United States government now can, and does, find out about the account. Everyone looks out for criminal wrongdoing and has to report it. And the secrecy only goes so far. Many people foolishly believe that no one knows whose numbered account belongs to whom. That’s ridiculous, of course. Select employees of the bank know.”
“Mr. Bork?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like the bank name and number.”
“It won’t do you any good. Even I can’t say for sure what name is associated with that number. If you somehow take out a warrant for information, the Swiss bank will tie you up for years. So if you want to prosecute Dana Phelps for some petty crime—”
“I have no interest in prosecuting Dana Phelps. You have my word on that.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
“Give me the number, Mr. Bork.”
“And if I don’t?”
She lifted her phone. “I can still call Max.”
Chapter 22
On the way out, Kat called Chaz and gave him the Swiss bank and account number. She could almost hear his frown over the phone.
“What the hell do you want me to do with it?” Chaz asked.
“I don’t know. It’s a new account. Maybe we can find out if there’s any new activity on it.”
“You’re joking, right? An NYPD cop asking for information from a major Swiss bank?”
He had a point. This was indeed the long shot of all long shots. “Just send the number to Treasury. I got a source named Ali Oscar. If anyone issues an SAR or whatever in the future, maybe it will get a hit.”
“Yeah, okay. Got it.”
Brandon was oddly quiet on the subway back uptown. Kat had expected him to be all over her, demanding to know why he had to leave and what Martin Bork had told her. He hadn’t. He sat in the subway car, deflated, shoulders slumped. He let his body sway and rock without putting up the least resistance.
Kat sat next to him. She imagined her own body language wasn’t much better. She let the truth sink in slowly. Jeff had proposed. Or should she call him Ron now? She hated the name Ron. Jeff was a Jeff. He wasn’t a Ron. Did people really call him that now? Like “Hey, Ron!” Or “Look, there goes Ronnie!” Or “Yo, It’s Ronald, the Ronster, Ronamama . . .”
Why the hell choose the name Ron?
Dumb thoughts, but there you go. It kept her mind off the obvious. Eighteen years was a long time. Old Jeff had been so antimaterialistic in the day, but New Ron was crazy in love with an über-rich widow who was buying him a house in Costa Rica. She made a face. Like he was her boy toy or something. Ugh.
When they first met, Jeff was renting this wonderful craphole overlooking Washington Square. His mattress had been on the floor. There was always noise. The pipes shrieked through the walls when they weren’t leaking. The place always looked like a bomb had just exploded in it. When Jeff was writing a story, he’d get every photograph he could on the subject and randomly thumbtack them to the walls. There was no organization to the process. The mess, he said, inspired him. It looked, Kat countered, like when the cops on TV break into the killer’s hidden room and find pictures of the victims everywhere.
But it felt so right with him. Everything—from the smallest, most mundane activity to the crescendo, if you will, of making love—felt true and perfect with him. She missed that wonderful craphole. She missed the mess and the photographs on the wall.
God, how she had loved him.
They got off on 66th Street near Lincoln Center. There was a chill in the night air. Brandon still seemed lost in his thoughts. She let him stay there. When they got back to Kat’s apartment—she really didn’t think it would be good for him to be on his own right now—she asked, “Are you hungry?”
Brandon shrugged. “Guess so.”
“I’ll order a pizza,” Kat said. “Pepperoni okay?”
Brandon nodded. He collapsed into a chair and stared at window. Kat called La Traviata Pizzeria and placed the order. She took the chair across from him.
“You’re awfully quiet, Brandon.”
“I was just thinking,” he said.
“About?”
“My dad’s funeral.”
Kat waited. When he didn’t say anything more, Kat prodded gently. “What about it?”
“I was thinking about Uncle Marty’s—that’s what I call Mr. Bork—I was thinking about his eulogy. Not so much what he said, though it was really nice, but what I remember most was when it was over, he kinda rushed out of the chapel or whatever you call it. So he finished and he hurried out. I followed him. I don’t know. I was still blocking on the whole thing. It was like I was just at some service and I was removed and it had nothing to do with me. Does that make any sense?”
