Jeffery Deaver - Manhattan Is My Beat

"Sir, I can't. It's against policy."

"Hell with your policy. A man's life is at stake."

"You have the account number?" she asked Emily.

"No."

"Well, how about the branch?"

"I've got that."

"That should be all we need."

"I don't think they'll give you any information."

"You'd be surprised. I can be extremely persuasive."

Rune wiped her eyes-thinking how Stephanie, the only real actress she knew-would do it.

"I'm sorry. But it's really, really important."

The young man was a vice president of the bank but he looked young enough to be a clerk at a McDonald's, what with that wimp mustache and baby-smooth cheeks.

It was the next morning, nine-thirty, and the branch had just opened. The lobby surrounding them was deserted.

The vice president seemed uncomfortable with this young woman sitting in front of his desk, crying. He scanned his desktop helplessly then looked back at Rune. "He's not getting his bank statements? Any of them?"

"None. He's very upset. Grandfather's such a tense man. I'm sure that was the reason for the stroke. He's very… what's the word? You know."

"Fastidious?" the young man offered. "Meticulous?"

"That's it. And when he realized he's not getting the statements, Jesus, he really had a fit."

"What's his account number?"

Rune was digging in her purse. One minute. Two. She heard Muzak pumping through the glossy white marble lobby. She stared into the pit of her purse. "I can't seem to find it. Anyway, we probably couldn't read it. He tried to write it down for me but he can't control his right hand too well and that frustrates him, and I didn't want to upset him unnecessarily."

"I can't do anything without his account-"

"His face was all red and his eyes were bulging. I thought he was going to burst a-"

"What's his name?" the man asked quickly. The mustache got an anemic swipe and he leaned toward his computer.

"Vic Symington. Well, Victor."

He typed. The young man frowned. He typed some more, his fingers flying across the keys. He read, frowned again. "I don't understand. You mean that your grandfather wants another copy of his final statement?"

"Final statement? He's moved, see, and the statement hasn't come to his new address. What do you have listed as the new address?"

"We've got a problem, miss." The hamburger-slinging vice president looked up.

Rune felt herself start to sweat, her stomach churning. She'd blown it now. He was probably pushing one of those secret buttons that alerts the guards. Shit. She asked, "Problem?"

"Someone closed out your grandfather's account two days ago. If he thinks he's still got money in this bank, something's wrong."

"How could he have gotten here to close his account? The poor man can't even eat by himself."

"He didn't do it in person. It says TOA' next to the withdrawal. He issued a power of attorney and the attor-ney-in-fact closed the account."

"Mother! She didn't!" Rune's hands went to her face. "She's always said that she'd rob Grandfather blind. How could she've done it?" Rune was sobbing again, dry tears pouring into her hands. "Tell me! You have to! Was it Mother? I have to know."

"I'm sorry, miss, it's against our policy to give out information on customers witout written permission."

Oh, this sounded familiar. Remembering the movie.

She leaned forward. "To hell with your policy. A man's life is at stake."

"His life?" the vice president asked placidly, sitting back. "Why?"

"Well, because…" (In the De Niro or Keitel or Connery movie the bank officer had just caved.)

"Because why?" the man asked. He wasn't really suspicious. He was just curious.

"The stroke. If Mother stole his money… It could be the end for him. Another stroke, a heart attack. I'm really worried about him."

The young man sighed. Another mustache swipe. Another sigh. He looked at the computer screen. "The check was drawn to Ralph Stein, Esquire. He's a lawyer…"

"Oh, thank God," Rune exclaimed. "That's Grandfather's lawyer. S-t-i-n-e, right?"

"E-i-n."

"Oh, sure. We call him Uncle Ralph. He's a sweetheart." Rune stood up. "Here in Manhattan, right?"

"Citicorp Building."

"That's the one."

The vice president, tapping computer keys like a travel agent, said, "But does your grandfather think he still has an account here?"

Rune walked toward the exit. "The poor man, he's really like a child, you know?"

The man placed his fingers together. They were pudgy fingers and Rune imagined that he would leave good fat fingerprints on whatever he touched, just like a clumsy felon. His nails were dirty too.

The office where they sat was large, yellow-painted, filled with boxes and dusty legal books. A dead plant sat in the greasy window. Diplomas from schools she'd never heard of hung on one wall, next to a clock.

It was two in the afternoon-it had taken her this long to track down Attorney Stein. She had to be at work at four but there was still plenty of time. Don't panic, she told herself.

The lawyer looked at her with a cool gaze. Neutral was the word that came to mind. He seemed to be the sort of man who wanted to find some weakness about you and notice it and let you know he noticed it even though he'd never mention it.

He wore a suit that fit very closely, and mono-grammed cuffs that protruded. The sausages of fingers pressed together.

"How do you know Victor?" His voice was soft and neutral and that surprised her because she expected lawyers would ask questions with gruff voices, sneery and mean.

Rune swallowed and realized suddenly she couldn't be Symington's granddaughter. Stein might have done the man's will; he'd know all the relatives by heart. Then she remembered who his daughter, Emily, thought she was at first. She smiled and said, "I'm a friend." Putting special emphasis on the word.

He nodded. Neutrally. "From where?"

"We used to live near each other. The East Village. I'd come and visit him sometimes."

"Ah. And how did you know about me?"

"He mentioned you. He said good things about you."

"So, you'd visit him." The lawyer looked her up and down with a whisper of lechery on his face.

"Once a week. Sometimes twice. For an old guy he was pretty… well, energetic. So can you tell me where he is?" Rune asked.

"No."

She swallowed again and was mad that this man was making her swallow and be nervous. Sometimes it was so hard to be adult. She cleared her throat and sat forward. "Why not?"

The lawyer shrugged. "Client confidentiality. Why do you want to see him?"

"He left in such a hurry. I wanted to talk to him is all and I didn't get a chance to. One day he was on Tenth Street and the next he was gone."

"How old are you?"

"Isn't that some kind of crime to ask how old someone is?"

"I'm not discriminating against you on the basis of your age. I just want to know how old you are."

Rune said, "Twenty. How old are you?"

"I assume you don't really want to talk to him. Do you? I assume your relationship or whatever you want to call it wasn't based on talking. Now-"

"Five hundred," she blurted out. "He owed me five hundred."

"For one night?" Stein looked her up and down again.

"For one hour," Rune said.

"One hour," he responded.

"I'm very good."

"Not that good," the lawyer said. "One client of mine paid four thousand for two hours."

Four thousand? What'd that involve? She thought of several best-selling tapes at Washington Square Video: Mistress Q and House of Pain.

Sick world out there.

The lawyer's neutral voice asked, "And if I were to give you that five hundred dollars, would you forget about Mr. Symington? Would you forget that he left in a hurry? Would you forget everything about him?"