Thomas Perry - Blood Money

In late afternoon, he plugged his laptop computer into one of the printers and began to print out the stored information he had received from all over the country while he was in the hotels in Beverly Hills and Santa Fe. An hour later he was ready. He said, “Bring in the others.”

When Jane brought Bernie and Rita into the dining room, Bernie looked at Ziegler with distaste. “Computers. I hate computers.”

Ziegler was imperturbable. “That’s okay, Bernie. They’re for these two.” He handed Rita a long list of addresses. “You start out by typing in this list of names and addresses so they fit the grid on your screen. When you’re done, call me and I’ll show you how to print it out on labels.” He grasped Jane’s arm and led her to the other computer. “You start by writing a dozen form letters. You know what we’re after. You address it to the blank charity, blank street, blank city. The blank foundation is giving them blank dollars to continue their fine work. Or Mr. blank is. His check is enclosed. Or Mr. blank died, and left it to the charity. Keep all of them vague and simple, so we can fill in names and use each one fifty times.” Finally, he turned to Bernie. “You and I will get started on writing down where all this money is.”

Bernie smirked. “She’s ahead of you. She’s had me working on it for a few days.” He walked to the sideboard near the head of the dining table and took out a spiral notebook. He handed it to Ziegler. “That’s a start.”

Jane stood at Ziegler’s elbow and watched him leaf through the pages. They were all covered with handwritten names, account numbers, names of banks and brokers, even the dates when Bernie had made the investments. Jane saw that the first fifteen pages were all in the 1940s. Ziegler said quietly, “I don’t think I ever really believed this. I had heard about it, but it didn’t seem possible.” When he reached the end, he went back to the beginning and started through the notebook again. He said, “How much more to go?”

Bernie answered, “I can’t say. That’s the Langusto family.”

“That’s how you remembered it—by family?”

“Of course it is,” said Bernie. “You think I could put it all together in a jumble up here and have them tell me how much of it was theirs? They were thieves, for Christ’s sake.”

Ziegler finished his second perusal, set the book on the table, and tapped some keys on his laptop computer, then glanced up at Jane. “Over two billion,” he said.

She understood. It was far more than she had expected, more than Bernie had estimated. “I guess we should get started,” she said. She sat at the computer and began to type.

“I’m working on the Augustinos now,” Bernie announced.

“That’s great, Bernie,” said Jane. “It’s a terrific start. Let us know when you have it.” She struggled against a growing sense of futility. Across the table from her, Rita began with childlike concentration, slowly clicking away at the keys, muttering “Shit” every few seconds, then going back and correcting a single character. After ten minutes of it, Jane walked around the table and looked over Rita’s shoulder.

She said gently, “Don’t worry about mistakes. Make them and fix them as well as you can. No matter how bad we are at this, we’re not going to get fired and replaced.”

Rita stared at her mournfully, then returned to her work. After an hour, Jane noticed that the clicking of her keyboard sounded more even, and the expletives became rarer. Jane, Ziegler, and Rita worked at the computers for the next five hours, while Bernie sat in a chair in the living room writing in his next notebook. Now and then, one of them would stand up to walk around, or just stretch and sit down again. The talk was only occasional, low, and addressed to one person. At nine, Jane announced, “We’re going to need dinner. I’ll see about making something.”

Ziegler said, “No. Just write down what you like to eat. I’ll call in an order at the restaurant in the hotel and have them deliver it to my suite. We all need a break, and I can send some faxes from there. It’s safer.”

Jane said, “I’m not taking these two into a hotel. It’s too dangerous for them.”

Ziegler took in a breath to argue, but Bernie said, “Listen to her, kid. You’re a specialist. I’m a specialist. So is she.”

“She’s also our best typist,” said Ziegler. “I’ll go order the food and send my messages while they’re getting it ready. You can all keep at it until I come back.” He typed a command and the printer beside him began to slowly extrude printed sheets as he walked toward the door.

Ziegler returned an hour and a half later carrying a pair of shopping bags filled with boxes, and unpacked them in the kitchen. “I didn’t know who liked what, so I bought a bit of everything: steak, lobster, fish, chicken, pasta, red and white wine.”

Rita came out to look at the containers as Ziegler unpacked them. She seemed uncomfortable. “I used to see food like this at the hotel,” she said to nobody in particular.

Jane touched her arm. “Enjoy it. But if you’re not used to things like lobster drowned in butter, you might want to go easy on it the first time.”

Bernie said, “She means don’t eat anything bigger than your head.”

Jane picked up a plate and moved to the kitchen table with the others, then sat next to Henry Ziegler. “How are we doing?”

“Do you have that last batch of names I gave you filled in on the form letters?”

“They’re printed, stuffed in envelopes, and stamped,” she said.

“Then we should have a billion dollars ready to mail by this time tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Bernie.

“What?”

“Checks,” said Bernie. “We don’t have checks.”

Ziegler smiled. “I’ll have some ready by the time you go to bed, and the rest in the morning. I have a format in my computer for checks. I type in the account numbers and addresses and names, and they come off the printer. A lot of companies do it. If you use the right paper, it looks as good as any other check, and we have the right paper. I’m afraid you’ll have to sign them, though. They’ll compare your signature with the samples you signed when you put the money in.”

“If I don’t get writer’s cramp from putting all this crap on paper.”

“If you want to dictate it, we’ll take it down for you,” said Jane.

“I’ll let you know if I have a problem,” said Bernie. “I finished the Augustinos a while ago. I started on the Molinaris, the sons of bitches.”

Jane rinsed her plate in the sink, withdrew into the dining room, and went back to work alone. After a time the others, one by one, returned to their places, but Jane sank deeper into her own thoughts.

She remembered a day a couple of years in the past. She had managed to get Mary Perkins out of the farmhouse where she had been held, and she was running with her. She had needed to get the injured woman indoors and out of sight for a few days while she regained enough of her strength to move on. Jane had stopped in Oklahoma on the single patch of old reservation that remained and knocked on the door of the trailer where Martha McCutcheon lived. Martha was a clan mother, and Jane had met her once.

It had been impossible to hide the fact that Mary Perkins had been tortured—repeatedly beaten, raped, and starved—so Martha had taken Jane outside into the bare, flat fields behind the trailer and demanded to be told everything. Because Jane had known that those sharp old eyes had seen a lot in seventy-five years and had been horrified but not frightened, she had told the truth. Martha had said, “What’s a Nundawaono girl got to do with that kind of business?”