Larry Hanson merely nodded. Not afraid, but not moving either.
“There are two of us,” Otto urged. “I can call in security guards to help.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Burke.” Larry was almost smiling. “And I don’t think a few security guards are going to scare him very much. Are they, Myron?”
“Not likely.”
“I think we should sign his contract, Mr. Burke. I think it’s best for all.”
“I’ve even drawn up a press release,” Myron said. “Says how happy Christian is to be playing for such an outstanding and reputable organization as the Titans.”
Otto thought a moment. “If I sign,” he said, “you’ll hand over the tape?”
“Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“You keep the magazine and I keep the tape. Think of it as our own little balance of terror. A throwback to the cold war.”
“But you have my word—”
“Please, Otto, it hurts when I laugh.”
Otto thought a moment. He was shaken but calm. A guy his age doesn’t reach this level without learning to take a few knocks.
“Myron?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t tell you how thrilled the Titans are to have Christian Steele, the quarterback of the future, with us.”
“Just sign right here, Otto.”
“My pleasure, Myron.”
“No, Otto. Mine.”
Otto signed. Myron and Otto shook hands. The deal was done.
“Shall we meet the press jointly, Myron?”
“Sounds wondrous, Otto.”
“There’s a shower downstairs. I’ll make sure you’re provided with shaving equipment, if you like.”
“Very kind of you.”
Otto’s smile was back. The man was never down long. He picked up the phone. “Christian Steele has been signed,” Otto said. Then, looking back and winking at Myron, he added, “At the highest salary ever given to a rookie.”
Myron winked back and gave him the thumbs up. Lifelong chums. He checked his watch. There would be just enough time to shower and do the press conference before he would have to head back into the city for his meeting with Herman Ache.
He had no idea how he was going to handle the evil Ache brothers. But he was still working on it. Feverishly.
Chapter 29
Jessica arrived at the house in Ridgewood at ten o’clock. The doctor had wanted to run some more tests in the morning. Jessica refused. They finally reached a compromise whereby Jessica promised to visit him in his office sometime during the week. Edward had driven her home in silence.
When they arrived, Jessica noted that her mother’s car was not in the driveway. Good. Not in much of a mood to handle a hysterical mother on top of everything else, Jessica had insisted that no one tell her mother about last night’s incident. Mom had enough on her mind. No reason to get her unnecessarily upset.
Jessica headed straight for the study. Her father had been up to something, that much was clear. There were too many weird happenings for it to have been any other way. He had visited Nancy Serat on the morning of his death. He had skipped out on a medical examiners’ convention in Denver because he hadn’t felt well—something he would never do. He had possibly even purchased nude photographs of Kathy.
You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to realize something was amiss.
She flicked on the track lights, illuminating the room a bit too harshly for her taste. She used the dimmer. Downstairs, Edward was in the kitchen opening the refrigerator.
She began to rifle through her father’s drawers. She had no idea what she was looking for. Perhaps a small box with the words BIG CLUE scrawled across the top. That would be nice. She tried not to think about Nancy Serat, about her blue face frozen in terror, but the thought stayed anchored front and center. She thought of more pleasant things, like waking to see Myron folded up in that hospital chair like a contortionist from Le Cirque du Soleil. The image made her smile.
In the file drawer she found a folder marked CMA. Her father’s Merrill Lynch Cash Management Account. She pulled it out. The CMA statement is a financial instrument of great beauty. Everything in one statement—your stocks, bonds, other holdings, checks, Visa card transactions. Jessica had one of her own.
She checked the charges and checks cleared on the most recent statement. Nothing unusual. Problem was, the statement ended three weeks ago. She needed something more recent.
She flipped to the last page. On the bottom in small print it read “You have an alphabetic character in your Merrill Lynch account number. Please use nine-eight-two-three-three-four as your account access number for CMA-DATA.”
CMA-DATA. The 800 line. She had used it before with her own account, whenever she found a discrepancy. She dialed the number and immediately heard a taped voice say, “Welcome to the Merrill Lynch Financial Service Center. Enter your Merrill Lynch account number or your account access number.”
Jessica entered the number.
“Enter your selection. You may interrupt the dialogue at any time. For your current balance and purchasing power, enter one. For check clearing information, enter two. For most recent funds received, enter three. For most recent Visa transactions, enter six.”
She decided to start with the charges and then look at the checks. She pressed six.
The voice said, “Visa draft for $28.50 is on delay debit as of May twenty-eighth. Visa draft for $14.75 is on delay debit as of May twenty-eighth.”
The machine was not telling her where the charges were coming from. The same would be true for the checks. Knowing just the amounts would do her no good.
“Visa draft for $3,478.44 is on delay debit as of May twenty-seventh.”
She froze. Three thousand dollars? For what? She hung up, hit the redial button, and put in the account access number.
“Enter your selection.”
This time she pressed zero for a customer service representative.
“Good morning,” a pleasant-voiced woman singsonged. “May I help you?”
“Yes, there’s a Visa charge on my account for over three thousand dollars. I’d like to know where the charge came from.”
“Your account number, please?”
“Nine-eight-two-three-three-four.”
There was some keyboard clacking in the background. “And you are?” the rep asked.
Jessica checked the statement. A joint account, thank God. “Carol Culver,” she said.
“Hold one moment, Mrs. Culver.”