ColdScheme by Edita Petrick Page A

hate to see you doing the singles
bar scene—at your age.”
    “How do you know what a singles bar scene is like?”
    “I tried it when I was twenty-five. It didn’t thrill me.”
    “I’ve thought of marriage,” he grumbled.
    “So did Brenda, often, by the sound of it.”
    “She’s never brought up the subject.”
    “Did you?”
    “I thought about it.”
    “Say it out loud, Kenny. She can’t read your mind.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with our relationship,” he answered
shakily.
    “Then why would marriage spoil it?” I asked.
    He was still mulling it over, when I spooled out of the
parking lot.
    * * * * *
    Jazz must have seen the unhealthy shine in my eyes when I
dared to open them wider. She ate her breakfast in silence. Mrs. Tavalho came
early and wouldn’t let me pay her extra.
    “You should have called me last night,” she said, cleaning
the kitchen counter. “I would have come.”
    “My neighbor looked in on Jazz. I can’t trouble you in the
middle of the night, every time I have an emergency at work,” I sighed.
    “You came home at five and you’re off again?” She clucked
her tongue.
    “That’s the nature of my work.” I smiled tiredly. “There are
long periods when not much happens but when something does…”
    “When something does, you pick up the phone and call me,”
she said sternly.
    “Was somebody shot?” Jazz asked, not lifting her head.
    “Finish your breakfast and then go brush your teeth,” I
said, ignoring the question. I never talked about my work at home. “Here’s five
dollars.” I put it beside her plate. “That’s for a snack. Do your homework.
I’ll phone to let you know when I’m coming home.”
    “We have to draw a family tree for our social studies,” she
said in a subdued voice.
    “Draw a branch, or two—for you and me.”
    “Everyone has a family tree. The teacher won’t believe me if
I draw a branch.”
    “Have her call me.”
    “Why can’t I have a family tree like all the other kids?”
she asked tearfully.
    “You’re resourceful. Make one up. Whatever you put on it,
I’ll back you up with your teacher.”
    “I want a real one, not a fake one,” she whispered.
    I thought about the opulent penthouse and the tall, thin man
in a blue sweater and taupe slacks. “There isn’t one. There never was.”
    I went to get my car keys. Half an hour later, I picked up
Ken.
    We went to the Langtry Office building. We had an
appointment with Ms. Sedgwick at the IMF. I’d called to confirm it and used the
opportunity to tell her that we wanted information on an ex-employee, Jonathan
Brick. It’d been four years since Brick had worked at IMF so I figured it would
take the clerical staff some time to dig it out of the archives.
    “I’ve only been here two years,” Ms Sedgwick told us,
opening a file. “I may not be able to answer all your questions but I’ve pulled
whatever information we have on Mr. Brick from the personnel files.”
    “Do you know what projects he worked on?” I asked.
    She smiled and shook her head. “I’m an administrator. I
won’t be able to give you technical details, only what’s in his file. After you
called, I reviewed the information so I’d be able to give you a comprehensive
summary. His performance review was excellent. He was a programmer and a
mathematician, not just an economist. He was developing a mathematical model.
It was based on the recommendation of the Financial Action Task Force that was
set up a few years ago, during a G7 Finance Ministers’ meeting in Okinawa. They
review rules and practices of several countries and territories, concerning
criteria, standards and cooperation in a fight against money laundering. They
issue advisories to domestic financial institutions. These are based on the
data provided by Financial Intelligence Units. The model was complex. It would
have been available to all the domestic banking institutions. It also would
have helped them track even the slightest