sixty seconds, cost very little to make because Teddy already had the footage, and would start running during prime time in forty-eight hours.
“I don’t know, Teddy,” York said. “It’s gruesome.”
“It’s a gruesome world.”
Teddy liked the ad and that’s all that mattered. Lake had objected to the blood, but came around quickly. His name recognition was up to 30 percent, but his ads were still disliked.
Just wait, Teddy kept telling himself. Wait until there are more bodies.
EIGHT
T revor was sipping a carry-out double latte from Beach Java and debating whether to add a generous shot or two of Amaretto to help soothe away the morning’s cobwebs when the call came. His cramped suite had no intercom system; one was not needed. Jan could simply yell any message down the hall, and he could yell back if he wanted. For eight years he and this particular secretary had been barking at each other.
“It’s some bank in the Bahamas!” she announced. He almost spilled the coffee as he lunged for the phone.
It was a Brit whose accent had been softened by the islands. A substantial wire had been received, from a bank in Iowa.
How substantial, he wanted to know, covering his mouth so Jan couldn’t hear.
A hundred thousand dollars.
Trevor hung up and added the Amaretto, three shots of it, and sipped the delightful brew while smiling goofily at the wall. In his career he’d never come closeto a fee of $33,000. He’d settled a car wreck once for $25,000, taken a fee of $7,500, and within two months had spent all of it.
Jan knew nothing about the offshore account and the scam that diverted money to it, so he was forced to wait an hour, make a bunch of useless phone calls, and try to look busy before announcing he had to take care of some crucial business in downtown Jacksonville, then he was needed at Trumble. She didn’t care. He disappeared all the time and she had some reading to keep her occupied.
He raced to the airport, almost missed his shuttle, and drank two beers during the thirty-minute flight to Fort Lauderdale, then two more on the way to Nassau. On the ground, he fell into the back of a cab, a 1974 Cadillac painted gold, without air-conditioning and with a driver who’d also been drinking. The air was hot and wet, the traffic slow, and Trevor’s shirt was sticking to his back by the time they stopped downtown near the Geneva Trust Bank Building.
Inside, Mr. Brayshears came forward eventually and led Trevor to his small office. He presented a sheet of paper which gave the bare details: a $100,000 wire originating from the First Iowa Bank in Des Moines, remitter being a faceless entity named CMT Investments. The payee was another generic entity named Boomer Realty, Ltd. Boomer was the name of Joe Roy Spicer’s favorite bird dog.
Trevor signed the forms to transfer $25,000 to his own, separate account with Geneva Trust, money he kept hidden from his secretary and from the IRS. The remaining $8,000 was handed to him in a thickenvelope, cash. He stuffed it deep into his khaki pants pocket, shook Brayshears’ soft little hand, and raced out of the building. He was tempted to stay a couple of days, find a room on the beach, get a chair by the pool, and drink rum until they stopped bringing it to him. The temptation grew to the point that he almost bolted from the gate at the airport and raced to get another cab. But he reached deep, determined not to squander his money this time.
Two hours later he was in the Jacksonville airport, drinking strong coffee, without liquor, and making his plans. He drove to Trumble, arriving at four-thirty, and he waited for Spicer for almost half an hour.
“A pleasant surprise,” Spicer said dryly as he stepped into the attorney-conference room. Trevor had no briefcase to inspect, so the guard patted his pockets and stepped outside. His cash was hidden under the floor mat of his Beetle.
“We received a hundred thousand dollars from Iowa,” Trevor said, glancing
“I don’t know, Teddy,” York said. “It’s gruesome.”
“It’s a gruesome world.”
Teddy liked the ad and that’s all that mattered. Lake had objected to the blood, but came around quickly. His name recognition was up to 30 percent, but his ads were still disliked.
Just wait, Teddy kept telling himself. Wait until there are more bodies.
EIGHT
T revor was sipping a carry-out double latte from Beach Java and debating whether to add a generous shot or two of Amaretto to help soothe away the morning’s cobwebs when the call came. His cramped suite had no intercom system; one was not needed. Jan could simply yell any message down the hall, and he could yell back if he wanted. For eight years he and this particular secretary had been barking at each other.
“It’s some bank in the Bahamas!” she announced. He almost spilled the coffee as he lunged for the phone.
It was a Brit whose accent had been softened by the islands. A substantial wire had been received, from a bank in Iowa.
How substantial, he wanted to know, covering his mouth so Jan couldn’t hear.
A hundred thousand dollars.
Trevor hung up and added the Amaretto, three shots of it, and sipped the delightful brew while smiling goofily at the wall. In his career he’d never come closeto a fee of $33,000. He’d settled a car wreck once for $25,000, taken a fee of $7,500, and within two months had spent all of it.
Jan knew nothing about the offshore account and the scam that diverted money to it, so he was forced to wait an hour, make a bunch of useless phone calls, and try to look busy before announcing he had to take care of some crucial business in downtown Jacksonville, then he was needed at Trumble. She didn’t care. He disappeared all the time and she had some reading to keep her occupied.
He raced to the airport, almost missed his shuttle, and drank two beers during the thirty-minute flight to Fort Lauderdale, then two more on the way to Nassau. On the ground, he fell into the back of a cab, a 1974 Cadillac painted gold, without air-conditioning and with a driver who’d also been drinking. The air was hot and wet, the traffic slow, and Trevor’s shirt was sticking to his back by the time they stopped downtown near the Geneva Trust Bank Building.
Inside, Mr. Brayshears came forward eventually and led Trevor to his small office. He presented a sheet of paper which gave the bare details: a $100,000 wire originating from the First Iowa Bank in Des Moines, remitter being a faceless entity named CMT Investments. The payee was another generic entity named Boomer Realty, Ltd. Boomer was the name of Joe Roy Spicer’s favorite bird dog.
Trevor signed the forms to transfer $25,000 to his own, separate account with Geneva Trust, money he kept hidden from his secretary and from the IRS. The remaining $8,000 was handed to him in a thickenvelope, cash. He stuffed it deep into his khaki pants pocket, shook Brayshears’ soft little hand, and raced out of the building. He was tempted to stay a couple of days, find a room on the beach, get a chair by the pool, and drink rum until they stopped bringing it to him. The temptation grew to the point that he almost bolted from the gate at the airport and raced to get another cab. But he reached deep, determined not to squander his money this time.
Two hours later he was in the Jacksonville airport, drinking strong coffee, without liquor, and making his plans. He drove to Trumble, arriving at four-thirty, and he waited for Spicer for almost half an hour.
“A pleasant surprise,” Spicer said dryly as he stepped into the attorney-conference room. Trevor had no briefcase to inspect, so the guard patted his pockets and stepped outside. His cash was hidden under the floor mat of his Beetle.
“We received a hundred thousand dollars from Iowa,” Trevor said, glancing
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