The naked edge

11

Daylight. The Illinois train stations went by. Champaign-Urbana. Kankakee. Homewood. That name filled him with bitterness. Next stop: Chicago.

He used his cell phone.

A woman's pleasant voice said, "Grand Cayman bank."

"I need to wire-transfer nine thousand dollars to my bank account in Chicago." That account, under an assumed identity, had been carefully established two years earlier. The nine thousand dollars was less than the ten-thousand-dollar transaction amount that banks were required to report to the federal government.

"Certainly, sir. May I have your account number and your password?"

Carl recited the number from memory. "The password is 'stiletto.'"

"Thank you, sir." A moment lengthened. "Sir, would you please repeat that account number?"

"Is there a problem?"

"I may have mistyped it."

Carl repeated it.

"Sir, our records fail to show any funds in that account."

"But there should be a million dollars!"

"No, sir, I'm afraid there aren't any funds."

"Try that number again." Carl recited it slowly.

"Yes, sir, that's the number I'm accessing, but the account does not have a balance."

The undigested sandwiches from the night before soured Carl's stomach. "Was there ever any money in it?"

"Yes, sir. As you mentioned, a million dollars. Yesterday afternoon, it was wire transferred to another bank."

Carl swallowed something bitter. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."