into my eyes and it felt, in those moments, like he could see into every cell of me, into everything thought, hidden or not. He had me in those moments. He owned me.
I want you to fall in love with me.
We went into the kitchen, which bore taupe-and-white granite that gleamed, and brand-new appliances. I sat on the kitchen counter. “What do you think?” I asked Theo.
He walked over to me, nudged my legs apart and placed himself between them, his face close to mine. “I think this is it, gorgeous.”
We stared at each other.
Even though I’d been muttering “love you” to him when he couldn’t hear, I was only rehearsing the words. There was hesitation about getting the sentiment returned, and there was also the fact that I wasn’t sure it was a correct statement. I wasn’t sure I recalled what it felt like to fall in love, to be certain.
But at that moment, I remembered.
“I think it is, too,” I said.
Even though I didn’t say anything more, I was sure then of our place in the world. I thought that life could only keep moving one way—upward, and in the direction of good.
4
His office behind the restaurant was much nicer than the restaurant itself. Back here, in his managerial quarters, he had brocade couches and tufted leather chairs. The desk was from the 1800s and it was built to last. Just like him. That’s what his father had always told him, and unlike his younger brother, Vincente, he’d always believed their padre. Still, it pleased him to look around, to see what he’d created, what he was entitled to.
José Ramon sat at the desk now and took in his office. With its carved pocket doors, collection of Mexican art (including one Diego Rivera), and high-tech audio and visual equipment, the luxurious room was second only to his private residences. He hoarded such places, because if one showed too much luxury, he’d learned, people started asking questions. His competition, for example. The government, certainly. The only people to whom he could show the luxury he required, and had acquired, were the few women he took home. He liked best those women who could handle it—who could step into that luxury and not be impressed by it. Or at least not show it—but who could appreciate it. That was the type of women he wanted. They were hard to find.
But he wouldn’t worry about that now. Now, he was worried about the thing that would eventually get him those women. Money.
It fucking killed him that the wealth his family had amassed had been “invested” into a legitimate business—that’s what it looked like anyway, a legitimate business—and now, what the fuck was happening? Where the fuck was the return on that money? And if there was no return—the way he’d been promised—where the fuck was all the money that was supposed to be in that goddamned business?
José slammed his hand on the table and squeezed his eyes shut. But it didn’t help. He could still envision Vincente as a little boy who had always wanted to be like his brother. Except that “Vince,” as he called himself now, was smarter. That’s why he had eventually gotten his MBA after his father sent the boys to the U.S. from Mexico. And that was supposed to be why they could trust Vincente to find legitimate investments when they needed them. But Vincente had fucked it up. That was becoming clear.
He slammed his hand again, right as the door opened. “I told you never to just walk in,” he barked at the new restaurant general manager.
The man didn’t respond. Instead, he left, closed the door, knocked and then reentered.
“What?” José said in a demanding bark.
“The eggs that were delivered are spoiled. We’ll need more to get through the week,” the manager said with urgency.
He glared. This restaurant was not his identity. It was a front, like so many others the family had. He crooked his finger at the man, who came closer. Then he did it once more, slowly bending and extending and bending his finger in a methodical way. When the manager was close to the desk, he spoke in a low tone, threateningly. “If you can’t handle these issues, someone else will,” he said simply. “Do you get that?”
The manager had the audacity to return the glare before he backed out of the room.
As the door closed, he slammed his hand flat on the desk once more. It disgusted him that he continued to have such discussions with his underlings. But a “discussion” was not required with the people running that business, a business that was running off with his family’s money. No, something much, much more than discussion was necessary.
5
“Ms. Granger? Mr. Reynolds will see you now.”
I slid carefully out of my seat and smoothed the front of my pencil skirt. I undid one more button of my shirt to allow ample cleavage to show and made sure the tiny camera in my necklace was still pointing forward. After one last check in the mirror, I strutted my stuff across the bank lobby.
All right, Izzy, I thought to myself. Let’s do this.
Mayburn did a lot of work for banks. Sometimes the cases he worked were huge and complex—big-scale bank fraud and money laundering and such—requiring me to do something dangerous like invade someone’s home computer to download information. (Naturally, Mayburn always undersold such jobs, letting me figure out for myself—usually right when I was about to get caught—how much bigger and potentially threatening the situation was than I’d thought.)
Tatum Reynolds’s office was about as typical as they came. One Plexiglas wall looked onto the bank. The rest of the walls were gray, the carpet blue, the desk and bookshelves black metal. Mayburn had told me the bank hired him to prove Reynolds was hoarding enrollment incentives that were supposed to be given to all new clients. When a number of his clients complained they never saw the money they were promised, the bank suspected that Tatum was depositing the money into his own bank account. However, the transactions couldn’t be proven, and after watching him, Mayburn and the bank came to believe that he might be taking the money and then giving large sums to “special” clients. All the “special” clients were pretty women with almost no money to deposit into their new account. That’s where I came in. I was supposed to open an account with fifty bucks. If he failed to give me the hundred-dollar incentive, we had him. If he tried to offer me more, we had him. For once, Mayburn might have been right. This was going to be easy.
“Ms. Granger, welcome to Chicagoland Bank and Trust,” Reynolds said. “I understand you want to open an account?”
He was thin and pale and much younger than I anticipated. His voice had a squeak to it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this guy was a teenager, not a late-twenties, thieving bank manager. He had a bowl cut, for goodness’ sake.
“Yeah, I want a checking account. One of those online ones,” I answered, affecting a nasally voice. Was the fake voice a part of the undercover assignment? No. But I couldn’t help myself.
“We can certainly help you with that.” He gave me a crooked smile.
For the next twenty minutes, I listened to Reynolds give me options on checking accounts, savings accounts, credit cards and investments, but no mention of the cash incentive. I did my best to play my part and noted with pleasure that he glanced down my blouse, where the necklace hung, quite a few times.
