of your weight over a period of nine to ten days.”
Sandra’s eyes widened.
“Since we don’t know what the minimum amount is, I like to go for the gusto.” The doctor spoke with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader. “As my son says, the whole enchilada!”
When he saw no one else shared his zeal, Dr. Kruger continued. “The great advantage of this procedure is that you will experience a faster recovery of your bone marrow compared to having undergone a traditional transplant.”
Sandra frowned. “What if you can’t collect enough stem cells?”
“Then we try again until we have enough of them. In the meantime, we freeze the ones we’ve collected. I’m not giving up, Mrs. Moran—and neither are you.”
It may have been the middle of November when Moran and Sandra walked out of Sloan-Kettering Memorial Hospital, but it felt like spring. The city was under a canvas of a cloudless blue sky and the temperature felt in the seventies; it matched their renewed hope and optimism.
Maybe Kruger was capable of hitting one over the centerfield wall.
The brass nameplate on the tooled mahogany desk identified the woman seated behind it as, “Linda Garcia, Manager.” She looked exactly like who she was supposed to be, the manager of the largest branch of the Banco de Mejico. She was attractive, mid-thirties, flawless white skin, strong chin, a small, straight nose, high cheekbones, and bright steady dark brown eyes. Her chestnut hair was closely cropped, and she was decked out in a tailored navy blue pantsuit that covered a fuchsia silk blouse.
Linda Garcia rose and greeted Hernandez. “Please sit down,” she said in a perfect English —the accent neutral. She gestured to the large stuffed chair in front of her orderly desk. Like the desk, the rest of the office was impeccably neat, decorated with colorful lithographs of Mexican landscapes.
Hernandez sat and watched while Garcia poured herself with liquid grace into a soft leather chair.
“I went over the Miramar account and made copies for you,” she said and pushed some Xeroxed documents to the edge of the desk.
Hernandez grasped the set of five pages of deposits, withdrawals, interest, and other miscellany. He pulled out the last page and studied it. “This only confirms what we already know, that ten million dollars was transferred from various accounts at Morrison Savings & Trust during the same period that Paul Myer worked there.” Hernandez looked down at the name and signature that appeared on the notarized authorization form in his hand. “Who’s Maria Luisa Torres?”
The bank manager shook her head. “No idea,” she said tersely.
“What about the address and phone number that appear here?”
There was another shake of the head. “When we tried to reach her at that address the mail was returned ‘addressee unknown,’ and when we called, the phone had been disconnected,” the bank manager deadpanned.
Hernandez gazed pensively at Garcia. “Didn’t that strike you odd?”
“Not really. People disappear all the time in Mexico City.”
Hernandez lowered his gaze to one of the pages. “I see that she purchased ten million dollars of Repsol Oil bearer bonds in one transaction only four months after the account was opened and then closed it. Suspicious don’t you think?”
Garcia leaned back in her chair. Holding a Montblanc ballpoint pen between the first two fingers of her right hand, she slowly tapped it against the leather blotter. “Unlike American banks, it is not the policy of this bank—or of our government—to interfere in the private dealings of our citizens,” she said in rapid-fire staccato. “Are you familiar with the word privacy, sergeant?”
Hernandez smiled. “Maybe if you spelled it slowly. Do you know the broker who handled the transaction?”
Garcia checked her watch and heaved an impatient sigh. “The bank offers brokerage services for its clients,” she said and let the pen drop from her hand. She sprang up from her chair and extended her hand to Hernandez.
The sergeant gazed up at her. “Does this mean our chat is over?”
“I have another appointment.”
Hernandez slowly pushed himself out of the chair and stood. “I’m disappointed. Thought that two Latinos could help each other.”
Garcia leaned into the desk. “Please, spare me. You’re as much of a Latino as I’m Irish. You may have a Hispanic name but you’re gringo through and through. I’ve told you all I know of the matter. There’s nothing else I can add.”
Hernandez swallowed hard, rolled up the documents in his hand and squeezed them. He then blew out a breath and stepped back. Hell, next thing she’ll scratch my eyes out, he thought.
“Thanks for your time,” Hernandez called over his shoulder as he walked to the door.
“You won’t find her,” Garcia said.
When Hernandez reached the door, he turned around and faced the bank manager. “How do you know?”
Linda Garcia gave Hernandez an icy stare. “Have a good day, sergeant.”
Moran listened patiently while Hernandez told him about his meeting with Linda Garcia. When Hernandez finished, Moran drew back his arms, placed his hands behind his head, and intertwined his fingers. “And then they say it doesn’t snow in Mexico City,” Moran said.
Hernandez twisted his mouth. “Played me for a chump,” the sergeant said and slapped the surface of the office’s conference table with the palm of his hand.
“Relax.” Moran said. “Happens to the best of us.”
“There were three women named Maria Luisa Torres in the Mexico City area phone listing, but the police told me that one had died two months ago, the other has been in prison for the last two years on a drug trafficking charge, and the last one was a patient at a local nuthouse.”
“I’ve had your Dragon Lady from the bank checked out and something’s not right,” Moran said.
The door to the office opened and a middle-aged stout man in a white lab coat marched in. The laminated photo ID that hung from his coat’s breast pocket said he was Roy Fielding, Chief of the NYPD Ballistics Unit.
As Fielding walked toward Moran and Hernandez, the thick crest of ruffled brown hair that capped his head bounced as if on springs, giving him the appearance of some sort of mad scientist. His right hand clutched two typed pages while his left hand gripped a half-eaten onion bagel.
“I completed the ballistics tests,” he said when he reached the table. “Sorry it took so long.” He took a large bite from the bagel, wiped his mouth with the hem of his lab coat and set the report down on the table. “It’s the same weapon that killed Lacy Wooden.”
