The Deposit Slip

31





Marcus lifted his office phone off of the cradle, cutting off the speaker system.

“So where is she?”

“Athens.”

“Where . . . in . . . Athens?” Marcus asked softly, trying to master himself.

He heard the concern in Mick’s voice as he responded quickly, “They don’t know. Probably a youth hostel. Neaton left on a plane yesterday afternoon.”

Mick could clearly sense Marcus’s anger, and his voice faltered. “I can let you know as soon as Neaton calls his assistant,” he went on. “Or I can go to Athens if you want.”

“And do what? Follow him around the city?”

Was it too late? For the first time since this all started, Marcus felt a cold fist of real alarm grip his bowels. Calm, he reproached himself, regretting his outburst toward Mick. Fear was a sign of weakness—and contagious.

“No, Mick. Keep close to your contact working up in Ashley. Keep me informed of what they’re doing. Especially, I need to know what they learn if they actually meet up with the Spangler girl.”

Mick grunted his acknowledgment.

“Oh, and Mick. I need the number again for your New York man, the one we talked about last winter. I’ve misplaced his contact information.”

“Marcus, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. . . .”

“Mick,” he snapped, “just give me the name.” He caught himself again and exhaled, then spoke more calmly. “And anything I need to share with him so he’ll be willing to talk to me.”

As Mick relayed the information, Marcus wrote it down on the yellow pad atop his desk and eased the phone back into the cradle.





“I don’t know you,” the voice on the phone said again.

It was late Tuesday morning when Marcus made the call to New York. With Neaton already in Greece, there was no time to waste.

“Yes,” Marcus answered, “but as I explained, we have mutual friends. That’s where I got the information I needed to contact you.”

“Yeah. You said that. But I still don’t know you.”

Marcus remained silent.

“Are you calling from a cell?” the contact asked.

“No, a landline. I used a prepaid calling card.”

“My clients know better than to call me. I do these things face-to-face.”

“There’s no time for a meeting. As you can tell, this is an emergency.”

Pause. “So what you’re saying is you just want to dissuade. Nothing more.”

“Yes.”

“Twenty-five thousand. Plus expenses. Make it thirty thousand.”

Marcus nearly dropped the phone. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. You say you want me to frighten this lady off. If it was that simple, you’d do it yourself. No. What you want is someone between you and this lady, who’ll take the risk of getting caught. And that’s the other thing, you see. I never get caught. I make sure of that. Do you understand me?”

“I heard. You never get caught.” Marcus felt a wave of doubt.

“Whatever I have to do, it’s not your call.”

“I understand,” Marcus answered without conviction.

“All right. Take this down.” Mick’s contact rattled off an account number, followed by some additional instructions. When Marcus said he had it, the contact went on. “Text and email the information I need for the job to this phone, and wire the money to the account I just gave you. Then you can throw both numbers away, because neither one’ll be working again. I’ll get ahold of you next time. Since this is a rush thing, I’ll start making arrangements—but I’d better have the information and the money by tonight, at the latest, or this lawyer will have your witness sewn up and I won’t be able to help you. If so, I keep the money.”

Marcus said he’d comply and hung up.

Well, that could’ve gone better.

He reached across the desk to the phone and unplugged his digital recorder—the device on which he had just recorded his telephone conversation with Mick’s man. Insurance was common sense, he thought, when dealing with someone like the man on the other end of his phone call.

There was a sound at the door. Surprised, Marcus looked up and saw that the door was open a crack. How long had it been that way?

“Come in.”

Franklin appeared. He held a legal digest in one hand, and his eyes looked worried. “What’s going on, Marcus?”

“What do you mean?”

“Marcus, I heard your phone call. What’s this about Spangler being in Greece? And who is this guy you were talking to? What are you planning to do?”

To keep denying would sound stupid. “Frank, you’ll have to trust me.”

The junior partner’s face stayed unresponsive. “What’s going on?”

Marcus silently debated his options. “I meant, Frank, you’ll have to trust me for a little while longer.”

“How long?”

Marcus suppressed his fury at the tone. “Tomorrow morning, Frank. We’ll talk tomorrow morning.”





It was late afternoon and the last half hour had been miserable. Marcus had contemplated not telling Sidney Grant about Neaton finding the Spangler girl. In the end, he decided that wasn’t a choice.

Marcus held the phone inches from his ear as Grant continued his tirade. He let the banker rant on for another ten minutes. As he began to slow, Marcus pushed on to the next difficult topic.

“Sidney, I want to bring Whittier into the loop.”

“You what?”

“Neaton probably won’t find Spangler in Athens. It’s a big city and Spangler’s likely to try to avoid contact. But things are getting too complicated to leave him out. Whittier’s too smart, and he’s going to figure this out.”

“No! No way! Our deal was that Whittier stayed out of it, Marcus. You promised me you could handle that.”

“Things have changed,” Marcus said softly, trying not to rile him further. “Now I need his full participation.” Marcus was glad Grant was not in the room to see his grip on the pen in his hand.

“It’s too dangerous. I don’t know Whittier. I don’t trust Whittier.”

Marcus couldn’t tell Grant the truth—that Whittier had overheard too much of his conversation with Mick’s New York man this morning to stay out of the loop now. “Things have gotten more complicated.”

“You’ve lost control of this, Marcus. You’re going to get us caught. You’ve screwed this thing up so badly, you’re—”

“Shut up, Sidney.” There was a moment of shocked silence. Marcus pressed on. “Now I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do, Sidney, and you’re going to listen. I’m going to bring Whittier into this thing. I’m going to tell him as much as I have to. And you’re going to shut up. You’re going to follow my instructions. We’re going to get through this, but you’re going to start to listen.”

“You can’t talk to me—”

“I can, Sidney, because I’m not your lawyer here. I stopped being your lawyer the day you brought me the check. Since that day, I’ve been your partner, Sidney—your partner. Now, as your partner, I’m going to do what’s best for both of us. I’m bringing Whittier into the loop.”

The silence throbbed in Marcus’s ear. “When?”

“Tonight.”

More silence. “It’s coming out of your share,” the banker said at last.

Marcus gently hung up the phone.





Franklin Whittier III sat across from him on one of the twin couches of the hotel room that Marcus had rented to complete some tasks away from the halls of Paisley. Marcus had already explained the information he needed Whittier to send to Mick’s man. While the junior partner opened his laptop to obey, Marcus made a call to an offshore banker to complete the wire transfer.

Ten minutes later, job done, Marcus appraised Whittier, still working over the laptop. The young attorney had taken their earlier discussion remarkably in stride. Whittier’s face had shown puzzlement when he arrived at the hotel room. Marcus had explained as much as necessary about the case—most of which had been kept from Whittier since the spring. He uncoiled the story slowly, carefully—prepared to back away quickly if the Paisley attorney demurred or showed hesitation about getting involved. He did neither.

“What are you offering me?” was all he said when Marcus finished.

Marcus handed him a printout with a number on it. “And support for full partnership next spring.”

“All right,” Whittier responded without a pause.

Marcus marveled at the young man. No hesitation, not a wrinkle of doubt. Amazing.

Whittier finished the email and packed his laptop. With just a nod to Marcus, he picked up his coat and left the room.

Marcus lingered a moment more. In the empty room, he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket—the one containing the phone listing for Mick’s man in New York. Running his finger over the number, Marcus recalled how close he’d come to calling this man last January, back when Sidney Grant was telephoning him every other night. “I’m doing my part,” the banker had whined, “but you’ve got to do more.” Grant even threatened to reveal the lawyer’s identity to Paul Larson and his role in hiding the funds.

Toward the end, even Marcus had grown impatient with the farmer. Each evening before heading home from the office, Marcus had found himself opening his locked desk drawer and examining the paper on which this man’s number had been recorded. Every night, he would finally slide the drawer shut, locking it again with a resolution of finality—only to open it again at the end of the following night.

He’d come so close to making that call.

The cycle only stopped the evening Sidney Grant called—hoarse with excitement—declaring, with a mix of curiosity and glee, “Larson had an accident.” Marcus had discarded the number the next day.

After Paul Larson’s death, Marcus had told Mick the truth—that he’d never called the New York contact. But he’d never responded to Grant’s repeated suggestions these past nine months that Marcus had killed the farmer. He left that possibility hanging ripe in the air—never acknowledging that Paul Larson’s death really must have been an accident: a wonderful, timely gift of fate. If Grant wanted to assume the event was the work of Marcus, so be it.

As he stood to head home, Marcus thought how relieved he was that he’d never crossed that line. Having the New York man deal with Paul Larson would have been an act birthed of panic. This situation was different. Neaton’s discovery of Spangler was disturbing and required action—but nothing so extreme as the overwrought banker’s idea of a solution. Mick’s man from New York would get the job done using more limited means. After all, everything in its right measure.