Found Money - James Grippando [57]
“Got it.” She was about to hang up, then caught herself. “Oh, one other thing.”
“What?”
“I do leave the lights on for your benefit,” she said, then hung up the phone.
27
Ryan returned to the Banco del Istmo on Tuesday morning. It was only half a block away from the Banco Nacional, where he’d found the records for the three million dollar account in the safe deposit box. Yesterday, he’d made the journey in a state of disbelief, almost in a stupor. Only today did he even notice the logo on the doors, the narrow isthmus of Panama, which explained the bank’s name—literally, the Bank of the Isthmus.
Ryan waited almost an hour in the lobby. He waited alone. Not a single customer came or went. The building was much older than the Banco Nacional, the decor less impressive. No artwork on the walls, no plants to dress up the hallways or offices. No air conditioning, either, at least not the modern kind. Through the open windows seeped traffic noise and exhaust fumes from the busy city streets. A wobbly old paddle fan rattled overhead, as if trying to shake itself free from the ceiling. Ryan got the distinct impression that very few customers did their business in person at the Banco del Istmo.
Ryan went through two cups of coffee while he waited. He could have spoken to several bank officers during that time period, but he wanted to meet with the same vice president he had spoken to yesterday. At 11:15, Humberto Hernandez finally emerged from his office.
“Dr. Duffy?” he said with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I just couldn’t get away from the telephone.”
Ryan rose and shook his hand. “I understand.”
“Please, come back to my office.”
Ryan followed him down the hall into his small cubicle. Hernandez wore a short-sleeved dress shirt with no jacket or tie, very practical in the heat. He had thick black hair that he combed straight back. It glistened with some kind of oil, as if he’d just jumped out of the shower. He stood almost a foot shorter than Ryan but was easily fifty pounds heavier. Tiny remnants of an early lunch of rice, beans, and sausage rested in the center of his cluttered desk.
“Please, have a seat,” he said as he sank into his Naugahyde desk chair.
“Thank you.” Ryan took the only available chair, on the other side of the desk.
“How can I help you today, Doctor?”
“I’d like to follow up on something we were talking about yesterday.”
“Yes, go on.”
“It has to do with the source of the three million dollars that was transferred into my father’s account.”
“I am very sorry, sir. I already explained. That is something I cannot help you with.”
“If I may, I’d like to explain my situation. I think it might make a difference.”
He seemed unmoved. “Go on, please.”
“I’m the executor of my father’s estate. It’s my job to distribute the assets of the estate in accordance with my father’s wishes. I cannot in good faith distribute those assets if I don’t know where they came from.”
“Why not?”
“Because my father was not the kind of man to have three million dollars in a numbered account in the Banco del Istmo.”
“Sir, we run a legitimate bank here. I do not appreciate your suggestion to the contrary.”
“I didn’t mean to insult. I just meant that my father wasn’t the kind of man to have three million dollars in any bank.”
“Perhaps you don’t know what kind of man your father was.”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you know my father?”
“No. Did you?”
Ryan narrowed his eyes. “I need to know where this money came from. Period.”
Hernandez leaned forward, his hands atop the desk. He was polite but firm. “As I explained yesterday, the funds were transferred from another numbered account in this bank. Just as your father’s identity was protected by the laws of bank secrecy, that other account holder is entitled to the same protection. I cannot breach that confidentiality just because you walk in and demand to know.”
Ryan glared, then opened the paper bag he’d brought with him. “I have something for you, Mr. Hernandez.”
“Oh? What?”