“So what happened?”

“Gerard called me and asked me to wire money into this Swiss bank account.”

“Did he say why?”

“No.”

“What did he say exactly?”

“Gerard said that it was his money and that he didn’t have to give me a reason. I pressed a little more. He said he was starting a new life.”

A cold blast ran down her neck. “What did you make of that?”

Chuback rubbed his chin some more. “I thought it was bizarre, but when it comes to people’s money, well, bizarre is almost the norm. I also have a fiduciary responsibility to him. If he asks for confidentiality, I have to honor it.”

“But you didn’t like it,” Kat said.

“No, I didn’t. It was out of character for him. But there wasn’t much I could do.”

Kat saw where this was heading. “Of course, you also have a fiduciary responsibility to the law.”

“Exactly.”

“So you filled out the SAR, half hoping someone might investigate.”

He shrugged, but Kat could see that she had hit bone. “And here you are.”

“So where is Gerard Remington now?”

“I don’t know. Overseas somewhere.”

Kat felt another frosty skin prick. Overseas. Like Dana Phelps. “By himself?”

Chuback shook his head, turned around, and hit his keyboard. The screens all came to life, showing what Kat assumed was his screen saver: a curvaceous woman who looked as though she’d just stepped out of the pornographic dream of a fifteen-year-old boy—or to say the same thing in a slightly different way, the sort of evocative image you see almost every time you go on the Internet. The woman’s smile was come-hither. Her lips were full. Her bosom was large enough to qualify for financial aid.

Kat waited for him to press another button, so the screen-saving bimbo would disappear. But he didn’t. Kat looked at Chuback. Chuback nodded.

“Wait, are you saying your cousin went away with her?”

“That’s what he told my mother.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“That’s what I said. I mean, Gerard’s a nice guy and all, but a chick who looks like this? Way out of his league. See, my cousin can be rather naïve. I was concerned.”

“Concerned in what way?”

“At first, I thought that maybe he was being conned. I’d read about guys who meet girls online who get them to carry drugs to South America or do something stupid. Gerard would be the perfect mark.”

“And you don’t think that anymore?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Chuback said. “But when he made the transfer, he told me that he’s very much in love. He wants to start a new life with her.”

“And that didn’t sound like a con to you?”

“Of course it did, but what could I do about it?”

“Report it to the police.”

“And say what? My weird client wants me to transfer his money to a Swiss bank account? Come on. Plus, there was still financial confidentiality.”

“He swore you to secrecy,” Kat said.

“Right, and in my business, that’s like confessing to a priest.”

Kat shook her head. “So you did nothing.”

“Not nothing,” he said. “I filled out an SAR. And now here you are.”

“Do you know the woman’s name?”

“Vanessa something.”

“Where does your cousin live?”

“It’s about a ten-minute drive.”

“Do you have a key?”

“My mom does.”

“Then let’s go.”

• • •

Chuback unlocked the door and ducked inside. Kat followed, her eyes scanning ahead. Gerard Remington’s home was indecently neat and clean and organized. It looked more like something behind glass—something for show—than a true human habitat.

“What are you looking for?” Chuback asked.

It used to be that you would start opening drawers and closets. Now searches were often simpler. “His computer.”

They searched the desk. Nothing. They searched the bedroom. More nothing. Not under the bed or on the night table.

“He only has a laptop,” Chuback said. “He may have taken it with him.”

Damn.

Kat started going old school—that is, opening drawers and closets. Even they were impossibly neat. The socks were rolled, four sets in each row, four rows. Everything was folded. There were no loose papers or pens or coins or paper clips or matchbooks—nothing was out of place.

“What do you think is going on?” Chuback asked.

Kat didn’t want to speculate. There was no actual evidence that any crime had been committed, other than maybe fuzzy monetary laws on moving sums of money to a foreign account. There were oddities, of course, and activities that one might deem suspicious, but right now, what could she do with that?

Still she had some contacts at the FBI. If she learned a little more, she might be able to run it by them, get them to take a more serious look into it, though, again, what would they find?

She had a thought. “Mr. Chuback?”

“Call me Chewie,” he said.

“Right, Chewie. Can you e-mail me that picture of Vanessa?”

He winked. “You into that kind of thing?”

“Good one.”

“Lame, right? But hey, he’s my cousin,” he said as though that explained everything. “I’m weirded out here too.”

“Just send it to me, okay?”

There was only one framed photograph on Gerard’s desk. A black-and-white shot taken in the winter. She picked it up and took a closer look.

Chuback came up behind her. “The little kid is Gerard. And the guy is his father. He died when Gerard was eight. I guess they liked to ice fish or something.”

They were both dressed in parkas with big, fur bomber hats. There was snow on the ground. Little Gerard held up a fish, a huge smile spread across his face.

“You want to hear something weird?” Chuback said. “I don’t think I ever saw Gerard smile like that.”

Kat put down the photograph and started checking the drawers again. The bottom drawer contained files, again neatly labeled in a handwriting that could have been a computer font. She found the bills for his Visa card and pulled out the most recent.

“What are you looking for?” Gerard asked.

She started to scan down the row. The first charge that stuck out was for $1,458 to JetBlue Airways. The charge gave no further details—where he planned on traveling or when—but she could trace that back pretty easily. She snapped a photograph of the charge and e-mailed it to Chaz. He could look into it. JetBlue, Kat knew, didn’t offer first class, so odds were, that amount was for two round-trip tickets.