Final Option

indeed, he came to her apartment and presented her with an engagement ring. But by the time he arrived home to Lake Forest he was back in form, and Pamela’s family dinner had disintegrated into harsh words and hurt feelings. By all accounts he’d managed to keep civil during Saturday’s golf outing, but that night he’d caught Krissy groping in the coatroom with another man. His youngest daughter had received a tongue-lashing, and he’d left the party in a bad temper and alone. Sunday morning the cook heard Bart and Pamela arguing. Within hours he was dead.
    What changes had Bart wanted to make in his will? Had Margot, perhaps, called her father with the news of her pregnancy? Or maybe he wanted to reallocate the disposition of his property to include Torey. Deep down I feared that Ken Kurlander was right—most likely Hexter’s reasons had died with him. And yet I couldn’t help but wonder.
    The issue of the withdrawals from the offshore accounts was even more puzzling. Martindale had confided that the recent wire transfers had been made to a relatively new account listed solely in the name of the mysterious co-signator. The statements showed that the first transfer was made on the same day as a $60,000 cash withdrawal. It seemed a fair bet that the co-signator had gone to Bermuda on one of his cash runs and taken the opportunity to open a separate account.
    I was pretty sure that the wire transfers had been made without Hexter’s knowledge. That would explain the transfer that had recently been denied for insufficient funds. No doubt Bart had wanted to wire the money for the condominium payment. Whoever had been moving money out of the account would have known that there wasn’t enough money in it to cover the transaction. Bart, notoriously lackadaisical about opening and examining his account statements, had instead relied on the running mental tally that he believed was more accurate than the bank computers—accurate, that is, unless someone is stealing from you.
     
    I arrived at the office just as Cheryl was leaving. She handed me my messages and agreed to call over to Hexter Commodities before she left for class in order to make sure that someone would still be there when I arrived. I scanned my mail and flipped through my phone messages. There was nothing that couldn’t wait until later.
    I was just pulling my raincoat and purse out of my closet when Cheryl came in to say that she’d made the necessary arrangements for me at Hexter Commodities.
    I arrived at the commodities trading firm long enough after the market close that the office was empty. The receptionist waited for me sullenly, coat in hand.
    “Barton Jr. said to tell you that he’s bringing the babies home from the hospital,” she reported, locking up her desk. “But he said he’d be here as soon as he could. In the meantime, you should just do whatever it is you have to do.”
    “Is Mrs. Titlebaum here?” I asked.
    “She’s already gone.”
    “What about Tim?”
    “He left. Are you going to be needing me? I mean, I usually catch the five-forty for Schaumburg....”
    “Is there anybody else in the office? Is Loretta here?”
    “Nope. You’ve got the place to yourself until Barton gets here.”
    I made my way through the empty trading floor to Bart Hexter’s office. I’d spent a lot of time over the course of the past week sifting through the dead man’s things, but this time I was looking for something specific—the nine-digit code number that would unlock the offshore accounts.
    At his desk, I looked through his address book and his papers, jotting down numbers that looked possible. His social security number, copied from some bank papers, seemed promising—nine digits. I would try it out on Martindale in the morning.
    After I finished with Bart’s office, I moved into Mrs. Titlebaum’s. I tried not to be discouraged. Hexter, after all, had had a photographic memory for numbers, and had most likely never needed to write the code number down, but there was a chance that he’d given it to his secretary or his personal assistant. Rifling through Mrs. Titlebaum’s desk I uncovered a few possibilities, including two numbers written next to each other on a rolodex card. They were probably her lottery picks for the week, but I made a note of them anyway.
    As I made my weary way to Tim’s office I realized that I was clearly not cut out for the painstaking nature of investigative work. Besides, going through other