Final Option

official welcome to Bermuda. Circumventing baggage claim—I had only a carry-on bag and my briefcase—I stepped out into the brilliant sunlight and joined the queue for taxis.
    Bermuda is a former British colony, and the flavor of England is still pervasive—from the transmuted cockney of the cabbies to the traffic that creeps on the leftside of the road at the island’s maximum speed of 25 m.p.h. For the most part the roads are narrow, twisting, coral-walled lanes punctuated with hedges of hibiscus and oleander.
    Cheryl had booked me into the Hamilton Princess, one of the large luxury hotels at the edge of the harbor. My driver took me there via Front Street, proudly pointing out the best places to buy Shetland sweaters and Irish linens. Traffic was clotted with tourists walking, on mopeds, in horse-drawn carriages, and atop their bicycles. Two cruise ships, leviathan and white, dominated the waterfront, floating worlds, separate and apart.
    I paid off my taxi, surrendered my meager luggage to the doorman who was clad, appropriately enough, in a pair of impeccably white Bermuda shorts. Chicago and its troubles seemed impossibly far away.
    The formalities of check-in were accomplished quickly and, after tipping the bellboy (U.S. currency cheerfully accepted) I found myself in a sunny and spacious room with an ocean view. I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my panty hose, helped myself to a Diet Coke from the minibar and sat down on the edge of the bed to call the office. Cheryl picked up on the first ring.
    “Ms. Millholland’s office,” she announced sunnily.
    “It’s me, Kate. You’re sounding particularly cheerful.”
    “I know. I’m in a great mood. My boss is out of town.”
    “Nice to know I’m being missed. Anybody call?”
    “Stephen, from New York, your mother, Barton Hexter, Roger Prendergast about Mascott Manufacturing—it seems they’ve finally found a buyer and he wants to talk to you—and Steve Potash from Overdrive.”
    “What did Barton want?”
    “Just for you to call. Another thing, Elliott Abelman called about an hour ago. He said that if you called in I was supposed to tell you to be careful. What did he mean? What do you need to be careful about?”
    “He just doesn’t want me to get sunburned,” I lied.
     
    Everything about the Bank of Bermuda evoked the quiet dignity of the empire. The lobby was deep and cool and constructed of polished marble. Ceiling fans whirled mutely while tellers with clipped accents and disciplined hair ministered to the customers. After being passed through a couple of secretaries I finally arrived at the office of one Edmond Martindale, a sandy-haired Brit whom I was prepared to hate on sight. He pronounced himself at my disposal.
    I thanked him for finding the time to meet with me on such short notice, explained that I was an attorney from Chicago, and found myself on a rather delicate mission. “A client of mine named Bart Hexter died suddenly and unexpectedly ten days ago.”
    “Auto accident?” inquired Martindale in tones of well-bred concern.
    “No. I’m afraid he was shot.”
    “Oh dear.”
    “Mr. Hexter was quite wealthy, but his affairs were left in some disorder. It came to my attention only yesterday that he maintained several accounts at your bank. Accounts,” I added, “maintained in a name other than his own.”
    “Bit of a tricky situation,” conceded the banker.
    “I have with me copies of the most recent bank statements and a copy of my client’s death certificate. I’m confident that this will be sufficient to begin the necessary steps for closing the accounts. I am also hoping that the bank will be able to provide me with complete records for the accounts, which appear to be connected with some transactions for which Mr. Hexter’s company is under government investigation.”
    In reply, Edmond Martindale made a sound suspiciously like, “tut, tut.”
    “Why don’t you give me those statements, and I’ll pull the account records. In the meantime I’ll buzz my girl and have her bring in tea. This should only take a few minutes.”
     
    Martindale retreated and a fiftyish “girl” in bifocals and a blue dress brought in a tray upon which rested a tea service that had been engraved with the crest of the bank. I was working on my second cup when Martin-dale returned. I knew from the look on his face that he wasn’t going to give me what I’d asked for.
    “I’m sure you are aware,” he said, “that the