Girls Like Us(51)

“I know. They’ll kill us both. That’s why we have to be smart and move fast. We hunt them before they hunt us.”





18.



By the time I get home, Dune Road is open again. The electricity still isn’t on, so I lie down in front of the fire. My body is shot through with fatigue. I gather up some work, force myself to read. Soon, I fall into a restless sleep, punctuated by strange and violent dreams.

I cry out, waking myself. I’d been dreaming of my mother again. We were on the beach, just her and me. The sky was dark; the ocean churned and spat up foam. It was cold, too cold for the beach. The sand beneath my feet felt like ice. I don’t know why we were there. I wanted to go back inside the house. My mother was in a bathing suit. She ran toward the ocean. I called out to her, warning her, trying to stop her from going in. She would die of cold; the tide would pull her under. I screamed but my words were lost on the wind. She turned back toward me and smiled, laughing. Then she sprung forward, her arms coming together as she dove, disappearing into a giant, frothing wave.

I sit up. I’m on the couch. The living room is freezing; the fire’s gone out. My bare feet stick out from beneath the blanket. I pull them in toward me, rubbing them between my hands. When I stretch my arms, my shoulder pulses with pain. My father’s bank statements are scattered on the floor. I must’ve fallen asleep reading them. I pick them up, shuffling them into some kind of order. I spent most of the night reviewing them. They seem to match up with his salary from the Suffolk County Police Department. There are no suspicious transactions. No large deposits or withdrawals. The only thing out of the ordinary was the apartment in Riverhead, paid for out of a separate account. Even that, though, was paid for from my father’s salary. If he was receiving off-books payments from Giovanni Calabrese or anyone else, there is no evidence of it in these pages. I have to assume that’s what his offshore account was for. It’s time to find out for sure.

After I set coffee to brew, I dig out Justin Moran’s business card and dial his number.

“This is Nell Flynn,” I say when he answers. “Martin Flynn’s daughter. His attorney, Howard Kidd, gave me your contact information.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s dead.”

“My condolences, Ms. Flynn. How can I help you?”

“You tell me. I’ve never held offshore assets before. Can you provide me with a statement of some sort? Or tell me how to close the account?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come down here in person if you want to withdraw assets.”

“To the Cayman Islands?”

“Yes. We take security quite seriously, Ms. Flynn. Security and discretion.”

“And I appreciate that. But you can’t expect me to fly down there only to find there’s fifteen dollars in the account. It’s not worth my time.”

Moran pauses, considering this logic. “I understand,” he says. “Let’s do this. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, verifying that you are who you say you are. Social Security number, that sort of thing. And then I’ll be happy to answer your questions about the account. Will that suffice?”

“Works for me.”

“All right. Here we go.” Moran asks me a series of mundane but personal questions, all of which I answer. I must have passed his test, because he stops and says, “Fine. That’s good. What can I tell you about the account?”

“How much is in it?”

“Currently a hundred forty thousand dollars.”

“Wow. Okay. I suppose that’s worth the flight.”

“Indeed. Ten thousand is transferred into it at the start of each month, so if you wait a few days, that will go up to one fifty.”

“Transfer from where? My father’s bank account?”

“No. From a corporation, GC Limited. The account was opened fourteen months ago and has received ten thousand dollars each month since.”

“GC, you said?”

“Yes.”

“I ought to contact the corporation. If my father was working for them, they should know he’s passed.”

“I’m not sure I can give you that information.”

“Mr. Moran, I don’t want to get technical on you here. But my father’s dead. I’m the beneficiary of this account. So as I see it, you’re my banker now.”

“I understand,” he says crisply. “Still, the bank has certain protocols.”

“I’m also an FBI agent, Mr. Moran. Perhaps my father mentioned that. The Bureau has protocols, too. One of them is making sure none of its agents are harboring cash in offshore accounts. So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The hard way is going to involve my boss, the head of the Bureau, the IRS, and a whole bunch of subpoenas. Alternatively, you could provide me with a statement for my account, with the contact information for the corporation that was transferring money into it each month, and then we can close the account together and no one has to be the wiser. It’s up to you. Personally, I’d opt for the easy way. It’s going to be a lot more pleasant for both of us.”

Moran clears his throat. “Yes, your father mentioned your line of work. Thank you for refreshing my memory. How would you like me to send you the statements?”