Judy texted me while I was driving to work letting me know she had what I wanted. I suggested we meet for lunch, and she reluctantly agreed. We’d not spoken for a couple of days, not since the phone call.
I’d genuinely called with good intentions and hoped she would see it my way and selflessly want to help. I knew what I asked placed her job in jeopardy, but I was desperate for answers. And my desperation led to a clumsy attempt at gaining her assistance. What I viewed as putting her in no worse position at the hospice than she’d already placed herself, Judy read as a veiled allusion to blackmail. I’m sure I’d learn soon enough just how much harm I’d done to our relationship, assuming it wasn’t already beyond repair.
Over salad sandwiches and mineral water, I asked about her day, about the plans she’d made with friends for the upcoming Labour Day weekend, anything but the envelope she’d discreetly placed on the seat next to her.
Judy dropped the envelope on the table. We’d finished our lunch, and were preparing to leave. I’d run out of topics for our one-sided conversations and Judy had tired of staring at the sandwich posters on the wall.
Judy, thank you for doing this. I hated to ask, but it is very important.
Well, I hope you know, if I got caught it would have cost me my job. But, I guess you realise it hangs by a thin thread already. I hope this is worth it for you.
Judy, unwilling to hold my gaze, pushed through the front door of the sandwich shop and into the shade of the veranda outside. I stood mute by the table gazing down at the envelope. She was genuinely upset, and with every right to be. It was foolhardy asking her to photocopy patient records, but it was the only way I could think of to see if my theory held water.
I snatched up the envelope and joined her outside.
Again, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have asked you…
Forced, Craig. You forced me to do it.
Okay… Forced. I wouldn’t have if I didn’t think it mattered. I just hope these records will prove me wrong. Then I can destroy them and forget the whole bloody thing.
And just so as you know, this is the last favour, consider us even.
I understand.
Do you? Sometimes I wonder. I don’t know what this is all about, and I don’t want to know, but I do know you’re incredibly naïve in many ways, Craig. And I don’t want to see you get hurt.
We left the shade of the awning and walked west towards the Victoria Gardens shopping centre. Crossing the bridge over the Yarra River, I stopped and turned to face Judy. Below, the water bucked and swirled. The run-off from the heavy storms earlier in the week rousing the river from its end of summer torpor.
Judy’s face was an impassive mask. I reached for her left hand and interlocked her fingers in mine. Her cold, lifeless response told me my cruel and careless treatment of her feelings were still far from forgiven.
After a moment, I felt her gently squeeze my hand in return. A brief smile followed. As we continued on our way, I wasn’t completely sure if the smile was in acknowledgement of my feelings for her, or with pity for the fool’s errand I was undertaking.
***
I guessed Eric would be leaving early in the afternoon to get a head start on the long weekend. However, three o’clock came and went with Eric still ensconced in his office. I felt his eyes boring holes in my back. And I felt the presence of the envelope, locked in my desk draw, beckoning to be set free.
A further 30 minutes passed before I heard the words I longed for.
Finally!
I watched his retreating figure for a moment before scanning the rest of the floor. With the other bankers long gone, only Doug amongst the assistants remained.
The envelope contained nine pages but listed all patients admitted to the Sisters of Mercy Hospice over the past three years. Judy discovered records going back 15 years, but I thought three years enough to either prove or disprove my theory. And less of a threat of her being caught.
At a glance, it appeared as many as 30 patient’s names were listed on each page, roughly 270 in total. With the hospice only having 28 beds, the amount of turnover was a sobering reminder of the reality facing my mother. I pushed the dark thoughts aside and began my search.
Evelyn Adkins DOB: 13/01/1924 DOD: 01/08/2014.
The page contained additional information on Evelyn, as it did with all the patients, but these three pieces were all I needed. I entered the name into the bank’s client search screen and cross-checked with her date of birth.
A match. My pulse quickened. Of course, all of the bank’s customers would remain in the database for an unlimited amount of time even if they were deceased, so I tried to restrain my mounting sense of unease. I clicked on the name for a deeper dive into account history and found the following:
Evelyn Adkins – ICA $126,234.12 Open & Active
ICA signified the bank’s investment current account. The remainder was self-explanatory. Evelyn Adkins, who died in 2014, held an active account. Furthermore, it listed the client manager – SBTT307 – Eric’s employee code, and a POA (power of attorney) for the account: Garth O’Neal.
I clicked on the account to check for recent activity, still hoping to find this all a misunderstanding, a clerical error, or perhaps… I was running out of excuses. Checking for account activity was my last hope to prove myself wrong.
Doug’s head poked around the end of the partition separating our cubicles.
I quickly clicked on another open tab and hoped it wasn’t too apparent my heart was trying its best to squeeze through my throat and out my mouth.
Just some training. You ready to get out of here?
Yeah, think so. Want to grab a beer?
Nah, think I’ll pass this time.
Argh, come on. It’s the long weekend. Pack up your shit; we’ll have just the one.
No, I really need to finish this. I’ll meet you there if you like.
Sure, the Temperance on Chapel Street. And if not, I’ll see ya Monday.
A slightly miffed Doug retreated back around the cubicle wall to shut down his computer, tidy up and grab his satchel.
Monday? It took me a moment to recall why we’d be seeing each other, then with a sense of dread, I remembered. The annual Labour Day barbeque at the home of Thom Lewis.
A minute later Doug bounded towards the front door.
Later, mate.
Yeah, see you later.
I positioned the mouse back over the account holder tab and clicked. The screen filled with three months of transaction history for the long since dead Evelyn Adkins.
Six deposits, one every two weeks. Each one for the same amount, $656.32, from the Department of Human Services. Evelyn’s pension payment, regular as clockwork.
The account history also showed three or four additions and subtractions to the total each month for securities bought and sold. Eric still actively trading from the account.
Over the course of the next 30 minutes, I checked another 35 to 40 former patients. I found 10 accounts closed, presumably to maintain some semblance of integrity, but the remainder mirrored Evelyn’s. Regular pension payments to the deceased and evidence in each of trading activity. The only other exception, the occasional outbound wire transfer to accounts held at a branch of Scotiabank in the Cayman Islands.
I signed off from the bank’s operating system and ran a quick calculation in my head. Two hundred and seventy patients over the past three years, perhaps half now closed, an average balance of around $125,000, each with monthly deposits of, on average, $1,000. Plus, gains from the trading of securities.
The scope of the scam Eric and Garth were running hit me as I walked down the front steps leading to Wallace Avenue. The numbers still rattling around in my brain as I unlocked the driver’s side door of the Beast. Total deposits on hand of around $16–17 million with ongoing monthly deposits and annual gains through trading and interest of at least $200,000. All under the umbrella of Eric’s portfolio and controlled by Garth O’Neal.
If the scam weren’t so detestable, you’d think it brilliant. Millions of dollars at Eric’s discretion to buy and sell stock as he pleased. No customer to contact for trading approvals. No angry calls if a trade didn’t pan out as planned. And no next of kin to raise the alarm. Plus, the commission fees Eric generated from each buy and sell order produced another nice side benefit. And all accounts in the control of a solicitor complicit with the plan.
And the periodic wire transfers I’d discovered, always for amounts under the reporting threshold, another deft touch. The proceeds, I assumed, landing in offshore accounts controlled by Eric and Garth, and far removed from the prying eyes of the federal tax authorities. I also assumed they orchestrated a systematic amount of account closures to maintain appearances. A doctored death certificate the only item needed to wrap everything up in a nice neat package. Who was to know, or care, if the unfortunate patient checked out months or years earlier than their death certificate stated?
***
Crossing the Yarra, continuing north, Chapel Street becomes Church Street and the cocoon of wealth enveloping the suburbs of Toorak and South Yarra quickly begins to unravel. Chic boutiques make way for rug emporiums. Fashionable cafés and trattorias replaced by lower-key pubs and down-at-the-heel sandwich shops.
Stuck in traffic behind a tram unloading passengers across from the Prince Alfred Hotel, I watched a group of four blokes my age, laughing and slapping backs, walk into the bar. Celebratory drinks to usher in the Labour Day weekend about to commence.
I texted Dayne immediately after leaving the bank letting him know I needed to talk to him urgently. Beers with Doug could wait for another day.
Dayne’s reply was brief.
Meet me @ The Yarra
It took a further 30 minutes of fighting the #78 tram, and the late-afternoon Friday traffic, before I pulled into a parking spot around the corner from the Yarra Hotel.
I shrugged off my suit jacket and tie and tossed them onto the back seat, a crumpled ensemble the least of my concerns. A freshening breeze cooled the sweat on my back and tempered the late afternoon sun.
Dayne, smiling, elbows resting on the bar, turned from me and continued his slow progress through a glass of Boag’s Lager. Friday evening with the clock nudging 5:30, and the bar at the Yarra Hotel continued to fill. A mismatch of hipster-type city workers and local down-and-outs lined the bar. Some drinking to kick off their weekend, some to forget their work week and others to forget the past 20 years. I slid out the stool he’d saved me, sat down, and ordered a Carlton Draught from the passing bartender.
True enough, I was a little off-kilter when I sent him the text. The truth was, I wasn’t sure what I’d stumbled onto, or perhaps my initial understanding of the matter was way off base. Or more likely, I knew precisely what I’d discovered and now wanted to run and hide from the whole sordid mess. Could it be nothing more than sloppy record keeping? Or was it, as I imagined, an elaborate fraud scheme. The more I tried to piece it together the more my mind became a jumbled mess of conflicting opinions.
I finished my Carlton and held it aloft to the bartender. He nodded and began pouring another.
For the past 30 minutes over another beer and a shared bowl of chips, I’d laid out to Dayne what I’d discovered.
Craiggo, you’ve walked into a very elaborate fraud scheme, and there’s no telling who else is involved in this.
You think? So, I shouldn’t go to Mr Lewis?
Fuck no! For all you know he’s involved too. And for the amounts you’re talking about; they won’t just pat you on the head as they push you out the door and give you a nice letter of recommendation for your CV.
How about the police?
Dayne scratched his chin and pondered my question. He drained the last of his Boag’s before answering.
Riflebirds were setting up on the cramped stage; I’d have to catch them another time. We paid our tab and headed out the door.
***
At Dayne’s I dragged the stool from the front room and parked it behind his office chair in what was once his bedroom. A small foldaway bed occupied one corner, but Dayne’s elaborate workstation area all but shunted it out into the hallway.
As his hands flitted from one keyboard to another, his fingers a blur of activity, Dayne explained his little side-line operation.
Without any trace of ego, he talked of how in the world of hacking, he’d become a master of the art. His extracurricular activities after work hours started out as a lark, but quickly drew the attention of other professionals in cyber-space who then actively recruited his services.
The income he derived from random corporate espionage assignments far out-stripped what he made at Harvey Norman; however, with the work not being exactly legal, he thought it prudent to keep up the façade of the day job.
Judging by the sparse and dilapidated furniture in the house, I gathered the extra income went towards computer equipment and musical instruments.
What we’re going to do here is an attempt to hack into O’Neal’s law office. I want to see if we can determine how involved the firm is, or, if this is just a lone-wolf operation.
And this helps us how?
Well, for one. If the entire law practice is involved, we aren’t talking a few million any longer. And, if so, the stakes go way higher.
And if they’re not involved?
Then I’d say it’s more than likely just a two-man operation, though your employer should’ve had a fair idea of what’s going on. Right?
He was spot-on. The banking term used to describe their lack of attentiveness sprang to mind.
Willful blindness.
What’s that?
The term came up at some point in my training; I believe when we covered money laundering. And now it clawed its way back from my subconscious.
Willful blindness is the term used to describe events when a bank employee deliberately avoids knowledge of the facts. For example, choosing not to ask where large deposits come from, or how the client earns his living.
Dayne stopped typing and listened intently to my description of the term. He nodded solemnly before smiling and replying.
I couldn’t help laughing thinking about the old television series, Hogan’s Heroes. Come to think of it; Garth O’Neal was shaped a little like the old prison camp sergeant.
And I believe we may have to go to plan B.
How so?
Dayne stared pensively at a screen filled with incomprehensible lines of computer code.
Well, with most companies the level of site encryption is at a very basic level. I can usually find a way in through a back door in no time at all. These bastards have set up a system which blocks me at every turn.
If they’re blocking you, can they trace the hack back to you?
My vast knowledge of hacking could be written on the back of a matchbook – with room to spare. Dayne chose to ignore the naïveté of my question.
I wasn’t too sure what all that meant, but I trusted Dayne to know what he was doing.
In the simplest terms possible he explained what he was going to do, and how I could help him.
And if plan B doesn’t work?
Don’t worry, Craiggo. I’ve got more plans than you’ve had hot dinners.
Dayne shot me a hard to read smile. Part sly like a fox, part crazy as a loon. In the greenish glow of the screens illuminating the side of his face, I wasn’t sure which description was more apt.
***
Nine o’clock Monday morning and Dayne and I were sitting in the Beast watching and waiting. I’d parked across the road, four houses down, from the home of Thom Lewis.
Dayne casually peeled off small pieces of plastic from the Beast’s door panel. His feet rested on her dash and his backside – he’d slunk down so low – almost slid off the front of the passenger seat. I sat nervously behind the wheel watching luxury cars, one after another, pull into the Lewis’s circular drive.
I’d heard through the grapevine it was corporate suicide to no-show an affair at the Lewis’s. One day, Eric recounted the story of when an IT consultant missed a cocktail party. Never mind it was a very minor assignment. Lewis cancelled the contract the next day; the news broken to the consultant nursing a broken leg in hospital from a car accident.
Absolutely no excuses.
Thom kept Williams & Teacher on retainer to handle all of the bank’s legal work. Garth O’Neal wouldn’t dare miss today’s soirée.
Two talking heads on a local sports talk station shouted back and forth over the chances of another Hawthorn premiership. The first round of the season was still two weeks away, and yet they had all the answers. Their inane chatter I usually let slide as mere background noise, today it was like they’d taken a cheese grater to my brain. As I reached forward to change the station a silver Range Rover glided past and pulled to the kerb in front of Lewis’s home.
I watched Garth O’Neal, a heavy-set man of medium height, lever himself from the driver’s seat. He wore a dark blue short-sleeved shirt and a pair of oversized white tennis shorts hanging down to his knees. The skinny white legs dangling from the leg openings looked like two ice-cream sticks trying valiantly to prop up a circus tent.
Dayne couldn’t contain his laughter.
I was still too wound up with the events of the past few days to enjoy Dayne’s attempt at humour.
Saturday and Sunday dragged by in the slowest of motion. I tried to maintain as normal a schedule as possible, but the prospect of facing Eric and Garth on Monday at the Lewis family’s annual tennis party never strayed far from my mind.
Without answering Dayne, I opened my door, jumped out and retrieved my tennis bag from the back seat.
The question came out much stronger than I intended.
I placed both hands on the Beast’s roof and took a deep breath. Dayne was right; just make it through today and then see what he could come up. Whatever he discovered would determine our next steps. The last thing I needed to do was tip our hand.
Don’t worry, Craiggo. You can do this, just put on the old tennis – I’m going to kick your arse – game face and play it cool, alright?
Sure. No worries.
Dayne stood on the footpath and solemnly looked me up and down. Then without saying another word, shot me a goofy smile, a quick double-thumbs up, and headed in the opposite direction towards the Hawksburn Railway Station.
I locked the Beast, though I wasn’t sure why in this neighbourhood. It was more likely to be towed as an unwanted eyesore than stolen. With racquet bag slung over my shoulder, I strode purposefully along Cloverdale Avenue to the home of Thom Lewis.
***
Dayne sat on the metal bench at the Hawksburn Station waiting for his train. In his hand, he folded and unfolded a small slip of paper. On it, he’d jotted down the license plate of the silver Range Rover. Having already dug up a small amount of information on Garth O’Neal through an internet search, he thought a license plate search may also be useful, at the very least it would help verify his current address.
From there, he’d discreetly follow the crooked solicitor until the time and place was ripe for him to put his plan into action. It may take a couple of days to get what he needed, a week at the most. It was truly a simple ploy and one he’d used on numerous occasions.
Child’s play.
He just hoped Craig, the moral compass of the two, could keep his mouth shut and not spill the beans before he’d set his plan in motion.
Dayne shifted his position on the uncomfortable metal bench and crossed his arms against the chill of the morning. A quick look to his right down along the silent tracks told him his train was running late. For reasons, he’d find hard to explain; he was impatient to be gone from this side of town.
The short walk through the leafy streets of South Yarra to the station a striking scenic reminder of the wealth and power the elite held in this city. The housing bubble and ensuing world economic meltdown of 2008 decimated the lives of so many ordinary folks but caused barely a ripple in this community. Perhaps one less family trip to the Gold Coast over the winter or the vacation home on the peninsula having to wait another year before being re-decorated. But the bankers propping up the shaky house of cards adjusted, then went merrily on their way.
Bankers like Thom Lewis.
Dayne shook his head in disgust as he remembered the aftermath of the collapse. Sure, there were plenty of hands slapped in public. Some made to pay a fine or two. Perhaps even totalling in the billions of dollars, but still just a fraction of the profits gleaned from the entire fiasco.
And not a one of them spent a day in prison.
The throaty cough of an awakening lawn mower ruptured the quiet of the morning. Dayne wondered how quickly the police would respond if it backfired.
He knew he couldn’t change the world, but if he could shine a light on one of the corrupt bastards hidden amongst them, he’d gladly do so by any means possible.
It’s what he did. “Levelling the playing field,” as he called it. It wasn’t always pretty, but he was up for the fight. He just hoped to keep his good friend from getting caught up in any crossfire.
He rose from the bench and placed the slip of paper back in his pocket just as a rush of air signalled the arrival of his train.
***
I sat off to the side of the court next to the small lap pool and groaned inwardly; the amount of arse-kissing taking place out on the court reaching an almost orgasmic crescendo.
Thom Lewis and Mack Stephens were administering a tan-hiding of the highest order to Eric and Stephen McIntosh. Thom the more dominant partner of the two. Mack and his teeth just trying not to get in his way. I could tell Eric was seething but managing to keep it under wraps for the moment. Stephen was in full if I kiss your arse enough, you won’t fire me, right? mode.
A deft topspin lob over Eric’s head by Thom and Stephen’s failed, yet comical, dash across the baseline to chase it down brought about the end of the set. Eric quickly headed inside to the kitchen to grab a beer. Stephen plopped down in a seat next to me. His comb-over had broken loose, and would require some heavy lifting to get it back in place.
Thom stood before him with a glass of champagne in hand, a few beads of sweat dotted his forehead and not a wavy hair on his head out of place.
What Stephen wanted to say was, fuck you, Thom; what came out was much better composed.
Stephen peered from side to side looking to deflect attention away from himself; onto someone, anyone. His flap of hair attempting to take flight with each turn of his head.
I’d managed to keep a low profile for the first few hours, but it appeared my time was up. With more than a dozen other players wanting to spend time on the court, I found it relatively easy to fade into the background.
You’re up, Craig. Grab your racquet.
Yeah, come on Craig. We want to see you play.
With Thom leading the charge, Doug and Mary joined the chorus and both urged me up out of my seat.
I finished off my beer with a quick chug and grabbed a racquet from my bag. I hadn’t touched one in over two months but the familiar feel of the Tourna-grip wrap wound around the handle immediately felt natural in my hand.
Eric joined Thom across the net with just me – for now – at the other end. Both owned decent games, and we rallied back and forth for a few minutes.
It was a beautiful setting, plane and elm trees grew in the neighbouring yards and bordered the court’s wire fence on three sides. The fourth lay open to the back patio. Only a waist-high Perspex wall separated the court from the pool area at one end. Sliding glass panels framed the entire back of the house. For today’s party, the panels were dispatched from view opening up the ultra-modern living area to the outdoors.
I was admiring the view and trying to comprehend the cost of such a home – and if the money spent was clean – when I was caught flat-footed by a sharp forehand from Thom.
Thom said something to Eric who then quickly left the court.
Well, so much for keeping a low profile.
Sure. You want to serve?
We’ll toss for it. I don’t take handouts from anyone.
The glare he shot me would have humbled many an opponent. I won the toss, smiled and told him I’d serve. I retreated to the baseline contemplating just how badly I should humiliate this smug bastard.
***
Garth sat on a kitchen stool grazing on a cheese plate as Eric walked in from courtside in search of a fresh beer.
Eric grabbed a Stella Artois from the fridge, levered off the top with a bottle opener laying nearby and drained half before answering.
Not a chance in hell. But if the kid’s smart he’ll keep it close.
Is he? Smart, I mean. I don’t know if I trust him, being so close to the hospice AND you. What if he puts two and two together?
He may be a decent tennis player, but he doesn’t know shit when it comes to banking. Don’t you worry. He does only what I tell him, and no more. You just make sure you keep up your end of the bargain.
Garth stabbed a cube of cheddar from the tray with a toothpick and popped it into his mouth. From the living room, a James Taylor tune faded from the wall-mounted speakers, and Paul Simon sveltely stepped up to the microphone.
Yeah, yeah. We’re as good as gold. By the way, I’ll have another three transactions coming your way later in the week.
Which direction?
One arriving. Two, I’m sad to report, will be departing. Shouldn’t hurt your portfolio balances too badly I wouldn’t think.
Eric drained the remainder of the bottle.
Tell you what, let’s close out another five. I picked up a firm of IT consultants last week as new clients. All ten of them. Just get me copies of the death certificates later in the week, so I can close out the accounts.
Garth gazed up at the ceiling fan languidly turning overhead, his mind processing the numbers.
So, leaving us with… 90–95 accounts?
Give or take.
It still seems like too many. I’m starting to think this has gotten way out of control.
What do you suggest? You want to start an epidemic and kill off 70 all at once? Don’t you think that’ll look a little suspicious? Hold your nerve, mate. We’ve come too far to be getting cold feet now.
Six months, Eric. Six months and I want all the dead accounts shut down. Then we handle just those still living.
Moving up close behind Garth, Eric leant over his shoulder as he whispered in his ear.
Eric grabbed a small stem of grapes from the tray in front of the silent solicitor and plucked one off with his teeth.
Confident he’d made his point, Eric straightened and patted the solicitor on the back. Garth’s face turned a light shade of pink. Beads of sweat dotted his brow.
I… I just wonder, when will it ever be enough? Greed is the only thing that will get us caught. We’ve had a great run, Eric. You know we have.
Okay, okay, have it your way. We start winding it down slowly. I hope your little nest egg treats you to a nice retirement. No sooner than six months, though. I need to milk it for all it’s worth until then.
Garth watched the younger, cock-sure, banker head back out to the sunlit patio and breathed a sigh of relief. His finish line now just a little closer. With a deadline in sight, he could begin planting the seeds, later in the year, for his retirement from Williams & Teacher. And then, the accounts he held in various banks around the globe would be waiting to comfort him in his twilight years.
Turning back to the cheese tray on the kitchen island, he picked up a small cube of Gruyere and inspected it briefly before depositing it in his mouth.
***
I had to hand it to Lewis, for a man his age, he put up a better fight than I’d expected. I broke his serve in the second game, just to establish my superiority, then toyed with him for the next five games by playing at half-pace. At the change of ends – leading 5-2 – I finished my beer and towelled off while letting the warmth of the afternoon sun soak into my pores. The early chill and low clouds of the morning gone, replaced by a slight breeze and a brilliant blue sky. Thom Lewis sat on one of the many patio chairs and attempted to get his breathing under control. I’d run him ragged for the last 30 minutes, moving him from side to side and placing each ball just tantalisingly within reach.
Lewis, elbows resting on knees, looked up and in my direction.
Yeah, it’s been awhile since I’ve played. How’re you doing?
I’m fine. I just wish you’d quit screwin’ around. You’re not trying to make me look like shit in front of all my guests, are you?
Jesus, what was I supposed to do, really make him look stupid?
Sorry, sir. That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to give you a good game.
Don’t you dare take pity on me, Walters. You think I’d ever do the same for you?
Okay then. Time to wrap this up and get out of here. Lewis threw his towel down on the chair and strode towards the baseline. I watched his purposeful stride for a moment before strolling to the opposite side.
Looking back, I should have been smarter about that final game; just stretching the string of three service return winners off of his mediocre serve into four. Game, set, goodbye. But no, I had to stretch out one final point to let my rich, smarmy boss know he might own a bank, but I owned him on his court. Petty, I know, like anyone would ever dare to compare the two as equivalent.
A forehand down the line off of his serve stretched him to his right, I followed up with another forehand crosscourt, but not beyond his valiant chase across the baseline. Another down the line, again just within his reach, then another cross-court which I presumed he’d quit on.
How was I to know he just wouldn’t quit? Unfortunately, his attempt to make it to my cross-court forehand ran him off-court and dangerously close to the waist-high Perspex wall dividing the court surface from the swimming pool. At the last moment, he attempted a slide to halt his progress, but his foot dug into the artificial-grass surface sending him head-over-heals into the wall, then over into the pool.
Judging by the scream let out by Thom’s wife you would’ve assumed him dead. I ran to the other end and arrived poolside just as Mack was helping him onto the flagstone decking. A group of Lewis acolytes stared daggers at me.
What the hell do you think you were doing? You could have killed him.
Bloody brilliant, Craig.
Words failed me. I looked down at the drenched figure, who at the same moment looked up and began to laugh.
It appeared I’d unwittingly struck up a connection with the boss. Although as his eyes bored into mine and the smile faded I felt it a very tenuous connection at best.
Deciding it a good time, I feigned another engagement and made my escape from the Lewis compound.
I’d made it through the day, as Dayne implored, without tipping my hand. For how much longer I could maintain the façade was a question for another day.