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JOHN FOX STROLLED into the Cayman branch of the British-based Hertford’s bank and asked to speak to an official about the account of his client. He presented identification naming him as the designated representative of John Jackson Finlay. After studying his bona fides, Hertford’s referred him to a building one block away, where two financial institutions took up rental space behind a single glass door.

After Fox related his circumstances at Cayman BWI Trust, Ltd. and patiently observed the efficient vice president key information into the monitor before her, he was directed across the hall with a flourish of her blue-tipped fingernails. CapTrust Cayman Shores, she explained, had coordinated all financial arrangements between Sintex Manufacturing and Kansas City Federalist Bank on his client’s behalf.

He was mustered through a gauntlet of desks before being shown into the private office of Keri Parris. According to the nameplate outside her door, Parris acted as Vice President of Trustee Services. Carrying with her the insouciance of privilege, she came around her executive-style desk with an outstretched hand. Her suit was of impeccable taste and fitted quite nicely over a runner’s body. Her legs went on and on, ending in high-heeled shoes that made her three inches taller than her already exalted five-feet-eight height. She didn’t smile. She didn’t blink. She didn’t glance away from his direct gaze. She asked him to sit, skirted around the imposing desk, and sat forward, hands folded before her, her wavy brown hair falling to the point of her chin and no farther. Her fingernails were cut short, unadorned by nail polish, and her person likewise unadorned by jewelry of any kind. Her desk was as impeccable as she was, layered with phone, computer monitor, and neatly stacked file folders. “Now, sir, how may I help you?” She held her head high and her chin level. She was formal and stiff, and regarded him with cool indifference.

A man of impeccable taste himself and dressed in a business suit purchased just for this occasion, Fox explained that his client’s funds, originally adding up to fifty million American dollars, had been transferred from Cayman BWI Trust into the supervision of Ms. Parris’s establishment. “I recently spoke with the vice president of Customer Affairs over there, a very pleasant lady. You’re probably acquainted.”

Parris acknowledged their association with a telling blink. She was stiff as a picket fence and just as unbendable, a chary woman, distant, and schooled to keep her thoughts and emotions hidden beneath a veneer of impenetrability.

Fox went on. “She confirmed the full amount was transferred to CapTrust approximately one month ago before the bulk was wired back the States. I’m here to collect the balance. A hundred thousand, according to our records, including any interest accrued.”

Her pale eyes barely blinked. The placid face remained stoic. She spread her hands apart, fingertips lightly tapping the desktop, their slight agitation indicating her interest, or perhaps impatience, possibly both. Taken together, the nuances of her demeanor expressed skepticism along with contempt. Perhaps all bankers—even pretty lady bankers—viewed their customers with skepticism and contempt as if they were budding bank robbers. “Naturally we require identification,” she said, smiling.

It was the first time her lips curled upward. Her teeth were white and even, her dimples delightful. A small mole near the corner of her mouth was the only noticeable flaw of her otherwise fetching face.

“Naturally,” he said, parroting her inflection. He clicked open a newly purchased briefcase and presented a passport, an airline receipt, a copy of his client’s birth certificate, and an affidavit signed by his client, which authorized John H. Fox as his duly appointed agent for all matters pursuant.

Ms. Parris inspected everything with interest before smiling more broadly than before. “I believe we can get you on your way quite soon. How would you like the funds disbursed?”

“By EFT to this account.” He presented the necessary paperwork.

The smile again, warm and friendly. He watched her leave the glass-enclosed office, admiring the pumping action of her shapely calves as they sashayed in the direction of the main lobby.

Ten minutes later she returned, clearly flustered. She sat with aplomb, primly tucking her skirt beneath her and folding her hands on the desktop. “Mr. Fox, I regret to inform you that the funds have been withdrawn. Only a nominal amount remains.”

“Nominal?” he asked.

“The equivalent of five thousand American dollars.” Her words came out mechanically, absent emotion, as if she were relating a death in the family.

“And the balance?”

“You don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

“I don’t think I understand. Surely, you would know the funds were wired to another institution Monday last.”

“I don’t wish to be rude, Ms. Parris, but I know nothing.”

His statement disconcerted her. She went on the defensive. “We received instructions over a week ago. Everything was confirmed. If you didn’t send it, then―”

Her eyes held his gaze until a nearly indiscernible movement of her focus glanced past him and above him. He jerked around in his chair and looked through the glass-plate window into the hall at his back, bustling with bank personnel and customers. He saw no one suspicious, no one staring back at him, no one grinning at him with a crazed grin.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Fox?”

He jerked back around and collected himself, clearing his throat. “Where were the funds sent? Precisely?”

Contrary to her expression of concern ... Is something the matter, Mr. Fox? ... her face was glacial. “Per your client’s instructions, the funds were wired to a financial institution in Nauru.”

He noticed an upper tooth was slightly crooked. It was almost endearing, almost made her seem human instead of an android, but not quite. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of ... Nauru, is it? ... do I have that right?”

He lied to her. He had heard of it. Rupert mentioned it. An island in the South Pacific known for money laundering. Money trails, Rupert had said, went through it, almost like ghosts, and disappeared.

The banker was flustered, off her game. “I ... I believe ... that is ... it’s an island nation in the South Pacific.” Her voice was constrained and high-pitched, very unlike the level tones with which she had greeted him earlier. “I hope this won’t cause any difficulties. We pride ourselves on our fiduciary responsibilities. We have checks and balances in place to assure all accounts are handled with the utmost care.” She spoke the words as if they had been memorized from a handbook on how to deal with difficult clients and embarrassing situations.

Keeping his face neutral, he said, “There must have been a mix-up back at the office.”

Her face relaxed. Her clutched fists opened. The winning smile appeared once more. “How would you like the remaining funds disbursed?”

“The five thousand?”

“Precisely,” she said, her broad smile still in place.

“Cash.”

Once the transaction was concluded, they shook hands. Her hand was firm and cool to the touch. She allowed it to linger in the shelter of his before gently retracting it and joining it with the other, both tugging at the hem of her suit jacket.

“I’m staying at the Grand Cayman Shores,” he said casually. “Dinner perhaps? Seven o’clock?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I have another engagement.”

The day was awash with island breezes. He strolled down a picturesque street filled with bankers and tourists, making for an odd conglomeration of business attire and island shirts. He could almost feel the possibilities of being an ordinary man facing ordinary problems, but the idle wishes of a man on the run could only be fleeting fancies at best.

The missing money troubled him. They were always ahead of him, always anticipating his movements, like they could read his mind.

Inexplicably he sensed something off. He shot a backward glance. Though he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, he picked up his pace. A block farther on, he felt the presence again. Glancing back, he glimpsed a floppy straw hat, the wide brim visible above the press of people strolling in the same direction. He swung around and casually strolled in the opposite direction, expecting to come across the owner of the straw hat. But when he reached the position, the hat had disappeared along with its owner. She was gone like a whiff of air or the ghost of his overactive imagination. Then he knew it was real, because she left behind a familiar fragrance of sweet femininity.