Everything to Lose. Andrew Gross
the woods where I had flung the satchel.
I didn’t see anything there.
A flash of fear stabbed me: what if someone had found it? One of the emergency crew who went down there. Or maybe a policeman traipsing around. What if all this had been for nothing and now it was gone?
A week ago that might have given me some kind of relief. That the decision had been taken from me. But now I was more like a wolf who’d left a stash of food for her cubs that was now gone. As if that money was mine all along, not Kelty’s, and someone had stolen it from me!
I started to walk through the brush, sweeping the light in all directions, knee deep in dried branches and dense weeds. I’d spent so much time conflicted. Now there was no longer any doubt about what outcome I was hoping for.
Where the hell was it?
I kept walking, casting the light about haphazardly, nerves kicking up in me. I got to the spot where I was sure it had to be. Ten days ago, I’d seen it sink there amid the leaves and brush.
“Where the hell are you?” I said aloud.
I started to think how maybe I’d made someone else rich. How I was someone else’s lottery ticket. Some lucky Joe who was probably dragging a towline around. I wondered if he’d declared it. Or turned it in. If the police had it now.
No, if they did it would’ve made the news, Hilary. I would have seen it.
Angry, I used my light as a large stick, swatting brush and branches. Then I almost tripped over something. I looked down and didn’t see the bag, only the leather handles peeking through a blanket of leaves.
Thank God! I let out a grateful sigh of relief.
I bent, a bramble tearing at my hand, and pulled it out, the bag resisting for a moment. Then there it was! The same stuffed leather case, as heavy as when I’d hurled it into the woods a week before.
There was no pretending I felt anything but joy.
I took it back to the clearing and set it on the ground. I pulled open the zipper and shined my light in it. My skin tingled all over at what I saw. I was staring at the same bundles of wrapped bills, Ben Franklin’s wise, nonjudging face over and over and over, alit in the yellow, beatific light.
My blood surged ecstatically.
“Forgive me,” I said. To whom I wasn’t sure.
To Kelty. To the police. To my own conscience.
“I’m sorry.”
I zipped it back up, the taste in my mouth bitter and bile-like. I knew the expression, how one bad act opens the door to many others. Acts that flood the world with a hundred awful consequences you could never foresee.
All from a single mistake.
This was mine, I knew. No hiding it.
You’re not just a thief, I told myself as I lugged it back up the hill.
Congratulations, Hil, you just stole a half million dollars.
The heavyset blond-haired clerk in the Bedford Hills police station looked up at him from her desk. “You said insurance adjuster, right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Charles Mirho nodded affably.
Not that he was an insurance adjuster at all, of course. For him, the whole concept of risk management was simply about staying alive. He’d merely had the business card printed at Kinkos, one he’d used many times in his real line of work, which was mostly uncovering dirt on people who crossed his boss and kicking a little ass when it was called for. And sometimes when it wasn’t. He’d simply embossed the Farmer’s Insurance Group logo in bright red lettering on the front so it would look as real as if he’d passed the insurance licensing exam with flying colors.
Mirho smiled at the clerk. Maybe a tad chubby, but she had huge breasts under her pink sweater, and maybe a little too much mascara around those pretty, maybe a shade too trusting eyes. He didn’t see any wedding ring.
“In the vehicular accident division,” he said. “Claims subrogation. You know, two parties put in counterclaims and ultimately the two insurance mammoths go to battle and somehow it gets resolved. Boring stuff.”
Except in this case, there weren’t two parties at all—only one, and the one was in his grave. But Mirho figured his smile was good enough to charm her into getting what he needed. And the gal, whose desk plate identified her as Chrissie, probably wouldn’t know the difference between claims subrogation and how to figure out the interest on her bank statement.
“You say you want a copy of the case file?” she said.
“That would really help me out.” Mirho smiled.
“And you said the name was Kelty? Joseph.”
“That’s the one. You know, the guy who went off the road up here a week or so ago. Let me see, claim number, I have it right here …” He glanced at his notepad, but it was basically just useless scribbling. “606-410BN … Of course, that’s our number, not yours. We’re one of the coinsurers on his life insurance policy. I just happened to be up here on other business and thought I could save all parties a little time.”
“Of course. Poor guy …” Chrissie exhaled sympathetically. “That stretch of road is always a problem at night.” She wheeled her chair across to a computer screen and Mirho got a glance at those wide-load thighs. He always liked women with some meat on them, and tits like calf bladders.
Chrissie punched into her computer. “Let me see what I can do.”
It was a standard request; case files were routinely shared between the police and the insurers. Usually by a formal request from one of the claimants, but in this case, there was no criminal aspect to the case, only lawyers arguing against lawyers. Insurance bigwigs negotiating it out. It was no big deal.
“Found it,” she said. “Officer Polluto was first on the scene.”
“Polluto,” Mirho said. He already knew that. “Maybe I can talk to him as well.”
“Neil’s out on patrol. I saw him earlier today.” Chrissie punched a key. “Photocopy or PDF?”
“A hard copy would be great,” Mirho said appreciatively. “This sure is saving me a ton of work.”
“You, maybe.” Chrissie chuckled. Her boobs jiggled as she stood up. “Be back in a flash.”
Mirho winked and took a seat on the edge of her desk. He picked up the photo of two smiling teenage girls.
He knew how to manipulate people. It all started with that easy way he had, and conveying what he needed without blinking an eye. Extracting information, that’s mostly what he did. Rule Number One: the more brazenly you asked for something, the greater the likelihood you’d get it. Boldness created its own trust.
No dad in the photo, he thought. Maybe a single mom. Or they could be her nieces.
It took six or seven minutes, but finally Chrissie shuffled back holding a manila envelope.
“You’re lucky. It’s not a very large file. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to wait.” She handed it to him.
“You’re a gem!” Mirho knew he wasn’t exactly George Clooney. He was big shouldered and large, with a round head and short shaved orange hair. A ruddy complexion. But he knew he had that smile. Women trusted him. At least they did for a while. “Maybe I’ll see you next time,” he said. “When something else comes up.”
“Something else …?” Chrissie laughed. “This isn’t exactly the South Bronx up here.”