“I agree with you, see it your way. People being killed, robbed, and raped out there.
Houses burglarized, cars stolen, children molested. In this city. Same is true all over the
world, except in this country, everybody’s got a gun. A gun in every pot. People hurting
others and themselves, sometimes not even meaning to. Impulse.” He turned around,
pacing the other way.
“Impaired by drugs and alcohol. Suicides that might not have happened Were there not a
gun right there. Acci …” he caught himself, remembering what had happened to
Hammer’s husband.
“What do you want me want us at the bank to do?” He stopped and fixed impassioned
eyes on her.
This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d rung his doorbell, but Hammer knew
when to seize the day.
“You certainly could be a crusader, Sol,” she thoughtfully replied.
Crusader. Cahoon liked that, and thought it time she saw he had some substance, too.
He sat back down and remembered his bourbon.
“You want to help?” she went on.
“Then no more shellacking what really goes on around here. No more bullshit, like this one hundred and five percent clearance rate. People need to know the truth. They need
someone like you to inspire them to come out swinging.”
He nodded, deeply moved.
“Well, you know, that clearance rate crap wasn’t my idea. It was the mayor’s.”
“Of course.” She didn’t care.
“By the way,” he said, curious now.
“What is it really?”
“Not bad.” The drink was working.
“Around seventy- five percent, which is nowhere near what it ought to be, but
substantially higher than in a lot of cities. Now, if you want to count ten-year-old cases
that are finally cleared, or jot down names from the cemetery, or decide that a drug dealer
shot dead was the guy responsible for three uncleared cases …”
He held up his hand to stop her.
“I get it, Judy,” he said.
“This won’t happen again. Honestly, I didn’t know the details. Mayor Search is an idiot.
Maybe we should get someone else.” He started drumming his fingers on the armrest,
plotting.
“Sol.” She waited until his eyes focused on her again.
“I’m afraid I do have unpleasant news, and I wanted you to know in person from me
before the media gets on it.”
He tensed again. He got up and refreshed their drinks as Hammer told him about Blair
Mauney III and what had happened this night. She told him about the paperwork in
Mauney’s rental car. Cahoon listened, shocked, the blood draining from his face. He
could not believe that Mauney was dead, murdered, his body spray-painted and dumped
amid trash and brambles. It wasn’t that Cahoon had ever particularly liked the man.
Mauney, in Gaboon’s experienced opinion, was a weak weasel with an entitlement
attitude, and the suggestion of dishonesty did not surprise Cahoon in the least, the more it
sank in. He was chagrined about US Choice cigarettes with their alchemy and little
crowns. How could he have trusted any of it?
“Now it’s my turn to ask,” Hammer finally said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Jesus,” he said, his tireless brain racing through possibilities, liabilities, capabilities, impossibilities, and sensibilities.
“I’m not entirely sure. But I know I need time.”
“How much?” She swirled her drink.
“Three or four days,” he said.
“My guess is most of the money is still in Grand Cayman, in numerous accounts with
numbers that aren’t linked.
If this hits the news, I can guarantee that we’ll never recover the cash, and no matter what
anybody says, a loss like that hurts everybody, every kid with a savings account, every
couple needing a loan, every retired citizen with a nest egg. ”
“Of course it does,” said Hammer, who also was a faithful client of Gaboon’s bank.
“My eternal point, Sol. Everybody gets hurt. A crime victimizes all of us. Not to
mention what it will do to your bank’s image.”
Cahoon looked pained.
“That’s always the biggest loss. Reputation and whatever charges and fines the federal
regulators will decide.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Dominion Tobacco and its secret, Nobel-potential research always bothered me. I guess