The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) by Luanne Rice

same time. He made no bones about wanting the promotion, and he courted the president and board . . . I knew we'd both eventually get it, which we did, but Sean really seemed to sweat it.”
    “Is that his personality?”
    “Very much so. He likes contests, prizes. One year he was in charge of tellers, and he was always setting up competitions. In one, I remember, the person who opened the most new accounts got a weekend in Newport—things like that. He loves having the biggest boat, the newest car.”
    The opposite of Bay, Joe thought, taking notes.
    “Did you ever think he was embezzling from clients?”
    “Not back then,” she said. “Never. It started after the presidency thing—”
    “When Shoreline brought Mark Boland over from another bank?”
    “Yes. Anchor. I have to admit, I was upset, too. Both Sean and I were hoping for the job. I think either one of us would have been great at it. But they brought in Boland instead.”
    “And Sean's behavior changed after that?”
    Fiona nodded. “Yes, he was furious. He was really uncooperative at first—unwilling to share numbers, discuss loans. He'd miss meetings, going out on his boat every chance he got. I actually grabbed him after work one day, told him to pull it together—for his family's sake, if not his own.”
    “He was on the way to getting fired?”
    Fiona nodded. “I think he was heading in that direction.”
    “And then what?”
    “Well, a few bad loans—I suspected something, but I didn't want to say. Sean began seeing one of the loan officers, Lindsey Beale—very openly, brazenly. I know Bay and like her, and I thought he was acting like an ass. He began taking Lindsey to the casino, and she'd come in the next day and talk about it.”
    “Indiscreet.”
    “Very. Lindsey would talk about Sean blowing lots of money, and suddenly he started having some bad loans, and I began getting a bad feeling.”
    “Did you talk to him?”
    “Yes. He told me it was nothing. At first . . . but then he started avoiding me. Any time I wanted to discuss something, he'd tell me to leave him a voice mail, send him an e-mail. Eventually, I brought it up to Mark.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. He was very upset. He liked Sean—everyone did. And I think Mark is sensitive enough to know that Sean hated losing out to him. They had a history of some sort—high school sports. And they played golf, I think. Sean was the kind of guy who, if he played golf against you, wanted to play for your watch, your cuff links.”
    “And money?”
    Fiona shook her head. “Not so much. I think it was an heirloom thing; Sean came from a working-class family, and he really liked the trappings of growing up WASP. So many New England bankers have that sort of upbringing . . .”
    Joe nodded. He had read the file. Fiona had gone to New York with Sean on a bank seminar, three years ago; records obtained from the Hotel Gregory indicated that they had shared a room. They had the job in common, but Joe suspected that it had been her boarding-school poise that had attracted him most. Fiona had grown up in Providence, summered in Newport. Her family was listed in the Social Register. She had attended the Madeira School and Middlebury College, with an advanced degree from Columbia Business School.
    She was very cool right now, staring at Joe. In spite of the air-conditioning, a trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades. He found himself wondering whether she could be “the girl.”
    The police had found a folder full of bank statements and account ledgers on Sean's boat. Joe had analyzed them, realized that they represented many of the people Sean had stolen from. What confused him was the way Sean had written “the girl” over and over—Joe had examined many criminals' doodles, and he could generally make sense of the emotions inside at the time of the drawings.
    He had seen the way a check forger had written “Paris,” and the way a murderer had doodled “Mary Ann,” and