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

the way a smuggler had written “South Beach” with a certain lightness, with the criminal's dreams present in the word. Not “the girl.” Joe had noticed the thick black letters, the heavily scored border: as if the real girl, whoever she might be, had been weighing on Sean's mind.
    “Did Sean ever talk to you about his work, about the bank?”
    “Naturally,” she said. “We're colleagues.”
    “Did he ever hint at what he was doing about the embezzlement?”
    “Of course not,” she said. “I had no idea . . . I find it hard to believe now. His clients loved him. And he talked about them as if he cared. He cared about everyone.”
    Joe nodded. That wasn't inconsistent with other white-collar criminals; they were so invested in lying to everyone, they also lied to themselves.
    “Can you tell me who he seemed closest to? Here at the bank?”
    “Frank Allingham. And I've seen him having drinks with the bank's attorney, Ralph Benjamin.”
    “What about Mark Boland? Did they ever get past their feud?”
    “No. In fact, Mark was the one who told me to file that criminal report. I thought he should do it himself—at first I'd hoped he could handle it in-house . . .”
    “But of course that would be against regulations,” Joe said slowly. “Once you'd blown the whistle, Mark was required by law to call the FBI.”
    “What would we do without banking regulations?” Fiona asked, shaking her head. “Sean might not have gotten hurt.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Banged his head, I mean,” she said. “Whatever happened on that boat.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because he went so crazy after he was passed over for Mark's job. If only he could have had more time, to pull himself together. He must have gotten wind of the investigation, gotten scared. I think he'd started drinking a little—maybe even doing some drugs.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Sean likes to party,” Fiona said. “Surely I'm not the first one to tell you this.”
    “No,” Joe said. “You're not. I'm getting the feeling he was pretty wild. Was there anyone in particular you can think of that he called ‘the girl'?”
    Fiona frowned and seemed at a loss.
    Just then Mark Boland stuck his head into the office. He looked uptight and harried, but he threw Joe a wide smile. “How's it going, Agent Holmes?” he asked, shaking his hand. “Is there anything I can add to whatever Fiona's helping you with?”
    “He was just asking who Sean called ‘the girl'.”
    “He calls his daughters ‘the girls,' I think. Sometimes he includes Bay in that. As in ‘The girls and Billy are waiting for me at home,' ” Boland said. “Do you have a wife, Mr. Holmes?”
    “No, I don't.”
    “Well, my wife might kill me for saying it, but there's no time limit on calling your wife a girl. Maybe Sean meant Bay. On the other hand, with Sean it could just as easily mean a whole different thing.”
    “I'm getting the picture,” Joe said.
    “Well, I'll leave Fiona to answer the rest of your questions. I have a conference call with the IRS and our lawyer right now. Excuse me.”
    Joe thanked him, then turned back to Fiona Mills. She had given him plenty of her time, and it was time for him to get going. “Is there anything else you'd like to add?” he asked.
    Fiona shrugged. “Sometimes I think Sean was just completely bowled over by all the money he oversaw.”
    Joe watched as she clasped her hands, touched the edge of her desk thoughtfully. “Sean's from a working-class family. We're not very close, but we did—take a few business trips together. We'd talk on the way, or having drinks at the hotel. I take it that they never had much money—Oh, they were comfortable in a middle-class way. But real money—that came much later, after Sean became a banker. He felt left out of so many things growing up.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, like the country club. He caddied for the members. And the yacht club; he worked as a deckhand for people like my