“You said you wanted to meet for breakfast.”
“I said I wanted to meet after breakfast. What’s the big deal?”
“We were worried,” Sharren said.
Tracie looked at her as if the remark caught her by surprise.
“Worried?” I said.
“Rush, the first McKenzie, he disappeared, too,” Sharren said. “Just walked away and never came back.”
“He didn’t walk,” Tracie said. “He ran.”
Sharren shrugged as if she didn’t appreciate the difference.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
“Well?” Tracie said again, this time with a fist planted on each hip. “What are we going to do now?”
“Are you always this cranky in the morning?” I said.
Behind Tracie’s back, Sharren made a gesture with her thumb and four curled fingers that was meant to mimic someone taking a drink. Tracie caught me watching Sharren and quickly glanced behind her. Sharren suddenly found something very important on the reception desk to occupy her attention.
“I don’t need this,” Tracie said.
She headed for the door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. Before the door could close, she spun around, grabbed the handle, held the door open, and spoke to me across the threshold.
“Well, are you coming?”
“Sure,” I said.
I felt the heat on my face and arms as I stepped outside. The temperature seemed to have risen dramatically during the few minutes I had been inside the hotel. From the spot in front of the hotel I could see several blocks up the street to the electronic display of First Integrity State Bank of Libbie alternating between time and temperature. 87° F.
“Is it always this hot?” I said.
“In the summer,” Tracie said. “It’s not unusual to have a string of hundred-plus days for weeks at a time. Usually, though, the temperature drops to around sixty degrees at night, which makes it comfortable.”
“If you say so.”
“Well,” she said—I wished she would stop saying that word. “Do you have a plan? Last night you said you had a plan.”
“There’s an old saying,” I said. “When in doubt—”
“Yes?”
“Follow the money.”
Red velvet and gold lamé wallpaper and a thick red carpet greeted us when we entered the First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. An L-shaped teller cage of deep red wood and etched glass stood facing the front doors. Behind the cage, an enormous brass door stood open to reveal a small vault holding perhaps a hundred bronze safe deposit boxes. There was an inner room that, I assumed, contained a safe where the cash and coin were stored. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the center of the lobby. Arrayed beneath the chandelier were a cotton sofa, wicker chairs, and a low, highly polished table with coffee and rolls that were free to customers.
“Jon Kampa owns the bank,” Tracie said. “It’s been in his family for almost a hundred years.”
“Well, if things don’t work out, he could always turn the place into a bordello,” I said.
Only five people worked there, including a man sitting behind a large desk made of the same wood as the teller cage. He was wearing a charcoal suit and a red tie that he adjusted as he came over to greet us.
“Tracie,” he said. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
“Jon,” Tracie said.
Kampa extended his hand toward me. “And you, sir?”
“My name is McKenzie.”
“Ahh, yes. Mr. McKenzie. Well, well, well…”
“Well,” I said. Now you’re doing it, my inner voice told me. “Nice little bank you have here.”
Kampa seemed to bristle at the remark.
“Hardly little,” he said. “We have twenty-eight-point-five million dollars in assets. Given our charter, we feel that is plenty big enough.”
“What is your charter?”
“To serve the good people of Libbie and Perkins County. Now, sir, what can I do for you?”
“Tell me about the Imposter,” I said.
“There is very little information I can provide. Rush—Mr. McKenzie—how shall we refer to him? The Imposter, you said. He talked the city into opening an escrow account with us. The city poured money into it, and so did many of our leading citizens.”
“How much money?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“Oh, c’mon. Can’t you give me a hint?”
Kampa glanced at Tracie. Tracie shrugged.
“No, sir,” he said. “I do not believe that I can.”
“More than a million?”
“Not so much.”
“A half million?”
“I’ve already said too much.”
I had the distinct impression that he was a man prone to saying too much if you pressed him, but I didn’t.
“How did the Imposter manage to steal the money?” I said.
Again, Kampa looked to Tracie.
“McKenzie is trying to help us get it back,” she said.
“Good luck with that,” he said. “The money was transferred to a financial institution in the Cayman Islands, and from there God knows where it was sent. That’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it—hiding money in the Caymans—yet that’s what he did.”