“And?” Honsa asked.
“We’re good to go.”
“Agent Wilson,” he called. A moment later, Harry was standing next to me in the dining room. “You know what to do,” Honsa said. “Use as many people as you need.”
Harry set a hand on my shoulder. “Have you ever seen a million dollars in cash in one place, McKenzie?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a sight to behold.”
“Well, then, let’s go behold it.”
Harry pulled a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer from the holster on his belt and checked the load. Lately the FBI had been encouraging its personnel to switch over to .40 Glocks. Harry was an old-timer, though, and he preferred to carry the gun he broke in with. He returned the SIG Sauer to his holster and buttoned his jacket over it. “I’ll drive,” he said.
A young woman with a full chest and a tight shirt staffed the reception desk at the main branch of my bank. Her eyes looked startled behind her glasses and didn’t change during our entire conversation; it was as if life were a continuous surprise to her. Certainly she seemed surprised when Harry flashed his photo ID and announced, “FBI,” like it was the most fun he’d had in days. She stammered and hemmed and hawed and wrung her hands and abruptly stood and said she would fetch help without once asking what we wanted or why we were there. While she scurried away in search of a supervisor, I glanced at Harry.
“You big bully,” I told him.
“I pick on hostesses in crowded restaurants, too. ‘FBI. I need a table by the window.’ Never fails.”
“To serve and to protect.”
“That’s the cops. I work for the federal government.”
The senior vice president of branch administration was a tall woman who wore a matching pinstripe jacket and trousers over a body that looked like it spent a great deal of time in a gym. Her cotton-blond hair was artfully disheveled, and her face, although not pretty, was animated with the rosy glow of excitement. She stood in front of the reception desk while her assistant reclaimed the chair.
“FBI,” she said. “Wow. To what do we owe the pleasure?” She was speaking to me, I presume, because I was better-looking.
Harry got her attention by flashing his ID again. “Special Agent Brian Wilson,” he said. “This is McKenzie.”
She shook his hand first and then mine. “Lauren Onberg. Please come with me.”
Lauren led us to an office with glass walls. There were chairs in front of a large, cluttered desk and a single chair behind it. After everyone was made comfortable, she asked, “How may I help you?”
“I need a million dollars in cash,” I said. “Five hundred thousand in fifties, the rest in twenties.”
She smiled the way a woman might smile at another woman’s child that is misbehaving. “You’re kidding, right?” she said.
“Do we look like we’re kidding?” Harry said.
“Gentlemen, we don’t have a million dollars on-site. Not in twenties, not in fifties, not in any denominations.”
“It’s a bank,” I reminded her, and she smiled some more.
“You guys watch too many movies, too many television shows where characters withdraw huge sums of money from a cashier and then carry it around in a black attaché case. It doesn’t work that way. This is the real world.”
“Ms. Onberg, this isn’t my first rodeo,” Harry said. “I know how the real world works. Let’s get the process moving.”
“If you want a million dollars in cash, you’ll need to get it from the Federal Reserve Bank in Minneapolis. Now, I can help you with that, but it’ll take three days—assuming, of course, that one of you has an account with our bank. Otherwise…” She spread her hands wide in a gesture of unconcerned helplessness.
“Ms. Onberg,” Harry said.
“No, let me,” I said.
Lauren was still smiling when I leaned across the desk. I slowly and carefully explained the situation to her, making sure to emphasize exactly how old Victoria was and exactly how long she had been missing. I did not raise my voice; I did not threaten her. Yet when I was finished, the smile had left her face and she was on her phone.
“Mr. Starr, this is Lauren. I need your help.” She paused for the reply and said, “Yes, sir, it’s an emergency.”