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Stormy took a sip of wine to camouflage how overwhelmed she felt. “I’m not usually this dense,” she told Tyler. “But I’m missing whatever point it is you’re trying to make.”
He grinned. “Everybody missed it, love. You see, the bank teller testified that Hadley Wilson handed her his pack and told her to fill it. She did, stuffing it with as many ones as she had on hand and only then going on to larger bills. The next teller he made her pass it to did the same—they’re taught this stuff. There’s no way on God’s green earth that a pack this size will hold one hundred and two thousand dollars unless you stuff it with fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Even then, it’s a tight squeeze. You testified that Wilson went into the bank with his hands empty and returned with his hands empty. So where did he put all that money?”
Stormy shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What was he wearing that day? Think.”
“Shorts…a T-shirt…flip-flops—wait, no…he usually wore flip-flops. He was wearing tennis shoes. And that stupid, ridiculous hip pack, of course. He looked like a tourist.”
Tyler twisted his long-stemmed wineglass, then tilted it toward the pack. “There’s eighty-five hundred dollars in there. I couldn’t get any more in.”
“The conclusion I come to,” Tyler said, watching Stormy’s face, “is that Hadley Wilson didn’t steal one hundred two thousand dollars.”
Stormy’s jaw dropped. “But that’s what he was convicted of… what I—”
“Calm down and hear me out. What it boils down to is that the prosecutor accepted the result of the bank’s audit on the amount of money missing. He made the obvious assumption that Hadley Wilson stole all the missing funds. And an audit, of course, is going to reveal any missing monies—whatever the reason—even teller shortages. I think the bank, or somebody at the bank, did a number on you and Wilson.”
“But Hadleydidrob the bank! He admitted it.”
“Sure he did. And a lovely four-day weekend at Walt Disney World only costs about a thousand bucks. Unless you did some tall shopping, drank yourselves silly, and stayed in five-hundred-dollar-a-night suites—”
“We did no such thing.”
“I didn’t think so. My guess is that Wilson’s little escapade at the bank only netted him petty cash—maybe five, six thousand, tops.”
Stormy sat back in her chair. Clarity was slow in coming, but when it did, her eyes burned like hot embers. “Tyler, are you saying the bank lied about how much money Hadley stole?”
“How much Hadley stole? Yes. How much is missing? No. I think the audit is fairly accurate, though it’s been my experience that even bank examiners can and do juggle figures. We’ll probably never know down to the last dime the exact amount that’s gone missing. As for the charges against you and Wilson, the amount doesn’t matter. All bank robberies are classified as first- or second-degree felonies based on the events—use of a weapon, bodily harm, kidnapping. Unlike other robberies or burglaries, the amount stolen isn’t what makes it a felony. That happened. The amount stoleniswhat my clients are concerned about, though. After all, they had to cover the loss.”
Shock overtook Stormy. “You mean the reason you can’t find the money is that most of it was never stolen in the first place? That means I was railroaded!” she cried, dazed.
“Oh, the money was stolen, all right. It was really a stroke of luck for somebody that the feds declined to prosecute, leaving it up to the state.”
Stormy stiffened. “You mean me? Because we filed a motion for a separate trial and invoked the Speedy Trial Act?”
“Nope. You could’ve done that regardless of who prosecuted you. But when the feds get on a case, they worry it to the bare bone. They investigate down to how many hairs are on your head. There are audits, background checks—”
“All that was done by the state district attorney.”
“Not the D.A. himself. By one of his staff, maybe. And just suppose that staffer was young, green, and right out of law school. He’d walk right into the bank, ask for their robbery audit to determine how much was missing, and call it a day.”
Stormy eyed Tyler with new respect. “You’ve checked that out, haven’t you?”
Tyler smiled. “I’ve been as busy as a bee in heat. Which reminds me, Liane seems—” he cleared his throat “—a bit confused about the birds and bees—scientifically speaking, that is.”
Stormy’s face went pink. “She didn’t ask you about sperm, did she?”
“I’m glad to hear you’re on top of it,” he said, relieved. He opened his mouth to say more but was interrupted by their food arriving.
He tapped on the window and claimed Liane’s attention, signaling her to come inside.
In a daze, Stormy took her daughter to wash her hands, and when they returned to the table, Stormy could barely swallow a bite. So much was at stake. By silent, mutual consent, she and Tyler did not continue their discussion in front of Liane.
Once, during the meal, Stormy gazed up at him, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. He had, without seeming to, earned her respect. He had effectively countered every suspicion she’d had of him. Though she had fought him every step of the way, he had kept his word about helping her. And in the back of her mind, she knew with all her heart that, had they met under any other circumstances, by now, they’d be lovers.
She shook her head at the notion. What he was doing, she reminded herself, had done, was part and parcel of how he worked.
Tyler had a forkful of broiled fish near his mouth when he spied her scrutiny. He lifted an eyebrow. “Do I have cocktail sauce on my face?”
