Guilt By Degrees - страница 29

“You know,” Bailey said, “the bank will have a record of the time and date of Yamaguchi’s deposit.”

“And Yamaguchi might have a receipt with that information too,” I said. “Corroborating that part of the story shouldn’t be a problem. And if the bank has cameras outside-”

“Which I’d bet they do-”

“Then we might get another angle on the stabbing,” I finished.

It was nearly three p.m. by the time Bailey pulled up in front of the bank, and downtown workers were already beginning to fill the streets, heading for home in cars, buses, and subways. By six o’clock, I knew the streets would be largely deserted, the crowded sidewalks of that afternoon a distant memory. Only the action in the bars and restaurants would show that this was a living, breathing city. The temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the interview with Yamaguchi, and the cool air had a serious bite to it. I pulled up the collar on my peacoat and followed Bailey into the bank.

It never ceases to impress me just how damn useful a badge can be. Within three minutes, we were seated in front of the manager’s desk.

“How can I help you, Detectives?” asked Andy Kim, one of the hippest-looking bank managers I’d ever seen, dressed in a smart, dark-green cashmere suit and paisley tie.

I figured I’d get more respect if he thought I was a detective, so I didn’t bother to correct him. Bailey explained what we wanted.

“We certainly have footage, both inside and out. As you can imagine, in this neighborhood, it’s a necessity.” He gave us a little just-between-us smile. “It’ll take them a few days to get you the footage, but I’ll have the time of Ronald Yamaguchi’s transaction brought in to you right now.” He picked up the phone and made the request.

About ten seconds later, there was a knock on the door, and a young woman who looked pleased to be there came in and handed him a piece of paper.

Andy took it from her and scanned it. “Thank you, Ms. Daley,” he said with a warm smile. He handed the paper to me.

“That’s the hard copy. It seems Ronald Yamaguchi did indeed make a deposit at twelve fifty-seven p.m. on the day in question.”

We thanked Andy, who promised to get us the surveillance-camera footage right away, and left.

“Well, part of Yamaguchi’s story checks out,” Bailey said as we headed for her car.

I got my cell and quickly checked in with Melia to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. She said I hadn’t, but that didn’t mean much. If Melia had a new piece of pulp to read, the building could be seized by terrorists without her knowing it. We got into the car, and I checked my watch. It was four p.m. already. Amazing how time flies when you’re having no luck at all solving a case.

“What’re you doing tonight?” Bailey asked as she steered the car toward the Biltmore.

“Graden’s taking me out,” I replied. Then, because I knew she’d ask, I added, “To Yamashiro’s.”

Bailey whistled softly. “Someone’s gonna get lucky tonight,” she said with a lascivious smile.

I gave her a sideways grin. “Well, if it’s only one of us, it’s gonna be a bad night.”

Graden was going to pick me up at six thirty, which meant at this point I had about fifteen minutes to pull it together. I whipped through my closet, looking for an outfit that would go with my beloved new boots. Black, stretchy slacks would work, and they were nice and long. I have a “thing” about short pants. I’d rather trip on the hems than wear “floods.”

The black lacy top was sexy, but there was a chill in the air, and turning blue with cold would probably undermine the whole sexy thing. I settled on the cobalt-blue cashmere sweater with the roll-neck. Not exactly wowee, but better boring than freezing. A little eyeliner and blush later, I shrugged into my coat and patted my pocket to make sure I still had my.22 Beretta. But I was going to be with a cop and his.44. Did I really need the firepower? Then again, it couldn’t hurt. I left it in my pocket and ran for the elevator.

By the time I got to the lobby, I found Graden standing next to the open passenger door of his darkly gleaming, freshly washed black BMW 750Li. He was talking to Angel, the doorman, who was looking at the car like it was Scarlett Johansson.