Convicted, стр. 30

Every midday and evening, Claire would sit down to eat with Madeline and Francis. The idea of eating each meal alone was too daunting. Within no time at all, meals became Claire’s favorite time of day. She loved to watch the two of them interact, as Madeline’s expression absolutely glowed when she was near Francis. They had so many stories to share; Claire could sit and listen for hours. To Madeline’s insistence, each meal began with a prayer. It was a ritual Claire hadn’t practiced since she was young, and after so much change and discord in her life, she found it comforting. It wasn’t what Claire imagined her life would be, but at least she felt safe and accepted. Considering everything she’d endured—that was a lot—more than she could ever ask for...

Those who have trusted where they ought not, will surely mistrust where they ought not.

—Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

Although it was only a little over two weeks since Tony was with the FBI in Boston, it seemed like a lifetime had passed. Even he didn’t recognize his reflection in the mirror. His beard growth and unkempt hair, along with his uncustomary clothes, created a person Tony was tired of being. As he lay within the hostel in Geneva, he knew his first goal was in sight. He’d sacrificed comfort to maintain the cash necessary to, once again, become Anton Rawls. That wasn’t who he planned to be forever; nevertheless, Anton was a necessary step to accessing his hidden treasure.

The new suit hanging near his bed took more of his cash reserve than he’d used on living expenses for the entire two weeks. That, plus the razor he’d just bought, was waiting to reveal the man beneath. Tony tried unsuccessfully to sleep as thoughts of his morning filled his mind. In the morning, he’d finally access the financial institution and resume a more accustomed lifestyle.

During the past seventeen days, Tony had done more than travel. He’d spent time at internet cafes, learning what he could. At first, he followed the developments of Rawlings Industries. The Vandersols were continuing to taunt the press with accusations. With each statement or news release, the price of stock in Rawlings and it’s many subsidiaries took another hit. One article said the board of directors named Timothy Bronson temporary CEO, in the absence of CEO Anthony Rawlings.

Tony wasn’t sure how he felt about their decision. Did they truly feel he was that easily replaced? Then, as the days passed, Tony came to the realization that he supported Tim’s new role. After all, over the past few years, he’d been grooming him for just such a move. It wasn’t like Tony planned to disappear, but Tim had shown promise from the beginning. It was good to know he was the man in charge.

Once that realization struck, Tony experienced an unexpected release from his business obligations. He could spend his time watching his empire struggle to survive and still do nothing, or he could spend his time learning more about Agent Jackson’s odd remarks and tracking down his family. For the first time in his life—Rawlings Industries paled in importance.

Whenever he could, Tony researched rabbit trails of information. Nothing came together. He knew he was missing too many pieces of the puzzle.

He’d also taken two short calls from Agent Jackson. He read somewhere that fifty-six seconds of connection was necessary to track a call. He wasn’t sure if that were true, but to be safe, he kept their conversations under that mark. Understandably, the FBI wanted more; nevertheless, Tony divulged just enough to keep them pacified.

“Yes, I’m in Europe”—“No, I haven’t been in contact with anyone in the States”—“Yes. If I didn’t have the damn phone, then you wouldn’t be talking to me now”—“Goodbye.” Although he hated the monitoring, thinking about the calls made Tony grin. Each time he kept the information limited and heard the distain in Agent Jackson’s voice, Tony felt like he’d accomplished a small victory. Maybe it was only one hand in an all-night card game; nonetheless, each winning hand adds to the final jackpot.

The razor pulled at his facial hair as Tony worked to, once again, become Anton Rawls. The financial institution was a mere drive from the hostel where he’d slept. Although his body ached from the too soft bed, it was nothing compared to the mayhem cursing through his mind. After all these days, his goal was so close.

During the last few weeks, he’d learned to utilize public transportation, but Tony knew that wouldn’t do for the bank; therefore, dressed in his new, finest suit, Tony entered the lobby of one of the nearby five star hotels and casually ate breakfast in one of its finer restaurants. No one questioned his presence—he obviously belonged. Tony wanted to enjoy the fine cuisine. Undoubtedly, it was the best he’d eaten in a while, but his thoughts of the safety deposit box wouldn’t allow the aroma or taste of Eggs Benedict to register. When he was done, he exited the front door, told the bellman to flag him a cab, and rode to the bank. On any other day, it would have been a customary thing for him to do, but today it was revolutionary.

No one within the financial institution questioned his identity. Even if they’d seen him before, he was the same Anton Rawls who always visited the institution—the only one to access the safety deposit box in the last twenty-five years.

When presented with the customary ledgers, Tony stared at the list of signatures. There were his own—or more accurately—Anton Rawls written repeatedly; however, that wasn’t what caught Tony’s attention. That wasn’t what caused his neck to straighten and his jaw to clench. The last two signatures—directly above where he was about to sign—were from Marie Rawls. The first signature was dated: 11-09-13. It always took a minute to remember that not everyone dated as Americans did. The numbers he saw meant: eleventh day, ninth month of the thirteenth year. The second signature was signed two days later.

Speaking perfect French, Anton inquired, “Who is this? Did someone else access my box?”

The employee looked puzzled, read the signature, and then referred to some documents. When he was done, he sheepishly replied, “Yes, sir, your safety deposit box can be accessed by two individuals—you and a Marie Rawls. It appears that the woman who was here presented the clerk with appropriate identification.” Then he asked, “Mr. Rawls, is there a problem?”

Tony could barely see. He didn’t know what this meant—except that he needed to see inside his safety deposit box and verify his accounts. His short, curt words revealed his obvious displeasure, “There better not be. I want to see my box immediately.”

“Yes, sir, I need your key, please.”

Tony handed him the key and followed the nervous man into the vault. The process of inserting both keys took longer than Tony ever remembered. He knew it was his impatience; however, he swore the whole thing was happening in slow motion. Once the box was removed, Tony followed the employee into a private room.

“Sir, do you want me to stay?”

“No, leave.” His directive was more of a growl as his dark gaze assaulted the bank’s employee. Tony didn’t care; he wanted the man gone. He needed to see what was inside the box—or more accurately—what may be missing, in private.

The employee stepped quietly from the room and Tony opened the box. In all the years he’d transferred and reinvested Nathaniel’s funds, never had the contents of this box taken him by surprise—until now.

Instead of the customary documents, Tony reached into the depths of the steel container and removed a disposable international cell phone. It was very similar to the one he had for the FBI. Along with the phone, there was also a charger and an envelope.