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Seated, I pull down the hem of my gray pencil skirt, push up the sleeves of my cream silk blouse, and cross one red-soled high-heeled foot over the other. I feel elegant, sexy, and fierce. By my feet is Isa’s pink diaper bag, which I emptied except for a dozen or so disposable diapers plus a package of wipes. The bag will soon be holding much more than Pampers.
This is no ordinary bank. It’s palatial and caters to the mega-rich who use it for money laundering, tax shelters, and cartel cash. The clients include Russian oligarchs, Saudi princes, and mafia jefes as well as corrupt politicians and businessmen. And my deceased father, Yzak Milov.
Two guards armed with automatic weapons stand like statuaries on either side of the grand entrance. They don’t intimidate me. After what I went through with Nurse Marley Manners, nothing does.
At exactly three o’clock, a tall, wiry thirty-something man with hawkish features and dressed in a bespoke dark suit, strides up to me. Niles Wentworth, the bank’s general manager.
“Mrs. Sinclair, I’ve been expecting you.” His accent is British and posh. “Let me escort you to the vault where your father’s safety-deposit box is located. You can be assured of the utmost privacy and security, and there is a call button should you require anything.”
I thank him as he looks down at Isa, adorably dressed in a floral romper and bonnet, and forces his stiff upper lip into a smile. “Hmm…and who might this be?” From the frosty tone of his voice, he doesn’t seem to like children. Or at least be comfortable with them.
“This is my daughter, Isa. She’ll be accompanying me.” With Isa tucked in her carrier, I reach for the diaper bag and rise to my feet. Sparing the baby-phobic man from having to make conversation, I tell him I’m on a tight schedule and ask to be led back to the safety-deposit box without further ado.
The vault is vast. I follow the bank manager to my father’s bronzed box. It’s the size of a small safe. Avoiding eye contact with Isa, he explains how to punch in the security code that will unlock the box. When I’m done, I should ring the call button and someone will come fetch me. Finally, he offers his “sincerest” condolences to me for the death of my father.
Isa scrunches her face and emits what sounds like a growl.
I silently laugh. She’s read my mind.
Fuck off, Wentworth.
I politely thank him as he hurries out, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him. With fearless determination, I punch in the six-digit code to the box. My birthday: 11-24-92. A buzz sounds and I crank the handle. The door pops wide open. So do my eyes.
Before me are stacks of one-thousand-dollar bills, occupying every square inch of the safety-deposit box. Each about a half inch thick, secured by a red rubber band. The smell of the money assaults me as I slip out one of them.
Bringing it to a table where I set down Isa’s diaper bag, I remove the elastic. One by one I count the crisp, green bills out loud. One hundred in total. One hundred thousand dollars! I restack the bills and secure the pile with the rubber band, not fretting that it’s not as neat as it was before. Sitting, I unzip Isa’s diaper bag and set the dozen or so Pampers on the table before dropping the stack inside it. Then, gripping the diaper bag, I return to the safety-deposit box and swiftly empty it. Counting the stacks of bills. Carefully dropping each one into the bag. My pulse quickens. It takes all of fifteen minutes. Two hundred stacks in total. Twenty million dollars. Lugging the now heavy bag, I return to the table where I layer the disposable diapers and package of wipes over the bills until they’re not visible. I zip up the bag and then stab the call button.
Niles, the bank manager, returns.
“I hope you found everything you needed,” he says, the tone of his voice smug.
I quirk an equally smug smile back at him. “Yes, thank you. I did.”
Suddenly, Isa begins to cry at the top of her lungs, and a horrific stench fills the confined space.
Wentworth makes a face, crinkling his beaky nose. I can hardly contain my laughter.
“Whoops! I think my daughter just pooped.”
To the bank manager’s horror, I change Isa right before him on the table, opening the diaper bag to reveal the contents. Diaper after diaper.
Fighting the urge to rub the soiled diaper in Wentworth’s face, I zip up the bag and follow him out of the vault. I press my lips to Isa’s scalp, my little accomplice in crime, should one call her that.
She laughs. Nothing’s sweeter than my baby’s laughter.
Back at the oceanfront Ritz-Carlton hotel, I find sunbaked Rena sitting on the terrace of our deluxe two-bedroom suite, nursing a mojito and inhaling a cigarette. I’ve given up on telling her to quit smoking. There’s no point anymore just as there’s no point calling her mother. When the surgeons opened her chest to remove the bullet she miraculously survived, they found something else. Inoperable small cell lung cancer, her lungs tarnished beyond repair from a lifetime of tobacco use. She may live another six months. If she’s lucky. If she’s not, it could be any day. When she found out, she showed zero emotion and looked the other way.
Later in the evening, we order in room service. Grilled snapper, fritters, and conch salads plus an expensive bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. While waiting for dinner to arrive, I bathe Isa and nurse her in our bedroom. Then put her down in her portable crib, hoping she’ll sleep through the night despite the three-hour time difference. The diaper bag with the money is never out of my sight.
Following our dinner, a snockered Rena retreats to her bedroom, me to mine. Isa sound asleep, I find my iPhone and call my now-on-retainer attorney, Gershon Loeb. Only 6p.m. on the West Coast, he’s still in his office and accepts the call. He’s been expecting it. Following a brief exchange of small talk, I get to the point.
“Gersh, as discussed, I’d like you to send anonymous checks to all the victims of my father’s transgressions. Two million dollars each. The money will be in the account by tomorrow afternoon.”
In my mind’s eye, I can see Gersh nod. “No problem, Ava. I’ll take care of it. You have a safe trip back.”
The call ends. I loll my head back, close my eyes, and let out a sigh. All the money in the world can’t bring back the lives of the mothers, daughters, and children my ruthless father destroyed, but this is the least I can do. Some form of justice will be served.
Straightening, I feel the tension in my neck and shoulders. It’s time for that long bath I’ve promised myself. Stripping off my clothes, I cocoon myself in the fluffy robe I saw hanging in the closet above the safe and head to the bathroom. I turn on the Jacuzzi tub.
