Dutch, his chances of productivity were shot. And the drive to Century Alliance, just across the Hudson, had been too much to resist.
Inside, framed photographs of the branch’s pooh-bahs hung on a wall beside the entrance. Ellis’s heart stalled a beat at the engraving beneath the top portrait:
ALFRED J. MILLSTONE, PRESIDENT
The man was much like the cabbie had described. He had kind eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, a gently sloped nose that led to a blunt end, and a thick mustache, dark and tidy like his hair. Not the sort of person you’d imagine trading a stack of dollar bills for two barefoot kids on a farm.
Ellis turned to scan the room, seeking the real-life version of the banker among the smattering of faces. A security guard, stocky as a bulldog, cleared his throat while eyeing Ellis. A message. Snoopiness was no more welcome here than behind a peep tent at a carnival.
“Afternoon,” Ellis said. “I just came in to see—”
The guard pointed sharply toward the tellers’ stations. Another hint taken.
Ellis joined the shortest line, behind three bank patrons, and observed the area with more subtlety. Offices for management appeared to be up the stairs. He’d head there to find out, but the guard was still watching.
Soon enough, it was his turn with a clerk, a young woman who, unlike the guard, seemed rather ecstatic to be working in a place stocked with a hefty portion of the city’s cash. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?”
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Millstone, if I could.”
A hitch in her smile. “Oh? Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. I was considering opening an account. With a substantial deposit.”
“Ah, that’s grand. One moment, please.” She stepped away to confer with an older woman, caught in passing with an armful of files. The teller returned with a semi-frown. “Unfortunately, Mr. Millstone is tied up in meetings for the rest of the day. However, our manager would be happy to assist you. If you’ll wait here, I’ll let him know—”
“Actually,” Ellis broke in with a smile, “I’d prefer to come back. Mr. Millstone was referred by a trusted friend, you see.”
She assured him that she understood, and Ellis retreated to his car, where he camped out like a PI. He’d parked just half a block down, ensuring a clear view of the entrance across the street.
When working for the Society page, every so often he’d been tasked with following a celebrity to nab an intriguing picture. A chore he’d despised. Sure, not enough to deter him from later tracking a senator and his harem of mistresses. But this here was different. This wasn’t for his career; it was personal. He needed to know for peace of mind—for Geraldine—that the man who’d taken the kids was as good and upstanding as one would hope.
The bank had been closed for nearly twenty minutes, the sun sliding low in the sky, before a mustached man stepped out of the doors. Ellis sat up. In a charcoal-gray suit and a matching hat, Alfred Millstone adjusted his grip on a cane that appeared more for style than necessity.
Ellis exited his car, prepared with any number of questions: directions to City Hall, recommendations for a show or restaurant. As a reporter, he was never short on queries. He was in the midst of crossing the street when a taxi pulled up to the banker, as if scheduled with no need to be hailed.
A truck blasted a honk. Ellis stumbled back a step, barely missing the vehicle, its cursing driver determined not to swerve.
Welcome to Jersey.
Mr. Millstone had just shut the cab door, about to leave.
Ellis could always come back another day, but a new plan came to him. One that could lead to far greater assurances. Before he could weigh the decision, he hightailed it to his car and rushed to follow.
At a discreet distance, he trailed the taxi to a neighborhood roughly three miles from the bank. A string of impressive Victorian homes lined the north side of the street with intermittent trees. The south side hosted a small park.
When the cab stopped, Ellis pulled over and turned off his engine.
Mr. Millstone soon climbed out. He tipped his hat to the driver and trekked up the short rise of stairs and into the house. The paint was mint green, the trim and porch stark white. Two chimneys topped the steeped roofs, and an intricate gable added more charm. By all appearances, the outcome looked pretty decent for the