It turned out that Pleski had a different view. For some time now he had been knocking himself out giving the boatloads of cash he received from his clients a spin or two in the washing machine before he took them to Catherine and her bank. The casino dodges, the real estate phantasms, the diamonds from India that were actually broken teacups, even fucking rare stamp auctions where he could barely stay awake to make the necessary bids. It was all very tedious, and he wasn’t getting any younger. If only there was an easier way to handle at least some of the jobs, say by simply handing the cash to an accommodating banker and letting her do the work. Which, come to think of it, Catherine had just done for him once, so . . .

Catherine stared at him and sternly shook her head. “I am not accommodating. I was coerced. It was a one-time situation. You made that very clear.”

Pleski smiled and scratched his jaw, his stubble rustling. “I don’t see what your problem is. There could be something in it for you.”

“No.”

“Your call then. You can just do it for fun.”

A couple of traders were walking by the fishbowl, paying no attention to what was going on inside. Catherine stood up. “We’re finished here.” They were alone in the room but she lowered her voice. “Those threats you made. You can’t do anything without implicating yourself. And you have no proof I ever knowingly did anything to help you. Because I didn’t.”

“Well,” he said, looking up at her, “as for before, I was kind of bluffing there. You probably could have called me on it. But now . . . those documents you gave me? Laundering the six hundred seventy-five k? Your fingerprints are on them, figuratively—and literally. And if anyone takes a look at that transaction . . . the address of the ‘villa in Sardinia’ that was the source of funds? It’s a Chinese restaurant. In Sardinia. No kidding. Italian chop suey. Who knew?”

Catherine said nothing.

Pleski was enjoying himself. “Whoever created those documents was a little sloppy. Was it you? Friends of yours? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it violates the sacred code of the Holborn Bank for an employee to be involved in something like that.” He paused. “Not to mention Swiss law.”

Catherine, still standing, said nothing.

“I’ll have some more cash for you soon, so put your thinking cap on.” He hauled himself out of his chair, never the easiest task, and walked to the door, where he turned back for a final word. “See you then, partner.”

Daddy’s Girl

DADDY’S GIRL