Read Bermuda Schwartz for Free Online Page B

account and the account number. A few lines down is the date, seven months earlier, when the account was created. Alongside that a column shows my money was transferred to it. Two million dollars.
    I click down the page. There are only a few lines of transactions against the account. Interest accrued, applied quarterly. Maintenance fees charged by Richfield Bank for all the hard work it has done letting my money sit around and collect interest.
    My eyes land on the last transaction in the column. It is a withdrawal of two million dollars and change, dated two months earlier.
    I keep staring, trying to make sense out of it. It is like staring at a plate of scrambled eggs and trying to find a Shakespeare sonnet in it. No sense at all.
    â€œMr. Chasteen.”
    I look up. Mr. Highsmith has returned.
    â€œMr. Bunson can see you,” he says.
    I follow him across the lobby and down a hallway and into a paneled office. Another man in a dark suit stands when we enter the room. He is closer to my age, with that air of assumed gravitas shared by bankers, funeral directors, and TV anchormen.
    â€œI’m Mr. Bunson,” he says.
    â€œMmm,” I say.
    Mr. Bunson motions me to a chair. I sit down. Mr. Highsmith stands behind me, near the door. All the better for calling in security should my outrage extend beyond another bullshit-shouting episode.
    Mr. Bunson says, “Would you mind so very much if I were to look at your credentials, Mr. Chasteen?”
    I hand him my passport and the papers that Richfield Bank had mailed to me in Florida after I’d opened the account. I had presented thesame papers to Mr. Highsmith just a few minutes earlier, but Mr. Bunson gives them greater scrutiny.
    He compares my passport photo to the studly individual sitting across the desk from him. The photo is a couple of years old. I’ve only gotten better looking.
    He examines the signature on the bank papers. He holds it alongside the signature on the passport. My penmanship is lousy. Still, it is consistent.
    Satisfied that I am indeed the one and only Zachary Taylor Chasteen, he slides the credentials back to me. I tuck them away.
    Now it is Mr. Bunson’s turn to study the computer screen on his desk. Which he does for the next several minutes.
    Finally, he looks at me, smiling.
    â€œGuamikeni Enterprises … am I pronouncing that correctly?”
    â€œClose enough,” I say.
    â€œInteresting name.”
    â€œMmmm,” I say.
    He probably wants me to explain it, but I’m not up for that. I just want to know about my money.
    â€œWhat about my money?” I say.
    Mr. Bunson shuffles in his chair. He clears his throat.
    â€œAfter the most recent withdrawal, month before last, you are left with a balance of exactly two thousand dollars,” says Mr. Bunson.
    â€œThat’s what I tried to explain to young Mr. Highsmith,” I say. “I didn’t make a withdrawal month before last or any other month. I haven’t made any withdrawals. I haven’t touched that money. There’s been a mistake.”
    There is more edge to my voice than I’d intended. Mr. Bunson pulls back, his eyes widening. It might also have something to do with the fact that I am pounding a fist on his desk.
    I stop pounding. I sit back in my chair. I breathe deep breaths.
    Mr. Bunson says, “There are four chartered banks in Bermuda, Mr. Chasteen. Between us we handle the accounts of nearly twenty thousand international corporations and countless thousands of IBCs like your own. One reason so many people choose to do offshore business here—we don’t make mistakes.”
    â€œThen where’s my money?”
    â€œA simple explanation,” says Mr. Bunson. “It most likely was withdrawn by the other signatory on your account.”
    â€œWhat other signatory?”
    Mr. Bunson gives Mr. Highsmith a look. It is a look best described as “significant.” I don’t like the way this