The Heaven Trilogy Read online

  Kent rose a full hour ahead of schedule, anxious and not knowing exactly why. He showered, dressed in navy slacks and a starched white shirt, and changed ties three times before settling on a red silk Countess Mara. He then sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and watching the clock. The bank opened at eight, but he would walk in at ten after. Seemed appropriate. Make a statement, although he was not sure why he needed to make a statement. Or even what that statement would be. Possibly he relished the image of walking through the bank after everyone else had arrived, nodding to their smiles of consolation; acknowledging their words of congratulations. He dismissed the notion. If anything, he felt like sneaking in and avoiding the predictable shows of sympathy. Still, some form of congratulations would be in order.

  A hundred scenarios ran through his mind, followed by a healthy dose of self-correction for letting the thoughts occupy him at all. In the end he blamed it all on his stressed mental state. Some psychiatrists suggested that men bent upon success became more attached to their work than to their spouses. Married to their jobs. He doubted he’d ever gone to such extremes, but the notion seemed somewhat attractive now. After all, Gloria was gone. So then, possibly he was having first-date jitters.

  Kent scoffed at the idea and stood from the table. Enough blather. Time to go.

  He climbed behind the wheel of the silver Lexus and drove to the bank. The butterflies rose in his stomach when the renovated office complex, now bearing the name Niponbank, loomed on the corner of Fifth and Grand. A thousand times he’d approached the old, red-brick building in the Lexus, barely aware of the downtown maze through which he drove. Hardly noticing his stopping and starting at lights as he closed in on the twenty-story structure, sitting there like an oversized fire station.

  Now every movement became acute. A newsman ran on about inflation over the stereo. Cars streamed by, completely lost to the fact that he was reentering their world after a three-week absence. Pedestrians wandered in abstract directions with intent, but otherwise aimless. He wondered if any of them had lost someone recently. If so, no one would know. The world was moving ahead, full stride, with or without him.

  The light just before the bank remained red for an inordinate period. Two full minutes, at least. In that time he watched eighteen people ascend or descend the sweeping steps leading to the bank’s main floor. Probably tenants from the upper stories.

  The car behind him honked, and he started. The light had turned. He motored across the intersection and swung the Lexus into the side parking lot. Familiar cars sat in their customary slots. With one last look in the mirror, his pulse now drumming steadily, Kent eased out of the sedan. He snatched his briefcase from the backseat and strode for the main entry.

  Like walking up to a dream date on prom night. Good grief !

  Long, polished, white steps rose like piano keys to the brass-framed glass doors. The year-old face-lift suited the building. He grabbed the brass handrail and clicked up the steps. With a final tingle at the base of his spine, he pushed through the entry.

  The three-story lobby loomed spacious and plush, and Kent paused just inside the doors. The tall brass yacht hovered ahead, stately and magnificent, seemingly supported by that one thin shaft. Sidney Beech, the branch’s assistant vice president, clacked along the marble floor, thirty feet from Kent. She saw him, gave him a friendly nod, and continued her walk toward the glass-enclosed offices along the right wall. Two personal bankers he recognized as Ted and Maurice talked idly by the president’s office door. A dozen stuffed maroon guest chairs sat in small groupings, waiting in perfect symmetry for patrons who would descend on the bank at nine.

  To Kent’s left, the gray-flecked floor ran up to a long row of teller stations. During peak hours, fifteen tellers would be shuffling bills across the long, hunter-green counter. Now, seven busied themselves for the opening.

  Kent stepped forward toward the gaping hall opposite him where the marble floor ended and the teal carpet ran into the administration wing. The large seagull that hung on the wall above the hall seemed to be eyeing him.

  Zak, the white-haired security guard, stood idly to Kent’s right, looking important and doing exactly what he had done for five years now: nothing. He had seen it all a thousand times, but coming in now, it struck him as though new. Like a déjà vu. I’ve been here before, haven’t I? Yes, of course. At any moment a call would come. Someone would notice that Kent Anthony had just entered the building. The man responsible for the new processing system. The man whose wife had just died. Then they would all know he had arrived.

  But the call did not come.

  And that bothered him a little. He stepped onto the carpet and swallowed, thinking maybe they had not seen him. And, after all, these front-lobby workers were not as close to his world as the rest. Back in the administration sections they referred to those who worked out in the large foyer as the handlers. But it was them, the processors, who really made banking work—everyone knew that.

  Kent breathed deeply once, walked straight down the hall, and opened the door to his little corner of the world.

  Betty Smythe was there at her desk on the left—bleached, poofy-white hair and all. She had a tube of bright red lipstick cocked and ready to apply, one inch from pursed lips already too red for Kent’s taste. Immediately her face went a shade whiter, and she blinked. Which was how he supposed some people might respond to a waking of the dead. Only it was not he who had died.

  “Hi, Betty,” he said.

  “Kent!” Now she collected herself, jerked that red stick to her lap, and squirmed on the seat. “You’re back.”

  “Yes, Betty. I’m back.”

  He’d always thought that Borst’s decision to hire Betty had been motivated by the size of her bra rather than the size of her brain, and looking at her now he was sure of it. He glanced about the reception area. Beyond the blue armchairs the hall sat vacant. All four oak office doors were shut. A fleeting picture of the black nameplates flashed through his mind. Borst, Anthony, Brice, Quinn. It had been the same for three years now.

  “So how are things going?” he asked absently.

  “Fine,” she said, fiddling with the latch on her purse. “I don’t know what to say about your wife. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t say anything.” She had not mentioned AFPS yet. He turned and smiled at her. “Really, I’ll be fine.” So much for the blaring reception.

  Kent walked to the first door on the left and entered his office. The overhead fluorescent stuttered white over his black workstation, tidy as he had left it. He closed the door and set the briefcase down.

  Well now, here he was. At home once again. Three computer monitors rested on the corner station, each displaying the same exotic-fish screensaver in unison. His high-back leather chair butted up to the keyboard.

  Kent reached for his neck and loosened his collar. He slid into his chair and touched the mouse. The screens jumped to life as one. A large three-dimensional insignia reading “Advanced Funds Processing System” rolled out on the screen like a carpet inviting entry. “Welcome to the bank,” the last of it read. Indeed, with this little baby, an operator had access to the bank in ways many a criminal would only dream of through fitful sleep.

  He dropped into his chair, punched in his customary access code, and dropped a finger on the ENTER key. The screen went black for a moment. Then large yellow letters suddenly popped up: ACCESS DENIED.

  He grunted and keyed in the password again, sure he had not forgotten his own son’s name: SPENCER.

  ACCESS DENIED, the screen read again. Borst must have changed the code in his absence. Of course! They had integrated the program already. In doing so, they would need to set a primary access password, which would automatically delete the old.

  Kent hesitated at the door to his office, thinking again that he had been in the office for a full five minutes now and not one word of congratulations. Borst’s closed door was directly across the hall. He should walk in and let the man bring
him up to speed. Or perhaps he should make an appearance in Todd’s or Mary’s office first. The two junior programmers would know what was up.

  At the last moment he decided to check in on Will Thompson in the loan department instead. Will would know the buzz, and he was disconnected.

  He found Will at his desk, one floor up, bent over his monitor, adjusting the focus.

  “Need any help with that?” Kent asked, grinning.

  Will looked up, surprised. “Kent! You’re back!” He extended a quick hand. “When did you get back? Gee, I’m sorry.”

  “Ten minutes ago.” Kent reached down and twisted a knob behind the monitor. The menu on the screen immediately jumped into clear view.

  Will smirked and sat down. “Thanks man. I always could count on you. So, you okay? I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you back here.”

  Kent sat in a guest chair and shrugged. “I’m hanging in there. It’s good to be back to work. Keep me distracted, maybe.”

  The loan officer lifted an eyebrow. “So, you’re okay with it all?”

  Kent looked at his friend, not sure what he was asking. “It’s not like I have a lot of choice in the matter, Will. What’s done is done.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. I just thought that on top of your wife’s death and all, you might see things differently.” The room suddenly seemed deathly quiet. It struck Kent then that something was amiss. And like Betty, Will had not congratulated him. A thin chill snaked down his spine.

  “See what differently?” he asked.

  Will stared at him. “You . . . you’ve talked to Borst, right?”

  Kent shook his head. Yes indeed, something was very much amiss, and it wasn’t sounding good. “No.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You haven’t heard a thing?”

  “About what? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, Kent . . .” His friend winced. “I’m sorry, man. You’ve got to talk to Borst.”

  That did it. Kent stood abruptly and strode from the room, ignoring a call from Will. His gut turned in lazy circles down the elevator. He stepped into the computer wing and walked right past a wide-eyed Betty to the back offices where Todd and Mary would be diligently at work.

  He smacked through Todd’s door first.

  “Hey, Todd.”

  The redhead started and shoved his chair back. “Kent! You’re back!”

  A stranger sat in a chair to the junior programmer’s right, and the sight caught Kent off guard for a moment. The man rose with Todd and smiled. He stood as tall as Kent, he wore his hair short, and his eyes were the greenest Kent had ever seen. Like two emerald marbles. A starched white shirt rested, crisp, on broad shoulders. The man stuck his hand out, and Kent removed his eyes from him without taking it.

  Todd stood slack-jawed. A button on his green shirt had popped open, revealing a hairy white belly. The programmer’s eyes looked at him like black holes, filled to the brim with guilt.

  “I’m back. So, tell me what’s up, Todd. What’s happening here that I don’t know about?”

  “Ah, Kent, this is Cliff Monroe. I’m showing him the ropes.” He motioned to the man beside him. “He’s new to our staff.”

  “Good for you, Cliff. Answer my question, Todd. What’s changed?”

  “What do you mean?” The junior programmer lifted his shoulders in an attempt to look casual. The motion widened the shirt’s gap at his belly, and Kent dismissed the sudden impulse to reach in there and yank some hair.

  Kent swallowed. “Nothing changed while I was out, then?”

  “What do you mean?” Todd shrugged again, his eyes bugging.

  Kent grunted in disgust, impatient with the spineless greenhorn. He turned and stepped across the hall to Mary’s office. He pushed the door open. Mary sat at her desk with her phone pressed to her ear, facing away from the door, talking. She turned around slowly, her eyes round.

  As if, Honey! You knew I was coming. Probably having an important discussion with a dial tone. Fitting partner.

  Kent shut the door firmly and strode for Borst’s door, his spine now tingling right up to his skull. The man sat stiffly in his chair, his three-piece suit tight, sweat beading his brow. His bald spot shone as if he’d oiled it. His large, hooked nose glistened like some shiny Christmas bulb. The superior made a magnanimous effort to show shock when Kent barged in.

  “Kent! You made it back!”

  Of course I made it back, you witless fool, he almost replied. Instead he said, “Yes,” and plopped down in one of Borst’s tweed guest chairs. “I called you on Friday, remember. So who’s the new employee?”

  “Cliff ? Yes, he’s a transfer from Dallas. An excellent programmer, from what I hear.” The middle-aged man flicked his tongue across thick lips and ran a hand through what hair he had. “So. How’s the missis?”

  The room lapsed into silence. The missis? Gloria? Borst must have realized his blunder, because a stupid grin crossed his face, and he went red.

  Kent spoke before the man could cover his error, hot with anger. “The missis is dead, remember, Markus? It’s why I’ve been gone for three weeks. You see, there’s an office across the hall that has my name on it. And for five years now, I’ve been working there. Or had you forgotten that as well?”

  Borst turned beet red now, and not from embarrassment, Kent guessed. He continued before the man could recover. “So how did the AFPS presentation go, Markus?” He forced a smile. “Are we on top?” He meant, am I on top, but he was sure that Borst would catch the drift.

  The phone rang shrilly on the desk. Borst glared at Kent for a moment and then snatched it up, listening.

  “Yes . . . yes put him through.”

  Kent sat back and crossed his legs, aware that his heart was pounding. The other man straightened his tie and sat upright, attentive for whoever was about to address him on the phone. He turned from Kent and spoke. “Yes, Mr. Wong . . . Yes, thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Wong? Borst was thanking the Mr. Wong?

  “I’d be delighted.” He turned and faced Kent purposefully. “Yes, I’m tied up with a luncheon on the East Coast Wednesday, but I could fly to Tokyo on Thursday.” Kent knew that something very awful was happening here. He was now sweating badly, despite the air conditioning.

  “I’d be delighted,” Borst said. “Yes, it did take a lot, but I had a good crew on it as well . . . Yes, thank you. Good-bye.”

  He dropped the phone in its cradle and stared at Kent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it came out rehearsed. “Come on, Kent. Surely you didn’t expect all of the glory on this, did you? It’s my department.”

  Kent swallowed, suddenly fearing the worst. But that would be virtually impossible.

  “What did you do?” His voice sounded scratchy.

  “Nothing. I’m just implementing the program. That’s all. It is my program.”

  Kent began to tremble slightly. “Okay, let’s back up here. In Miami I was set to introduce AFPS to the convention. You remember that, right?” He was sounding condescending, but he could not help himself.

  Borst nodded once and frowned.

  “But I got called away, right? My wife was dying. You with me here?”

  This time Borst did not acknowledge.

  “So I asked you to wing it for me. And I’m assuming you did. Now, surely somewhere in there you mentioned my name, right? Gave credit where credit was due?”

  Borst had frozen like ice.

  Kent scooted forward on his seat, steaming. “Don’t tell me you stole all the credit for AFPS, Markus. Just tell me you didn’t!”

  The division supervisor sat with an ashen face. “This is my division, Kent. That means that the work out of here is my responsibility. You work for me.” He went red as he spoke. “Or did you forget that simple fact?”

  “You put the paperwork through! This has always been my bonus! We’ve discussed it a thousand times! You left me out?!”

  “No. You’re in there. So is Todd, and so is Mary.”

 
“Todd and Mary?” Kent blurted incredulously. “You put my name in small print along with Todd’s and Mary’s?” And he knew Borst had done exactly that.

  He shoved an arm toward the door. “They’re junior programmers, Markus! They write code that I give them to write. AFPS is my code!” He nearly shouted now, boring down on the supervisor with a straining neck.

  “I designed it from scratch. Did you tell them that? It was my brainchild! I wrote 80 percent of the functioning code, for Pete’s sake! You yourself wrote a measly 5 percent, most of which I trashed.”

  That last comment pushed Borst over the edge. The veins on his neck bulged. “You hold your tongue, mister! This is my department. I was responsible for the design and implementation of AFPS. I will hire and fire who I see fit. And for your information, I have been allotted a twenty-five-thousand-dollar spiff for the design engineer of my choice. I was going to give that to you, Kent. But you are rapidly changing my mind!”

  Now something deep in Kent’s mind snapped, and his vision swam. For the first time in his life he felt like killing someone. He breathed deeply twice to stabilize the tremor in his bones. When he spoke, he did so through clenched teeth.

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars!” he ground out. “There was a performance spiff on that program, Markus. Ten percent of the savings to the company over ten years. It’s worth millions!”

  Borst blinked and sat back. He knew it, of course. They had discussed it on a dozen occasions. And now he meant to claim it all as his. The man did not respond.

  The rage came like a boiling volcano, right up through Kent’s chest and into his skull. Blind rage. He could still see, but things were suddenly fuzzy. He knew he was erupting, knew Borst could see it all—his red face, his trembling lips, his bulging eyes.

  Gripping his hands into fists, Kent suddenly knew that he would fight Borst to his death. He had just lost his wife; he was not about to give up his own livelihood. He would use every means at his disposal to claim his due. And in the process he would bury this spineless pimp before him.