St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

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told herself as she got out of the car. “AfterI talk with Steve Foley, I won’t have to rub up against American Southwest dress codes.”
    Or any other business kind.
    Wonder how I’ll look in prison orange.
    She slammed the car door. The explosive sound was so satisfying she opened the door and slammed it again. Harder.
    Okay, tantrum over.
    Now think.
    Because thinking is the only thing that will keep me out of bright orange. And I look really lame in orange.
    She’d always assumed that people who went to prison had it coming. What really burned her was that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Her real estate deal was entirely legal. Any other landowner would have been blameless.
    But she was an employee of American Southwest Bank who had, at best, engaged in an unusual private transaction with a very important client. That was a firing offense.
    She could live with that.
    It was the idea of going to prison for laundering money that spiked her blood pressure.
    Automatically she went through the discreet metal detectors, nodded to the guard, and used her electronic passkey on the elevator. Her office wasn’t on the top floor, but Steve Foley’s was. If neckties and ever-shining shoes bothered him, he didn’t show it. He dressed for success, talked for it, breathed for it.
    He was the youngest vice president in the bank’s history. He’d been at the bank a year less than Kayla, decades less than many of the other women in her department, yet he’d leapfrogged over them and into the corner office with the ease of a handsome, charming young executive bound for greatness.
    It hadn’t hurt that his father was a member of the bank’s board of directors.
    Kayla still wasn’t sure if she was more annoyed by the implicit sexism or the explicit nepotism in his rapid promotions. She was sure that she’d never cared for Foley, had passed up his offers for a social relationship with bland professional smiles, and had worked hard for every tiny raise she got.
    Now she had to tell him she’d screwed up. She wondered if he’d be sympathetic or happy to see her on her knees. Her gut said that sympathy was a long shot.
    She found Foley behind a clean walnut desk that was decorated with a seldom-used pen set, a never-used baseball autographed by a Diamondbacks reliever who had since been traded to Kansas City, and a booster’s award plaque from the National Rifle Association. Pretty typical of an Arizona executive. He glanced in her direction as she entered and closed the door behind her.
    “Hey, Kayla.” He flashed a smile perfect enough to be a news anchor’s. “How’s the best-looking banker in Phoenix?”
    Kayla ignored both the smile and the personal remark. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
    Foley glanced at the closed door. “That’s what I’m here for.” He gestured to the client chair across the desk from him. “What’s wrong?”
    “I’m not certain yet,” she said, which was half true. “I just had a meeting with a client. He asked me to deposit a big check for him.”
    “Well, that’s what banks are for, isn’t it?” He pointed to the chair. “Sit.”
    She was tempted to keep on standing, but she sat down, carefully keeping her knees together, a feat that particular chair made nearly impossible. No doubt that was why Foley had chosen it.
    “This is an unusually big check,” Kayla said.
    “How big?” Foley asked without looking away from her long legs.
    “Twenty-two million dollars.”
    He focused on her face. “Not bad, Kayla. Not bad at all. You should be dancing, not frowning. Unless there’s some difficulty with the check?”
    “It’s drawn on a Caribbean bank by one of our best clients, Andre Bertone.”
    “He’s good for a lot more than twenty-two million,” Foley said, rocking back in his swivel chair. “So what’s the problem?”
    “I thought I should run it by you before I cashed the check,” she said carefully. “I’ve never heard of the bank the check is drawn on,

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