“But the money?”
“The money was gone,” Steve said bitterly. “But Susan was right. There had evidently been room after room of it, stacked to the ceiling. Literally billions of dollars. They'd moved out hurriedly, but they left kicking around enough loose hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens and fives to give us an idea. Look, Woolford, I thought you'd been pulled off this case and that Walt Foster was handling it.”
Larry said sourly, “I'm beginning to think so, too. They're evidently not even bothering to let me know about developments like this. See you later, Steve.”
The other's face faded off.
Larry Woolford looked across the double desk at Irene Day. “Look,” he said, “when you're offered a promotion, take it. If you don't, someone else will and you'll be out in the cold.”
Irene Day said brightly, “I've always know that, sir.”
He looked at her. The typical eager beaver. Sharp as a whip. Bright as a button. “I'll bet you have,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Woolford?”
The phone lit as LaVerne said, “The Boss wants to talk to you, Larry.” Her face faded and Larry's superior was scowling at him.
He snapped, “Did you get anything on this medical records thing, Woolford?”