California Demon (16 page)

“Anyway,” he said, “it’s a pain in the butt—sorry,
rear,
” he said, looking at Timmy, who happily yelled out “Baby butt!” just to embarrass me.

Cutter mouthed an apology, then took Timmy’s hand. On the sidewalk, Timmy kept up with the “Baby Butt” song, but eventually lost interest, and started pulling leaves off a decorative shrub instead.

“I hope you get your loan,” I said.

“I will. I just have to find the right bank.” He looked at me sideways. “Sort of like you.”

I reached out and grabbed the back of Timmy’s shirt before he could launch himself off the sidewalk. “Not following you,” I said to Cutter.

He took Tim from me and hoisted him up to his shoulders. Timmy yelped and squealed and pulled at Cutter’s hair. No pain registered on Cutter’s face, proving once again that the military training he listed on his bio was absolutely true.

“I overheard you in there,” he said, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them into a pocket before Timmy destroyed them. “What’s the deal? You’re trying to find a bank to match your safe-deposit box key?”

“Something like that,” I admitted.

“Because people are always trying to match up mysterious keys,” he said.

“Cutter . . .”

He held his hands out, surrender-style. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Actually, I can,” I said, but with a grin. The truth is I trust Cutter. Not enough to tell him about my secret identity, of course, but I do trust the man. For one thing, he’s known from the first day I showed up in his dojo—and pretty much beat the pants off of him—that I wasn’t what I seemed. He’d questioned, but he’d never pushed. And, honestly, that had meant as much to me as the training he’d given me over the past few months.

He flashed a trademark Cutter grin, then leaned in close to my ear. “One day, Kate Connor,” he whispered, his voice flowing over me like warm honey. “One day you’re going to tell me your secrets.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, lowering my voice to match his. “But today’s not the day.”

I stepped back, and looked at him. Our eyes locked, and for just a second, I thought that he was going to push the point. Then he blinked. The moment faded, and I let out a sigh of relief. I’d meant what I said. Someday, yes. But not now.

“So I’ll see you at practice?” he asked.

“I think so. But a few things have come up lately, and my schedule is crazy.” That, at least, was the absolute truth.

“Fair enough, but are you still interested in finding another sparring partner?” A few weeks ago, we’d talked about finding me someone else to spar with. Someone whose moves I hadn’t started to anticipate.

“Of course I am. Why?”

“I may have someone. New guy. Seems pretty competent. I’ll give him the once-over, and if he passes muster, I’ll give you a call.”

“All right.” I held my arms up, signaling for him to pass me my kid. “We need to get going. I’m late for my secret mission.”

“You’re a riot, Kate. You know that, right?” He swung Timmy to the ground, then held out his hand. “Let me just see the damn thing.”

“Damn’s a bad word,” said Timmy helpfully, as I reached my free hand into my back pocket and pulled the key out. I passed it to him, and he studied it, then passed it back.

“What do I get if I can tell you what bank it’s from?”

“
Can
you tell me what bank it’s from?”

“Maybe.”

“You’d get my deep admiration and devotion.”

“I already have that.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Okay, how about a blind date with a single PTA mom?” I could think of three or four who’d leapfrog over each other for the chance to go out with Cutter.

He considered for a moment, then shook his head, his eyes hard on me. “No.”

“Fresh out of ideas, Sean,” I said, using his given name just to tick him off. I hoisted Tim up onto my hip. “Either help me or don’t, but I’ve got to go. The banks close at three on Saturday, and I’ve barely started.”

“Try County Mutual,” he said. “And they’re open until four.”

“And you know this because . . . ?”

“Because that’s where I bank.”

I studied him, hating the suspicions that filled my head. Was this a convenient coincidence, or was Cutter my secret deliveryman?

As hard as I looked, though, I couldn’t find anything suspicious on his face. For that matter, maybe the key led to something completely innocuous. That, however, I really didn’t believe.

Timmy squirmed on my hip, drawing my attention away from Cutter. I slid him down to the ground, then held tight to his hand as he tugged hard, trying to get away and making me list to the left as I finished up with Cutter.

“The bank’s at Pacific and Amber Glen, right?”

He nodded. “Right. There’s a McDonald’s across the street.”

At that, Timmy stopped pulling, every other thought in his head pushed out by one compelling demand: “Happy Meal!” he wailed. “Want a Happy Meal!”

Cutter chuckled. “Sorry.”

“You owe me big time,” I said. To Timmy, I promised a Happy Meal if he stopped trying to pull me down the sidewalk,
and
if he behaved at the next bank,
and
if he agreed to eat applesauce with his Happy Meal instead of French fries. Since Happy Meals are really all about the toys, he smiled and saluted. “Aye-aye, Mommy!”

Cutter raised a brow.

“SpongeBob,” I said, by way of explanation. I may not be able to tell you the top-ten prime-time television shows or the number-one box-office hit, but Nickelodeon I’ve got down.

Once Timmy and I reached County Mutual, my little boy amused himself by running the length of the lobby, touching the wall, and then running back again. I probably should have told him to stop—another Happy Meal threat would probably have done the trick—but I was in a mood, too. Running hard and fast sounded like a damn good idea, actually. And if I couldn’t burn off my excess energy and thoughts that way, at least my little boy could.

We were there about five minutes before the bank officer who handled the safe-deposit boxes called me to her desk.

I took a minute to get Timmy settled with one of the little tubs of Play-Doh I keep in my purse, then handed over the key. “I need to get into this box.”

I’d decided to be vague on the whole question of whose box it was. Not hard, since I was clueless on the point. I was hoping that she’d look the information up on her computer and then she’d tell me.

I know enough about how banks work to be dangerous, but in the movies, you can never access a box with just the key. Your name has to be on the account, too. So I doubted I’d be getting any final answers today. But with any luck, I’d have the name of the box owner. And that, I figured, was a baby step in the right direction.

The bank officer—Ms. Sellers, according to her name tag—tap-tapped at her keyboard. “Here it is,” she said. She looked at me. “You must be Katherine Crowe?”

The room shifted, and I held on tight to my chair just so I wouldn’t slide off. I forced myself to nod. More, I forced myself not to cry.

Apparently I wasn’t doing a good job of looking normal, because her brow creased and she leaned toward me. “Ms. Crowe? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m sorry.” I wiped my eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. And yes, I’m Katherine Crowe. Or, I was. My husband passed away five years ago. I’m remarried. It’s Katherine Connor now.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, automatically, but still unsteadily.

I’m not sure what I’d expected here, but certainly not my name in that computer. I also wasn’t entirely sure how to handle the situation.

I took a deep breath, then leaped into the deep end. “Um, obviously it’s been a long time,” I said. “I don’t remember getting this box.”

Her brows lifted. “Oh? Then why are you here?”

A good question. “I found the key,” I said. “In my jewelry box,” I added, because I’d learned that the more specific a lie the more convincing the lie. “So when did we, um, rent the box?” The “we” was a guess.

She looked at me, and I saw compassion, but something else, too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I think I should probably see some identification.”

“Right. Sure. No problem.” I took out my driver’s license and handed it to her.

“Do you have anything that shows you as Katherine Crowe?”

I did, actually. My old license. I don’t really know why I keep it, but I do, tucked into the back of my wallet under the pictures of my kids. You’re supposed to turn the old one in when you get a new license, but I claimed that I’d lost the thing. No one even asked twice.

Now, I pulled it out and handed it to the woman. She took it, compared the number to the number on her computer screen, and nodded.

“We don’t have any record that Mr. Crowe passed away. You should bring in the paperwork and we’ll get the box and account transferred to your name alone. We’ve already got your signature card on file, so the process will be relatively simple.”

“Wait. There’s an account, too?”

“Yes, we provide safe-deposit boxes only to account holders.”

“I see.” I frowned again. “How much money is in the account?”

She tapped at the keyboard. “Eight-hundred thirty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents.”

“Oh.” This was getting weirder and weirder. That the account existed at all had surprised me. After all, Eric and I had done all our banking together, and we’d never used this bank.

Except they had my signature on file.

That was strange, but explainable. Eric had probably brought a card home for me to sign. Since I let him handle all the paperwork, I wouldn’t have paid that much attention.

So Eric opened an account, then put money into it. Call me crazy, but it seems to me that any man who has a bank account he keeps secret from his wife, isn’t going to add his wife to the account in the first place. And he’d stuff it full of money. I’m not scoffing at eight hundred dollars, but it’s hardly enough to run off to Rio.

Except Eric would never have run off to Rio. Not without me, anyway.

So what the hell had he been up to?

I needed to get into the box, but I still had questions, and I wanted to ask them right now, when Ms. Sellers was talkative and at least a little sympathetic to my plight.

“So when did we open the account?” I asked.

She checked, then rattled off a date. My stomach clenched. Just one month before Eric had died.

“Ms. Connor?” She frowned at me. “Are you okay? Does that help?”

I held up a hand and forced a smile. “I’m fine. Really.” I cleared my throat. “What about activity? Anything happening on that account?”

She checked. “No. Nothing. It looks like the only funds that have ever been withdrawn, in fact, have been the safe-deposit box rental fees.”

“I see,” I said, although of course I didn’t. Not completely. Not yet.

I stood, motioning for Timmy to do the same. “I appreciate all your help,” I said, taking my little boy’s hand. “Maybe I could take a look at the box now?”

“Of course,” she said, then led the way into the vault. We each inserted our keys, then she opened the door. I pulled out the small box, surprised to find it weighed next to nothing. Ms. Sellers showed me to a tiny room where I could examine the contents of my box in private. I pictured folks richer than me in the surrounding rooms pulling out piles of gemstones and running their fingers through them like confetti.

As soon as she’d left, I pulled the door closed, locking Timmy and I in the claustrophobic little room. “Okay, kiddo,” I said to Tim. “This is it.”

“Present?”

“I don’t know, big guy. But I’m thinking no.”

I took a deep breath, then lifted the lid, not at all sure what I’d see.

Nothing.
I saw absolutely nothing.

I frowned. That couldn’t be right.

I held the box on end and shook it. Sure enough, a folded piece of paper fell out. I stared at it, somehow knowing that it was from Eric. I wanted to touch it, to smell it, to hold it to my heart. The one thing I didn’t want to do was read it. It was bad news. Somehow, I just knew that whatever was on that paper was bad news.

I considered pocketing it for later, but abandoned the idea. I couldn’t walk out of this room without knowing what that note said. Doing that would be like walking away from Eric.

The paper had a ragged edge, as if it had been ripped from a notebook, then folded over on itself four times. I unfolded it slowly, hesitating only briefly over the final fold. Then I opened the paper, smoothed it on the table, and read these words: