Deception (11 page)

53
rd
Street is crowded
at 8:45 A.M. on a Friday morning. The doors to the coffee shops are constantly revolving with people filing in and out to get what they need to make it to the weekend. People are scrambling on the sidewalks in their business suits. We’re right in the center of the business district, Billy and I, so the risk couldn’t be higher. The van is parked behind an old parking garage for easy access back to the freeway when we’re gone. Frank is waiting there for us.

We have to walk a couple of blocks to get to the bank, and we make a pit stop on the way. Billy drags me into a men’s clothing store and pays for some business casual slacks and a dress shirt for each of us in cash. He leaves an extra hundred for the young salesman so he doesn’t have to wait for him to make change, although he won’t budge on the dress socks buy-one get-one deal of the day. Go figure. We change in the dressing room and wear the new clothes out. We toss our old clothes in one of the trash cans outside.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say as we make our way into the bank. I try to flatten one stubborn wrinkle on the chest of my new shirt. “I work at a bank, what if someone recognizes me?”

“You used to work at a bank,” Billy says.

It’s a good point, as I’m sure I’ve been terminated by now. Although it still doesn’t solve the problem of potential recognition.

“Just follow my lead.”

We enter the bank and head right for the main desk. On the wall to the right is a framed headshot of a man in an expensive suit. I can’t read the name plate beneath it, but I recognize the face. I sat in on a compliance conference hosted by him recently, I think. I doubt he’d even recognize me if he saw me, but I’d rather not find out. I keep my head down and follow Billy as he brushes past everyone waiting in line and approaches the teller.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he interrupts.

“I’m sorry, Sir, you’ll have to wait in line just like everyone else,” the middle-aged teller says, dismissing him.

Billy grabs his wallet and flips it open, showing her his badge. “Official police business. I need access to one of the safety deposit boxes.”

Concern takes over her face and she asks the customer to step aside, although she immediately starts shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking.”

“I can’t. I could lose my job.”

Billy leans in. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” Billy searches for and finds the name tag on her blouse, “Barbara. We’ve received a report of a potential bomb on the premises and we need access to this box.”

Barbara gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. “A bomb?” she whispers in an attempt to block the conversation from the line of agitated customers.

I look around me. It seems no one has heard the conversation.

“That’s right, a bomb. Now, box number 282w. Please.”

Barbara hits some keys on her computer and gazes blankly at the screen. “That’s an invalid box number,” she says.

“Check again.”

Barbara hits some more keys and shakes her head. Nothing. “I’ll go get the manager, maybe he can help.”

I step forward, fearing the man from the photo will recognize me and blow our cover. “No, we don’t have time to wait for the manager.”

I can tell Billy’s surprised at my tone, but he tries not to show it.

“I don’t know what you want me to do, the number is invalid,” she says.

“What about without the ‘W’?”

Barbara hits some more keys and waits for her machine to load. She shakes her head again. She’s startling to look rattled and overwhelmed, and she soon begins to cry. Most of the customers have vacated the line behind me, but a few do still remain. One older man sees Barbara crying and looks especially concerned.

This is the last thing we need.

I need to come up with something quickly or this whole thing is going to be busted. Thinking back, I once had a safety deposit box that had five digits. Come to think of it, so did the ones at the bank that I work in, or is it worked now? That must be the problem.

“We’re missing a digit,” I say. Billy and Barbara both look at me simultaneously. “Most boxes have five digits, not four. Maybe the ‘W’ is code for something.”

There is a brief silence, then Barbara’s face lights up. “I got it!” she says excitedly. “‘W’ could be the location code of the box.” She wipes the tears from her cheek and goes back to work on her computer. “Our boxes are sorted by aisle number with each aisle matching with the corresponding alphabetic letter code.”

Billy looks at me for approval, but I have no idea what she is talking about; this bank is much larger than what I’m used to.

“Huh?” I say.

“The ‘W’ represents the twenty-third letter in the alphabet, so if I replace the ‘W’ with the twenty-three, we might have something.” She hits one final button on her computer and waits. “That’s it! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier.” She disappears in the back office and returns with a giant looped key ring and walks around the counter. “Follow me.” She motions for us to follow her toward the vault, but she stops suddenly. “I almost forgot. The box can’t be opened without a second key. The bank has one and the box owner has one.”

Billy grins and reaches his hand in his pocket. “That won’t be a problem,” he says as he proudly shows off the brass key from Snake’s safe.

Barbara leads us through a heavily secured door at the back of the bank and into an open room. Metal shelves line the perimeter of the soundproof room from floor to ceiling. Similar longer metal shelves run wall to wall in the opposite direction. Small signs hang from each aisle, each one containing a two digit number. The numbers are in numerical order starting at one and stretching to twenty-six, just as she described.

In aisle twenty-three, about halfway down are the boxes in the two hundreds. Barbara fingers through the boxes until she comes upon 282.

“Here we are,” she says as she pulls out the box from the shelf. She brings the compact steel box to her chest and inserts her key into the hole closest to her. She twists the key and disengages the lock on her side. Billy tries to slide his key into the other hole, but it doesn’t fit. He flips it upside down and tries again, but it’s far too large for the hole. It looks nothing like the key that Barbara has, so it not fitting doesn’t surprise me in the least.

Barbara opens her mouth to speak, but Billy cuts her off by tearing the box from her hands. He smashes it against the concrete floor and without warning, pulls out his gun. Barbara shrieks and runs past me, rubbing my shoulder with hers. She and I both bail around the corner just as Billy opens fire on the box.

Six rounds explode before the gun clicks. Barbara covers her ears and sits in the corner, crying hysterically. My ears are ringing from the blasts, but I’m otherwise unharmed. My hands are trembling from the shock of the near miss. I force myself to peek around the corner and inspect the damage Billy has caused.

Below Billy’s feet is the box, torn to shreds. All six bullets pierced the box, each one just above the empty keyhole. Barbara’s key is still engaged on the other side. I didn’t think Billy would ever actually use the gun that he carries around, so this is a real eye opener for me. I fear he might be more dangerous that I had originally thought.

Gauging by his reaction, I can tell that this is not what we were looking for. I’m frightened at what he might do next if and when the pressure intensifies and the heat gets turned up. I watch as Billy is able to pry open what remains of the busted box and sift through the contents. There is a foreign passport belonging to a Chinese man plus a few thousand Yuan wrapped with an elastic band. He tosses the contents to the cement and walks out. Barbara meets him at the doorway.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she says. “What if there was a bomb in there?”

“It’s all clear,” Billy replies coldly as he brushes past her and makes his way back into the now empty main lobby of the bank.

Barbara throws her hands on her hips in disbelief at the officer’s rudeness. I don’t say anything to her as I leave, although I’m tempted to apologize. I hear footsteps running in the background as we exit through the front door of the bank. I turn back and catch a glimpse of Barbara pointing in our direction with a man beside her, probably the manager from the picture frame.

“Don’t look back,” Billy says as he turns me with a tug on my arm. The quietness from the bank is washed out by the busyness of the morning rush. We turn right onto 53
rd
Street and blend in with the crowd.

Maybe we’re overthinking this whole thing.

Wilson Memorial Psychiatric Hospital
is in Hays, Kansas, which is about three hours west of Topeka. We’re not going there. Frank was a permanent resident at the facility for four and a half years, starting when he was seventeen. He was involved in a physical altercation with a customer while he was working the register at a fast food restaurant at the time. The guy went nuts over a mistake with his order and Frank just snapped. He went ballistic and threw hot oil all over the guy’s face and nearly beat him to death. He was restrained by a group of bystanders in the restaurant until the cops showed up. It was clear as day on the restaurant surveillance, which included audio.

Several witnesses testified at his trial that he looked like he was possessed, like he needed an exorcist or something, and some of the things that were recognizable in the audio recording were actually quite disturbing. The prosecution played the audio over and over for the jury, and it never got any easier to listen to. Our father had hired the best defense team in the state, and they were able to get Frank off reasonably well. He was facing ten to twelve for various charges, and he was being tried as an adult. The jury agreed with the plea of insanity and he was sentenced to five years at Wilson’s inpatient care facility instead of prison. The victim’s face was pretty badly scarred from the burns, but his vision was unaffected. We never saw or heard from him again after the trial.

Frank was diagnosed early on in his stay with a Borderline Personality Disorder. The most shocking thing about it was that no one even knew there was anything wrong with him before. Sure, he was a little peculiar growing up, but it was just assumed to be social awkwardness. The hospital had told us that BPD patients typically aren’t aggressive toward others, but in rare cases they can be. Frank is a rare case. Most BPD patients do the most physical damage to themselves, usually cutting, but Frank never showed signs of wanting to hurt himself. They put him on some combination of medications and enrolled him in various therapy sessions, which helped them find the root cause of his troubles. Our mother’s death many years prior probably had something to do with it, although the hospital never did share their findings with dad and me. Frank doesn’t like to talk about it.

The hospital felt Frank was ready to be released six months shy of his completed five-year sentence, and the judge agreed. It may have just been an overcrowding situation, but we didn’t ask many questions. No one did. Our father agreed to take Frank in and watch over him, so that might have helped, considering his status in the community at the time. When he died, I couldn’t just let Frank try to survive on his own. His symptoms are manageable with prescription medication, and social awkwardness is really the only lasting indicator of the disorder. He’s a little slow, certain people make him feel uncomfortable, and certain activities can overstimulate him, but for the most part he’s fairly normal. Whatever normal is.

---

it’s 8:15 A.M. and
I’m walking up the stairs of City Hall and making my way toward Alicia’s desk. I push past the line of customers and nudge an old lady aside, then I press my face close to the glass that separates Alicia’s desk from me. Alicia’s eyes bulge and she’s apologetic to the line of people, especially to the old woman who I nearly knocked to the floor.

“What are you doing here?” Alicia sternly whispers to me through the glass.

“We have to go, now. It’s time.”

Alicia’s face lights up and she reacts without hesitation. I turn around, rush out of the building, and down the steps. I pull the van in front of the steps and wait with the engine running. It doesn’t matter if anyone sees us anymore as we’ll be out of here in a matter of days. Alicia comes storming out of the front door less than one minute later and she’s in the van moments after. I peel away as the door closes and head home to pick up Frank.

I whip the van into the driveway and park it halfway on the grass. Alicia and I open our doors, jump out, and run inside.

“Frank!” I yell as I kick open the door. “Get up, we’ve got to move!”

Frank falls off the couch at the startle. It takes him a moment, but he does slowly get to his feet and look to me. “What’s goin’ on?” he asks, still shaken from his surprise wake up call.

“It’s happening, get your stuff together.”

A giant smile comes across Frank’s face and he quickly rushes past me and into the spare bedroom, his bedroom, or mine depending on how you look at it, and disappears. He almost slips and falls again as his twisted sock catches the corner of the doorframe. Alicia makes her way to the end of the hall and slides into the bedroom. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial the number that is written on the open notepad on the table. It rings four or five times then goes directly to voicemail. I hang up and dial again. He answers before the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Is this George Sanders?” I ask.

“Yeah, who’s this?” his voice is deeper than I remember, although I didn’t hear too much of him besides what I overheard at the coffee shop.

“Do you know an Alicia Diaz?”

“Who is this?”

“Do you know an Alicia Diaz?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“Do you know an Alicia Diaz?”

“Tell me who this is.”

“If you know an Alicia Diaz, meet me at Josie’s Bar and Pub in thirty minutes.”

“What the hell is going on? How did you get this number?”

“I’ll be waiting.” I hang up before he can counter. I place the phone on the table and turn around. Alicia and Frank are both standing behind me, waiting. Alicia has changed her clothes and Frank has put some on. Alicia hands me a change of clothes and I take them from her. I strip off my uniform and put on the chosen outfit. “Kiss this place goodbye. We can never come back here again.”

I take one final look at my first home before leaving for good. I lead the way out the front door with Alicia and Frank trailing closely behind. They both carry some bags of personal belongings and supplies, and I have similar ones waiting for me in the van that I’ve had prepared for weeks. I kill the lights and lock the front door on the way out, leaving my uniform in a wrinkled mess in the middle of the kitchen floor for whoever to find.