Overdose

Copyright © 2012 Ray N. Kuili. All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition: November 2012

For information, contacts, updates, and extra materials, visit:
raynkuili.com

LICENSE

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Overdose

A Free Sample from
The Last Mask

About
the Author

The robbery was unprecedentedly brazen.

That’s what
the newspapers were about to call it tomorrow. Brazen. Brazen and bold. Some would even go as far as labeling it, “The Robbery of the Decade.” “The Robbery of the Century” sounds even better, but it would be too much of a stretch even for the local reporters. “Decade” is just about right. Headlines like that can work miracles even in this age of shrinking circulations. Yet there was nothing bold about this robbery. Dull and downright cheeky, maybe. But not bold. And, as usual, they’ll blame the police. They have this way of making cops looking worse than robbers. As if—

“Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Steve Gorton looked up.

Inspector Kelly’s smile was shining before his eyes like a shot from a toothpaste commercial. Gorton made an effort not to wince. Recently he had been making efforts like that rather often.

“Yes, inspector?”

“We’ve finished inspecting the place. No signs of
a break-in. No prints anywhere. No doubt we’re dealing with a team of professionals. There must have been at least three of them. Maybe even four. And I think . . .” Kelly paused as if emphasizing the significance of what he was about to say, “I think they got some help.”

He lowered his voice and looked around.

“You know,
inside
help. Someone had to turn off these cameras.”

“Certainly,” said Gorton, just to say something. “Have you already questioned everyone?”

“Everyone who’s already in. The branch manager just got here.”

“Keep talking to them as they arrive,” said Gorton, knowing full well that his directive was completely useless.

“Will do. What do you think about my theory?”

I think it’s just as dumb as all your other theories, Gorton wanted to reply. And I think you can take it and—

“Very plausible,” he heard his own voice. “And why do you suppose there were three of them?”

Kelly livened up even more.

“Well it’s very obvious if you think about it. It’s not like this bank is in the middle of nowhere. This is 2
nd
Avenue, of all places. They had to have someone on the lookout. Then a safecracker. Plus a driver. Three.”

“I see. All right, you can go now.”

Asking Kelly why the robbers needed a personal driver was too much of an effort. When you’re in your late twenties and your fierce enthusiasm is rivaled only by your equally fierce idiocy, you have an answer for every question. For anyone else, this combination would have been a serious career inhibitor, but when your uncle happens to be the mayor, you’re getting a free pass on many things. As for your desire to make a name for yourself and your tendency to come up with grandiose theories that have more to do with Hollywood than with real life, they only make you more original.

Gorton sighed and discovered that Kelly was still towering next to him.

“Anything else?”

“You wanted to speak with the manager,” Kelly reminded him.

Gorton waved him away.

“Not anymore. I’m sure you can take care of this. In an hour, check who didn’t show up for work. Then give me the name and run a background check.”

Kelly looked puzzled.

“Why are you so sure someone won’t show up?”

“Intuition,” replied Gorton sourly.

Making efforts had become too hard.

* * *

“David Borovsky,” Kelly reported an hour later. “Forty-six years old, nineteen years in this bank. In fact, in this branch. Loan officer. A very dedicated and reliable employee. Quiet, but sociable. Always comes to work on time; moreover, typically he’s one of the first employees in the office. We tried calling him at home, but no one is picking up the phone.”

“Married?”

“Yes. His wife is also in finance, works in Prudential. They have a grown-up daughter. She
’s getting her master’s from some LA college.”

“I’m impressed,” said Gorton, surprised by the appreciative tone of his own voice.

Kelly smiled proudly.

“It wasn’t too hard. They all know everything about everyone. And Borovsky’s been here forever. Everyone says that if he didn’t call, something must have happened.”

“True,” Gorton agreed. “Something happened. I take it the branch manager is still here?”

“Yes. But I already spoke with him. Nothing useful. You said—”

“I know what I said. Everyone else had already showed up, right? Hand me your notes, please.”

* * *

“No,” the branch manager repeated for the third time. “This is impossible. Anyone but him. Borovsky couldn’t do it.”

He was fanning himself vehemently with a large white envelope. Drops of sweat glistened on his bald head despite the low humming of the air conditioner.

“Of course, it’s easy for you to suspect him—you don’t know him like I do. But this is ridiculous. A bank robbery? Borovsky wouldn’t steal a penny! He’s quiet and shy, and he’s a great employee. He just got sick. Can’t you get sick these days without becoming a suspect?”

He stopped fanning abruptly.

“You just want to close the case, don’t you? That’s what you’re after. You just need a scapegoat, right? But you know what? A scapegoat is not enough in
this
case. I need my money back. I don’t think you really understand the situation. My safe got cleaned out! Not a dime was left. Last night, this place was full of cash. This morning—nothing. So how’s declaring my employee a robber going to help me get those bills back?”

He resumed fanning with even greater vigor.

“By the way, your assistant—that nice young man over there—he’s talking about a gang of robbers. A
gang
. Now, that’s the direction I would expect your investigation to take. That would be so much more useful than suspecting a faithful, dedicated employee who’s been working here for ten years longer than I have!”

“Are you done?” asked Gorton.

The manager snorted derisively.

“We’ll give the gang theory all the attention it deserves,” Gorton assured him. “But in the meantime, I need to know more about Borovsky. Please tell me what you know about his interests, hobbies, habits and anything else that may be relevant.”

“Relevant . . .” For a moment the manager had a look on his face as if he was about to roll his eyes. “You’re wasting your time. But sure—why not? It’s your job, I guess.”

He heaved a sigh.

“He likes sports. I mean he’s a fan. He’s got a decent-sized collection of football stuff. Hobbies . . . well, Borovsky has been really into fishing recently. He’s been talking to everyone at the office about it. I’m sure he’ll tell you more when you speak with him.”

“Is he a good employee?”

“He’s a
great
employee. Very dedicated, very diligent, a good team player. He’s always willing to do more—and that includes things he’s not responsible for. His customer satisfaction numbers have been great for years. He’s a very quiet, very dependable man. Certainly not the kind that causes trouble.”

Gorton had to make another one of his little efforts.

“I know. I’ve already heard that he’s quiet. What about his career growth? He’s been here for nineteen years.”

The tiredness on the manager’s face became even more pronounced.

“Borovsky—unlike many others—doesn’t ask for anything. He has a very healthy attitude and I wish there were more people like him. He does what he’s expected to do, expects to get rewarded accordingly and gets paid fairly for his efforts. He takes whatever he’s given and is happy with what he gets. You give him a bonus—he takes it. You give him better medical insurance—he takes it. But when something isn’t his—like our clients’ money, for example—he doesn’t even think about taking it. So I don’t know what you’re after—”

“I’m after getting you your money back,” said Gorton in a flat voice. “That will be all for now. Please show me Borovsky’s desk.”

“Do you realize that you’re about to jeopardize an innocent man’s future?” the manager blasted out. “What would his colleagues think when they see you fumbling through his papers? Why are you so hell-bent on making him the suspect?”

Gorton sighed. What a perfect way to start a work week. First—Kelly and his theories. Now—this. Plus, the morning quarrel with Clara. Suddenly, he felt that making an effort had become too hard.

“Everyone in this office is a suspect,” he said. “Including you.”

The manager’s face twitched and he mopped his head with the envelope.

“As for jeopardizing anyone’s future,” continued Gorton, “I’d like to remind you that we have sent all your employees home. And now I would appreciate if you could show me Borovsky’s desk.”

David Borovsky’s desk was as standard as they come, with a
gray computer humming quietly under it and a flat monitor crowning its cream matte surface. There was an obligatory advertisement featuring a new kind of loan (“Your Business—Our Guarantee!”), a stack of papers in the far-left corner, and a dozen pens and pencils sticking out of a cup made of thin black wire mesh.

Quiet and dependable
, recalled Gorton as we sat down on a black rotating office chair. His eyes followed the manager who was walking back to his office. Even his back was full of indignation. I probably was too hard on the guy, thought Gorton. But he had it coming. He wouldn’t talk like that to a pizza man, but somehow being snotty with a police officer is perfectly acceptable. Well, at least he won’t be interfering now.

He turned back to the desk.

Pictures. Of course. Every self-respecting office worker must have family pictures on display on his desk. To remind him—or her—that there’s more to life than work. Or to make his workday bearable. Only, sometimes, these pictures curiously face the visitors, who, as they utter suitable compliments and ask befitting questions, don’t realize that the pictures are there for them and not for the happy family man.