Rollover (7 page)

A second lost fumbling the deadbolt with his right hand, then throwing the door open, he hit the squatting stance of a trained killer…well, that was probably overstatement, but he held the gun in front of his body, arms locked, right hand steadying the left. And he was too late.

The glimpse he got of the slight body throwing itself over the railing three-quarters of the way down the stairs, stumbling, then jerking upright only to duck back beneath the stairs was only that, a glimpse. And the footsteps quickly became muted as the person left the walkway and struck out across grass.

“Stop.”

Worth a try, but like yelling at the wind. He heard the rev of an engine—motorcycle—the angry whine of a sewing machine, some kid's crotch-rocket. Not far away but out of sight. He'd seen another one of those confounded alleyways, in this case a thoroughfare, when he'd put Simon in the car. The person was probably halfway to Railroad Avenue by now—if he'd had a bike close by, he was long gone.

“Dan? What's wrong? What's happened?” Elaine was standing by the corner of the bed pulling her robe on.

“Kids, I think. Maybe those vandals the landlady warned us about—I need to check the car. It's okay. I'll be right back up.” He kept the .38 out of sight and watched as she slipped back out of her robe and got into bed. Then he leaned down and picked up the piece of paper.

He waited until he got to the SUV, had quieted Simon, scooted behind the wheel, and flipped on the interior lights before taking a look at the paper he held in his hand.

GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN
IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK

All capital letters cut from newsprint or magazines on common white computer printer paper. Amateurish. But made to look that way? Maybe. Would there be fingerprints? Unlikely. Would he show it to Sheriff Howard? Uncertain. He reread the message. “It's not what you think.” What wasn't? If it wasn't what he thought, that would seem to indicate that he actually had made some decision or thought he knew something. But for the life of him, he had no idea what the note referred to. And who knew what he thought anyway? The single line was starting to play and replay in his head. And his head was beginning to throb.

He let Simon out and watched as he watered off a few tree trunks before they both headed back up the stairs. Simon moved toward the bed but Dan signaled, “No.” Dogs could sleep on the floor. He smoothed the paper and propped it against a glass on the table. Ominous message and it didn't make one bit of sense…other than the “get out” part. That sent a shiver across his shoulders.

Dan leaned back in the chair, balancing on its two legs and leaning against the counter. Sometimes Dan found himself stopping whatever he'd been doing to reflect…like now as he watched Elaine sleep and heard the snuffly snores of Simon at the foot of the bed. He smiled, enjoying a moment of true contentment. But it was fleeting. He brought the chair back down to fully rest all four legs on the floor. One minute peace, another uneasiness.

So, what was wrong? It was nothing he could put a finger on…just a vague anxiousness. Everything seemed to be a big thing. Consequences that would never have occurred to him before, now seemed uppermost. The “might happen” became the “probably would happen.” Dan sighed. The simple truth was he'd found out he was mortal. “It” could happen. Death. Or life-altering injury and he had no right to burden another human being with his baggage. He loved Elaine. He loved her smile, her touch…he never wanted to lose her. He might admit to one or two thoughts of marriage…maybe. They'd only known each other four months but the feeling was there.

Yet, she'd had far too much sadness in her life to be saddled with another emotional cripple…or worse. Because he knew, one way or another, someone was gunning for him. Wanted him out of the way. And Dan didn't have a clue as to who or what or why. He only knew that he recognized the stench of fright for the very first time in his life. Since the accident, he awoke to it at night and fought it to go back to sleep. And he wasn't winning. And this didn't help. He fingered the note and read it for the hundredth time…“get out while you can.”

Not him. Because now he was pissed—pissed that someone had forced this kind of control over him. Forced him to look over his shoulder and fear every shadow and bump in the dark. And pissed because he was scared shitless for Elaine—and knew he couldn't protect her…not from everything.

She had to leave. He'd approach her in the morning about rejoining the tour—fly directly to Dublin. She would have only missed a few days—a week at most. He'd stay, get to the bottom of things, at least, get his report in and join her. He'd bet the doc would release him to drive this week, or if not, maybe he could hire someone. And in three weeks he'd be ready to take off. Mission accomplished.

He awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and an unbelievably stiff neck. Why he hadn't just crawled back into bed earlier instead of sleeping at the table with his head on his arms, he didn't know. He splashed water on his face in the bathroom, brushed his teeth and still didn't feel any better. Maybe because every time he turned around he elbowed a towel rack, bumped the soap dish or knocked the toilet paper holder off its perch. The bathroom was an afterthought. The whole room could have been a molded plastic all-in-one-piece addition instead of just the shower. Tiny didn't even begin to describe the cramped space.

“Toast?” Elaine was wielding a frying pan of sizzling bacon and what looked to be tw eggs over easy as he walked to the table.

“Sure.”

“You want to explain that now or wait until after breakfast?”

He didn't need to look at what she was pointing at to realize he'd left the note on the table in plain view. He shrugged, “Either, I guess.” Silently he was berating himself for being so clumsy. He'd certainly lost the element of surprise. And the opportunity to destroy it.

“That doesn't look like vandals to me—not teenagers anyway. And there seems to be a certain level of knowledge of you personally.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Elaine put two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast on the table and sat down.

“No jam.”

“What?”

“For your toast. I forgot to buy jam.”

“It's okay.” Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. “Are you upset?”

“I'm upset that you weren't exactly truthful during the night. You went rushing out with your gun drawn—”

“Just taking precautions.”

“I don't like any of this. Sure there's a certain element of excitement but I don't want you in danger.”

“Then that's reason to leave. I don't want
you
in danger. This is proof that something's going on that reaches beyond a simple robbery and a stolen necklace.”

“I won't go.”

“It's just for a month—not even that long. That'll give me time to wrap things up here—”

“Look what happened the last time I left.”

“It's not safe—you just admitted as much.”

“If you're in danger then so am I.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Doesn't it? I flew back; I sat by your side; I cried my eyes out…and you think I'll just leave again? Go off and pretend to enjoy a tour and leave you here, not knowing, fearing the worst, dreading the next phone call?”

“Elaine, it's only selfish to tell you how much I need you—want you by my side. But—”

“But what?”

“I have no right…no right to endanger your life.”

“The decision is mine. We're adults—adults who love each other. I won't leave you. Besides, I kind of like whodunits. Solving them, that is.”

Then she was in his arms, breakfast forgotten, and that seemed to end it. Whether he liked it or not, for better or whatever, they were together in this—and he didn't even know what “this” was. He picked her up and carried her the three feet to the bed giving up trying to unbutton any buttons with his left hand. She pulled the Henley over her head, shed panties and bra, and pushed him back on the bed to help him wiggle out of his shorts.

“Hey, our friend is back.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” And Dan couldn't keep the lopsided grin from spreading ear to ear. “Any ideas about what we should do with him?”

“I think I can come up with a couple.”

Chapter Six

Dan was able to schedule a meeting with First Community Bank's president for one o'clock Monday afternoon. It seemed the bank stayed open until three on weekdays and until noon on Saturdays. Bankers' hours. He hadn't run into those in years, and he'd bet there wasn't an ATM…maybe not even a night deposit and definitely not a drive-through. Yeah, Wagon Mound wasn't exactly on the electronic radar. This was going to be a step back in time…as if meeting Gertie hadn't been one already.

Elaine dropped him off and went back to the boardinghouse to do laundry. He needed to get his own car back and do his own driving—he was sure the chauffeuring was getting old. He had no idea how long the interview would take but he'd need to see the area, take pictures, interview help…it'd been a month, he could only imagine how tired everyone must be of being questioned. And probably very tired of the town gossip—everyone having a theory about whodunit and why…he was sure Chet hadn't been the only one with an opinion.

He'd barely had time to admire the hundred-year-old chandelier in the foyer when a woman who introduced herself as Alice ushered him into an office lacking any customer-friendly touches. No overstuffed leather couches or chairs; no warm carpets or green plants. Some theme of Quaker austerity was being carried out in all wood mission-style benches, tables, and even the desk—the only grandiose piece of furniture in the room. Huge, chunky, slatted wood along the sides—and complemented by an ergonomically correct Aeron chair. That had set someone back a thousand or so but good to know the bank prez cared about his posture.

Inventory of the room was interrupted by Alice sticking her head in the door to say that Mr. Woods would be with him in a moment. The moment stretched to five but who was counting? This was a starred interview in his notebook. Not that he expected any breakthrough information, but it might tie up some loose ends.

The first thing that struck Dan when L. Maurice Woods—who quickly pointed out that he preferred to be called Lawrence—finally strode into the room was how young he looked for being stuck in a one-horse town. And how underdressed the man made him feel. Red-and-blue striped power tie, white shirt, navy suit, black shoes polished to within an inch of their life…and a hanky. All this on a lanky frame that screamed basketball for the local high school and not that long ago—certainly within twenty years or so.

But he was stuffy beyond his years and overly into his position—could bank president be that big a deal in the town? Probably. Dan decided later that it was the hanky folded to two-point perfection just peeking out of the pocket that screamed affectation. But then the dress code seemed to spill over to the general workers—the tellers wore nylons, the janitor wore a bow tie, and the guard on duty had had a manicure. Wagon Mound wasn't exactly a metrosexual metropolis and all this spit and polish sure seemed overkill or just demeaning for the insurance guy. Dan wished the sweater he was wearing didn't have pilling around the cuffs.

After introductions, Lawrence remained standing. “Well let's get this tour started.” A smile finally—more grimace than positive emotion, however.

“I'd like to see your check-in and out log for August. I assume those entering this area needed to sign in first?”

“Of course. Even though everyone knows everyone in this town, we follow strict procedures. After sign-in the person's box was retrieved by Stephanie there or myself,” Lawrence paused and nodded to a woman sitting to the right of what looked like the door to a vault…“she would seat the owner in this alcove,” a gesture to the left, “the property would then be delivered to the area. You may notice the recipient was always in line of sight.”

Dan thought “goes with the hanky” but he followed suit and nodded at Stephanie who gave him an anemic smile. He made a mental note to question her…something along the line of helping him to profile Gertie—as tough and unfeeling as that sounded. He tried another smile but Stephanie quickly looked down. Dan glanced back at his host in time to catch a frown directed her way. Odd. Interaction with the investigator must be equivalent to goofing off.

“When the box holder was finished, he or she would buzz Stephanie and she would buzz me. I would then return the safe deposit box and make certain the log was signed.”

Seemed like a couple extra steps, Dan thought, and a lack of trust. Wonder why Stephanie wasn't more involved? Micro manager came to mind.

“Are the logs stored here on the premises?”

“Yes. Stephanie, would you get August's sign-in log for Mr. Mahoney?”

Stephanie leaned down and unlocked a file drawer in her desk and after a thumbing of files marked by month, she separated August and placed a bagged and time-stamped log on her desk.

“Mrs. Kennedy has reported that she removed the insured items on August tenth.”

“Yes, here's her signature.” Stephanie had turned a few pages then scooted the log forward for him to see.

“According to her calendar, there's some confusion as to just when the items were returned—some problem with the vault's door needing repair and access was denied due to this servicing.”

“I remember now. She came to the bank with…” Stephanie looked up “…her property and we advised her to wait until we notified her. We anticipated a two-day delay. In fact,” Stephanie turned a page, “here's her signature on the day she removed her property and here's my notation when she returned and I informed her that the door needed to be fixed, August seventeenth.”

Dan leaned forward and looked at the note.

“And here's the notation—time and date—of my call informing her that the vault door was repaired. Well, I didn't do the calling; I was on vacation but my replacement Amber Medger did—on the eighteenth. The AM notation here? Those are her initials.”

“And Mrs. Kennedy returned to replace her property that day?”

“Oh, this is so silly talking about ‘her property'…we've all seen the necklace and know the story of the
Titanic
and the mother, the father with the clubfoot—”

“That's enough, Miss Walters.”

Well, that was going to get Miss Stephanie Walters a stern reprimand once he was gone, Dan thought. But how interesting. It was easy to imagine Gertie showing off the prized possession…and easy to realize how it could be a target. He suddenly noticed that Stephanie was rifling through several pages of the log biting her lip and appearing increasingly annoyed.

“I know it's here…I just can't seem to find…usually Amber is so careful.”

“You can't find when Mrs. Kennedy returned the…her necklace?” Stephanie shook her head. Dan bent over the log running a finger down the entries for August eighteenth and nineteenth. There was a total of six names in the two-day period—three so precise and carefully crafted that the owners had evidently studied the Palmer method of penmanship. Which also indicated they were of Gertie's vintage. And then three were just a smear. He made a note of the ones he could read. A Peter (Buster) Jenkins PhD—Dan paused and reread the entry. Buster actually put his degree behind his name when signing a log to open his safe deposit box? Somehow that said something about him. Dan looked at the two other signatures that were legible—Jesus Garcia and Antonio Romero. Maybe one of them remembered seeing Gertie at the bank that day. He made a note.

“I'll call Amber—I'm sure it's just an oversight.”

“In the meantime I'll continue the tour.” Again that tight smile as Lawrence motioned Dan to follow then stopped a few steps beyond Stephanie's desk. “This is it.” He turned to dial the combination and apply the key that opened the safe deposit box vault. Actually a ten by ten room, windowless, cheerless—its own kind of prison, Dan thought. But it was the slight musty smell mixed with the unmistakable ethyl benzene odor of new carpet backing that almost made him gag. What a mix.

“Repairs have been made?” Dan also noted what looked like new steel shelving on the north wall.

“Yes, and no.” Lawrence walked to the far corner and pulled back the carpet and lifted a piece of plywood to reveal a ragged opening in the floor about two feet from the wall. Dan leaned in and took a couple snaps of what looked like blackened edges—blowtorch? The thick metal flooring had been cut in the rough shape of a circle. Maybe high-tech laser equipment? Looked like it. Certainly made less noise than trying to blow up a steel plate like that.

“We have to have new flooring put down as you can see…this is basically cosmetic for the time being, and safety. We've made room in the bank vault for everyone's valuables. We still haven't been released to begin repairs.”

Dan assumed he meant by the Feds. Things could move pretty slowly being somewhat off the beaten path as they were.

“Well, there you have it, not much to see. There are fifteen boxes in this vault—twelve were in use. One wall model safe that's temperature and humidity controlled for larger objects or those needing a special environment.”

“What kinds of things were kept in there?” Dan stood in front of the two-foot by four-foot enameled door marked Irwin, the combination lock neatly cut out allowing entry.

“Oh, family Bible for the Garcias, a great-grandfather's love letters to his sweetheart from the early 1800s for another family. Some pieces of Indian pottery…Anything that could be contaminated by plain air.”

“And none of these things were taken?”

“Only one claim to date…ol' Doc Jenkins but I'm not sure it's legitimate. Odd claim…may not come to anything.”

Dan waited for an explanation of what an odd claim might entail but nothing more was offered. Dan made a note to get the phone number or address of Doc Jenkins.

“Still doesn't seem like many boxes for a town of three to four hundred people.”

“In my community you'll find more riches between the mattress and box springs than right here.”

“In retrospect that seems like the smart thing to do.” Mattresses or Barbasol cans Dan added to himself.

Lawrence didn't seem to see any humor in his remark.

“Were all the boxes vandalized?” Dan stood in front of three seemingly untouched boxes—still locked with hardware complete.

“All of the ones in use were found open. Used some kind of laser tool to cut the locks out. See here? And here? Even the big Irwin got hit.”

Dan leaned closer. Well, maybe Wagon Mound had had a brush with high-tech after all. The floor and now the boxes. These incisions were neat and exact.

“The numbers indicate boxes that were in use?” Dan was looking at the small paste-on laminate numerals in the right hand corner of each box.

“Exactly. All contain the date the box was rented. As you might guess, Mrs. Kennedy's is the oldest—twenty-fifth of March, 1933. The year the number system was put in place.”

Dan took out his camera again, the old 4 pixel Nikon still took great close-ups. He just couldn't get used to using his phone—somehow a phone didn't have the right to be a camera. He adjusted the Nikon and clicked a couple of shots including one of the absolute precision of the laser cuts. He was at a loss to name the tool but probably something surgical or out of a lab.

“Not everything was taken. Papers, for example, deeds, car titles, that sort of thing were found in a jumble on the floor. Even the Garcia family Bible. Several patrons only kept papers in their respective boxes…but a few kept other valuables. A gold inlaid chess set, a coin collection, a collection of 1800s railroad watches. Three patrons in all lost items of immense value.”

Dan wasn't sure what “immense” value added up to—he guessed the five hundred thousand-dollar necklace would qualify. “I'd like to talk with those who lost valuables. In addition, of course, to Mrs. Kennedy.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Need to make sure my client wasn't singled out. Rule out that she in some way could have invited this—hard to think Gert would try to skip out on a drug debt though.” Dan chuckled.

Again, Lawrence remained deadpan. Strange man, Dan thought. Literal thinker for one thing and not prone to see humor in much of anything.

“What furniture was in the room? Table and chair?”

“No furniture, no need. We relied on Stephanie to keep an eye on things outside the vault—much better light. And it was that little bit of extra precaution. Didn't want any hanky-panky—made more sense to retrieve the boxes and have them delivered by bank personnel.”

Hanky-panky? Like someone was going to sneak in with a blowtorch or better yet, stay in there long enough to pick the locks?
Control
followed by the word
freak
. Two words that seemed to fit ol' Lawrence. Dan made a mental note to check with Stephanie—soon. He took one more look around the small room. Nothing jumped out. Maybe another picture or two and then they should get on with it. “I assume the tunnel is still open?”

“With a twenty-four-hour guard. That's next on the tour.”

Something about locking the barn after the horses had gone elsewhere came to mind. Dan snapped another picture of the hole in the floor, its proximity to the wall, the boxes, and the door, then he followed Lawrence out of the room, out the bank's front door and around the side. The guard on duty nodded and leaned down to unlock and remove a padlock from a heavy-looking metal door. And all Dan could think of was the root cellar at his grandmother's house. A favorite spot of his as a youngster, the farm in northeastern Illinois had gotten him out of the humidity-laden city for a month before school started. He'd had day after day to run free, fish, round up the chickens—hide in the cellar when his cousins visited. Some of his best childhood memories. He slipped the camera out of his pocket and took several photos.

“Watch your step. Little steeper than what you'd expect. Let me get the light.”