“Hello?” a deep voice called out, interrupting my mantra.
I felt another flutter of excitement in the pit of my stomach, but this flutter was for a different reason. It was time to meet the first client for Two Sisters and a Journalist in over a year.
Chapter Two
“In here,” I said and stood from my desk.
A large man waddled into my office. His eyes were small and beady, but crow’s feet gave him a somewhat friendly appearance. His most prominent feature was a thick, heavily waxed, handlebar moustache.
I stepped in front of my desk and extended my hand. “My name’s Jo Wheeler. How can I help you?”
The man shook my hand and said, “I need security for about an hour.”
“No problem. What kind of security?”
“It’s a simple job. I want you to drive me to the bank. I need to get something from a safe deposit box, and I don’t want anyone following me. I’ll give you two thousand dollars.” He pulled a wad of bills from an inside coat pocket and counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s half now. I’ll give you the other half when we’ve returned here safely.”
“Sounds easy enough, Mister…?”
He shook his head. “No names. I’m paying cash, and it’s not necessary for you to know who I am. You just need to give me a ride, accompany me into the bank, and then bring me back here. You can split the money with the other sister and the journalist, and we’re good to go.”
I noticed the hint of a smile under his moustache. I needed to talk to Pepper and Jackie about changing the name of our business. It was starting to feel embarrassing, especially since people were finding the name more humorous than charming.
I grabbed my oversized bag, which carried all my work necessities as well as doubling as my purse, and without allowing the man to see what I was doing, I checked to be sure my stun gun had a full charge. If he tried to pull something when we were in my truck, I was going to give it to him where it hurt. On the other hand, considering the size of his stomach, I’d give it to him wherever I could.
I left a note for Arnie that I was going out, locked the office, and led the man to my truck. He seemed pleased with the vehicle.
“Which bank?” I asked after we had buckled our seatbelts.
“Buxley Bank and Trust,” he said.
“BB&T. I’m recently married and just moved our accounts there. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with the other banks in town, but this big old bank feels safer.”
He didn’t respond to my comment. I dropped the effort to make conversation.
The bank had a parking lot on the left side of the building, but I spotted an open parking space on the street directly in front of the main entrance. If the man wanted a quick in and out, this was the optimal place to park.
My client hopped out onto the sidewalk and waited while I turned off my truck and unhooked my seatbelt. I had my door open with one foot on the pavement when a white SUV rolled up from behind. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an arm shoot out the passenger window. A gunshot sounded.
I threw myself to the floor of my truck and frantically searched my bag for my stun gun. By the time the ineffective weapon was in my hand, the vehicle was gone.
Confusion filled my brain. Was the shot meant for me or my client? It was doubtful someone would be shooting at me. If they were, they wouldn’t have missed at such close range. I reached for my phone to call Glenn but hesitated. Other than telling him a gun had been fired from a white SUV, I didn’t have any details to give him.
My heart sank, and I instinctively knew I wasn’t going to get my private investigator’s license. The board who decided these things would investigate and find out I had terrible observation skills. They would deny my application. The gun probably held blanks and this shooting was a test. When I wouldn’t be able to give any description of the person shooting, the model of the car, or the license plate number, they’d make me quit working with Arnie and go back to working for the mortgage company. Crap! And Glenn was full of exactly that this morning when he said my day would be full of excitement.
I faced the bank building and saw an elderly man staring at the sidewalk next to my truck. I ran around and nearly died when I saw my client lying on the ground. I hadn’t given any thought to whether or not he had been hit when the shot was fired. All color had drained from his face. Two buttons had popped on his shirt, leaving part of his rotund stomach exposed.
“Do you think he’s ok?” the old man asked.
I was sick to my stomach, not only because a client may have died on my watch, but also because I had handled every aspect of the incident wrong so far.
There wasn’t any sign of blood. I checked for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. I poked him a few times and even gave one of his chubby cheeks a half-hearted slap. I was surprised his moustache didn’t bend or break.
“You can’t do that,” the old man said. “That’s abuse.”
I wanted to tell the man to mind his own business. Instead, I said, “He’s fine. I think he fainted.”
When my client stirred, I grabbed his arm and pulled hard. “Get up before a crowd gathers.”
“What happened?” he asked.
We left the elderly man behind and rushed into the bank.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I demanded. “Why would someone shoot at you? You fainted out there. How could you faint at a time like this?”
“That happens sometimes. The fainting not the shooting. I have a low blood sugar problem. If I get overly excited, I faint.” He straightened his shirt and tucked it in. The missing buttons didn’t matter quite so much now. “We made it. We’re safe for now. Come with me.”
Danny McNutt waved from the side door leading to the parking lot. He was the bank’s only security guard, and apparently, like everyone else in the bank, he wasn’t aware of what had happened outside.
Glenn always said the bank didn’t need a security guard. Danny was never armed, and he acted as more of a token criminal deterrent and goodwill ambassador than anything. He and I had graduated high school in the same class and had even gone on one date. I couldn’t remember why there wasn’t a second date.
My client looked back at me and said, “We’re going downstairs.”
I followed the man down the wide flight of stairs and to the end of a long hallway. Some areas of the bank had been remodeled over the years, but this part of the bank housing the safe deposit boxes was original and set behind a row of steel bars.
I was familiar with the setup. I had secured a box for Glenn and me when I opened our account last month. A short, stoop-shouldered man who looked to be about a hundred years old had introduced himself to me then as the keeper of the boxes and encouraged me to call him Benny.
He greeted us now and asked, “Are you here to open your box, Mrs. Wheeler?”
“Not today, Benny. I’m just keeping a friend company. He wants to open his box.”
Benny looked puzzled. “I rarely forget a face, and I don’t quite recollect-”
My client cut him off. “I want to open Ellis Rich’s box.”
Benny frowned. “Not without a power of attorney. We got rules here.”
My client produced not only a power of attorney but also a key to the box. Benny squinted at both before pressing a button on the wall. It was only a minute before Hugh Oakes, the short, wiry bank manager arrived.
He pulled a pair of glasses from atop his head, inspected the paper as if inspecting a rare gem, and said in a voice bigger than his small frame implied, “Everything looks good to me. Let him in.” He turned to leave, taking the power of attorney notification with him.
Benny retrieved the bank’s key to the box. We followed him into a large room with long rows of steel compartments. There were several hundred boxes in the room. It was exciting to think of all the secrets, treasures, and even mysteries contained in the boxes.
Benny stepped on a small two-step stool and reached up, using the two keys to unlock
the door marked 407. He pulled out the long metal box and led the way around the corner to a short hallway with four private rooms for viewing contents. All of the rooms were on the left side of the hall. He chose the last room, snapped the light on, and placed the box on the table.
“Take your time,” he said. “If you need anything, I’ll be at the gate.”
Benny rushed out, and my client grabbed my arm to propel me to the door. “Wait in the hall,” he said.
I was hoping he’d let me see what was in the box. It was obviously important enough, or valuable enough, to warrant someone shooting at him.
I reluctantly stepped outside the room. He slammed the door behind me.
I walked several feet down the hall, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes. Other than someone shooting at my client, this wasn’t exciting, but it was easy money. If there was going to be another attempt on his life, it would happen when we left the bank. I definitely needed to call Glenn. Not only was I feeling guilty for not reporting the shooting when it happened, but asking Glenn and Clay to escort us back to my office was the smart thing to do.
I reached into my bag to grab my phone, and in the next instant, I was lifted off the floor and thrown several feet down the hallway. An ear-splitting and thunderous sound accompanied the repositioning of my body.
The door of the room my client was in had burst outward. Pale smoke and paper confetti now filled the hallway outside the room.
Through an intense ringing in my ears, and from far away, I heard voices. I managed to get to my feet. My lungs felt as though they had collapsed. I gasped and struggled to take in air.
When I instinctively licked my lips, the taste of blood filled my mouth. I reached my hand to my face and found my nose bleeding. Dizziness swept over me. I leaned against the wall and waited for the feeling to pass.
Benny was first to reach me. He was pale and clearly shaken. Mr. Oakes was right behind him and gripped my arm. “What happened?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The bank manager squeezed my arm harder and asked again, “What happened?”
I pointed to the room. “Blown up.”
He cautiously approached the doorway, looked in, and turned away, clamping his hand over his mouth. He recovered quickly, told Benny and me to stay put, and rushed around the corner of the hallway.
Benny leaned against the wall beside me. We stood there motionless and speechless for what felt like an eternity until we heard heavy footsteps coming our way. I looked up to see what appeared to be the entire Buxley police force following Sergeant Rorski.
The sergeant let out a low growl when he saw me. “I might have known you’d be here. Where there’s trouble, there’s you.”
Glenn rushed forward, fright registering on his face. “Are you ok? Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?”
I attempted a smile to reassure him. “I’m ok. Just shook up. I think I need some tissues. My bag is around here somewhere.”
He found it another five feet down the hallway. I pulled out a handful of tissues and pressed the entire bunch to my nose.
Sergeant Rorski instructed officers Collins and Winnie to go into the room. He then turned to me. “All right, Wheeler. Oakes said you brought a man here. Was that him in there?”
I nodded.
“Client of yours?”
I nodded again.
“What’s his name?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
The sergeant’s face turned red. “Dammit, Jo, don’t play games with me.”
I pulled the bloody wad away from my face and glared at the sergeant.
Glenn slipped a protective arm around my shoulders. “Give her a minute, Sarge. Can’t you see she’s still reeling from the blast?”
Officer Collins came out of the room with the tattered remains of a wallet. He shook his head to indicate the man was dead and handed the wallet to the sergeant.
Sergeant Rorski pulled out a driver’s license. “Oscar Preston. Sixty-two. Lives over in Patterson.” He barked an order at Clay. “Carpenter. Call the coroner’s office. Get Howard Sanders down here.” He pointed a finger at me and bellowed, “Don’t you dare call Jackie. I don’t want the press here until I’m ready for them.”
I felt Glenn tense beside me. I knew it was difficult for him to be concerned for me and be professional, too, but I could tell the sergeant’s attitude toward me was getting to him, especially considering I could have died in the blast had I been standing closer to the door.
“What did your client want?” Glenn asked gently. “Why were you here with him?”
“He came into my office and offered me two thousand dollars to bring him here. He wanted to get some valuables out of a safe deposit box. The box must have been rigged to blow when the lid was opened. He wasn’t in there a full minute before the explosion.” I rearranged some of the tissues and blotted my nose again. As an afterthought, I said, “He gave me a thousand dollars before we left. He still owes me a thousand. I guess I won’t be getting that.”
I knew I should mention someone took a shot at the man when we arrived, but a small voice in the back of my mind, the one I can usually trust, told me to keep the information to myself for now.
Glenn reluctantly left my side to see what the sergeant needed him to do. Benny and I continued to lean against the wall while activity bustled around us. Howard Sanders showed up with his crew from the morgue. He let out his usual gah sound of contempt when he saw me.
“Oh, shut up,” I said as he walked by. It wouldn’t take much for me to go off on someone, and a shouting match with Howard would go a long way toward expending the unpleasant tension building within me.
I pushed away from the wall and began walking down the hallway.
“Hold on,” Sergeant Rorski yelled after me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” I said. “You don’t need me, and I need some fresh air.”
“You’re not going anywhere. This is a murder investigation, and you’re a suspect.”
“Me?” I squealed, anger coming dangerously to the surface. “How can you possibly think I had anything to do with this?”
He placed his hands on his hips and appeared to be taking a stand. “How can I not? You could have knocked him out, stolen his valuables, and planted the bomb in the room.”
Glenn must have sensed I was ready to blow and stepped forward to put his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Sarge, I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, but you have to know Jo didn’t have anything to do with this. She was nearly killed herself.”
The sergeant nodded his head. He didn’t apologize but sounded defeated when he looked back to me and said, “You can go. I’ll call you later if I have any questions.”
My anger dissipated, and I felt a small measure of sympathy for him. He was out of steam, and he needed to retire. The stress of running the Buxley police department was more than he could handle, and he’d already had one heart attack. Another might do him in.
“Let me make a suggestion,” I said. “Benny keeps a record of everyone who opens a box, right? Check to see who opened Mr. Rich’s box last, and you’ll probably find who loaded it with explosives.”
Sergeant Rorski grunted but calmly asked the bank manager, “Oakes, do you keep records?”
The manager nodded to Benny, and Benny took off for his station at the gate. He came back a few minutes later with a panicked look on his face. His voice was barely audible when he said, “They’re gone. All the cards are gone.”
Mr. Oakes twitched. “What do you mean they’re gone? That’s impossible.”
“They’re gone,” Benny said again.
“What cards?” Sergeant Rorski asked.
Mr. Oakes looked ill. “The signature cards. We use them to double-check signatures and keep track of who accesses the boxes and when. They also give us a record of every visitor.”
“Isn’t the information on your computer?” Glenn asked.
He shook his head. “We’ve always maintained a paper trail for the safe deposit boxes. Some of our clients have itemized the contents of their boxes to the bank, and the board worries about computer hackers, so the decision was made to continue using the paper system that’s worked for over a hundred years.”
A strange silence fell over the area. Howard and his people were in the room with Oscar Preston’s remains, but they were waiting for the official police photographer to finish taking photos. The photographer was a new rookie on the force and had to leave the room more than once because of the condition, or rather the lack of condition, of Oscar.
Glenn had warned me not to go in the room. I was tempted to ignore his advice, but in my heart, I knew I didn’t have the fortitude to see the results of the blast.
Mr. Oakes suddenly burst into excitement. He even did a little jig in front of us. “I have it! I know who did it!” He ran off as though a rocket were attached to his behind.
Sergeant Rorski looked at Benny. “You know what he’s talking about?”
Benny nodded. “I think I do. A man was in here two weeks ago, and he, too, had a power of attorney for Mr. Rich’s box. Oakes keeps the power of attorney notifications in a filing cabinet in his office.”
“How long was he in the room with the box?” I asked.
Benny thought for a few moments and said, “I think about ten minutes. It wasn’t very long.”
“Do you remember how he acted?” Sergeant Rorski asked. “Did he seem nervous to you?”
Benny shook his head. “I don’t remember. There’s a lot of people in and out of here every day, and most people act normal. You know, polite and friendly.”
Mr. Oakes came running toward us waving a paper in the air. As soon as he was within reach, Sergeant Rorski snatched it from his hands.
“Jerome Conner,” he read from the paper. “Benny, does that name ring a bell with you?”
Murder Breaks the Bank Page 2