The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  Our bank’s security system has a backup recording. It’s designed with the thought in mind that if someone breaks into the bank, they will try to erase videos of them being here. The backup will remain intact for a much longer period, providing me with an opportunity to see if, indeed, Joe might have been destroying recordings.

  Backing out of the main program, I enter a different code: AccessVideoBackup. The videos load and, once again, I focus on the lobby camera facing the front door. In the middle of the night, I find a green line indicating activity. My heart thrashes against my ribcage, thinking I have struck pay dirt.

  “Oh shit,” I say, squelching a scream when I see Douglas Vanover using a set of keys to gain entry via the front door. I follow him with the hall camera and watch him make a beeline over to the security panel where he turns off the alarm. Then he makes his way to my office and unlocks the door and goes inside. There are no cameras in my office, so I assume he is using my computer to transfer the fifty million dollars. I do a side-check to make sure Mr. Vanover didn’t dip into anyone else’s account. The only transaction between close of business and this morning is the fifty million.

  It strikes me as odd that he wiped out the small account and left the billion dollars intact. It also seems strange that Joe would have followed this up by sending the remaining monies to the Caymans to be deposited into an account which is only in Carol Vanover’s name. Maybe Joe thought Mrs. Vanover was going to take him with her and he’d have access to the money in the long run. But how does this benefit Mr. Vanover?

  Only moments later, Mr. Vanover appears back in the hallway with a perplexed look on his face. He heads back out to the lobby and looks around and then he jolts over to the entrance door and locks it. What an idiot, I think to myself. Then something else catches his attention. I zero in on Mr. Crenshaw at the night-depository window. They get into a discussion and then Mr. Vanover leaves the bank, locks it and goes around the side of the building. I switch cameras and watch as he and Mr. Crenshaw go around the back of the bank. The rear camera films Mr. Vanover tazing and then suffocating Mr. Crenshaw with a bag over this head, and then he stuffs him in Mr. Crenshaw’s trunk.

  Shifting back to the front exterior cameras, I watch him drive the car out the front parking lot. They have barely got on the road when I notice a car across the street at the muffler shop taking in after him. “That’s Joe Avery’s car,” I mutter to myself.

  Somewhere in there, I know Mr. Vanover dumped Mr. Crenshaw off the bridge. After all, Phillip read that in the paper this morning. A few moments later, the exterior front camera captures Joe pulling back into a slot over at the muffler shop. A few long minutes pass by, but eventually Mr. Vanover arrives by foot, looking ragged and sweaty. He enters the bank once again and this time he goes straight to my office since the alarms have already been shut off. He stays in there for a while and then he comes out and resets the security system. Moments later, he leaves in a white Toyota Corolla. A few seconds later, Joe pulls away from the muffler shop and drives off in his gray Hyundai Venue.

  For a while I don’t even breathe.

  When I manage to move, I shuffle through my bottom desk drawer and take out a package of discs and burn a dozen copies of all activity. Then I take out five flash drives and put copies on them as additional backups. After placing several digital duplicates in a lockbox located in the bottom drawer of my desk, others are tucked away in my safe deposit box next to my will, a rubber band and a dry ink pen, and then I stuff the rest in my purse. The original backup footage is left intact in case I need it in a court of law.

  Next, I change the access code to the security system, and this time I don’t write it on the back of Mr. Witherspoon’s calendar like I had been doing because now I suddenly suspect that Joe may have retrieved the information from this source. After resetting the alarm code, I change the access password to my computer.

  Finally, I drag a client chair around to my rolling chair and prop my foot up because the dang thing is swollen again. Then I sit there until closing time, trying to decide what to do with this newfound information.

  On the surface, it seems logical to go straight to the police. But then again, Mr. Vanover obviously doesn’t have any qualms whatsoever about killing people. I witnessed him killing Mr. Crenshaw. I highly suspect he killed Joe Avery. And it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he didn’t push Mrs. Vanover down those stairs to her death. I believe killing three people in less than twenty-four hours deserves a little thought on my part before I waltz down to the police station.

  I also need to take into consideration that Phillip could still be involved somehow, not to mention his uncle is a detective. If this is true, is it prudent to involve the law?

  “Mrs. Williams,” Melinda calls out, sticking her head in the door. “It’s time to close up. Are you staying?”

  “No, let me get up.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait for you.”

  She hovers in the doorway, waiting for me to turn off my computer. In an uncoordinated effort, I scramble to my feet and roll my chair underneath the desk. Securing the crutches under my arms, I grab my purse and follow behind her.

  “It was quite a day, wasn’t it?” Melinda remarks as we make our way down the hallway.

  “Yes, it was. Listen Melinda, after finding out that Joe accessed the bank’s security videos, I’ve changed the passcodes, including the alarm system. If you don’t mind, I’m going to keep it to myself until things settle down.”

  “Are you going to be able to open in the morning?” she asks.

  “Yes, I’ll be here.”

  “Ms. Williams, I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this.”

  “No, Melinda, I don’t think you did at all. I’m just following protocol.”

  “Yes, I understand,” she acquiesces, though I can tell she’s a bit hurt.

  We part ways in the parking lot and after prodding in behind the wheel, I return home. I haven’t heard from Phillip, so I’m able to get my car in the garage. Since I still can’t climb the stairs, I hobble out of the garage, close the door with a remote, and head for the back entrance.

  Danny rides the elevator again with me. “How’s the leg?” he asks.

  “Hurts like hell,” I gripe.

  “You need to ice it,” he astutely tells me.

  “Heading that way right now,” I tell him as we disembark together.

  After making an icepack, I get myself situated on the couch with my leg up and the cold bag on. Just as my head sinks into a throw pillow, my phone rings besides me and scares me half to death.

  “Hello Phillip,” I answer.

  “How did the strong gait go?” he asks.

  Does he know I went out? “I was able to get in another thirty laps around the complex before my leg became inflamed again. I’m resting it right now.”

  He chuckles which tells me he doesn’t know. “I was calling to see how you felt about me picking up a couple of catfish dinners from Something Smells Fishy. It’s in the same complex as my condo and I need to pick up a few more clothes.”

  “That sounds delicious.”

  For a moment I consider telling him to stay at home. But then reasoning overtakes my paranoia, telling me if he was involved with Mr. Vanover, they would’ve coordinated their stories today. Besides, I want to hear what he has to say. Even aside from the transfer of money, it’ll be interesting to see if he knows anything about Joe Avery or Carol Vanover’s death. After all, he quickly brought up Mr. Crenshaw’s supposed suicide. Now why was he focused on that article?

  When Phillip comes in, he is carrying a large sack of delicious smelling food. He tosses the keys on the entrance table as if he lives here and places the food on the kitchen table. By the time he returns to the living room, I am making a stab at getting up.

  “Why is your knee so swollen again?” he immediately interrogates.

  “Beats me,” I say innocently. “How was work?”

  “It was work. Did you g
o out today, because from the looks of it, you have done those thirty strong gaits around the complex?”

  “I think the cast is just too tight,” I come up with.

  “Umm hmmm. Well, your car was moved from Mrs. Burns’ driveway. Are you sure you didn’t go down to the bank to maybe find out what happened to Joe Avery? Is that what happened?”

  I haven’t quite made it off the couch. My eyes laser up to his. “How do you know about Joe Avery?”

  “Uncle Jimmy. He called me while I was driving over here. He informed me all about Carol Vanover’s spill down the stairs, and about Joe Avery’s possible Botox killing.” He narrows his eyes and looks down at me. “Now, you want talk about what you’ve done today.”

  Damn it. I should’ve known Detective Andrews would have heard about today’s misadventure and would’ve called Phillip. And then there’s my car. It didn’t move itself. “Then you know, I had to go down there … if nothing else to reset all of the codes.”

  “I suppose that’s understandable. Just the same, it worries me for your leg to have swollen so much. I’m not sure you’re going to be able to return to work tomorrow.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Today I stood on it too much while I watched the detective go through the security videos. Tomorrow I’ll be able to stay in the chair.”

  “Uncle Jimmy said nothing showed up on the videos.”

  “Nope, the detective didn’t find anything.” That was the truth.

  “I wonder why he was even looking at the security footage if Joe did the transfer this morning.” he ponders.

  “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

  We work our way into the kitchen and get a couple of waters and then dive into our food. While we eat, he tells me all about what his Uncle Jimmy relayed to him. In return, I keep my mouth closed and don’t divulge anything I know. It’s fortuitous that his Uncle Jimmy has given him so many details … or did he get his information from Douglas Vanover?

  Honestly, I don’t know why I can’t get over my suspicions of Phillip. Mrs. Burns has already eliminated him as being the one who broke into my apartment. Why isn’t that enough? Yet I don’t feel comfortable telling him about the backup security footage. Then again, I don’t feel comfortable even going to the police with it. I decide to sleep on it. Maybe a new day will bring a clear answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Hannah

  Unfortunately, the next morning I do not awaken refreshed nor with a brilliant idea. Instead, I feel torn to pieces inside. On the one hand, it was wrong of Mr. Vanover to snatch the keys from my apartment and wrongfully enter the bank. On the other hand, he only took his wife’s money. Do I really care? But then there’s the murder of Mr. Crenshaw. He should pay for that. Then again, people like him will be bonded out in seconds, and if I’m the one who turns him in, he’ll most likely come after me. He killed Mr. Crenshaw like it had been a part of his daily work. And I’m still not convinced that he didn’t kill Joe and possibly even his wife. He’d kill me in a heartbeat. Do I want to be involved in this?

  “Good morning,” Phillip says when I hobble down the hallway toward the smell of bacon. Last night, after our catfish dinners, we relaxed on the bed and watched some TV. Phillip was an absolute gentleman as he always has been. I kept my mouth closed about the videos because I’m still not sure what to do.

  “Good morning,” I return, attempting to help him with the toast and coffee.

  “Get out of here,” he chastises. “It’s bad enough for you to go back into work today. I certainly don’t want you in here standing needlessly.”

  “Alright already,” I say, shuffling back to the table and getting myself situated.

  “If you can make it through the next few workdays, maybe this weekend I’ll take you to a movie.”

  I grin. “Are you asking me on a date?”

  He grins back. “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I’d love to.”

  We chatter over scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, and then we each get ready for work. While Phillip is in the shower, I store a few of my disc copies and one of the flash drives in a lockbox I have stashed under my bed. Then I have a brilliant idea as to where to store some of the others.

  We leave at the same time, giving each other delicious goodbye kisses. This is what I want … a companion to share my life with. I just need to let my suspicions go.

  On the way into work, my mom calls. “How are you doing, dear?”

  “I’m going to try working today,” I report.

  “Don’t overdo it, sweetheart,” my dad says on speakerphone.

  “I won’t,” I assure them.

  “How’s that handsome doctor?” my mom pries with a tone of hopefulness in her voice.

  “He’s...” I stop and think about it. The only reason I suspected him of being involved at all was because I thought he took the bank keys from my purse. HE DIDN’T, I internally scream to myself. “He’s wonderful,” I tell my mother, it truly dawning on me that he genuinely cares about me. “I’ve really lucked out.”

  “I knew it,” my mother gloats. “I had such a good feeling about him.”

  “Did you find out who came into your apartment?” my dad questions.

  I hesitate. “Mrs. Burns, my neighbor, saw someone going out with a ladder.”

  “So, it was someone with maintenance,” my dad concludes.

  “I suppose it was something like that,” I fib.

  “What about that guy who ran you over?” my mom brings up. “You need to get every dime you can out of him. He needs to pay for the pain he’s caused you.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I ever want to see him. Maybe it’s better if we just let him get away with it.”

  After all, it was only his wife’s money, and Mr. Crenshaw was old, I tell myself.

  “Yeah, it might be more hassle than it’s worth,” my dad agrees. “If you start making demands on him, you never know what kind of mess you’ll find yourself in. Rich people like him always have people in their corners. They’re so far above the law they can get away with murder. You have good insurance, and you can get yourself a new bike. If I were you, sweetheart, I’d stay clear of him. It’s not worth it.”

  “That’s good advice,” I tell him, thinking I’ll take it. “Well, I’ve arrived at the bank, so I’ll let you go.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk later.”

  Once I’ve opened the entrance doors and everything is situated, I make a call to the bank in the Caymans to find out a bit more about Mrs. Vanover’s account. Then I let Melinda know I’m going over to Mr. Witherspoon’s.

  “He has no idea about what went on yesterday, and I want to tell him in person,” I tell her.

  “Give my best to Eloise,” she says as I depart.

  “I will,” I respond over my shoulder.

  Working my crutches, I begin another arduous task of getting back in my car. After getting myself situated behind the wheel, I drive across town to one of the older neighborhoods and pull up to a brick house, small by today’s standards. After hopping my crutches down a cracked sidewalk, I ring the doorbell and wait. Mr. Witherspoon comes to the door in a gray and black plaid housecoat. His thin gray hair is standing straight up, looking like it hasn’t been cut in quite some time.

  “Hannah? Is everything okay at the bank?” he immediately asks in a concerned tone.

  “Not really. I need to talk to you.”

  He groans, giving the impression he doesn’t want to be bothered. Then he shrugs his shoulders and says, “Okay, come on in.”

  He opens the door and steps aside while I maneuver past him with my crutches.

  “Harvey,” a weak, croaky voice calls from one room over. “I’ve messed myself again.”

  Mr. Witherspoon looks like he is about to crack. No doubt he’s under a mountain of stress. “Have a seat on the couch, Hannah. I’ll be right back.”

  “Do you need help?” I ask.

  “No, I’ve been doing this for months now. Just give me moment.”
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  It had been my intention to say hello to Mrs. Witherspoon, but it sounds like I would be intruding.

  A glance around the room tells me the furniture is original to the house being built back in the 1950s. The place could use some updating. I take a seat on a thread-bare, filthy-looking brown couch, next to a pile of newspapers and resist the urge to spread one of the papers out to sit on. The TV is the giant old-style that weighs a ton. On the fireplace mantel are several pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon at various times of their life, including a double-framed photo of them getting married, and then celebrating their fiftieth.

  After fifteen minutes he returns to the living room, this time in a pair of tan trousers and a brown pullover shirt, and he has smoothed his hair. “Sorry about that Hannah,” he says taking a seat in an equally worn-out brown recliner. “What’s going on with the bank?”

  I give him the complete story as I know it, including Mr. Vanover breaking into the bank and killing Mr. Crenshaw.

  “That’s a shame about Mr. Crenshaw,” he agrees. “Did you know he was in the middle-stages of cancer?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I say in a shocked voice.

  “He was. I often saw him when Eloise was still doing her chemotherapy treatments. When we spoke last, he was winding down his business and getting his affairs in order. It’s probably a blessing in disguise that he won’t have to go through what my poor Eloise is enduring. It’s a horrible, horrible way to go, Hannah. You really have no idea.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say as I hear Eloise moaning from the next room. We have a moment of silence between us before I go on. “It seems the only thing Mr. Vanover did was to transfer fifty million into his wife’s account in the Caymans.”