Not Safe for the Bank(er)

by Una Tiers

  He had the good grace to blush. Always blame the dead person.

  “Why didn’t she just wait until morning?” I asked.

  “She didn’t know who was opening in the morning. She couldn’t take a chance someone would report the keys missing. After the incident with Charlotte, we were all nervous. Carol knew management was heartless and wouldn’t hesitate to cut her out. They gave her the benefit of the doubt when her husband got sick, but wouldn’t do it again.”

  “How did you learn all of this?”

  “Well I went to the agent, what’s his name Doo?”

  “Fou,” I corrected him. “Fou told you all of this?”

  “No, he let me visit Mike as long as I repeated what Mike said to me.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, Mike didn’t talk about anything as far as I’m concerned.”

  Visiting him didn’t occur to me. How could he do it knowing Mike murdered Carol?

  “Mary Ann called the FBI about Carol’s cat. Did you know that Fiona?”

  “Oh no. Is it dead?” After I spoke to Mary Ann I never thought to follow up on the poor cat’s well being.

  “No, after Carol was found, they searched her apartment and found the cat and …and you won’t believe this but the FBI guy…”

  “Fou,” I inserted.

  “Yes, Fou, adopted her cat, Penny.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “So let me see if I follow what happened,” I recapped.

  “Carol left inadvertently with the vault keys.”

  “Right,” he nodded to accompany his answer.

  “When she stopped for cat food, she realized her mistake and she had to try to return them.”

  “Yes, and after Carol left I locked up as fast as I could after letting the cleaning crew into the bank.”

  At this point I didn’t mention that Mr. Fives didn’t check the vault door after all.

  “How did she know about Mike owning the cleaning service?”

  “I believe Carol and Mike, were, an item. She had lunch there constantly. And although he doesn’t serve liquor, she would come back giggling. I don’t know how she got liquored up.”

  Now I knew that funny look in Eduardo’s eyes I couldn’t understand earlier, it was jealousy. He thought Carol preferred a married man to a single one. He thought Carol preferred Mike over him.

  “Did they leave her in the bank with Mike?”

  “They must have. The doors are programmed to register if they are opened twice. We’ve used cardboard a few times when…when we had a situation,” he blushed and examined his shoes.

  “Why would she go inside the vault?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Mike promised her cash from the safe deposit box. After all, she had the bank keys and she could open his safe deposit box. All we know for sure is that Mike walked out and Carol didn’t.”

  “Didn’t he show up on the security tape?” I asked.

  “No, he apparently managed to keep his head down and out of the camera line. The main lobby lights were turned off when the cleaning crew finished in the lobby and went into the kitchen area. Besides the cameras are on the tellers and customers at the teller station. As much as we could see there was a man with a cap wiping the counters down. So we thought he was part of the cleaning crew. We didn’t notice the lights were off and someone was still cleaning.

  That’s why we don’t allow baseball caps to be worn in the bank during the day because at an angle they can cover the face and conceal the identity.”

  “So Carol was blackmailing him?” It seemed too extreme to me.

  “I’m afraid so. She knew something and it got her killed. And she was always worried about money and being able to retire.” He shook his head as though he was above reproach.

  “Did you find out about the package?” I wish I wasn’t this nosey.

  “The package? No, no one mentioned it.”

  “So where were the keys?”

  “The next morning they were in the drawer where they belong. Mike probably replaced them. He used to use the safe deposit box almost every week, he could have noticed the routine. He must have pushed the door closed. I did forget to close it the night before.”

  Epilogue

  Carol never retired and never saw Arizona again.

  Thank you for buying Not Safe for the Bank(er). If you loved the book, would you have a few minutes (and 20 kind words) to post a review on Amazon? Here is the link to the book page: http://www.amazon.com/Not-Safe-Bank-Una-Tiers-ebook/dp/B00CPCJA66

  You can contact the author, Una at una@unatiers.com She can also take a message for Fiona.

  Following are excerpts from other Fiona Gavelle Humorcides.

  Following is a sample of Judge vs Nuts, my debut humorcide. It was released in 2012 by a small press. The book is being revised and we expect it to be ready for the release of the second edition in early 2015. Below is the new cover.

  © 2015 Una Tiers

  Gavelle Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author.

  Brilliant Cover Art Gad Savage, Photo by Una Tiers

  Chapter 1

  January 2000

  My name is Fiona Gavelle; I'm an attorney in Chicago, Illinois. I passed the Illinois bar about a year ago and am working to build my own practice. It’s much harder than I ever expected.

  On the advice of friends, I started to attend bar group activities to network. Bar groups are lawyer clubs. There are at least thirty-five of them in the area, organized by geography, ethnicity, religion, area of practice and gender.

  I'm certain many groups were formed after an argument.

  The groups offer their members different amenities from research tools to magazine subscriptions. Almost every group has what's called judges’ night. It’s a reception where the judges are honored, meaning they get in free. Lawyers pay for tickets in exchange for being able to rub elbows with real judges. Word has it that at some receptions, the judges outnumber the lawyers.

  On a snowy Friday in late January, I attended my first judges’ night reception at the Water Law Club. That is where the story begins.

  The reception started at 5:30. I arrived early and was mistaken for one of the wait staff. After a seven dollar gin and tonic, one judge nodded an acknowledgment my direction. I didn’t know his name until later in the reception. This nod has haunted me for a long time.

  My plan for the reception was to work the room, and introduce myself to everyone. However when I saw the judges clustered together, I was afraid to invade their sanctuary. When I guessed the price of the suits many attorneys wore, my plan changed. My new plan was to introduce myself to lawyers standing alone, in two’s or three’s with cheaper suits. Most of them wandered off when they learned I am a mere solo practitioner just starting out and not a downtown Chicago lawyer with a fancy lawfirm.

  Dinner consisted of a modest buffet. With my plates shamelessly stacked high, I joined a table of lawyers who had similar huge portions. (I admit I was the only one balancing two plates.) We were happy shoveling the food down until Mildred Shoe and Charlie Boock sat down. Mildred and I went to law school together and Charlie is her friend. I can’t tell if they are dating or just friends.

  Charlie started the conversation with a war story, which ignited other war stories. I feigned interest while eyeing the dessert table.

  War stories are fish stories adapted to the person’s legal prowess. Each retelling brings increasing glee and of course a larger fish. Being new, I didn’t have a war story to tell. When I think about it, this book is my first war story.

  During dessert, the judge who nodded at me, Judge Laslo King, received some kind of award. A few people stood up and clapped and looked around for everyone else to stand. There was an unspoken suggestion that we had all better join in if we ever hoped to get dessert. When the applause finally ended and people were sitting down again, I helped myself to two chocolat
e covered strawberries and a slice of lethal cheesecake. The judge thanked everyone, warned us about the snowstorm, and adjourned the meeting.

  While I was waiting in line for my coat, I saw the third familiar face of the evening, my famous client, Adam Curie.

  “Hi Fiona. Can you give me a lift home?”

  “Sure. I didn’t see you earlier.”

  “I skipped the cocktail hour; you know I take eleven prescriptions.”

  Adam Curie is at least eighty years old and has been a judge in the probate department for about fifty of them. He is very politically connected, has a great sense of humor, and is as wrinkled as any elephant I’ve ever observed. His charm, or political clout, is so far reaching, even his rather filthy remarks are acceptable.

  We have what I describe as a driving relationship. I drove him home from a meeting a month ago since we were headed in the same general direction. We liked each other instantly. After I described my practice, he hired me to write a codicil for him. I think of this as good fortune and not simply a driver meeting a passenger. He introduces me to a lot of people.

  The snow was getting heavier as we pulled onto Lake Shore Drive. It was howling and blowing in swirls instead of snowing from heaven to the earth.

  Judge Curie cautioned me. “Take your time, especially on the bridge.” Bridges have the quirk of getting slippery before the roads because the cold goes through the pavement from the top and bottom. Despite the storm, the drive wasn’t too putrid. Rush hour was over and most motorists were smart enough to stay home.

  “I’ll get you home alive.”

  “I need to finish my codicil before I die. I wondered what happened to you.”

  It was my first codicil and I was working on it for almost three weeks. In preparation, I took a class on wills, researched appellate cases and read several estate planning books.

  “It’s ready, when do you want to sign it?”

  “Where do you work now?”

  “The same place.” Was my one famous client losing it?

  Conversation paused while I allowed a car going too fast to merge in front of me from the Grand Avenue ramp. The judge grabbed the overhead strap, leaned his head back and braced his feet like a cartoon. Watching the other car as it fishtailed across three lanes, I cut my speed.

  Lake Shore Drive is a small, elegant four-lane highway. It runs parallel to the shores of Lake Michigan from 3500 south to 5000 north, more than ten miles. The scenery is phenomenal year round; the absence of trucks makes it feel civilized and a little safer. The only regular road feature it lacks is a real shoulder. If you have car trouble, pulling over is pretty hazardous.

  Unlike the other Chicago expressways, it has only one connection to another expressway about in the middle of its length. Unlike most expressways, the speed limit is forty-five miles an hour. They reduce the posted speed limit in the winter because drivers aren’t smart enough to do it because of road conditions. Rumor has it the lower speed limit is really to keep the salt from splashing on the foliage in the dividers.

  The drive starts in a residential high-rise laden area on the north end and finishes in a museum campus on the south end.

  “I called you this afternoon and Holadollar told me you didn’t work there anymore.”

  Completely embarrassed, I tried to look calm and in control. “He’s hard of hearing and your codicil is ready to go, we can sign whenever you’re ready.” Considering how new I am to the business, I thought this was a pretty good save of face.

  Was this why I have only six clients? Was that skinflint telling clients I didn’t work there, or worse, stealing from me?

  “Good,” he responded with the confidence I didn’t have.

  I dropped the judge off at his luxury senior residence, still seething over Holddollar’s treachery.

  My lawyer job is not very glamorous. I work in a sleepy, dusty office on the north side of Chicago with another lawyer. It sets a new low in terms of prestige. However, after graduating with a solid C minus grade average, even passing the Illinois bar exam didn’t make me attractive to employers.

  Silly me, I guessed the law school placement office would work with me and the employers would line up and I would fall into the lap of luxury. After all, I had a law degree and a license to practice from the State of Illinois!

  Not once did I understand that competition for lawyer jobs was as fierce as the students in cut throat competition for grades in law school. It was late into the process when I learned some law students start interviewing in the first year of the three-year program. In fact, some of them are hired before they even graduate.

  In contrast, my friends were only concerned about graduating, like I was. They never mentioned lawyer relatives with an office space earmarked for them. Others had a brave plan to hang out a shingle right out of the gate. Then, there were the rest of us who were less competitive and apparently didn’t plan too much. It’s the learning curve thing everyone talks about.

  After the bar exam I managed a few dismal interviews with small firms where I was compelled to lie and say how much I wanted to help clients through divorce or bankruptcy woes. My insincerity was so blatant I wouldn’t have hired myself. With my moderate levels of ambition, I needed something a little different from the run of the mill job. I almost interviewed for an agency that served low-income people, but the salary was less than a competent part-time minimum wage earner, so I continued my search.

  Eventually I found an ad that sounded like a deal made for me: Senior practitioner close to retirement seeks young associate, modest billable hours in exchange for rent and office overhead. Probate and estate planning. Occasional court appearances. Training included.

  Along with my other misunderstandings about professional school, I hadn’t given much thought to what kind of law I would practice. Contract law was the only class I liked.

  A majority of the students in my law school class planned on being corporate lawyers. Corporate law sounded sexy and affluent. A small group of students wanted to serve the legal needs of the poor and a third group wanted to work to put those people in jail.

  Wills sounded like law for old lawyers, but with few choices available to me, it became more appealing. It certainly looked better than being unemployed. Besides, wills resembled contracts to me, and I talked myself into liking the idea even though I am still looking for a widget, the object of many class discussions and lessons.

  Planning ahead, I reasoned that an older lawyer near retirement would need some bright young associate to take over his practice someday soon. After a short interview and a reference letter from the only law school professor who knew my name, I bought two suits and a nice raincoat. I was set to make my mark on the world. It was a long time before I realized I was the lone applicant for the job.

  The attorney, Bob Holadollar, was close to seventy and seemed congenial as long as money wasn’t discussed. He strongly encouraged me to bring my bar group journals in to share and cleared a shelf for the law books I would unquestionably buy. He stressed how important a law library was. He offered to help me understand the books.

  He said at his age he had little need for bar group antics. Later I saw the dues schedule for lawyers in practice over twenty-five years. It was close to what we paid in apartment rent.

  Bob was moderately well dressed about fifteen years earlier. Although the office was a little run down, I assumed his primary goal was quality legal work. The furniture, cheap to begin with, had chips and dust, the rug was threadbare where it was not stained.

  We got along well for almost two weeks and then things went downhill. When I started the office sharing arrangement he said his secretary left to have a baby. The dust on the desks didn’t tell the secrets for at least a week. She probably died of boredom, old age or a little of both. I assumed he would hire another secretary, and I was wrong.

  It took two full weeks to notice the time I owed in exchange for the space was spent typing, making copies and answering phones instead of being e
ngaged in the lawyer end of work. This is similar to how Supreme Justice Sandra Day O’Connor started but she had the title of secretary with a law degree and wages. I was a poor facsimile. To make matters worse, I wasn’t learning anything from him.

  Carrying a huge chip on my shoulder, I shouldered on because my options for gainful employment with two weeks of typing hadn’t increased. After poking around in old files, I learned that his secretary “Peggy” was gone since 1985 and may have been his ex-wife.

  At the six-month mark, despite the distribution of my first box of one hundred engraved business cards, I had attracted all of six clients of my own. Three of them are relatives, but they paid my fee so I am entitled to call them clients.

  Trying to estimate what I was receiving, I tried to find rent and utility receipts when Bob wasn’t in the office. I never located the office checkbook and there was one drawer in his desk that locked. Fear stopped me from asking a lot of questions lest my departure date be moved up.

  Another downside of the office agreement was half of any fee I generated belonged to the miser. He told me this was standard, but didn’t mention it until I wrote a will for a neighbor. When the check was handed to me, he insisted on negotiating it through his account and told me about the split later. For me this was a one time deal.

  At the end of six months, my income covered the cost of my bus pass and little else. Each week I had to draw money from my dwindling savings. Where was the big money lawyers were rumored to make?

  My most prominent client was Judge Curie. If other people knew this they would flock to my door and beg me to represent them. Unfortunately we have petty confidentiality rules and are not allowed to blab secrets like the identity of our clients.

  Judge Curie’s needed a codicil, an amendment to his will. While it was a small matter, it matched my knowledge in the area of estate planning. Codicils seemed simple in theory but while I tried to draft it, I learned I have two natural legal skills. The first is I can write loopholes without much thinking. The second is I see the loopholes on my first read through. Each time I thought I had finished, I found a second meaning. So, I continued to draft, redraft and redraft.