by Rena Koontz
“I just want to go home. Thanks for the coffee and for listening to my tale of woe. If your friend is out there, I’ll tell him to leave me alone or I’ll call the police. Unless he points a gun at me too, I’m not afraid of him.” She stood and retrieved her purse from the floor.
Jake rose as well. “At least let me walk you to your car. A Southern boy always does that.” He didn’t wait for her to agree and, instead, lightly held her elbow as they wove through the department store aisles and out the North Entrance.
“Where’d you park?”
“Aisle Seventeen, under the light fixture. I always park in that area and use this door to go in and out of the mall. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’d forget where I left my car.”
They reached her driver’s door and Jake squeezed her elbow before she reached for the door handle. “My number is in your phone now, since you dialed me. Will you add it to your contacts, just in case Vinny turns up again? I’d like to know if he does.”
The black car approaching behind them caught her attention. “I don’t think you’ll have to wait long.”
It cruised up behind her thirteen-year-old Ford Taurus and the rear window eased down.
“Well, what a coincidence. Jake, I thought you didn’t know this young lady and yet, I find you two together again.”
Jake’s arm wrapped around her waist and his hand splayed across her left hip, causing her to gasp. He drew her close to his side. “I’m trying to rectify that, Vinny. What the fuck are you doing here?”
The question surprised both of them, judging by the way Vinny’s mouth dropped open. They couldn’t be friendly business associates if Jake spoke to him like that. He didn’t give Vinny a chance to reply. “She’s off-limits. Or don’t you abide by the Bro Code. You don’t hit on a friend’s girl. We are friends, right? So back the fuck off and quit following her. Do I make myself clear?”
Vinny’s brows furrowed. “Take it easy, Jake. I just happened to be in the neighborhood and I spotted the two of you leaving the mall. No harm meant. In fact, let me help you with your love life. Be my guest for dinner tomorrow night at my restaurant. My treat. I’ll reserve the best table say, seven o’clock. If you want to impress a lady, Cabacolli’s Casaria is the place to take her.”
The conversation confused Mackenna. Was Vinny a restaurant owner? Jake described him as a shady businessman. Would she have to eat dinner with Jake? She hardly knew him, despite the sense of security she felt with his arm around her. And the tingling from his long fingers that rested on the top of her butt cheek. Her body and her heart were starved for attention. But Jake wasn’t the solution.
Jake apparently had the same thoughts. “No, thanks. We have other plans.”
Vinny shook his head. “Aw, c’mon. I’ve been telling my pop about you and he’ll be there. I’m sure he’d enjoy meeting both of you.”
Her shoulders tensed when Vinny’s eyes roamed over her body as if he pictured her standing there naked. Jake must have picked up on it as well because he inched her behind him. “Some other time, Vinny.”
“Talk it over with your girlfriend. The food is excellent and reservations are hard to come by. I’ll look for you at seven tomorrow night.” The rear window rose slowly, like a stage curtain lifting for the first act. But it signaled the end of Vinny’s performance. “A coat is required and most of the clientele wear ties so dress appropriately.” He disappeared behind the tinted window and the car drove away.
Jake whirled and smacked the roof of her car with his open palm. “Son of a bitch.”
She waited for an explanation. The color of his eyes deepened to that eggplant purple she’d seen in the grocery store. Already she was becoming familiar with this man, the impish way he canted his head, the feel of his hands on her, and those eyes that darkened when he sensed trouble. Before either of them spoke, her cell phone rang. She fished it from the bottom of her purse and frowned. Mr. Gleaner.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sweetie. I’m calling to check on you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Gleaner.” She eyed Jake, and he backed up several steps to allow her some privacy. Not far enough away, though, that he couldn’t hear her side of the conversation.
“I told you to call me Ted. Listen, I’m sorry about what happened today. I make an administrative decision and send you to another branch so you’ll be more comfortable and you are victimized again. And I wasn’t there to comfort you. I want to make sure you’re all right. I’d like to see you tonight. How about dinner?”
Maybe she really would go home and throw herself out the window. All these strange men favoring her with their unwanted attentions suffocated her. Killing herself had to be less painful.
“I can’t tonight, Mr., er, Ted.” She stared at Jake as she spoke. “My friend is already with me and we’re making plans for tonight.”
“That’s good. I don’t want you to be alone. What about tomorrow night?”
“Um, we already have dinner plans. She’s planning to stay with me for a couple of days so you don’t have to worry.” Jake’s head tilted to one side. “I’m at the mall, sir. Truly, I’m fine. And I’ll be at the East Seventh Street branch first thing in the morning. I don’t need the day off, it’s better if I keep busy. Listen, I have to go. Thanks for calling.” She disconnected before he could say any more.
Jake closed the distance between them and touched her elbow. “What was that about?”
She shrugged. “I guess we’re both lying to our business acquaintances.”
He grinned and wrapped his hand around hers, easing the phone from her fingers. “May I see this for a minute?” After punching a few keys, he returned it. “I’m saved in your contacts.”
“Thank you. Now, can I go home, please?” She pressed her key fob and her door unlocked.
Jake reached to open it. “Yes, ma’am. I’d still like to follow you, though, just to make sure Vinny doesn’t. My bike is around the other side of the mall but you could drive me to it.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Don’t think your boyfriend would understand a motorcycle escort?”
“My who?”
“Your boyfriend. In the supermarket, you said you were in a relationship. Where I come from, that means you have a boyfriend.”
The emptiness of her life resurrected in her heart, which lay heavy in her chest. She locked her lips between her teeth to control their quivering. She’d already had an emotional breakdown in front of this man so there was no need for pretense. “I threw him out. I’m done with men. So I’d rather you not follow me. Thanks for the coffee.”
She turned the key in the ignition and drove away.
Chapter 7
He stacked and re-stacked the piles of money, each the same height according to denomination and an inch apart from the next, all neatly displayed like stepping stones along the baseboard of his bedroom. These were his friends. George Washington faced to the left on all the one-dollar bills heaped in three six-inch-high piles at the farthest end. Abraham Lincoln stared at George from the fives in an even stack but Abe required more real estate. Five mounds of fives. He liked it.
He nodded respectfully to Alexander Hamilton and Andrew Jackson, both in a neck-and-neck race at the moment for their space along the wall and beating Abe by two piles, both approaching the eight-inch mark. The stacks were banded in bundles, easy to tally. But he had no need to count his friends. He knew their exact number.
He snapped his heels together and saluted Ulysses S. Grant. “Don’t worry, you’ll grow,” he whispered to two three-inch stacks of fifties.
Last, but perhaps his most cherished friend, Benjamin Franklin kept a watchful eye on his cronies, like a doting father. Ben eyed him from atop a short stack of one-hundred-dollar bills, only three inches high. Ben and he were buds. B
oth geniuses in their own right. Both men of vision with goals and the commitment to achieve those goals. He winked at Ben. “I’m graduating to the vault. You’ll be the tallest soon.”
He caressed the hundreds, so clean and crisp it aroused him. Ordinary people didn’t regularly carry bigger denominations so they weren’t handled as often as the others. They even smelled different.
Stepping back to admire the exhibit, he smiled as he nudged one stack a centimeter to the left. People said he suffered from an obsessive-compulsive disorder but they were wrong. His IQ had tested near genius. That was why he’d outsmarted the FBI so far. He had a brilliant mind. Just like Ben Franklin.
And now, a new opportunity loomed. He wasn’t out of money and normally, this would be the time to lay low. Every news cycle featured a story about the rash of bank robberies carried out by unknown persons and broadcasted blurred pictures from bank surveillance tapes that might as well have been pencil drawings scrawled by a toddler. That’s how useless they were. He loved hearing himself described in the plural: persons. No one knew one smart dude was getting the best of the state and local police, and, as a bonus, the FBI. Well, that fact registered more like a boner. And better still. No one knew it was him.
Ordinarily, he’d just enjoy the ride. But next week, opportunity would knock. He’d have the advantage of driving a different vehicle for a full week. Not that anyone had picked up on the car he drove, at least not according to the news accounts. In fact, the reporters said no one had noticed a getaway vehicle. He’d counted on people inside the bank being too scared to look at him once he fired his gun at the ceiling. As for the general public. Well, they were too busy with their own lives to pay attention to him. God bless cell phones and texting.
All the police could use was film from both bank’s surveillance cameras, one that showed him hunched over and running out the door and one that depicted a nerdy-looking man who kept his face down at the teller window.
With little fact to report, the media speculated about the robbers, whether the incidents were connected, if someone had a vendetta against the Good Neighbor bank, or if each hold-up was a random act of violence. They were clueless.
And now, another chance.
His friend owned and drove a two-seater pickup but was part of a car pool with his workmates. So one week a month, they swapped vehicles. Next week, he’d be driving around town in his friend’s green pickup, instead of his own beat-up Chevy and the prospect of another job and escape in a different vehicle appealed to him. Usually, he smeared his rear license plate with mud so the digits and letters were partially covered, making them difficult to identify. But he had an ingenious idea to disguise his friend’s license. The inspiration came to him as he watched late-night TV and a commercial for women to temporarily conceal their gray hair by spraying an aerosol product on it. The darker color lasted until the woman washed her hair.
Knowing that his friend’s license plate included the numbers five, nine, and zero, he planned to use some of the color spray to change the five to a six, the nine to an eight and the zero to an eight. Even if someone noted the plate as he drove away, the number would be bogus.
Starting research on his newest target titillated him, like the promise of sex at the end of a dinner date. The objective definitely could not be a Good Neighbor branch this time. That would tempt fate. As always, he’d be methodical. By the time he strolled in the building ready to make his demand, he’d know everything about the branch, including the number of tellers and guards, the distance to and from the police station, all highway accesses, peak hours, and more. And if he didn’t complete the spreadsheet he carefully filled out for each job, he could afford to wait until next month. He definitely liked the idea of driving another vehicle.
A new disguise was necessary as well. This time, it just might be a woman behind the wheel of that pickup. A donation center in the next town likely had everything he needed. A dress, wig, pocketbook, shoulder shawl, even plus-size bras that he could stuff. He’d look for women’s shoes as well, something orthopedic.
Switching on the bathroom lights he studied his face in the mirror. His skin was smooth, his features sharp. He’d add a swipe of lipstick and red color on his cheeks. And false eyelashes to wear behind a new pair of pink glasses. Laughing, he strolled to his desk to get started. This was going to be fun.
Chapter 8
Jake’s boss slammed his hand to the table top. “I don’t like it. That’s twice now that Cabacolli shows up eighty miles away from his home base and just happens to run into you, Jake. Something’s fishy.”
“I’m not sure it’s me, boss, I think it’s the girl. It seems like he’s tailing her.”
“Well, who the hell is she to you? A nobody bank teller, right? You have no interest in her so just let her be. If she gets involved with Cabacolli, that’s her business.”
No way could Jake let that happen, for a whole host of reasons. “It’s not that simple. If I hadn’t been talking to her in the produce aisle, Vinny would never have introduced himself to her.”
“You don’t know that as a fact. He’s a mongrel where women are concerned. I tell you, this whole thing stinks.”
Jake raised his hands to calm his boss. “Don’t yank the plug yet, sir. I already called Vinny and told him I wouldn’t be at his Casaria tomorrow night. Although it’s too bad because from all the intel we have, the restaurant is the front for their dirty business, you know, the whole enchilada: drugs, prostitution, black market goods. This would be an opportunity to meet his father and move me one step closer to infiltrating the family. With the girl in the picture, though, it’s too risky. But if he invited me once, he’ll likely invite me again. For whatever reason, Vinny likes me. He probably doesn’t have many friends.”
His boss’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure I agree but you’re the one in the trenches with Cabacolli so I’m not going to pull rank on you yet. But this is the last coincidental meeting, do you understand? You’ve accomplished in a few weeks what we’ve tried to do for two years, place someone next to that family. But it doesn’t feel right to me. So keep alert.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, boss.”
He poked his finger at Jake. “And don’t chase that skirt. You and your new best friend don’t need to be fighting over that.”
Was that a direct order?
“Remember, Jake. If Cabacolli just happens to show up on your doorstep again, it’s over. Is that clear?” He made air quotation marks around the words ‘just happens’ to emphasize that he didn’t believe in coincidence. Jake wouldn’t argue. Several missing persons were directly connected to the Cabacolli family, but how and when they disappeared were mysteries. He didn’t plan on becoming one more.
Their lunch meeting at a neighborhood Mexican restaurant ended once his boss was appeased. Jake waited at the table for another fifteen minutes after the boss left, which allowed him time to call Demond, who headed up the bank robbery squad. The African-American agent was a human oxymoron. Muscular to the point of being bulky, fierce looking with his shining bald head and gruff mannerisms, and as gentle as a teddy bear. Often, when an agent transfers to a new field office on a temporary assignment, the regulars don’t take much notice. Not Demond. He’d welcomed Jake on his first day, practically crushing his hand when he shook it, and bought him dinner that night, where he recommended restaurants and dry cleaners, shared driving shortcuts, and filled him in on office politics. Every bureau had them.
Jake imagined his giant face splitting into a wide grin as he answered Jake’s phone call. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. How’s it going, my man?”
“Why were you wondering that? Do you miss my Southern charm?”
Demond’s rich laugh rolled through the phone. “Sure I do. And those pretty blue eyes that Courtney tells me you have focused on my victim bank teller. She’s not bad
looking. Not my taste but that’s okay.”
Jake laughed. One amorous hug from Demond could crush a woman’s ribs. “And how do your tastes run, may I ask?”
He released another laugh that sounded as if it formed in the bottom of his belly and rumbled up through his massive chest. “Me? I like my women like I like my coffee. Sweet and black.” Jake couldn’t resist laughing when Demond roared.
“Tell me about the bank teller, Demond. Do you like her for the robberies?”
The levity in his voice disappeared and his tone deepened into all business. “Hard to tell. Ask me after the first time I interviewed her and I’d say no. She was an emotional wreck. I wasn’t certain she’d get her own name right. But this time, there was something different about her. As if she remembered too many details. She said that, after the first robbery, she resolved to be more aware. But who anticipates being robbed again? And her body language contradicted her words. Her chin quivered, she flipped her pen in her fingers, fiddled with the strap on her purse . . . She was as nervous as a whore in church.”
Jake exhaled. “Maybe she was just that. Nervous.”
“Maybe,” Demond conceded. “I’m putting together a dossier on her for a more in-depth look. She’s a puzzle, that one.”
“How so?”
“Barely a dollar in her bank account yet all her bills are paid and she has good credit. She could have a sugar daddy but she doesn’t seem the mistress type.” His chair squealed under his weight as he leaned back. “What is she to you, exactly?”
Jake frowned. “Don’t believe Courtney, I hardly know the woman. I told you I chatted her up at the coffee shop after the Mound Avenue incident, but didn’t get anything to help your case. Courtney exaggerated that chance meeting into a rendezvous and has been needling me ever since. But our paths crossed again today. Kenna called me so my number will show up on the log when you dump her phone records. That’s a whole other story. I had the chance to talk to her some more, though, and she told me about the second robbery. She claims she made a concerted effort to pay attention to the robber this time. She also senses that the police don’t believe her.”