Mission

by Camilla Chafer

  "Who's Mrs Goldberg?" I asked, frowning.

  "You two haven't met yet. Someone sent it to her friend, who got it from their cousin, whose daughter was in the bank with you. And she sent it to me!"

  "Oh."

  "That's all you have to say!" yelled Mom. "What possessed you to take on bank robbers?!"

  "I didn't. I lay quietly on the floor."

  "Oh, thank heavens!" Mom paused before the wailing started again. "And they attacked you anyway? My poor baby!"

  My dad came on the line. "Your mother is a little anxious," he said. "Did you really rob a bank? I could have loaned you some cash if you were hard up. Have things taken a downturn at the agency? Does Solomon need a loan?"

  "No, Dad, I didn't rob the bank. I just happened to be there while it was being robbed. And I haven't been shot or stabbed so you can both stop worrying. I'm absolutely fine. Solomon is here. He doesn't need a loan. Garrett, Daniel, and Jord are here too. Also, cousin Tara was one of the responding officers, and I think I see two uncles."

  "Such a nice girl," said Dad. "I feel like I'm missing out. It's practically a family reunion."

  "Do not bring Mom down here," I warned him.

  Dad chuckled. "I won't. Although she did just mention baking muffins to take over to the police station. Invite Tara to dinner next week. We haven't seen her in a while."

  "Will do." I disconnected and shook my head. The whole time I was on the phone, I watched Maddox and Farid pulling the bank manager to one side and slowly questioning him as he nervously scratched his head and looked at his feet. I knew Maddox well enough that he wouldn't just turn up at a crime scene because he was slightly interested. Something else had to be going on. And then it became clear. They knew what was stored in the bank vaults and they wanted to know if it was stolen. What was so important to them that they would arrive on scene this fast? And how were they already so far ahead in a case that appeared to have only just begun?

  I nudged Solomon. "Something weird is going on here," I said.

  "Yep," agreed Solomon. "Let's get out of here."

  Chapter Five

  Our evening was far less eventful once Garrett allowed us to leave the bank. On our way home, we picked up an extra large pizza from Monty's and after I showered and put on clean clothes, I threw together a Greek salad, my feeble attempt at a healthy accompaniment. Solomon wasn't horrified by my efforts to follow the recipe, and after we ate everything, we retired for an early night. By the time I awoke, my phone was brimming with text messages eager to hear about the bank robbery and Solomon was already in the shower. I chose the better sight and ignored my phone as I waited for him to return.

  When he came back into the bedroom, after far too long, wearing a towel tucked around his waist, I had given up waiting and was reading The Montgomery Gazette online. "Just like I thought," I told him. "Not a single penny was taken."

  “What the hell are you wearing?” asked Solomon.

  I looked down. “These are my favorite comedy crocodile PJs.”

  Solomon shook his head. "Any mention of the FBI’s presence?" he asked.

  "None."

  "Anything stand out to you in the article?"

  "Not a thing. It's all as I expected. A few lines on how the masked gunmen executed the robbery. Some hyperbole on Officer Andersen's heroics along with a photo of him in uniform. A couple of quotes, one from an unnamed source at the bank, insisting the security measures were so tight that the robbery was absolutely unforeseen; and another quote from an unnamed hostage regarding how frightening it was." I closed the browser and set down my phone, sitting up a little straighter and resting against the pillows. "Before you ask, not a single word was mentioned about the vault or the explosion. Isn't that odd?"

  "Not particularly. The bank manager might want to keep that news very quiet and well away from the wider public. The police might have also told the reporter not to say anything lest it make their investigation more difficult."

  "I guess the bank manager might need more time to find out exactly what was stolen so he can notify the owners. That's bad business for the bank. No one wants to purchase an insecure security box."

  Solomon nodded. "Possibly dangerous too, depending on what was stolen."

  I raised my eyebrows. "I don't think the Mafia were using it to store their ill-gotten gains. This isn't New York or Atlantic City."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  I paused. Was that a trick question? Like the time my parents asked if I sneaked out at night and I wondered if they already knew the answer. Telling them the truth could be outing myself; while lying could result in even bigger trouble. "Are you?" I asked.

  "I have no idea, but given the professionalism of the heist crew and the weapons you described, I honestly get the impression something very valuable had to be in that safe. Whether that translates to cash value, or is only in terms of value perceived, I don't know. It’s hard to talk to you seriously while you’re wearing those crazy pajamas."

  "I like seeing you so casually wrapped up in a towel, yet talking very seriously," I replied, smiling as all thoughts of the bank robbery swiftly faded away. "Did you just flex your pecs?"

  "I did."

  "Come here and do that."

  "We'll be late for work," said Solomon, his voice deep and promising.

  "I'll take it up with the boss," I replied, pushing the covers back.

  Solomon's towel fell to the floor.

  ~

  "You two stop for a detour or something?" asked Delgado. He was checking his watch as we stepped out of the stairwell onto the floor of the Solomon Detective Agency.

  "Or something," said Solomon.

  "You say that like you didn't just take the stairs as we pulled into a parking space," I told my brother-in-law. "I saw you hightailing it through the door."

  Delgado grinned. "Would you believe I've been here hours and just got back from following a lead?"

  "Did the lead take you down to that new coffee shop at the end of the block?" asked Solomon. "I think I smell vanilla and powdered sugar."

  "Busted," said Delgado with a shrug. "I couldn't resist. They make the best coffee."

  "We have coffee facilities here," replied Solomon.

  "Sometimes our filtered coffee just doesn't cut it," said Delgado. "Anyway, there's someone waiting in the boardroom. He insisted it was very important. Fletcher is keeping him company so I just came by to tell you."

  "Why didn't you ask him to wait in one of the meeting rooms?" asked Solomon. "Unless it's a personal contact?"

  "He had a courtesy card from Lieutenant Graves. I figured he was important."

  Solomon glanced at me and I shrugged, palms up. I had no idea whom my brother handed out his courtesy cards to.

  "Thanks for the heads-up," said Solomon. He tugged open the door, holding it wide enough for me to step through. I did, with Solomon and Delgado right behind my exceptionally nice heels.

  The boardroom was separated from the office by glass. Fletcher positioned himself in Solomon's usual spot at the head of the table, while our guest was next to him with his back to us. He wore a mid-range navy blue suit with a blue shirt and the back of his head looked familiar. I must have seen him somewhere recently.

  "You know this guy?" asked Solomon softly. He nodded to Fletcher who noticed us without giving any indication to our guest that we had entered.

  "Looks vaguely familiar but I can't be sure without seeing his face."

  Solomon didn't tell me to hang back so when Delgado sat down at his desk, I followed Solomon into the boardroom. The man rose as we entered and Solomon moved to one side. I blinked in recognition. I had seen the man before, and fairly recently. He was the First Eastern Bank manager. The last time I saw him was after the robbery, when Garrett was interviewing him before passing him on to the paramedics. A large Band-Aid covered his left temple and his arm was supported in a sling. He appeared tired but his suit was neatly pressed, the tie perfectly knotted.

 
"That looks painful," I said, nodding to his head. "I heard the bank robbers knocked you out cold."

  He startled. "How did you know?" he asked, slightly surprised.

  "Lexi was there," explained Solomon. "This is Lexi Graves-Solomon, one of my private investigators."

  "The Solomon from the agency name?" asked the man.

  "That would be me, John Solomon," said Solomon, extending his hand to shake the man's uninjured one.

  "Charles Sampson," said the man.

  "Please take a seat. Fletcher will get you a bottle of water, or coffee if you prefer."

  "Just water, please," said Charles Sampson, dropping into his seat again. "I don't think caffeine is good for my head right now. And yes, one of the gunmen hit me with the butt of his gun and knocked me out cold."

  Fletcher rose and slipped out of the room. Solomon took his seat and I rounded the table, sitting on his other side so the three of us were close enough to talk. The bank manager put his fingers on the card in front of him and pushed it across to Solomon. Solomon picked it up, examined it, and passed it to me. It was my brother's courtesy card; on the back, my brother wrote: please call if you need assistance, which he signed with his initials. I nodded, confirming it was authentic.

  "It seems you already know who I am," said Charles. "Neither my introduction or the recent incident came as any surprise to you."

  "That's correct. We know you had a terribly frightening experience, Mr. Sampson," I said. "I wish I could have helped more at the time."

  "I prefer that you call me Charlie. I've been the bank manager of that branch of First Eastern for five years and worked in the banking industry my whole life. I never witnessed a bank robbery before, never mind getting involved in one."

  "And are you involved?" asked Solomon. He placed Garrett's courtesy card on the table between us. I was sure if I had a measuring tape, I would find the distance equal between us, which was both weird and precise.

  Charlie huffed a laugh. "Not like that, no."

  "Can you tell me how you came by this card?"

  "Lieutenant Graves gave it to me yesterday after he took my statement about the robbery. He suggested I call you as you have a lot of experience in security matters." Charlie stopped talking except for a quick "thanks" when Fletcher returned and deposited a small bottle of water and a glass on the table before leaving without a word.

  "You want us to look into your security and see why it failed? The police will do that on taxpayer money." Solomon's poker face revealed nothing but I sensed some confusion. He was right. Charlie didn't need us to investigate anything, not when the police would be crawling all over the scene and interviewing everyone at the bank.

  "No. You're correct. The police will do that and I trust them to find out how such a thing could occur. Before you ask, I doubt this was an inside job. I have unbounded faith in all of my employees and trust them implicitly. Maybe if the robbers took cash as it was being delivered, it would have been a different story. That could have implicated persons beyond my branch, but that's not what happened here."

  "Not a penny was stolen," I said, recalling the article.

  "Not exactly," said Charlie.

  "But something was," said Solomon. "And you want us to find out how?"

  "I don't really care how they stole it. I just want the item back."

  "Ah." Solomon nodded now and reclined slightly in his seat. "You want us to find it. We can potentially do that. What is the item you seek?"

  Charlie hesitated. "That's the whole problem. I don't know."

  "You don't know?" I asked.

  "That's correct. I don't know."

  "You don't know? Or you don't want us to know?" asked Solomon. I flashed him a surprised look at the odd question.

  Once more, Charlie hesitated. "I don't know," he said after a long pause.

  "Then how do you expect us to find it? How would we even know if we found it?" Solomon folded his arms across his chest and fixed Charlie with a don't mess with me look.

  "All very good questions. I have some information that could help you with your search, and once you've found something, I might be able to confirm it as the right item."

  "Whom does the item belong to? The bank or a client?"

  "A client."

  "And their name is...?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  The vein in Solomon's temple began to bulge. "And the estimated value of the item?" he asked.

  "Hard to say."

  Solomon stared but Charlie didn't flinch. "What can you tell us?" asked Solomon.

  Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone. "I managed to take a photo of the scene in the vault last night. I thought that might help you."

  "Let me see," said Solomon, holding out his hand.

  Charlie activated the phone and called up the photo. "Here it is," he said as he handed the phone over. I half stood, leaning over to get a better view.

  "Walk me through what we're looking at."

  "I took this photo when I regained consciousness, just before the police reached me. I'll admit being a little disoriented at first but it's a clear photo. This is inside the vault where the theft occurred. We have one beneath the bank with several hundred deposit boxes."

  "Is that common knowledge?" I asked.

  "It's not uncommon knowledge," said Charlie. "We don't advertise it on literature at the bank or broadcast it, except on our website and, as you can see, we have several hundred boxes so at least that many people know about it."

  I factored in partners, family members, friends and anyone they might have told, which easily ran into thousands more. Charlie was right; anyone could know about the vault's presence.

  "What's the layout?" asked Solomon.

  "All the boxes line the walls on three sides and they vary in sizes. The biggest box can fit a small suitcase. The smallest is a couple of inches in height. I can show you the plans, although I don't have them with me today. There's a table in an adjacent room where clients can open and close their box. It's equipped with two chairs."

  "You said it's adjacent to the vault?" prompted Solomon.

  "It's within the vault but not part of the deposit box room. I didn't take a photo of it because nothing happened in there."

  "Go on."

  "I don't know if this is pertinent. There are dozens of smashed boxes and their contents, as you can see."

  "It appears only one section of boxes was targeted."

  "Yes."

  "Were any boxes missing?"

  "Yes. One."

  "What size?"

  "Four inches tall, ten inches long."

  "Who would have any knowledge of what was inside the boxes?"

  "Only the owner. I don't even know. We don't ask. Once we transfer the box to the client in the client room, any bank employee discreetly withdraws from the room and waits outside. We don't see anything usually although there are some rare occasions when we do. We only return when the client summons us."

  "Is there a list of owners of the boxes?"

  Charlie reached for the water, unscrewed the cap, and sipped it thoughtfully. "The bank holds an encrypted file within our network, and there's a secure master list at our headquarters. We don't require identification to access the box; only a key and a fingerprint for those boxes that have that facility. Each box has two keys and we keep the other at the bank inside a safe but it's useless without the client’s fingerprint. The key holder can present their key at any time during banking hours for access."

  "Has anyone accessed the list recently?"

  "I did last week for the file in our network; someone inquired if any of our larger boxes were available. No one else at this bank branch has the password to access that file."

  While Solomon and Charlie were talking, I focused more closely on the photo. The scene was a mess. Open and dented boxes, locks that were separated from their casings, and shards of glass that could have come from the fingerprint scanner Charlie mentioned. Interspersed with
the boxes were a wide variety of items; cash in various currencies and denominations, jewelry, paperwork and what looked like a stack of passports held together with a rubber band. Some things fared better than others in the explosion. I wondered how Charlie planned to reunite the items with their owners.

  "Could anything illegal be stored in the boxes?" asked Solomon.

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. "Given that I don't know the contents of the boxes, I can't say for sure. I hope not."

  "Are any of your clients involved in anything illegal?"

  "I can't answer that question either."

  "Can't? Or won't?"

  "Can't! I don't personally know everyone who owns a box. They only have to show a picture ID to open a box and pay the fee. I'll confess I'm not a curious man by nature. I don't check people out of my own volition."

  "Have any of the box owners contacted the bank yet?" I asked. If my valuables were stored there and I heard about a robbery, I would certainly want to know if my possessions were safe.

  "No. We're keeping the finer details of the robbery as quiet as possible for now. Since the Gazette ran a front-page story, however, I'm sure we'll get some concerned calls. What do you say? Will you investigate this?" Charlie leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, an earnest look on his face. "I know the information I can give you is scarce and I realize it's a difficult job, but Lieutenant Graves gave me the impression you are the best people for solving difficult jobs. The police are looking for the robbers, but I only want the contents of that box returned. My employers would be very happy about it and I can pay you handsomely to find it."

  "It's a difficult case," said Solomon, returning the phone to him.

  Charlie tucked it into his pocket and withdrew an envelope, which he placed on the table. "Perhaps this will sweeten it up," he said upon standing. We stood too and Charlie shook our hands. "If it doesn’t, I trust you'll return it. I appreciate you seeing me since I turned up without any appointment. Will you let me know of your decision later today?"