by Nina Barrett
Coming over, he pulled a bottle of water free from a six-pack and sat beside her. “Did you want anything to eat? Might be a while before we have another chance.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite.” She folded the map and pointed with a finger. “Here’s where we are now—Harrodsburg, southwest of where we, well, where we were earlier.” Automatically, she lowered her voice. “It doesn’t look that far, but taking the back roads the way I did, it was about an hour’s drive.”
“Yeah, we should be able to pick up a local station on the radio and see if there’s any news coverage on it yet.”
“Maybe the government could give the media a nudge?”
“Not a good idea.” He shook his head. “Don’t want to make it obvious and get people wondering. The press needs to make the connection with what happened years ago on their own.”
She rubbed her temples.
“The robberies were a big story hereabouts. Never solved, it shouldn’t be too long before someone connects the dots.” He studied the map. Leaning into her, she was physically aware of him. Unconsciously, she held her breath.
“Okay, I’m going to call in. See what they’ve got set up for the debrief.”
He stood and pulled out his cell phone, walking over to stand by the car. He opened a door and fanned it back and forth.
She rested her pop can against her aching forehead. Debrief. Update. Another lesson on how to more efficiently knock over a bank.
Seven days ago, still recovering from being deserted at the altar, saddled with a business in foreclosure, and unable to explain thousands of dollars in undeclared income, she couldn’t have imagined her life could get worse.
She’d been wrong.
****
Whittaker brought someone else with him to their motel room. She had been nibbling half-heartedly on the crust of her vegetarian pizza when Mac got up to answer the knock on the door. Stepping inside, the other man clapped Mac on the shoulder and turned to her.
“I’m Special Agent Jake Derossiers.” He offered his hand with a smile. “Glad to meet you, Miss Thimmons. Looks like you both survived the excitement today.”
Excitement?
She wiped her fingers on a napkin and gave him her hand glancing over at Whittaker. “You mean we’re lucky the customer wasn’t packing more than pepper spray.”
“Well, it’s not possible to anticipate all contingencies. We learn and move forward. The next bank visit should go more smoothly,” his boss said.
Visit? Somehow, she didn’t think the crowd back at the bank was thinking of their presence quite that way.
Warren Whittaker placed a file folder and tape recorder on the desk and gestured at the chairs. “Why don’t we all sit down and talk about what did happen. Agent McKenzie, you can begin.”
She curled her legs under her in the armchair and wrapped her arms about herself. The man who had accompanied Whittaker was younger than Mac, tall and lean with a narrow face and wire-rimmed glasses. In contrast, Mac’s dark bulk made him seem like someone who might stare out at you from the other side of a wanted poster. Derossiers leaned forward, hands clasped, ready to listen while Whittaker took notes at the desk.
“The bank manager had been instructed to review robbery procedures with her employees a couple days before the incident, to stress the importance of complying with demands during a hold-up. The teller didn’t attempt any resistance?” Whittaker asked.
“No, she complied with all Jan’s directions.”
“Except for screaming when the pepper spray went off.”
“Yeah.” Mac looked at her and grimaced. “Well, it was a tense situation.”
“How long were you in there?” Derossiers asked.
“Eight minutes before the lady outside started banging on the door. I pretended to miss obscuring the camera with the spray paint. Things were going along okay until then. The manager tried to shoo her away, but she wasn’t having any of it. I told her to admit the woman. I was afraid she might create a scene, draw a crowd.”
“Yeah. Her name’s Stella Purvis, apparently a long-standing bank customer. A news crew from the local TV station interviewed her while I was there,” Derossiers said.
“Are they talking about the old robberies? The Dixie Deb ones?” she asked.
Derossiers shook his head ruefully. “No, and there may be a problem.” He looked over at his supervisor writing in his file.
It didn’t sound good. Her antennae went up. Mac stared at him too.
“The footage from the surveillance camera isn’t the best. Apparently, it’s an old system. I don’t know if local media is going to want to air it,” Mac’s fellow agent said.
“And no one thought to check that out before we went in?” Jan pushed herself out of the armchair to pace over to the window. “This…We could have been killed in there if Stella What’s-her-name had been carrying a gun instead of pepper spray. And it was for nothing. How…”
“Yeah, it’s something we missed.” Derossiers sounded genuinely regretful. “We’ll definitely check into it in the future.”
The future? Oh, good. More staged bank robberies as she perfected her new career in crime. She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. In back of her, she heard Whittaker clear his throat.
“It’s no use crying over spilled milk. We need to learn from this and make the necessary modifications to insure better results. There is a positive aspect. It seems this woman, Stella Purvis, is a longtime local resident. She was living around here when the bank was robbed by the Dixie Deb.”
The Dixie Deb. A week ago sitting in the I.R.S. office back in Atlanta, she couldn’t have imagined how her skin would crawl hearing those words.
She straightened up wearily and went back to sit in her chair.
“What happened at the bank today,” Whittaker was saying, “may provoke memories of the past. If Mrs. Purvis starts talking, and she seems the type who enjoys an audience, people may remember…”
The Dixie Deb. It was the label press across the South had given the woman who had held up banks across Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, along with her male cohort, a quarter century before. The story had received massive coverage at the time. Tall and immaculately turned out in cotillion dresses or suits, pearls, and vintage hats, she and her companion had knocked over a series of small town banks before mysteriously disappearing from sight.
The Dixie Deb. In the pictures Jan had seen of the notorious female bank robber, the woman had given the impression of aristocratic Southern gentility as she opened her leather attaché case with white-gloved hands, her silent companion holding his gun on the hapless bank customers. A similar briefcase was now in the trunk of their rental out in the parking lot. She tasted blood from her bit lip.
The money from those earlier hold-ups had never been recovered; the crimes never solved. Was that the bone that stuck in Whittaker’s throat? Back in Atlanta, his mouth had tightened as he had explained the deal they were offering her, his finger thumping the old pictures of the “Deb” emphatically.
Their offer was simple and thorough. All federal charges for income tax evasion would be dropped and her license as a C.P.A. left untouched in return for her co-operation in the undercover operation. They needed someone to impersonate a new version of the Dixie Deb and see if the original’s vanity or curiosity caused her to resurface.
So what were her credentials? Well, she was tall, thin, Southern, and in trouble with the law. How much more qualified could someone be?
She looked up. Mac was asking questions about the next few days.
“We’ll lay off for a while. There was an interval of a week or so when the Dixie Deb started the bank heists. Once the two of them seemed to gain confidence, they knocked off a couple a week.”
Wow! What a thing to anticipate. She propped her head on her arm.
“We’ve got a map here of some locations you can investigate. We’d like the two of you to scout them out tomorrow.” Whittaker gave
a nod in her direction. “Give us your feedback and we’ll get the local bank people on board.” He pulled a map out of his folder and spread it on the desk. “You can see we’re including northern Alabama along with Georgia. I’ve circled some possibilities for you.”
Derossiers came over to kneel beside her chair as Mac took the map.
“How you doing?” His gray-brown eyes were concerned.
“I wish this were over.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Hopefully, it won’t be too long. I’m going to be shadowing you two as your local contact. Assistant Director Whittaker will be going back to the Atlanta office.”
She nodded glumly. She’d go back to Atlanta too if she had a chance to get away from a hundred degree heat, humidity, and bank customers armed with pepper spray.
At the desk, Mac was folding Whittaker’s map.
“Ready to go, Special Agent Derossiers?” his supervisor asked.
“I’m going to hang out here for a while and go over some things with Agent McKenzie. He can give me a lift back to where we’re staying, sir.”
Whittaker gave a curt nod as he gathered up his things.
“I can imagine how nerve-racking all this must be.” Derossiers touched her arm. “But Mac and I started out together at Quantico. I feel like I’ve always known him. You couldn’t have a better man at your side.”
He rose easily as Mac got the door for their boss.
She closed her eyes as Mac and his friend picked up the pizza boxes and pop cans.
“I’m getting rid of the trash, Jan,” Mac said.
She nodded, trying to relax as the door clicked behind them. The air conditioning unit was making sounds of protest. Jan held a hand in front of the vents. The output seemed half-hearted at best.
Great. After spending most of the day in a non-air-conditioned car, were they going to be facing a similar night? Despite the heavy-handed way the government had pushed participation in this investigation, they didn’t seem to mind cutting corners. She didn’t think Whittaker and Derossiers would be spending the night in economy accommodations. Or stuck in the same room.
Her pop was lukewarm. She looked around. There was a foam ice bucket on the shelf below the television. Picking it up, she grabbed a room key and let the door click behind her.
The outside temperature didn’t seem any worse than inside the room. She drew a breath and wrinkled her nose. Somewhere close by was a vehicle with a serious oil leak.
“…thought you had given those up, man.” She could hear Derossiers’ voice from the parking lot.
Mac and his friend were standing with their backs to her beside the car. From the scent of cigarette smoke, she could guess what Derossiers was talking about. She made a face. Turning the corner into an alcove, she found an ice machine humming as if it were about to conk out and shoved her bucket into the opening.
“…again when I was in Italy and things went sour.” Mac’s voice drifted in.
“Yeah, it had to be a hard time for the two of you.”
She pushed the button. There was the rumble of ice, but the cascade of falling cubes sent her bucket rolling on the concrete floor.
She muttered something and bent to retrieve her bucket.
“I’ll give them up again, once I get through this crap. What’s Whittaker calling it? Operation Double D? Sounds like we’re after a bunch of lap dancers.”
“I know it’s a lousy break. Another one. I feel sorry for the girl. She seems like a nice gal, way out of her element.”
“Yeah, we both got caught up in Whittaker’s obsession about closing his one cold case.”
She put the bucket back under the slot and steadied it with her hand. She paused, her hand on the button. Okay, she was eavesdropping, but what the heck? Add it to her other crimes and misdemeanors.
“It’s the last unresolved case from his career. You know he’s put in for retirement at the end of the year. I was with him when he drew up this proposal and pushed to get it approved. I think he blames the mess the Bureau made of the case originally for not advancing his career, keeping him down here in the sticks instead of moving up to Washington. You know he was lead investigator on it. Seems like there were a lot of leads at the time, but they all petered out. I mean how many six-foot tall, drop-dead gorgeous gals can there be down here robbing banks?”
“So Jan and I have to pay the price for the Bureau’s screw up twenty-five years ago?”
“I know it’s not something either of you would choose, but look at the upside. She’s getting the chance to skate on those tax charges along with keeping her accounting license and you’re getting the opportunity to restart your career after dropping everything and going to Europe with Emelle.” Derossiers sounded sympathetic. “I know how you felt about her. Maybe I’d have done the same, but you did leave in the middle of an operation, one for which you were chief investigator. You can’t afford to blow this. This Dixie Deb thing can be your ticket back, buddy.”
She hit the button and watched the ice fill her bucket. Enough. She’d heard enough.
Chapter Three
She watched from the car as he paid for the boiled peanuts. Returning his change and laughing at something he must have said, it looked like even the older woman in her print housedress and graying hair wasn’t immune to Mac. Homemade signs had advertised the local treat as they drove away from Madisonville toward the Georgia-Alabama border. The small town had been the picture of a drowsy Southern backwater, but only a few miles off I-75, its bank offered the disturbing possibility an enterprising state trooper might show up before they accomplished their getaway.
Jan propped her arm on the open window and looked at the map. Moving southwest, the towns of Beaumont, Corren, and Cedar City slid like threaded beads along a northern branch of the Little Yazoo River. Whittaker had circled them in dark ink.
Mac opened his side door and deposited the paper bag on the console.
“Help yourself,” he said sliding in.
“Thanks.” She took one, shelled it out, and put the nuts in her mouth. “I never developed much a taste for these things. They were around everywhere when I was growing up.”
“Are you from Georgia originally?” He checked for traffic, pulled away from the roadside stand, and reached in the bag to grab a handful.
“No, Florida. My parents moved there from the Midwest. After Dad got out of the service, he decided he didn’t want any more cold weather so they settled in the panhandle area of Florida.”
“Used to have a fellow in our New York office from around here.” Mac shelled a nut with one hand, popped the peanuts in his mouth, and tossed the shell out his window. “He’d bring back bags of these after vacations down here. First time I’ve been this far south myself. Your folks still live in Florida?”
She shifted in her seat. Small talk time? What difference did it make? Well, at least it was a distraction from what was really going on.
“Yeah, I graduated from the University of Florida. Mom and Dad live outside Tallahassee.” Hopefully, it was far enough away not to connect their only daughter with the string of robberies that would hit the news soon. “I moved to Georgia when we, I…” Damn. “Ah, started the accounting practice.” She picked up the map as he shelled another nut with a twist of his hand. She didn’t want to get into a protracted discussion of her past.
“So we’re on our way to Beaumont?” she asked.
“Yeah, it ought to be just over the line. It’s a few miles off the state highway. More isolated than that last place was.”
“How is Whittaker picking these places? Are they all banks the Dixie Deb robbed when she was doing her thing?”
“Not necessarily. That might be a little too obvious. They’re looking for places that fit her pattern though—small, rural, low security.”
She watched as up ahead the “Thanks for visiting Georgia, America’s Peach State” sign was replaced by “Alabama welcomes you to the Heart of Dixie.”
Crossing state lines to commit a
felony—wasn’t there something about that in the criminal code?
She felt his eyes on her as she sighed.
“Tired?”
“Umm…” She rubbed the back of her neck. Sleep had been fitful at best. Even after he’d demonstrated his masculinity by getting the air conditioning working, the unit had continued to whine. It hadn’t seemed to bother him, though. Every time she had looked over at the other bed, the outline of his solid form seemed undisturbed, his breathing regular. If the F.B.I. was offering reinstatement to the Bureau as the reward for participating in this lunacy, evidently it wasn’t costing him shut-eye.
“I’m okay. What makes the government think this charade of ours is going to make the Deb resurface? If she and her partner have stayed out of sight for all these years, why risk the exposure now?”
Mac flipped another shell out the window. “That’s a question I asked in New York when they called me back in to talk about the operation.”
Back? Was that after his European escapade?
“I read through the old case files and the information the F.B.I. profilers worked up. It’s a story that developed mythical proportions down here. A Southern saga—the Dixie Deb romanticized into a combination of Scarlett O’Hara and Bonnie Parker.”
“Great. Sounds like me.”
He glanced at her and lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t know who I’d be cast as. More Clyde than Rhett, I guess. Her silent sidekick never got much attention. Because it was never solved, there’s still interest in it. Anyway, over the years, speculation has grown. Did she run off to parts unknown and start a new life? Was there a lovers’ quarrel that ended violently? Did her accomplice take off with the loot?
“The marked bills some of the later banks added to the get-away bags never surfaced. The stuff the profiler came up with was interesting. The Deb had quite an ego. After the press gave her the nickname, she stated vamping it up—dressing to the nines, referring to herself as the Dixie Deb, her voice dripping with honey. The profiler thought there was a good chance her vanity might pull her out of hiding if she thought someone else was trying to steal her thunder.”