Deadly Interest

by Julie Hyzy

  “And, hey, give me a call when you have some time tomorrow. We can go through mug shots. Maybe you’ll recognize the guy.”

  “Sure. What time’s good?”

  “Anytime,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

  Near midnight, I checked on Lucy before I went to bed. She slept curled up on her left side, covers pulled close to her chin, her mouth open, lips twitching as though she wanted to whisper secrets in the quiet night. Standing there in her doorway, with my arms folded, and fear crawling around in my brain, I wondered if this was how mothers felt late at night, when the cold wind howled and the only thing keeping their children safe from the bad things outside were the flimsy walls around them and their own careful diligence.

  * * * * *

  David picked me up precisely at seven the next morning. I’d expected him to be late because of the snow, but he called and suggested we meet underground on Lower Wacker. A silver Rolls Royce, with the distinctive double-R hubcaps pulled up in front of the service entrance beneath my office building. The driver got out, came around, and opened the back door with a gray-gloved hand. David Dewars smiled out at me, patting the gray leather seat. “Good Morning, Alex,” he said.

  Coupling this chauffeur business with David’s description of the breakfast restaurant as a place where we’d have plenty of privacy, I’d conjured up a vision of something hushed and intimate, with an attentive but unobtrusive wait staff bearing silver platters of eggs benedict to our tiny table for two.

  We emerged from Lower Michigan at Grand and traveled about two blocks to a corner restaurant with a small hand-painted sign that proclaimed it “The Outland Café.” It couldn’t have been more different than I’d expected.

  David placed a restraining hand on my arm as I started to reach for the door handle, his bright eyes squinting in amusement behind the tiny rimless lenses. “Roger will get it.”

  Of course. Not only did Roger open the door, but he efficiently cleared a neat pathway for us to walk up to the establishment’s front door, first. That meant I didn’t have to wade through foot-high drifts in my shiny navy pumps. Chalk one up for David here. I was impressed.

  Boisterous conversation, sizzling eggs, clanging pans, and constant movement took me aback as he pulled open the door to the busy restaurant, allowing me to enter. Tall yellow walls, covered in black-framed Warhol-like lithographs, rose up to meet the metal-beamed ceiling that did little to ease the cacophony below.

  A small sign immediately inside the door suggested that we seat ourselves, but it looked to be quite a wait.

  Every fifties-era Formica table was occupied with clusters of chatting, coffee-drinking people in various stages of eating. A woman wearing a T-shirt two sizes too small for her voluptuous frame, held a handful of curly red hair up out of her face as she made a point to an unimpressed, bulky woman wearing a baggy denim jacket across from her. At the table adjacent to them, four white-shirted young men leaned forward, with identical looks of clean-cut intensity, as one of them held up a Bible and spoke with an earnestness I could see even from my position by the door. Next to them, two young mothers juggled coffee and toddlers who stared mesmerized out the wall-size picture window at the buses and cars that plodded by through the still-falling snow outside. A March blizzard in Chicago didn’t slow down its natives.

  With its tables tight against one another, without one extra inch of navigation space, the restaurant should have felt claustrophobic, but the soaring open ceilings, and white-painted heating vents kept the place airy, though so noisy, it felt like the very air clacked.

  “Mr. Dewars.” A young woman carrying menus broke into a winning smile, her perfect teeth matching her perfect features. Petite, with shiny brown eyes to match her straight dark hair, she raised inquisitive eyebrows at my companion, then shifted her gaze to me in a once-over, skimming politely over my black eye as though she didn’t notice it. “Two?”

  “Good morning, Linda,” he said, as he placed a proprietary hand on the small of my back. “Is my table ready?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Follow me.”

  She wound through the bustling dining room, into a small silent passage that opened into yet another part of the restaurant. These walls were muted shades, and this room’s tables were spaced much farther apart, and the clientele all business folks, talking in low-tones, so engrossed in their dealing that not one pair of eyes looked up as we entered.

  Linda held my chair out and placed a tall plastic-covered menu in my hand. Having seated us at a table for four in the windowed corner, she attempted to guide David into the chair opposite mine, but he chose to sit cornered to me instead. “Cozy,” he said, not noticing Linda’s surprised smile.

  “Enjoy your breakfast,” she said, with just the right measure of perkiness.

  “They know you here.” I said when she’d gone. “You must come by a lot.”

  “Good place, great people.”

  A young, jeans-clad waitress wearing a tight white T-shirt, poured coffee for both of us and left a good-sized thermal carafe on the table for us to help ourselves.

  After we’d ordered, I folded my arms and leaned forward. With all the busy-ness going around us there was no need to worry about eavesdroppers, but I kept my voice low anyway. As far as I was concerned this was a business breakfast, and I was ready to get down to it. “You’re pretty convinced that Barton killed his mother.”

  David nodded. “Absolutely. The proof is there.”

  “It isn’t unusual for a woman to designate her account for her son. And, like I said before, fifty-thousand dollars isn’t that much money.”

  “This is why I wanted you to come inspect the files for yourself.” He put down the mug he’d been sipping from and brought his voice low to dovetail mine. “Evelyn Vicks made some unusual changes to her account—regarding her beneficiaries—over the past several months.”

  “What kinds of changes?”

  “Up until three months ago, all of Evelyn’s retirement-planning accounts were handled outside our offices. She had a couple of trust funds, too, and she had her will.”

  “What happened three months ago?”

  “She came to us and asked if we could take over her investment portfolio.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I asked her that myself.” David picked up his coffee cup again, pondered it. “She seemed to have difficulty explaining her actions. I assured her that I would take care of it.” Alert eyes captured mine. “To be frank, her accounts are so small that it doesn’t affect our bottom line at all. But I was worried for her because she’s one of my people, and there are unscrupulous folks out there who would take advantage of elderly women. I wondered if that’s what was going on.”

  “So you don’t know why she made the change.”

  “Not precisely. At the same time, she told Owen Riordan—the loan officer you met at the wake Sunday night . . .” he raised his eyebrows in question until I nodded my acknowledgement that I remembered him, “that she needed to update her will.” Weighty gaze. This part was going to be important, it seemed. “Owen had his own law practice before coming to the bank. Mind you, he’s not our corporate attorney. We refer all our legal matters to O’Shea Associates.”

  “Why would she have approached Owen with any of this?”

  “Mostly because Evelyn liked Owen,” he said with a shrug. “She confided in him, often. To her, he was more than just a boss. On top of that, Owen writes up wills for bank employees for free. It keeps my people happy since they don’t have to drop a few hundred bucks on legal work, and it keeps Owen happy, because I figure that goodwill into his annual bonus. Win-win situation. Anyway, she told him she had changes that she wanted to make, and he wrote it up for her.”

  “Nothing suspicious about that.”

  “Except,” he leaned even closer and his voice dropped to a whisper, “she made Barton the sole beneficiary.”

  I didn’t understand. “Wasn’t he always the beneficiary?”

&
nbsp; “We have no way of knowing that. But consider this: why would she need a new will if that hadn’t changed? According to Owen, she seemed extremely unwilling to offer explanation.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Mrs. Vicks.” I said.

  “Exactly.” The brown eyes lit up and David pointed a triumphant finger at me.

  The waitress arrived bearing our steaming breakfast platters. I’d chosen a ham, green pepper and mushroom skillet with scrambled eggs over the top and David decided on a butterflied filet mignon, done medium rare, with eggs over-easy on the side.

  It was delicious. Already I was gauging how much I could finish. The platter was huge; if I had three hours, I might be able to make a dent in it.

  “You think it wasn’t Mrs. Vicks’ idea to change her will?” I prompted, to start the subject again.

  “No, I don’t. I think she was acting on Barton’s direction.”

  “You think. You don’t know.”

  Chewing, he acknowledged my point with a nod.

  “That’s pretty sketchy,” I said. “And you don’t even know what the terms of the prior will were.”

  He shook his head as he chewed.

  “Who drew up the prior will?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Any way to find out?” I asked. I poured coffee for myself, then realized that his cup was empty too. I raised the carafe in question.

  “Thank you,” he said, pushing his mug forward. “I’m not a lawyer, so I don’t have the answer to that. But what difference would it make now? The new will is in effect, and has been for several months. Barton gets it all.”

  I nodded, thoughtful. I’d love to get a look at the old will. Maybe Mrs. Vicks had a copy at home somewhere. Or maybe in that safe deposit box that Barton couldn’t access.

  As I refilled David’s cup, he smiled. “Business aside, I’m very much enjoying our breakfast this morning,” he said.

  Surprised to find that I was enjoying myself too, I smiled. “Cream?”

  When the waitress finally came to clear our plates, I resisted the overwhelming urge to ask for a doggie bag for the remainder of my food. If I’d been going back to my own office, I would have jumped at the chance to save some of the platter for tomorrow, but seeing as how my next stop was Banner Bank, and I was getting there in a chauffeur-driven car, I decided, this time, to let my more ladylike tendencies win out.

  * * * * *

  “Your home away from home,” David said with a sweeping arm gesture that made the small office seem even smaller. He followed me in, his solid presence making the cramped quarters immediately claustrophobic. “I’m sorry it isn’t more luxurious, but we’re undergoing an audit from the FDIC and they claimed all the decent free space we had.”

  My ears perked up. “Audit?”

  The look of annoyance he wore when he’d first mentioned the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation smoothed to one of reassurance toward me. “Scheduled audit. Nothing unusual.”

  I nodded, in absent-minded fashion, taking the two steps into the room that brought me to the far corner. Ten-by-ten at best, with a table and a chair, it was windowless, pictureless, and the walls were a shiny russet color that clashed with the flattened orange carpet. An uneven hum droning above me promised air movement, but provided none. From its stale smell, I guessed that no one had used this space in a very long time.

  It had been designed as a privacy room for patrons to open their safe deposit boxes in seclusion. Four other similar rooms lined the vault area, but this one, the farthest down the dark corridor, and the largest, evidently got the least amount of use.

  “Right now,” David continued, pointing to a scarred wooden table snug up against the west wall, “that’s the best we can do for a desk.” Two small cardboard boxes sat atop it, my name scribbled on them. “But the chair should be comfortable.”

  “Thanks,” I said, putting my hand on its black leather backrest and giving it a twirl. He stood close enough that his chest skimmed the side of my left arm. Leaning past me, he indicated a call button I hadn’t seen earlier.

  “This will summon Lorna, our vault clerk. You need anything, she’ll contact me or Owen. One of us will take care of you.”

  I’d assumed I would have free access to the entire bank. Horrified at the thought of spending long hours in this cheerless enclave, I blurted my disappointment before I formed polite phrasing. “You mean I’ll be stuck back here the whole time?”

  “I am sorry, Alex. There were twice as many auditors this time as we expected, but I’d be happy to share my office with you,” he said. “Of course there may be some instances where I’d need you to step out if—”

  “No.” I stopped him. Sharing an office with a bank president—not my idea of comfort.

  He looked around the room again. “The auditors should be gone by Monday. We can find you a better space then.”

  Monday? I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Vicks’ records would take that long to pore through. “Well,” I said clapping my hands together in a gesture of dismissal. “Let me get started then.”

  The moment he left, I took off my hem-length suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, and fanned the neckline of my sleeveless dress, hoping to create a little breeze. The room wasn’t hot exactly, but the static feel coupled with the fusty smell made me want to bolt outside and breathe in some of the snowy air.

  I’d given the boxes a once-over and had been about to sit down with the first one when I realized I had no pen and paper. I probably should’ve brought them myself, but the breakfast meeting had taken me out of investigative mode. I hit the call button.

  An older woman came around the corner moments later. Dark-haired and large, possibly of Romanian descent, she smiled through blood-red lips. “You must be Miss St. James,” she said, with a smile and crusty smoker’s voice. “I’m Lorna. You and Mr. Dewars passed me on the way in, but I was busy with a customer. What can I do for you?”

  I explained what I needed.

  Lorna had the biggest eyes I’d ever seen. They bulged in such a way that I could see the white all the way around her dark pupils. She shook her head, making a clucking sound. “I can’t believe they’re sticking you back here.”

  “I heard about the audit.”

  “Yeah.” She rolled those big eyes. “I say, stick one of those pests down here. Maybe they’d be out of my hair sooner, then.”

  “They’re pests?”

  “Every year it’s the same thing. ‘Get me this file,’ ‘Get me records for the past ten years on that,’ ‘Write up your procedures for me.’ Yadda, yadda, yadda. It’s a safe deposit vault, for crissakes. My procedures are just the same as last year’s.”

  Her delivery made me grin.

  Casting a glance around my little room again she said, “Let me see what I can do for you.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Vicks?”

  Nod. “A little. She worked up on twelve, in the loan’s bookkeeping department. I saw her once in a while if we had break at the same time. When we did, we talked some. Nice lady. Real nice.” Lorna tightened her lips and looked away. “It’s a damn shame.”

  “Her son told me he can’t get into the safe deposit box.”

  “He’s an asshole,” she said. “Excuse my language. Came in here demanding to get into his mother’s safe. Guess what? She didn’t have one.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “Nope. She never came down here.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Bulging eyes hardened at my question. “I know all my customers. Every one. I been doing this job for fifteen years here, and Evelyn Vicks never once stopped in.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, trying to soothe her quick anger. Despite Barton’s overindulgence in his liquor the other night, he’d been clear on the fact that there’d been a safe deposit box here under his mother’s name, and I doubted he had the imagination to come up with that on his own. “But, don’t you ever get relieved? I mean, could she have come in w
hen you were at lunch?”

  I’d done it now. She rolled those big eyes, clearly annoyed. “Well, of course, I go on lunch, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know who has a safe deposit box and who doesn’t.” She thrust an angry chin the direction she’d come. “Follow me, I’ll show you.”

  Back at the desk, she moved toward two desktop filing cabinets that had about twenty skinny drawers, each. The safe deposit area was separated from the rest of the bank by the building’s lobby, an enormous, twenty-story atrium. The tellers and customer service representatives were located in the northwestern corner of the building. Here, facing a huge window-wall that opened to streaming skylight, we were in the far southeast corner of the building.

  “See,” she said. “These are our signature cards. She pulled out one of those long skinny drawers. Inside were at least fifty four-by-six orange index cards. She flipped up the top one and the rest followed suit, like dominoes in reverse. “Everyone with a box, has a card like this. Evelyn Vicks isn’t in here.”

  I noticed from the drawer tags, that the cards were filed numerically. Over fifteen hundred boxes. “Do you keep an alphabetical file?”

  Her look told me she thought I was stupid. “Of course,” she said.

  Moving to the desk, she flung two fingers toward another set of drawers, these holding vertical three-by-five cards. “Here.”

  I nodded, smiled.

  Rolling her eyes again, she yanked open the last drawer, and flipped to the Vs. “Vaci, Vandenberg, Vanekis, Versale, V—” She stopped, then looked up at me. When she pulled the card up, it was as though she needed to prove it to herself. “Vicks. Evelyn Vicks.”

  I waited while she stared.

  “When did she open this?” Lorna asked rhetorically. Turning the card over, she read the date, April sixth, twenty years earlier. “How did I not know this?” she asked again.

  I scratched my head. Her confusion didn’t help me right now. The only things that interested me were Mrs. Vicks’ accounts and her will. “Barton is pretty sure the will is in the box,” I said. “But I guess that’s not possible.”

  Her chin came up. I could tell the mistake she’d made about Mrs. Vicks’ safe deposit box had thrown her, but her face brightened at my question as though she was relieved to have recaptured her expertise.