Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  The car sinking...the windows breaking...the icy water...grabbing Vanessa’s hand...pulling her free...to the surface...the frigid current numbing her body...fingers loosening...Vanessa slipping away...disappearing...

  Kate was the only one who’d survived.

  They’d found the bodies of Kate’s foster parents, but Vanessa’s body was never recovered. The search team reasoned that it got wedged in the rocks downriver, but Kate never gave up believing that Vanessa had somehow escaped the rushing water.

  She never gave up searching for her.

  After the tragedy, Kate had bounced through foster homes, eventually running away for good. She spent her teen years on the street, taking any job she could find to put herself through college, where she’d studied journalism. She’d worked in newsrooms across the country. Then, in San Francisco, she’d had a baby girl by a man who’d lied to her about being married and had written her off when he’d found out she was pregnant.

  Kate named her daughter Grace and raised her on her own in Ohio where she’d worked at a newspaper in Canton, before downsizing cost her that job. But she hung on. She found a short-term reporting position in Dallas, and now here she was: a national correspondent at one of the world’s largest news organizations.

  I’ve come a long way, and I never, ever, give up.

  The proof smiled back at her from the photo on her phone’s screen.

  Grace and Vanessa.

  Kate blinked at them.

  It nearly cost her everything, but eventually she’d found Vanessa.

  Kate smiled to herself. It’d been a year since she’d had her sister back in her life, living with her and Grace. Vanessa was a fighter. She’d made remarkable progress with her therapy; she was going to school and working part-time as a waitress. Last month Kate and Vanessa finished a book on their lost years, Kate’s search for her and their reunion. It was titled Echo in My Heart: A Relentless Story of Love, Loss and Survival, and it was going to be released in the fall.

  We’re doing okay. We’re living our lives.

  Kate was also blessed to have Nancy Clark in her life. The retired and widowed nurse lived alone on the floor above them. Ever since Kate had moved into the building, she and Nancy had become more than neighbors. Nancy had never had any children of her own and had opened her heart to Kate, Grace and Vanessa. She was so kind and warm she’d practically adopted the three of them, insisting on helping them whenever she could.

  A steely scraping pierced Kate’s ears and the train decelerated. The blurring dark tunnels were quickly replaced by the bright tiles of the platform walls of Penn Station.

  She stepped off, remembering to breathe through her mouth and avoid inhaling the humid, musty air while navigating the pandemonium of the crushing commuter crowds. Kate had become adept at threading her way through the vast low-ceilinged warren, up to the doors and outside.

  She’d surfaced in front of Madison Square Garden, across from the post office, when her phone vibrated. A man bumped her, snickering something, when she stopped to read a message from a source, a detective with the NYPD.

  Nothing going on, he texted. But stay on your toes. Never know what’s coming around the corner.

  That was it.

  Kate put her phone away and hurried toward Newslead’s world headquarters, a few blocks away in a fifty-story office tower on Manhattan’s far West Side.

  7

  Roseoak Park, New York

  Dan stopped at a red light two blocks from his bank, paralyzed with indecision.

  Then he saw the cop.

  A white guy, mid-twenties, sipping coffee from a take-out cup behind the wheel of an NYPD car in the opposite lane.

  Drive into the intersection! Now! Block him and tell him!

  As Dan tightened his grip on the wheel, Vic hissed in his ear.

  “We see that cop, too, Dan. Don’t try anything stupid. You’ve got a lot of lives in your hands right now. You want to risk killing Lori and Billy?”

  Dan hesitated.

  He heard shuffling in his ear, and then Lori’s voice filled his ear.

  “Dan, oh God! If you can hear me, please, do what they say!”

  “Lori! Lori, did they hurt you?”

  More shuffling, then Billy: “Dad, please, do what they want!”

  “Billy! Are you okay?”

  A beat passed, and Vic’s voice returned.

  “You heard them, Dan. Just stick to the plan, and no one gets hurt.”

  The light turned green.

  Dan’s pulse was hammering as his foot twitched on the brake pedal.

  The cop rolled through the intersection and down the street in the opposite direction. A horn tapped behind Dan, and he continued driving, dragging the back of his hand across his brow as he let out a breath.

  Moments later he came to Branch 487 for SkyNational Trust Banking Corp., a small one-story building constructed in neo-art-deco style. Its floor-to-ceiling glass walls gleamed in the morning sun, with a curving clean-lined flat roof extending over the three drive-through ATMs. The property was bordered with shrubs, plants and flowers that were professionally maintained. SkyNational had given Dan awards for exemplary management of his branch.

  He turned into his usual parking spot. The lot was empty except for the two cars of the staff who’d arrived first and were in charge of opening. Dan was versed in branch opening procedures and ensured his people complied with, and adhered to, all security standards of the Bank Protection Act.

  The bank’s policy required two people to arrive at the same time for opening. First, they scanned the area for anything suspicious. Then the first employee entered while the second one stayed in the car, waiting for an all-clear signal or cell phone call. These steps guarded against “morning-glory robberies,” whereby criminals lay in wait for staff prior to opening.

  Once it was safe to proceed, the two staff members used the dual control system to open the vault and obtain daily cash boxes for the tellers. Then they opened the night depository and collected the overnight deposits. An armored security company collected deposits from the ATMs. Aside from a few additional matters, those were the key steps before unlocking the front doors for daily business.

  Until today, the branch had never been robbed.

  “Time’s ticking!” Vic said. “Get your ass in there!”

  Dan grabbed his briefcase. Heading across the lot to the rear entrance, he heard a metallic clanking and looked up at the flag poles. The Stars and Stripes, the state flag and SkyNational’s corporate flag waved dutifully in the breeze.

  At the door’s lockbox, he swiped his manager’s card and pressed his security code on the keypad.

  Nothing happened.

  His hands were a bit shaky. He took a breath, repeated the process. The door opened, and he was greeted with the aroma of fresh coffee.

  “Morning, Dan.” Annie Trippe, the head teller and soon-to-be assistant manager, smiled from behind the counter where she was topping up supplies for tellers.

  “Annie.”

  “Hi, Dan,” Jo Ballinger called out. Jo, one of his best tellers, was arranging an assortment of pastries the branch offered to morning customers.

  “Morning, Jo.”

  Dan glanced around. They would open the doors in twenty minutes.

  “How’d your opening go, guys?” he asked.

  “Tickety-boo,” Jo said. “All tickety-boo. Except...”

  “Except what?”

  “These 6:00 a.m. openings are killers, Dan.”

  “I know.” He smiled sympathetically, trying to look as natural as possible. “But central selected us to be a pilot branch. It’s all about serving the needs of our early-bird commuters. Now, I’ve got some urgent business to take care of, then I have to step out.”

&n
bsp; Annie’s head shot up, and she took a longer look at Dan as he headed for his office.

  “Hold on, there, Dan. What happened to you?”

  “What?”

  Annie touched her temple indicating where Dan had a large bandage.

  “Knocked my head against the door. Getting clumsier, I guess.”

  The concern on Annie’s face was slow to melt as Dan shrugged and stepped into his office. He switched on the lights, set his briefcase down on his desk and logged into his computer.

  Vic’s voice rumbled quietly in his ear. “You’re doing good so far, Dan.”

  He immediately set to work, his keyboard clicking as he typed, but he stopped when a shadow fell over him, followed by the soft thud of a ceramic mug of coffee set on his desk.

  Annie stood before him.

  “What’s going on, Dan? You don’t look so good.”

  He licked his lips, aware that Vic would hear and see everything.

  “Shut the door,” he told her.

  “Careful, Dan,” Vic reminded him.

  After closing the door, Annie turned to him. She was in her midforties, with high cheekbones, dark eyes and a warm smile. Her husband was a fire captain, and her son was starting Hunter College. Annie had been with SkyNational fifteen years. She was devoted, dedicated—an intelligent woman who was not easily fooled.

  “Something’s up, Dan. What is it?”

  “This is completely off the record and stays between you and me.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “It’s South Branch—seems Mort’s got a little crisis.”

  “Odd. Mort’s such a perfectionist. What sort of crisis?”

  “His cash inventory is low, so I’m issuing a directive to transfer two hundred and fifty thousand from our vault to South Branch, which I will personally deliver to them this morning.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Believe me, it has to be done this way.” He input several commands, and his printer came to life. “I’ll need you to cosign the directive.”

  Dan grabbed the pages and his pen.

  “What you’re doing isn’t right,” Annie said. “We use armored car services for interbranch transfers. They’re directed by the Central Branch. Dan, there are strict rules for this. You know that. Mort has to call Central with his inventory issue. Besides, this would drain us. It makes no sense.”

  “This is an emergency, Annie.” He put the directive in a file folder and hunched over it slightly as he signed it. All the while he kept his head up, looking at her. “Believe me, you’ll understand later why I had to do this.” He closed the folder on the paperwork, turned it over to her and, leaving it on the desk with the pen, stood and picked up his briefcase. “Please cosign it after you read it carefully. I have to go.”

  “No, I won’t sign it.” She turned from the desk without looking at the folder. “This isn’t right. Dan, wait!”

  Dan went to the vault, opened his briefcase and began filling the duffel bag with bundles of cash, pausing to look at them and mentally counting.

  “Dan, please, stop, I don’t understand what you’re doing! Tell me what’s going on.”

  Just as Dan was scrambling to come up with something to tell her, Vic whispered, “Tell her it’s a security exercise, that she’s not technically supposed to know anything and that she’ll get a call fifteen minutes after you leave.”

  “Listen to me.” Dan dropped his voice, continuing to load the bag. “This is part of a secret security drill. Everything’s all right. You’ll get a call from security fifteen minutes after I leave.”

  Annie’s face creased with fearful disbelief.

  Dan zipped the bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, left the vault and strode out the rear entrance to his car.

  8

  Roseoak Park, New York

  Annie Trippe stood inside the bank’s rear door.

  She watched her manager drive away, her hands pressed against her mouth and tears stinging her eyes. She jumped when someone touched her shoulder from behind.

  “Annie, are you all right?” Jo asked.

  Shaking her head and regaining most of her composure, Annie turned.

  “Something’s very wrong with Dan.”

  “I got the feeling something wasn’t right. What’s going on?”

  “He just walked out of here with a bag full of cash—a quarter million.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “He was talking about low inventory at South Branch, made a transfer directive for me to sign, then said something about a security drill.”

  Jo’s brow creased. “But...none of that makes any sense.”

  “I know.” Annie pulled herself to her full height, looked around the empty lobby and took charge. “We’ve got to do something—fast. Jo, don’t open the front doors until I tell you.”

  Annie hurried to her desk, picked up her phone and called Dan’s cell phone. As it continued to ring, she tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for what he’d just done. He clearly wasn’t himself, and she hoped she could get him to come back to the branch before things escalated any further.

  When his voice mail picked up, Annie called Dan’s home and got the same result.

  Her mind racing, she pulled up Dan’s full contact information, hoping she’d have some luck with his wife’s cell phone.

  Maybe Lori knows what’s happening. Maybe she can help.

  It rang through to voice mail. Out of options and out of time, Annie called one more number.

  “SkyNational, South Branch. How may I direct your call?”

  “Sally, its Annie Trippe at Roseoak.”

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Is Mort there? I need to speak to him, now.”

  “He’s got someone in his office.”

  “Can you just get him on the line, Sally—please!”

  “I will, dear, just as soon as he’s free.”

  “No! I need to talk to him now!”

  “Whoa, what’s going—”

  “I’m sorry, Sally. Just, please, get Mort. It’s an emergency.”

  Annie heard a few muffled voices, then the line clicked.

  “Annie, what’s going on?” Mort Frederick asked.

  “Do you have an inventory issue, and did you ask Dan to personally make an interbranch transfer to you first thing this morning?”

  “What the hell? No! Of course not.”

  “Mort, swear to me.”

  “I swear! What is this?”

  “Are you aware of any secret security exercises, anything involving cash transfers?”

  “Hell, no! Annie, what’s going on? Where’s Danny— Is he there?”

  “No!”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Mort—” Annie’s voice broke “—Dan just walked out of the branch with a bag filled with two hundred and fifty thousand!”

  “He what?” Mort cursed under his breath.

  “What do I do?”

  “Annie, call the police!”

  9

  Roseoak Park, New York

  FBI special agent Nick Varner held out his ID to the NYPD officer whose patrol car blocked the entrance to the bank’s parking lot.

  Marked NYPD units from the 111th Precinct dotted the lot and the area surrounding the SkyNational Trust branch. A heavy-duty response, Varner thought, but then this was Roseoak, middle-class neighbor to upper middle-class Douglaston, with its winding hilly streets and waterfront mansions on Little Neck Bay. The entire region was an appealing, sleepy corner of Queens where not much happened, and residents here wanted it that way.

  “Yeah, take it over there, pal,” the officer said.

  Varner parked hi
s Bureau car, collected his notebook, his recorder and organized his thoughts. He knew the drill. He was thirty-nine and had put in twelve years with the FBI that had included a tour at headquarters in Washington, DC, assignments in Los Angeles, Phoenix and, for the past seven years, the New York Field Office in Manhattan, where he’d been a member of several task forces. Now he was pulling double duty, assigned to Violent Crimes and the Joint Terrorism Task Force.

  He sized up the building. Typical suburban detached box. All the blinds had been drawn. A sign had been posted at the front doors. Printed by hand in block letters, it said the branch was closed. It directed customers to the nearest branch and ATMs in the area.

  Varner went to the rear entrance and showed his ID to the uniformed officer there. She nodded and handed him some tissue-paper shoe covers. Varner tugged them on and entered.

  The lobby was active.

  Investigators with the NYPD’s Crime Scene Unit were just setting up to go into the vault and start processing it. Two others were talking to a guy in a suit who Varner took to be a bank security chief.

  “Nicholas Alfonso Varner. Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Varner found himself shaking hands with a familiar big-chested man in his fifties, a badge hanging from his chain: NYPD detective Marv Tilden. They’d worked together during the final years of the Joint Bank Robbery Task Force before the NYPD pulled out. They’d spent enough long hours as partners for Tilden to know Varner’s middle name was Alfonso, and that a few generations back, Varner’s family had come to America from Italy. Officials at Ellis Island had changed their name from Varnisanino to Varner.

  “Morning, Marvin,” Varner said. “You must be close to hanging it up.”

  “One more lousy winter, then we move to Nevada. Hey, you’re alone? You feds never come alone—and you got here pretty fast.”

  “Traffic was kind to me, and the others are on their way. What do we know?”

  “Not a lot. We’ve barely started.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  Tilden described how Dan Fulton, the branch manager, came to work alone talking up an emergency branch transfer. “Then he violates security procedures, fills a bag with cash and disappears. No GPS, dye packs, transmitters or bait bills.”