by Una Tiers
Chapter Nine
“Hello?” Mr. Fives asked as we helped him up.
Once upright in a chair, he denied fainting. There was no sound. There wasn’t time to fall. How could he fall? Was this a ruse?
“I’ll step out,” I offered with great relief for more than the obvious reason.
“Fiona, why don’t you stay and we can co-counsel the case?” Bob’s grin seemed a little tilted and his left eye was partially closed. Did I interrupt a liquid lunch? Was he winking at me?
The term co-counsel turned me into a cartoon character. There were visions, or delusions of television cameras and a new suit swirling around my thoughtless little head. The media would clamor for my learned opinion on the matter. Then my brain shifted into drive.
“No thanks, I want to be able to get the probate case.” This was a good example of my highly developed inappropriate remark skill. Neither of them even grinned.
After a short debate inside my head, I stayed to be the person facing the glass. Mr. Fives repeated everything in a very slow low pitched voice. He volunteered that he had a nasty argument with Carol on Monday about her hours. Her lunch hour had stretched to over two hours and she had liquor on her breath. This was against bank policy.
“Did anyone hear it?" Bob asked.
"It's a small bank, they hear when you sneeze."
Something seemed different when Mr. Fives talked to Bob. Was it his tone? Pitch? Did he hit his head when he fell? His chin was no longer resting on his necktie when he talked. He had a new confidence that to me was unquestionably misplaced.
Chapter Ten
I was having trouble breathing. I was scared and the air was running out. Uselessly, I pounded on the door. The telephone wasn’t working and I couldn’t find my cell phone. I lifted up the carpet looking for the emergency button only to discover it was marked ‘for employee use only.’
As I began to pound on the wall, the plaster started to crack. I could see the sun shining and I woke up.
Dreaming of being locked in the vault with the air supply running out wasn’t good.
The three cups of coffee I drank for breakfast were mistakes. I cannot explain why I stopped and bought another cup on the way to the office. I walked in close to 10 AM.
Mr. Fives walked in behind me before I had a chance to hang up my coat or sit down. It was completely understandable when I nearly screamed and spilled half the coffee on the floor.
Annette, the office manager, trailed behind him and threw up her hands to explain she tried to announce him.
Chapter Eleven
“Fiona, they suspended me from work.” He slammed the door almost in Annette’s face.
“Fiona?” I mimicked. We usually addressed one another by title last name. It gave a hint of sophistication or at least made me feel like an adult. I dropped a few paper towels on the floor over the coffee spill.
“Isn’t that your name, Fiona?”
“Yes.”
“Since we’ll be working together closely, please call me Eduardo.” His voice was deeper, with a husky overtone.
His handsome appearance returned when his name swayed off his lips, rolling the letter ‘r.’ He added a full smile that made my heart skip (or maybe that was the caffeine). My face radiated heat. We were on a white sandy beach and the sun was shimmering off his silk shirt (unbuttoned to the waist) and the wind was in his thick wavy hair.
For a few seconds my brain was stuck in neutral until I remembered I was a lawyer at work, not a lady in a tube top at a bar on Rush Street. (A popular bar district in Chicago.)
“Okay. Suspended with pay?”
“Yes.”
Shrugging, I lost interest in the issue. When you’re paid and don’t have to go to work it seems pretty good to me, a self-employed person who whines when I am sick and not paid.
“Here are the people who made deposits late the day before…it happened.” He handed me a list written on the back of his business card in teeny letters.
“Bank deposits? What’s the connection?”
“These people could have had an argument with Carol. You know a motive.”
He continued. “Most customers don’t just go to the safe deposit box, they also do a deposit or cash a check.”
It made sense to me. Still, he knew who the last customer was in the vault. The last deposits of the day wouldn’t really help unless someone hid in the bank after closing. Maybe this was a bank red herring.
“Did you ask Bob Noodle about this?”
“Do you know what he charges for an hour of his time? I can’t afford to hire him.” Mr. Fives was indignant.
“You aren’t going to hire him?”
“The police haven’t called me at all today.”
“Do you think that’s because you aren’t at home or at work?”
“Oh. Right. I’ll call him later. Anyway, from four-thirty to five yesterday, no I mean the day before, there were seven transactions at the tellers. The dry cleaners, second hand store, pizza place, and the fix-it shop all made deposits. Father Gizzle from St. Sorrow Church and Mary Ann Duper from the pet store cashed personal checks. Mary Ann always has a dog or a cat inside her coat so she’s hard to forget.”
“And she’s always smiling.” I like Mary Ann and the way she loves animals.
He nodded.
“Where’s the fix-it shop?” I asked.
“Inside the shoe store. You know Carl’s Shoe Repair? The one with the dirty windows?”
“Sure, Carl does great work.” He was brilliant at saving pumps with damaged heel leather. Apparently the idea of washing his windows never occurred to him or he used the grime in lieu of curtains.
“The guy’s name is Tom. He’s Carl’s half brother. Different last name. Seems he had a really bad divorce not too long ago, lost his job and is just getting back on his feet.”
“What does he fix?”
“Small things, you know he rewires lamps and unclogs vacuum cleaners. I think he fixes toasters too. Well he also knows how to fix locks. He helped Carol when she locked her keys inside her car.
He has a little place in the back of the shop, behind a curtain. And there is this awful raggedy moose head hanging over his work bench. It’s dusty and kind of disturbing. I think it’s cross eyed.”
Nodding, I wondered how you could make a living rewiring lamps. Probably a front for a money laundering operation.
“Who’s filling in for you?”
I wondered if Jeanine, the head teller was the assistant manager.
“The head cashier will be in charge until the replacement person gets there. Apparently the main bank doesn’t trust us until this is resolved. Do you think you can look into this?”
“I think we should give this to Bob. Maybe he has an investigator.” All the criminal defense lawyers have them on television, like Paul Drake and Perry Mason.
“What do you think it’ll cost?”
“You need to talk to him about it. Didn’t you do that yesterday?” Really I hoped Bob worked with written fee agreements. I left them alone part way through the interview assuming they would talk about the fee. Fees often are the source of bitter lawyer-client disagreements. In fact, Bob was required to tell the client I would get part of the fee under our picky professional rules about fee splitting.
“He was vague about the cost. He told me there were a lot of factors involved. Some of them are if I am arrested and charged. If I have to stand trial he said I’d need a second mortgage on my house. Can that be a joke?”
“I hope he wasn’t joking,” I answered. Still trials are expensive.
“He wants a deposit by the end of today. Oh I almost forgot, that older guy with the little rescue dog that growls and snaps?”
“The little black dog?” He was a cute little terrier model, without a tail who wasn’t really interested in people other than his owner. The dog followed every move the man made.
“He stops in sometimes just to get a treat for the dog, no transaction. I’m
pretty sure he was in the bank the day it happened.”
“What about the other person that was in the safe deposit box late that day?”
“There wasn’t enough time to sort through the cards, everyone seemed to be watching me today.”
Suddenly, Mr. Fives was looking for spider webs on the ceiling. Not a good sign. His contradictions today alone were giving me a headache.
“You signed someone in. You told me yesterday.”
“Did I give you a name?”
“You know Mr. Fives...” I said with less patience that I wanted to admit.
“Eduardo, please.”
This time there was nothing about him that did anything for me.
“Eduardo, you have to be honest with me and with Bob. How do you expect us to get you out of this mess if you lie?”
The word lie snapped his head back and then he hung it in insincere shame.
“I don’t remember all of what I said yesterday, Fiona.”
“How about the truth?”
Sighing audibly, he counted things off on his fingers. “One, the customer identity is confidential.” This was said in his most calm arrogant banker voice.
As I stared at him, I saw a change. A shift in his attitude. There was a tightening in his mouth. This reminded me of the transformation when Bob joined us at the bank. Maybe he would turn green and his shirt seams would burst open.
“It’s supposed to be confidential, but it was Mike from the pizza place. I signed him in and someone else signed him out but didn’t put their initials or the time on the card like they’re supposed to do.”
Could the bank people be suspects? It was limited to Richard, Jeanine or…Eduardo.
“Was there any word about arrangements or services for her?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“What about her friends?”
“Look, right now I’m less worried about Carol than I am about me as narcissistic as it sounds. Her worries are over.” He gazed at me sheepishly and left me with the impression he was still not telling me everything he knew.
“What else Eduardo?”
“Well I am thinking about making a really nice memorial for her at the Greek restaurant around the corner.”
How do I attract this kind of client? How do they conceal the crazy until after I get involved?
“Who will make the arrangements for her?”
“For what?”
“Burial? Cremation?”
Apparently he neither knew nor seemed to care.
Chapter Twelve
Alone, I reviewed the six names on Mr. Five’s list: one priest, Mike the pizza guy, Tom from the fix-it shop, Patti from the Dry Cleaners, Haraj from the second hand store, and Mary Ann from the pet store.
Didn’t customers have to leave the bank at closing? Could they get back in? Could they hide in the washroom? Could the cleaning people be involved?
The only reasonable answer was that Carol had a key, maybe a maverick one to protect her job. While this didn’t solve the issue of a password, Eduardo was kind of a blabbermouth. Maybe he talked about the entry code.
The priest was off my suspect list. He had connections in high places, he could exert more damage on a soul for revenge in the afterlife if everything I believed about the church was true.
Mary Ann was too nice. Still she was a little quirky, constantly smiling, and she drove a shiny black car. Black cars make bold, furtive statements clothed in enigmas.
The dry cleaners seemed unlikely because they kept to themselves and rarely left the store.
Mike the pizza guy was a kind soul. He would run a tab if you were short of cash for dinner. Of course it meant he chose (or strongly suggested) what you ate, but it was nice when you forgot to stop at the bank. And, he was old fashioned; you had to pay in cash, no checks, and no credit cards. He smiled and nodded so much I suspected a language barrier.
Almost a year ago, Mike had some minor legal issues when he fell behind on payments on his pizza oven. With a little haggling, I worked out a new payment plan for him without needing to fully understand the replevin (repossession) system. He was so worried the ovens would be repossessed, he ran them on low heat even when the store was closed. If the ovens were hot, they couldn’t be removed. Without the ovens there would be no pizza. This would crimp my binge food.
Replevin means the lawsuit is for return of a physical object, like pizza ovens.
I couldn’t suspect Haraj from the second hand store of violence since he constantly talked about the evils of war and benefits if peace was ever reached around the world. He and his store fascinated me with the collection inside and the stories he told over tea. The lack of organization in the store made it all the more charming. It’s where I bought most of my art work including a two foot tall laughing Buddha.
In the summer Haraj set up two chairs and a TV tray under a tree outside of his store. It held his portable phone, a pot of tea and cookies. He was a dedicated recycler or scavenger, depending on your point of view.
Although I made estimates on what he paid for rent and wondered how he made a living, he drove a classic (older) Mercedes and dressed well, suggesting prosperity. Oddly, there was rarely more than one person in his store on a Saturday when I expected shoppers galore.
Chapter Thirteen
Each day I scanned the obituaries, worrying no one would make the burial arrangements and wondering how I could help. Burying Carol seemed the least we could do.
Two weeks after Carol died, her obituary announced a private burial and a memorial reception at the Greek restaurant. Not one family member was listed, not even her late husband.
Mr. Fives called me to make sure I would be there, making me feel like an accomplice. He said he would place calls to everyone who was in the bank late the day it happened and the day before, kind of like Agatha Christie or Bernie Rhodenbarr school of solving mysteries. Maybe the pressure would make one of them crack and confess to the cook or waiter.
Chapter Fourteen
A sign on the door of the restaurant announced a private reception from 5PM to 6PM.
The warm aroma wrapped around my senses pulling me into the restaurant. I guessed at the source: baking chicken, oregano and garlic. Bob Noodle would fit right in here.
Moving to the back dining room, I saw Robert, Jeanine and Eduardo standing together but not talking. Most of the other people looked like they were from the day group from the public library down the block.
The big guy who blocked my path the day they found Carol stepped in front of me again.
“Special Agent Sam Fou. I’d like to set a time to talk to you.” His name was familiar although his face wasn’t. We had talked before, but he either forgot or was too cool to remember me.
For a flash I considered attorney client privilege, but most FBI agents have law degrees. I didn’t think I, the woman who doesn’t understand venue too well, could fool him. He probably wouldn’t believe I was co-counsel.
“I represent Mr. Fives.” Although I wasn’t certain, I didn’t think he could interview me. Maybe that was Bob’s reason to suggest we co-counsel.
“Would you like to come down to the federal building tomorrow at eight AM?”
Did this man think I was a chicken breeder to be up that early?
“I don’t have my calendar; if you give me your number I’ll call you.” Luckily he didn’t notice my briefcase hanging on my shoulder. In truth, no respectable attorney is ever more than three feet from their calendar. Now I had more rules to look up to see how I could avoid him.
His irritated look made my day. Eight AM indeed.
The memorial was the worst I ever attended with people walking in, saying a few hellos and leaving.
There was no picture of Carol, no book to sign, no collectable holy cards. No one said anything to the group to thank them for coming out. There was no attention paid to her memory. Attending was for all purposes an empty obligation. Oh, they served soda.
Charlotte, the fired teller
came in, but before I could think of something to say, she left. Her jaw seemed rather tight, and I think she gave me a dirty look.
Feeling conspicuous by not mingling, I started to work the room, nodding here and there.
At 6 PM, the stragglers started to form a group.
Father Gizzle introduced himself to me although we’d met several times. Maybe it was in reproach to my imperfect attendance at mass.
“No one asked me to speak or pray. I was a little surprised,” he whispered.
“Hello Father how nice to see you. This was pretty informal. It was nice that you were able to attend.” It wasn’t necessary to mention this was more of an I’m-not-guilty reception than a memorial. His spot as a suspect was also not mentioned.
Mike from the pizza shop, Mary Ann from the pet store, Patti from the dry cleaners and Haraj joined us. Tom introduced himself as the owner of the new fix-it shop and passed business cards around. He wore a blue shirt with a yellow necktie, reminding me of the civil war. He said his brother Carl, sent his sympathies but couldn’t make it because he had a cold. It was hard not to stare at the tattoos on his hand. Talk about bad decisions.
Haraj lightened things up, “Fiona, I have some small Buddha’s. The price, for you, will be very nice.” Although most of the people smiled, this seriously raised Father Gizzles’ eyebrows and I flashed a lame smile, trying to look Catholic.
Patti smiled and picked lint off my jacket.
“Ms. Gavelle, I understand you’re an attorney. Do you write wills?” Father Gizzle asked.
“Of course.”
“Can I have one of your cards? I think it’s time for me to get my affairs in order.”
Trying not to smirk at his word selection, I dug for my card case. A priest writing a will with that vow of poverty issue was new to me. It could be good for business if he spread the word to his parishioners.
