by Rob Aspinall
Withers' brow wrinkled. "Has it been a year already?"
Loretta shrugged. "I guess so."
"Where does the time go?" Withers said. "Alright, thanks for the coffee."
"You're welcome," Loretta said, going back to her work.
Withers returned to his office and closed the door. He picked up the handset on his telephone and dialled Welch's number. He'd returned the man’s calls so often, it was burned into his memory.
Loretta wasn't the only one who'd be glad when the Collins deal was over. Between organising the bogus loan demand and the fallout from the truck robbery, it had been one hell of a week.
Withers sipped on his coffee. Still too hot. He put it down as Welch answered. "Mr Welch, good morning."
"Cut the crap Sid, where are we up to on that paperwork?"
"I've just walked through the door, Mr Welch."
"It needs to go through today."
"I'm aware of the urgency, but the deadline on the loan only expired at midnight last night. Another hour or two shouldn't hurt."
"It's hurting my bottom line already," Welch said. "I've got contractors on site, paid to sit on their ass."
"Look, Mr Welch, give me half an hour to file the repossession paperwork. As soon as it's rubber stamped I'll be able to take receipt of payment from your end. The transaction itself will only take a few minutes and we'll be able to transfer ownership by fax. Is your legal team ready?"
"And waiting," Welch said. "They're here in my office right now."
"Good, then sit tight by your phone. I'll give you a call before it's done. By lunchtime, your shovels will be in the ground and Mr Collins will have his eviction notice."
Welch seemed to relax. "Fine," he said. "Call me as soon as we're ready—on my cell."
"Certainly Mr Welch," Withers said, only to find the man had already hung up.
Withers put down the receiver, shook his head and sighed. He sipped on his coffee and turned on his computer. He brought up the relevant documents onscreen and clicked on the print symbol.
It took a while for the printer to warm up. While it did, he watched the rest of the bank staff arrive through his office window. There were three tellers on duty that day and Harry, their ageing security guard. The bank itself was a grand old building--marble floors, stone pillars and traditional furnishings. There was also bulletproof glass and cheque deposit machines.
Withers stood and watched with pride as he sipped his coffee. The nature of the business and its owners meant there was no need for gaudy branding and promotions. The branch didn't even need to make any money. But he was proud of the fact that it did. A very healthy turnover, in fact. He put it down to the level of service and the yearning for more traditional ways. It also made the rivers of cash flowing into the place easier to mask.
He was the envy of other bank managers. And no one knew the truth about the bank but him. As much as he trusted Loretta, he intended to keep it that way. For his own safety as much as hers.
Withers heard his printer chatter into life. It ran four pages off in quick succession. Withers picked them up from the print tray and carried them to his desk. He pulled his chair in and double-checked the details.
Collins had missed the deadline. But the land wouldn't belong to the bank until he confirmed the repossession. Their process wasn't automatic. But he liked the old fashioned ways. It meant he got to use his gold-plated fountain pen and his favourite rubber stamp.
Withers opened a desk drawer and picked out the rubber stamp. He opened the ink case and set the correct date. He pushed it into the inked sponge and pressed down hard on a white space on the top sheet. He repeated the process on the remaining three sheets.
There was something satisfying about using the stamp. The smell of the ink. The thud of its weight. The slight roll of the wrist to bring it away clean.
Withers smiled to himself and closed the ink case. He returned both case and stamp to their rightful places and closed the drawer. He reached across his desk and took his fountain pen from its holder. It had his initials engraved in gold on the wooden base. Withers removed the top from the pen and enjoyed the smell of the ink. It was different to the stamp—stronger, more luxurious. He brought the pen nib to paper, signing and dating the top sheet.
He would have to sign and date all four documents for the paperwork to be complete. He'd also have to ask Loretta to counter-sign as a witness.
Then it would be official. He could cancel the loan, update the online records and transfer ownership of the ranch to the bank. That would allow Mainline Oil to lodge a bid for the land and everything on it. A bid that would be accepted due to a shortage on capital following the raid on the armoured truck. In many ways, the recent heist would help Withers and the mob accountant assigned to the branch to justify the basement sale price to Mainline Oil. And he was certain De Luca would get his money back, one way or another. He didn't like to imagine how. Over the years, he'd gotten very good at not thinking about such things.
With the second sheet signed and dated, Withers took another small sip of his coffee and turned to the third page. He paused, hearing a tap on his office window. He looked up and saw Loretta through the glass. Withers waved her in.
She smiled and opened the door. "Sorry to disturb you, Sid, but two things . . ."
"Yes, Loretta?"
"One, the fire inspector is here."
"Good," Withers said. "He knows where everything is, doesn't he?"
"He reckons so," Loretta said.
"And the second thing?" Withers asked.
"There's a customer here to see you."
"What, now?"
"Yes," Loretta said.
"Well tell them they'll have to make an appointment," Withers said, returning to his paperwork.
"She reckons she did," Loretta said. "For nine-fifteen this morning."
Withers hesitated. He rested his pen on the desk and reached for a black, leather-bound diary. "I'm afraid she's mistaken," he said, leafing through the book. "What's the customer's name?"
"A Miss Tara Cox," Loretta said.
Withers stopped on a page. "Here we go, Saturday morning—" He furrowed his brow. "How strange. Here she is. I don't recall . . ."
"Maybe it was a while ago when she made the appointment,” Loretta said.
"Huh, must have been," Withers said, snapping the diary closed and placing it on his desk. "Still, I can't see her now. I've got to finish this paperwork for Welch or my life won't be worth—"
As the door to his office opened wider, Withers' jaw froze open. A beautiful blonde stepped into the doorway. She wore her hair in a long, straight bob and a cream dress that clung tight to her slim curves.
Withers forced himself to look upwards, into her big, beautiful eyes and pouting red lips. Anywhere but her not inconsiderable cleavage.
"I'll only need five minutes of your time," she said with a husky voice and a sweet smile. "Pretty please with some sugar on top?"
Withers dithered. "Um, I suppose I could spare a few minutes."
Loretta shook her head, a wry smile on her face. "Can I get you a drink, Miss Cox?"
"No thank you," Miss Cox said, sashaying into Withers' office on a pair of high heels that matched the dress.
Withers rushed around his desk and pulled out a visitor chair.
"Thank you, Mr Withers," Miss Cox said, taking a seat and crossing her legs.
"Please, call me Sid," Withers said, his eyes lingering on her lean, tanned calves and the hem of her dress riding up past the knee.
"Thank you, Sid," Miss Cox said. "You can call me Tara."
Withers composed himself and returned to his chair. "So, Tara, what can I do for you?" he said, putting the top back on his fountain pen.
Miss Cox placed her handbag on the floor next to the chair. She stroked a manicured red fingernail against her chest. "Well, Sid, I was looking to open an account."
"I'm sure we can help you with that," Withers said.
"It's a very siz
eable amount," Miss Cox said, "You see, my husband was a very rich man and since he passed—"
"Oh I am sorry to hear that," Withers said, not sorry in the slightest.
"It was some time ago now," Miss Cox said. "But since his death, I've been looking for somewhere to put the inheritance."
"And you were considering one of our high interest wealth accounts?" Withers said. "An excellent choice."
Withers took a sip of coffee to quench his dry mouth.
"If you think it's the right kind of place for three million dollars," Miss Cox said.
Withers almost spat out his coffee. His heartbeat quickened for two entirely different reasons. His two favourite reasons, looking at Miss Cox.
"I'm sure it's exactly the right place for your money," Withers said, putting down the mug. "In fact, I'll see to it personally, right now."
Miss Cox stood from her chair and perched her perfectly formed rear on the edge of Withers' desk. She leaned towards him and played with her hair. "You'd do that for me?"
"Of course, Miss Cox."
"Tara."
"Tara," Withers said, straightening his glasses, which he could swear were steaming up.
Miss Cox looked over the repossession papers spread out on the desk. "But aren't you busy?" she said. "This looks important."
"Oh, it's nothing," Withers said, sitting taller in his chair. "Just a land deal. Part of a multi-billion dollar oil project."
"Wow, you must be important," Miss Cox said.
Withers blushed and batted the compliment away. He turned to his computer. "Okay, let's open you an account," he said tapping on his keyboard and bringing up an application screen. "To start with, I'll need your vital statistics."
Withers even surprised himself with such a daring comment. He held his breath a moment, wondering if he'd gone too far. But Miss Cox threw her head to one side, laughing.
She flicked her hair back and leaned over the desk and poked him in the sternum. "Cheeky," she said, her elbow knocking over his mug. Coffee spilled all over the Collins ranch paperwork, soaking the documents a deep brown.
Withers sprung out of his chair, righting the mug and pulling the papers out of the spill. They dripped onto the desk. He'd have to start all over again. To print, stamp and sign. And a quick glance at his watch told him time was marching on.
But he composed himself and faked a smile. It was an inconvenience, but not worth ruining his chances with Miss Cox over.
Welch would just have to wait a little longer for his deal.
Withers slid the papers in an office bin behind his desk.
Miss Cox handed him a tissue from her handbag. "I'm so sorry. How clumsy of me."
Withers wiped the coffee off his fingers. "It's no problem," he said, tossing the tissue in the bin. "Nothing I can't reprint."
Miss Cox had a handful of tissues. She mopped up the rest of the spilled coffee and handed them to Withers.
"That's very kind of you, Tara," he said dumping the sodden tissues in the bin. "Do you mind waiting while I complete the paperwork again? It's rather urgent and won't take more than a few minutes."
"Of course," Miss Cox said. "I like to watch important men work."
Withers reddened in the cheeks again. He minimised the application screen and brought up the digital copies of the Collins documents. He moved the cursor over to the print button once again.
As he clicked, there was a problem.
A yellow symbol with a black exclamation point appeared over the printer icon. He clicked on the symbol. A dialogue box appeared telling him the wireless printer connection was down. Withers shook his head and tried to re-establish the connection. Another box told him the printer was offline. Withers moved his cursor up to the top menu on the screen. The signal for the internet was empty of bars. He opened a browser. Tried Google. The computer was offline, too, the whole thing down.
"Damn it," Withers said.
"Is there a problem?" asked Miss Cox.
"Nothing serious," Withers said, forcing a smile. "Don't go anywhere, I'll just be a moment," he said, rising from his chair and hurrying across his office.
He opened his door at the same time Loretta emerged from her adjoining office.
"My internet's not working," she said.
"Mine neither," Withers said, as the pair walked across the bank floor.
Tellers were scratching their heads. Customers getting frustrated. The cheque deposit machines flashing an onscreen error message.
"Servers must be down," Withers said, striding out of the entrance. He looked up and down the street. Saw the travel agent across the road—big windows with travel reps inside, on the phone, tapping on their computers.
He walked back into the bank. "Don't think it's the neighbourhood," he said to Loretta.
"You think it's just us?" Loretta asked.
"Any money it's that fire inspector," Withers said, anger rising. "I bet he's pulled out a wire or something. Where is he?"
"He's in the back," Loretta said. "Maybe we should just call tech support—"
Withers ignored Loretta and strode to the staff door. He punched in a key code on the door to the back of the branch. Something fishy was going on. He knew it. And he was about to find out what.
35
Darla drops me off a couple of blocks away from the bank. I'm wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and baseball cap. A generic outfit that could represent anything. I carry a clipboard in hand. A pen tucked behind my ear. I walk the rest of the way while Darla parks the car.
Mitchum is still pretty quiet at this time in the morning. There are four banks on each corner of an intersection. The other three are modern high street banks. Western & Main is a traditional place in an old building, with a big clock tower on top and an American flag hanging off a pole above the doors.
The doors are glass with thick brass handles—the name of the bank etched in gold in the glass.
I walk in through the entrance. There's a security guard with white hair. Looks like he's about ready to retire. I nod at him on the way in. Ask if Loretta's around. He wanders off and sticks his head through an office door at the far end of the bank. She comes out of her office and walks across the marble floor, a big smile and the delicate shake of a hand.
"You must be the fire inspector," she says.
"That I am."
"Is there anywhere in particular you'd like to get started?"
"Out front here is fine," I say, putting on my best American accent. "Is there a code I need to get into the back?"
"You want me to show him around, Loretta?" the security guard asks.
"It's okay Harry," Loretta says to the guard. "Just let me know when you need access."
"Thanks," I say, taking the pen from behind my ear. I wander in slow circles around the bank, avoiding eye contact with the CCTV cameras in all four corners of the ceiling. Each time I pass under a camera, I look down at my clipboard.
I found the fire safety checklist on the internet using the computer in the back office of Al's place.
Amazing what you can find these days. I tick a box at random and glance towards the door. Darla struts into the bank and removes her sunglasses. She flags down Loretta. Tells her she has an appointment with Mr Withers, the bank manager.
Loretta leads her to his office. She taps on the glass and opens the door. I see Withers at his desk, doing paperwork. The Collins deal, no doubt. They'll be pushing it through first thing.
I move in closer, checking a fire extinguisher on a nearby wall. Ticking another box, I overhear the manager saying he hasn't got time. Yep, it's gotta be the Collins deal. But he takes out his diary. I watch through the glass—confusion on his face as he finds an appointment in for nine-fifteen.
Loretta got in early this morning. She made him a coffee and wrote a note in his diary about the appointment, mimicking his own handwriting in his favourite fountain pen. Something she says he's encouraged her to do before—to sign off cheques and papers during his annual holiday.
<
br /> He snaps the diary shut. I hear him say he's too busy.
Shit.
But Darla steps forward. She puts on a husky voice and asks real nice.
I see the look on his face and hide a smile behind my clipboard. Darla nailed it with the dress. Just enough class. Just enough action. The poor guy doesn't stand a chance. She plays it well, swaying into the guy's office and laying the wiles on thick. Withers is up out of his chair. I linger by the door to the back rooms. Loretta closes the door to the manager's office. Leaves the two of 'em alone.
"Um, excuse me," I say. "Could I get into the back here?"
"So long as you don't ask to see the vault," Loretta jokes.
I laugh along with it. "Don't worry," I say, "the inspection doesn't cover it."
Loretta punches in a code on the door. As we enter into a corridor, I glance overhead and see another CCTV camera. There's a door dead ahead, then a left turn off to other parts of the bank. I point and talk randomly about the corridor.
There's no sound on the CCTV, but gotta look convincing for the camera. Loretta tells me the grey door is the one I want.
"That's the server room," she says.
I consult the clipboard. Show her the form and point to a blank box. She leans in close and takes a key from the right pocket of her black suit trousers. She slips it inside my jeans pocket, concealed from the cameras. I give her the thumbs up and she leaves me alone in the corridor, returning to front of house. The ceiling is lower in the corridor. There's a sprinkler overhead and a smoke detector on the wall close to the camera. I push up on my tiptoes and stretch to look at the detector. I unscrew the cover.
Accidentally on purpose, I knock the camera to the left so it faces the opposite wall of the corridor. I screw the panel back onto the detector and make my way to the server room. I take out the key Loretta slipped in my pocket and unlock the door. I check over both shoulders and open it up.
The server room hums. It's lined by banks of hard drives against either wall. There's a computer terminal at the far end of the room and a couple of fans beating overhead to keep the hard drives cool.
I move along the racks, looking at the setup. The wires. The extension leads. The power sockets.
