Deception on All Accounts Page 2

  The robber removed a black canvas bag from his pocket and threw it on the floor at Sadie's feet. “Fill it up with both cash drawers. No coins. You can start with that bag there.” The robber pointed with his right gun at the bag of money.

  Her knees felt weak but she never faltered as she dumped the ATM money into the robber's bag and then added all of the bills from the top two drawers. The money in the second drawer included a dye pack concealed in a bundle of twenties. With no hesitation, she dropped it in with the rest.

  She knew the dye pack would not explode unless it got close enough to or crossed the two transmitter beams at the front door. It didn't appear to her that he had come in that way. But if he did choose the door as his escape route, and the dye pack exploded, it would spew tear gas and fluorescent-pink dye everywhere, unmercifully marking the money and anything or anyone else around. Sadie hoped that wouldn't happen until long after he was gone.

  She also pulled the bait money out of the drawer and added it to the bag. The serial numbers on the bait money had been recorded. If the bills were ever recovered the bank could prove the money belonged to them.

  “Open the other two drawers,” said the robber, once again motioning with a gun at Gordy's head.

  Gordy bent over, fished for a key, and opened the bottom drawer revealing deposit stamps, a box of money orders, and a stack of cashier's checks.

  “I don't want that shit. Open the other drawer.”

  Gordy froze.

  “I said,” the robber raised his voice, “open the other drawer.”

  Gordy stared, eyes wide as if he were an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, unable to move.

  “You.” The robber directed one of his guns toward Sadie.

  Realizing there was nothing else she could do, Sadie plucked another key from the cup and unlocked the fourth drawer, exposing twice as much cash as in the top two drawers together.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said as he turned toward Gordy. “You lied to me.”

  Gordy started walking backward, holding his hands out straight in front of him. “I…I didn't mean to…” Then, in a panic, he turned and ran toward the door.

  Very coolly, the robber raised his gun, aimed, and fired once. Gordy catapulted forward and fell facedown right next to Tessie's purse, his arms and legs sprawled like a rag doll's. The blood from his collapsed body began to seep into the dark red carpet and disappear.

  When Sadie saw the robber aim, she pulled the other two women to their knees, her arms around them as if creating an invisible shield. When the gun rang out, Tessie screamed, Heather sobbed, and Sadie clasped them tighter.

  “Shhhhhh…be quiet.” Sadie tried to comfort them. Somehow, she thought, if they showed no threat to the robber, maybe he would spare their lives.

  “Get off your ass and get the rest of the money. We're wasting time.”

  The coldness of the robber's voice cut through Sadie's heart. She jumped to her feet, took the rest of the money, and crammed it into the black sack. While she took care of the money, she watched him from the corner of her eye as he bound and gagged the other two women. He had instructed each one to collect a spiral phone cord from the phones on the teller counter. Then he used the pliable connectors to tie their hands to their feet behind their backs. Sadie handed him the sack, silently praying he would not hog-tie her, too.

  “Get on the floor.”

  Sadie obeyed and the robber wrapped tape around her mouth and head. He hurriedly tied her hands with another phone cord and her prayer was answered when he missed her feet. When he crammed her face into the carpet, she noticed the bullet's brass casing that had landed on the floor nearby. He scooped it up and added it to the money along with the tape.

  “Now listen to me and listen real good,” he growled. “I'm going into this room and wait for my ride. If anyone makes a sound or tries to get up, I'll come back in here and kill you.” Then he disappeared into the empty office.

  Sadie lay on her stomach listening for sounds of the robber's movements. She could hear nothing except the faint ticking of the time clock. If she rolled onto her side and pulled her head up, she could see numerals II through VI as the red, toothpick-shaped hand jerked around, second by second. She rolled onto her back and turned her head to the side. From her new vantage point, she could see an assortment of paper clips, pens, calculator tape, and dirt that had accumulated under the bottom edge of the teller counter. She wondered why no one ever cleaned under there and then realized how absurd her thoughts were given her current circumstances.

  The phone rang and Sadie hoped someone would figure out something was wrong when no one answered. She assumed Gordy was dead and it was too late to help him. Tessie sobbed through her gag and Heather lay paralyzed with shock.

  After what seemed like an eternity Sadie sat up, pulled her feet under her, and rolled up onto her knees. She used her strong legs to push her body into a standing position. Rubbing her wrists against the edge of the counter, she loosened the phone cord just enough to wiggle her hands free. She estimated it had been about ten minutes since the robber had left. When she pulled the tape off her mouth, she could taste blood from her torn lip. The rest of the tape hung from the back of her hair. She silently cautioned her co-workers to be quiet and gathered all of her courage to peek around the corner into the office through which the robber had fled. There in the corner of the glass wall, the lower pane was missing and all she could see was a bushy, outside shrub. To her relief, the robber was long gone.

  She ran to Gordy, fearing the worst. She felt for a pulse. Nothing. She tried to turn him over and realized he wasn't breathing. Suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach. At least he had died quickly, she thought to herself. Tears streamed down her face as she pulled her sweater from her nearby chair and placed it over Gordy's head and shoulders. Then the sound of Tessie crying forced her back to the present. She ran to the phone, frantically reattached the phone cord, and dialed 911.

  Sergeant Charlie McCord stopped at the Sycamore Springs Waffle House by six o'clock every morning before heading to the station to start his paperwork. He lived on black coffee, and the biscuits and sausage gravy reminded him of those his mother had made when she was still alive. Besides the greasy food, though, Charlie liked to make small talk with Gladys.

  Gladys Goins worked the early-morning shift at the Waffle House six days a week. She had spent the better part of her forty-nine years serving food to friends and strangers alike in first one small diner and then another. Her dreams of leaving northeastern Oklahoma for the bright lights of a city were no secret to Charlie, and he was quite sure she would take the first offer that came along to do so.

  Most mornings she would sit cross-legged on a high stool, swinging her foot in the air, resting her chin on one hand, and holding a long, thin cigarette in the other while she chewed gum and listened to him tell stories of cops and robbers. She hung on to every word, interrupted only when other customers began to arrive. He teasingly called her “Red” when no one else was around, and her cheeks would turn just a few shades lighter than her fiery, bottle-red hair. Although Charlie held no romantic attraction to Gladys, he liked the wide-eyed attention she gave him. Somehow it seemed to help ease the image of his wife, Lilly, still home in bed with pink curlers stuck all over her head.

  Charlie was a burly man with a dense head of brown hair, heavy eyebrows, and friendly green eyes. Gladys affectionately called him “Big Mac,” and although he wasn't particularly fond of the name, he never objected. The fair skin on his face and arms had been tanned to the texture of soft leather, the result of long days spent in a squad car in the Oklahoma sun. His middle-aged waistline reflected his love of southern cooking, and he threatened on a regular basis to start working out at the gym in the evenings. You have to stay in shape, he would tell Gladys, to keep up with the bad guys.

  Charlie routinely finished his paperwork and had his troops on the street by a few minutes after seven every day and then made anot
her stop at the Waffle House for more coffee. Just as he spooned an ice cube from his water glass into his coffee cup, his radio began to sputter. He dropped his spoon and lumbered toward the front door.

  “See you later, Gladys, we got a stop-and-rob at the bank this morning.”

  While they waited for help to arrive, Sadie freed Tessie and Heather from their restraints and set the girls down on the floor where they could not see Gordy's body. The first police car arrived and Sadie walked across the lobby and unlocked the front door for a brawny policeman. He looked familiar, maybe a customer.

  The next few hours were a blur as each employee recounted over and over the events of the morning, first to the police and then to the FBI. Stan Blackton, senior vice president, arrived and took over as spokesman. Television crews descended like flies to a picnic and Sadie couldn't find anywhere to hide as onlookers gawked through every crevice they could find. By the time Gordy's body had been removed from the lobby, Sadie was exhausted. When Blackton appeared to be finished posing for the television cameras, he turned his attention to Sadie.

  “I guess we'll talk about the violation of policy later. In the meantime, you can go to another branch to finish out the day, or if you want to go home you can take a sick day. We'll have this mess cleaned up and be open for business tomorrow.”

  “You mean…Monday?” Sadie's words sounded more like a corrective statement than a question. “Today's Friday,” she added, as if he needed clarification.

  She threw her hair behind her shoulder and felt something rub against her. A chill involuntarily ran through her body when she realized a piece of the killer's tape was still attached to her hair. Quickly, she dispensed with the tape and flung it to the floor. A nearby police officer motioned for her to leave it where it had fallen.

  “Uh, yeah. Monday, I guess it is.” Blackton rubbed his forehead with his fingertips and then crammed his glasses tight up against his eyebrows and looked at Sadie. “Monday.”

  “Well, color me sick. I'm going home.”

  She turned and hesitated for a moment, then picked up the dead-tired violet and dropped it in the trash before she walked toward the door.

  “Ma'am?” The police officer who had been first to arrive now stood at attention by the front door. He had been eavesdropping on the conversation. “Here's my card if you think of anything else.”

  Sadie stopped and acknowledged his kind eyes with a nod.

  “This is kind of personal for me,” he added. “This is where I bank.”

  Sadie took his card and smiled weakly. Without saying a word, she held the card in her hand until she reached the security of her old brown car. Dropping the card on the seat next to her, she said a silent prayer, pumped the accelerator twice, and turned the key. When the cantankerous engine came to life, she noticed the name on the card—Sergeant Charles McCord.

  Chapter 2

  When Johnny slipped into the empty office where he had made his entry several hours earlier, he removed his gloves, mask, and sunglasses, stuffed them in the bag with his loot, and made his escape through the opening in the glass. He checked the parking lot and street for any movement. It was clear. He emerged from behind the bushes and took off trotting into the quiet neighborhood. Adrenaline pumped through his veins like lightning striking in a thunderstorm. He had tried drugs a couple of times but hated the feeling, the loss of control. Adrenaline was better. As he briskly moved along, the black jogging suit concealed the black bag under his arm and its deep pockets bulged under the weight of his guns.

  The corner of Jefferson Street and High seemed deserted except for the melody of the birds in the tall elm trees that lined the sidewalk. The small businesses on each corner appeared latched up tight, not open for business until mid-morning. Johnny unlocked the back door of his white Dodge panel van and jumped inside.

  With the door secure, he opened the black bag and carefully removed his mask, gloves, and sunglasses. He fished in the bag until he found a stiff packet of money. He cautiously pulled up two top bills and uncovered a dye pack discreetly hidden in the carved-out innards of the altered bundle of twenties. What a waste of good cash, he thought, as he popped the battery out of the colorful maze of wires. He knew how the dye pack worked—without the battery connected, it was harmless. He disrobed and wrapped the jogging suit around the dye pack. From a blue gym bag wedged under the front seat, he retrieved a clean set of clothes and a plastic garbage bag. Quickly he dressed and stuffed his disguise, including the dye pack, into the trash sack. He then stowed his bag of loot, along with his guns, in an empty tool chest sitting against the inside wall of the van.

  He crawled into the front seat, picked up a comb from the floor, and smoothed his hair. He checked his appearance in the rearview mirror, then scanned the area for anyone who might be watching. On the other side of the street, a young woman race-walked past the parking lot where the van was sitting. Her earplugs firmly planted in place, she sang out loud to herself and never looked toward the van. He watched her ass jiggle as she proceeded out of sight.

  Johnny liked women. No, he was a connoisseur of women. As far as he was concerned, the variety of females in this world made living worthwhile. But they were for pleasure, and he never mixed business with pleasure.

  The escape route took him down Jefferson Street to the expressway. He shifted and started up the ramp just as a patrol car sped past him in the opposite direction, lights and siren blasting. At the second exit, he left the highway and drove north to the big Wal-Mart Super Store. The sign screamed “OPEN 24 HOURS EVERY DAY.” Behind the store, he stopped at the second Dumpster. And as he tossed the trash bag over the top, he could hear his dad's laughter in his head. Johnny laughed, too.

  He had done his homework and knew that every morning between nine and ten o'clock a massive blue trash truck would arrive and collect the store's refuse. His disguise would soon be crushed along with tons of trash and on its way to the city dump. He drove the van around the opposite end of the building and waited for a few minutes. Confident that he had not been seen, he pulled back around the building and joined a group of cars waiting to merge into the rush-hour traffic on Tenth Street. Just as he gave it some gas, a grimy derelict carrying a trash sack walked right in front of the van.

  “Watch it, scum,” shouted Johnny. “Get out of my way before I run over you.” Then as he edged his van toward the street he added, “Why don't you go climb under a rock somewhere?”

  The man never stopped walking, just waved his hand in the air and laughed. Johnny gunned the van and pulled into traffic. “Somebody ought to do something about people like that,” he muttered under his breath.

  The short drive home presented no problems since most of the commuters were traveling in the opposite direction. Johnny turned down a quiet lane and hit the garage door opener as he nosed the van into the driveway. The garage door gave a groan and opened wide. He parked inside, then carefully closed the garage door before unlocking the connecting door and carrying his goods into the house. He placed the tool chest on the kitchen floor, removed his guns, and put them on the seat of the chair next to him. He pushed back the place mats and dumped the contents of the black bag onto the center of the table. Carefully, he studied the money, looking for any bills that might be marked or for any more dye packs. It looked okay, but he couldn't be sure about some of the loose bills. The woman had added a dye pack, so she could have added bait money, too. There was no way to be sure.

  Johnny removed the paper clips and money straps and placed them together in a pile. Dividing up the bills, he grouped each denomination into its own stack. He clipped together the fives and fifties in bundles of twenty each; the ones, tens, twenties, and hundreds went into bundles of twenty-five bills each. Then he began to count. The tally came to a little less than $75,000. He wasn't sure what the extra bag of money had been for, but appreciated the added bonus. Not bad for a morning's work. He placed the money inside a large satchel, snapped it shut, and rolled the combination lock. />
  A pack of cigarettes lay on the other side of the table. Johnny pulled one out, lit it, and took a long drag, propelling smoke across the room. Then, holding the cigarette between his front teeth, he raked the remaining paper clips into his hands and threw them into the trash. He wadded the paper money straps and placed them in the middle of a square, green ashtray and sat down once again at the table. He took the cigarette and held it to the wad of paper and stared as it began to turn black, smolder, then grow into a flame.

  As Johnny watched the fire in the middle of his kitchen table burn, he began to replay the morning's events. Everything had gone exactly as he had planned except for the stupid kid trying to run away. Killing someone had not been in the plan, but that was just a hazard of the business.

  The bank had been easy to hit. No motion detectors, no glass-break alarms, and a diligent woman who was sure to come in early to open the vault with the manager gone.

  He thought about how he had stood in the lobby weeks ago and listened to the manager arguing with one of the vice presidents about their lack of security. The manager had been trying to make a case for a security guard, but the bank officer wasn't listening. Instead, he was busy watching a young teller, bent over a file cabinet in a skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her ass. When the manager stopped talking, the vice president looked at the manager and said, “You've got a time lock on the safe, what else do you want?” Then he strolled over to where the young girl was working and struck up a conversation.

  Johnny had cased the branch for several months. Periodically, he would overhear the tellers talking among themselves. The best information came from the blond teenager, who seemed never to stop talking. That's how he had learned about the manager and his predictable three-day weekends. Careful not to say too much while in the branch, he made small deposits into the savings account he had opened by mail in his mother's name.