A Grave Prediction (Psychic Eye Mystery) (10 page)

“Don’t you guys have a silent alarm under your desks or something?”

Again a blush tinged Mary’s cheeks. “We do, and I pressed it, but I think I waited too long. The bank thief by the door was really mean-looking. He stared at me and shook his head like he knew I wanted to press the alarm and he’d hurt me if I did, so I waited until they began to leave to press it.”

“You did the right thing,” Candice told her. “Seriously, Mary. After all, it’s not worth your life, right?”

Beads of sweat had broken out across Mary’s forehead. The memory of the moment the leader of the gang of robbers had threatened her remained fresh and terrifying for her. I felt so bad for her. “Mary,” I said gently. “I think you should go see a professional and tell her about what happened. I think it might help you to talk about it with someone who can help you.”

“You mean like a therapist?”

I nodded.

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Candice handed her the brochure, which she’d completed. “Abby’s right,” she said. “You need a few sessions with someone who can help you cope with the fear. I know it helped me.”

“It did?” she asked. “Really?”

“Really.”

Mary blushed again and took the application from Candice. She then put all the information into her computer and we continued to chat amicably with her for the ten minutes it took for Candice to be approved for twenty thousand dollars. Her credit was good enough to qualify her for a triple platinum card—because double platinum wasn’t enough, apparently.

We left the bank a little later and I wasn’t sure we’d learned much other than the fact that Candice had an amazing FICO score.

After getting in the car, I said, “Interesting interview technique.”

“Hey, I’d apply for a mortgage if it would get every witness to open up like Mary did.”

“The poor woman,” I mused. “I think you’re right; she really does seem to have PTSD.”

Looking at me, Candice asked, “You think she’ll be okay?”

I felt out the ether and replied, “I do, but not for a little while. She’s resistant to therapy, but willing to change careers, and that’ll work to keep the night terrors away for a bit. Sometime next year, though, I think all that’s happened to her is gonna creep back and she’ll go get help.”

“Good,” Candice said, starting the engine. “Now, let’s go find Phil.”

“How’re you going to find the security guard?” I asked. “We didn’t even get his last name.”

“We passed a Walgreens two lights down,” Candice said reasonably. “I’ll bet he works there.”

“You think he’d stay in the same neighborhood?” I asked.

“Sure! I mean, he worked at the bank for at least four years, so I’d be willing to bet he also lives nearby and this is a short commute for him. You watch—he’ll be there.”

Candice was dead-on. We found Phil slouched in a chair at the pharmacy of the Walgreens, making sure nobody tried to rob the place of Sudafed or prescription painkillers. Of course, if someone was intent on robbing the place, the withered old geezer parked in the chair wearing a security uniform probably wasn’t gonna be much of a deterrent.

“Phil!” Candice said, like she’d known him forever.

He jerked at the sound of his name and eyed her curiously. “Hey, there,” he said, and it was obvious from his expression that he was trying to place where he knew her from. “How you been?”

“Great, Phil, just great,” she said, stopping in front of him to reach out and squeeze his shoulder. “I’m surprised to see you here, though. Why aren’t you over at the bank?”

Phil’s brow rose slightly, as if he remembered that he must’ve known Candice from the bank. “Oh, I left that job. Too much time on my feet, you know? Here they give me a chair and a steady stream of pretty ladies to walk past.”

He said that with a twinkle in his eye, like he was getting away with something. That made me like him a whole, whole lot.

Candice laughed and slapped his arm lightly. “You old dog. Actually, I’m so glad you’re okay! I heard that the branch got robbed a couple of weeks ago.”

Phil nodded, like that was some sorry business, all right. “Yeah,” he said. “We got hit.”

“Were you scared?” Candice asked him.

“Nah,” he said with a chuckle. “I was in the bathroom the whole time.” Patting his abdomen, he added, “Had a hell of a time that day. Caught some kind of nasty bug that ran right through me, if you get my drift.”

“Yikes,” Candice said. “That’s awful, but still, I’m glad you weren’t at your post or you could’ve been hurt by those robbers.”

Phil waved his hand dismissively. “They got lucky,” he said. “At the bank, they let me carry a gun. Here, all I get is pepper spray.” For emphasis he tapped a small canister attached to his big black belt.

“So you never got a look at the robbers?” Candice said.

“Nope,” he told her. “Not even a peep.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t get in trouble for being sick and away from your post,” Candice said to him.

Phil scowled and added a shrug. “It probably would’ve been okay with the bank if the Feds hadn’t made such a big stink about it.”

“The Feds?” Candice said, as if she were suddenly alarmed at the mention of the FBI. “What kind of stink could they make about it? I mean, you were sick. What were you supposed to do?”

“They thought I might’ve been in on it,” he admitted with a roll of his eyes. “I told ’em to go ahead and investigate me. I got nothin’ to hide.”

“Did they?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, his eyes now wide. “They talked to everybody about me. My neighbors, my boss, the people at the bank . . . even the manager at Starbucks where I get my hot tea every morning!”

“You’re kidding,” I said, thinking Perez and Robinson were at least thorough.

“Nope,” he replied, crossing his arms with another scowl. “They were trying to account for every minute of my day and back up my story that I was sick in the can during the robbery. Stupid waste of their time and my tax dollars if you ask me.”

Candice reached out to squeeze Phil’s shoulder again. “Well, I’m glad you’re well again, Phil, and that nothing bad happened to you.”

“Thanks,” he said, patting her hand.

We left Phil then and headed back to the car. “Anything ring false from him?” Candice asked as we were buckling ourselves in.

“No,” I said with a sigh. “There was nothing about his
energy that suggested he was lying or trying to hide anything. His story checks out, at least against my radar.”

Candice tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “Which is weird, right?”

“You mean, in that it’s a really odd coincidence that at the
exact
moment Phil is indisposed, the bank is robbed?”

“Yep,” she said. “Makes me wonder where the guard was at the other four banks during the robberies.”

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

Candice reached back behind her to her iPad, which she’d apparently hidden in the backseat under her coat, and pulled it forward to consult it. After a minute she said, “Okay, there’s a bank in Pasadena that looks promising and it’s about a half hour away. It was the third bank hit.”

I donned sunglasses and said, “Let’s roll.”

We arrived at the bank and Candice took about five minutes to work on her appearance. I watched her, curiously fascinated. First she brushed and smoothed out her hair, then swept it up into an easy chignon, pinning it with a few bobby pins located in a neat little pack in her purse. Next, she applied a deep burgundy lipstick, which made her pale skin and hazel eyes pop. Last, she shrugged out of her light jacket and unbuttoned her silk blouse down to her cleavage, exposing a bit of black lace bra and the foreheads of both “ladies.”

Walking in, I also noted there was no security guard at the entrance, and coming into the lobby didn’t produce sight of one either. By the time my attention returned to Candice, I realized she’d already completed the transformation she’d started in the car.

Now, I’ve known Candice for about seven years, and in that time I’ve seen her alter her appearance completely, simply by squaring her shoulders, changing her posture, and doing
something like pursing her lips. She’s remarkable in that way; it’s sort of like how when you go to see a Meryl Streep movie, you’re never quite seeing Meryl, but a different person entirely, even though nothing about her facial architecture has changed.

I recognized the personality currently projecting out of the body of my best friend—she’d donned her resting rich face. I nearly shivered with pleasure. This was a favorite persona of mine, as there was always a bit of a show to go with it. “I swear,” she began in a tone loud enough to carry while popping one hip out and resting her bent elbow on it. “You can’t find good help these days, Abigail. We’ve been standing here for an
hour
and no one has even greeted us yet!”

A man about our age appeared in front of us as if by magic. “Hello,” he said, adopting a forced smile. “Welcome to Sun Coast Bank. Have you heard about our low-interest-rate credit cards?”

That line again? Gee, these bank people really liked to push the credit cards.

Candice stared at him up and down as if he were some offensive appetizer that she’d been offered on a tarnished platter. A sheen of sweat appeared on the poor man’s brow. “Who’s in charge here?” she asked, pulling down her Gucci sunglasses to look haughtily at him over the frame.

“I—I am, miss,” he said, his voice catching a little.

She gave him that up-down again and I had to press my lips together to keep from smiling. Meanwhile the sheen of sweat on his brow began to bead a little. “You?” she said, as if she couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a vigorous nod. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Candice sighed dramatically. “I’m new to the area,” she said, pulling her glasses off in that way that rich people do when they
want you to see that it’s annoying that they have to do it at all. “And I need to transfer a large quantity of funds from my bank in New York to an establishment here.”

The bank manager bounced slightly. Candice had just sung his magic tune. Thrusting out his hand, he said, “I’m Sam Gabris, ma’am.”

Candice eyed his hand and her upper lip curled a bit in distaste. Still, she extended her own and allowed him exactly one pump before she withdrew it. “Caroline Parker,” she said. Making a wispy hand motion to me, she added, “This is my sister, Abigail.”

Sam turned to me, sticking out his hand again, and I shook it without the lip curl.

“Won’t you two come this way?” he said, his voice hitching again.

We followed him to an office, which was great, because I had a feeling Candice preferred some privacy when she outright lied about her identity. After we all took our seats, Sam said, “How much were you looking to transfer, Ms. Parker?”

“Mrs.,” she corrected, making a show of setting her glasses in her handbag and placing it demurely at her feet.

“Sorry,” he said, flushing a little. “Mrs. Parker, how much did you want to transfer over from your bank in New York?”

“Twenty million,” she said.

I braced myself in case Sam’s eyes popped out of their sockets to hit me in the face, which I swear they nearly did. “Dollars?” he gasped.

“Yes, dollars,” she replied impatiently, then looked at me as if to say,
Can you believe I have to subject myself to this idiot?

I rolled my eyes, but inwardly I thought,
Aw, poor Sam.

For his part, the perspiration on Sam’s brow, which had all but evaporated, reappeared with gusto. “I’m sorry,” Sam said
again. “It’s just . . . that’s a great deal of money to deposit into a bank. Not that I want to lose your business, Mrs. Parker, but wouldn’t you be better served putting that into a portfolio of some kind?”

“It’s for a real estate transaction,” Candice said simply. “I’m acquiring a home here in Pasadena, but there’s been a delay in the negotiations and I need to move those funds to a bank based here for reasons I’d rather not get into.”

Sam’s face fell. “Oh, Ms. Parker, I’m sorry, but are you saying that you’re not a resident of California? In order to open an account here, you’d need to be a resident.”

Candice shifted in her chair, a look of annoyance crossing her features; she then reached for her purse and began to pull out her checkbook. “No one said anything about not being a resident,” she sniffed.

Sam gulped as a droplet of sweat trickled down his sideburn while his eyes stared unblinking at the emerging checkbook. “You’d need to prove that you were a resident, Ms. Parker. A driver’s license and a utility bill is usually all we require.”

Candice paused in the removal of her checkbook, then let it slip from her hand back into her purse and set that down. “I see,” she said.

“It’s company policy,” Sam said weakly.

“Ah,” Candice said, staring at him with a cold expression.

Another bead of sweat leaked down the side of Sam’s face. “You know what?” he said, reaching for his office phone. “Let me just call the regional director and see if we can’t make an exception for you—”

Candice held up her hand. “Before you do that,” she said with a tight smile, “I’d like to ask you about your bank’s security.”

Sam’s hand gripped the phone’s receiver as he stared at her like a deer caught in headlights. “Our . . . security?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ve heard rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Yes, Sam. Rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“That there’ve been a number of bank robberies in the area, and I want to make sure that not only will my money be safe, but that should I need to come into this establishment,
I
will be safe.”

Sam swallowed audibly. “The area has a very low crime rate,” he began, setting the receiver back into its cradle and looking anywhere but at Candice.

“Yes,” Candice said, turning to glance out the window at the fancy neighborhood. “Which is why I feel confident investing in a new home here in Pasadena, but I often visit the bank when I’m in the mood for shopping, and I never use plastic; it’s a personal thing. I’d hate to come here and be
involved
in some incident.”

Sam nodded, still avoiding her gaze. “I completely understand. The safety of our customers is our utmost concern.”