Return of the Dixie Deb (5 page)

The young anchorwoman’s unsmiling face appeared again.

“Does this trigger memories for some long-time viewers?” she was asking. “It did for one local resident. Mr. Wilbur Duffy of Cedar City was in the bank to cash an annuity check when the robbery occurred. News Center Nine reporter, Rob Goodnaw, was on the scene to speak with the Korean War veteran.”

Wilbur Duffy’s face, Crimson Tide cap back in place, filled the screen. He grasped the reporter’s microphone and nodded energetically as he was asked about the incident.

“I was up there at the counter, ready to get my money, when the two of them walked in, cool as cucumbers. There she was big as day and twice as pretty. I was living up in the Cherokee Falls area back morn’n twenty years ago when she and her fellow stuck up the county credit union. It’s her again. It’s the Dixie Deb!”

Derossiers punched the air as the camera moved back to the local reporter’s face.

“The Dixie Deb?”

She recognized one of the still photos they had shown her in Atlanta as it came on the screen. Face obscured by a trailing veil, the young woman seemed to be enjoying herself as she held a briefcase open. Behind her, a man’s back was partially visible, a handgun pointing at the teller.

She shut her eyes.

“A quarter century ago, the Upper South was terrorized by the so-called Dixie Deb bandit and her male counterpart as they held up a series of banks across Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia before mysteriously vanishing.”

The field reporter’s face reappeared.

“Back to you in the studio, Marsha.”

“Thank you, Rob. A story we’ll be following up on in the coming days as police search for the duo. In other news, the Alabama Department of Transportation has decided to temporarily close State Route 727 between Evanston and Delmar.”

Derossiers hit the mute button.

“Got those two magic words out to the public now.”

“We should get additional press coverage starting tomorrow, too,” Mac said.

“How far do you think the story will spread?” she asked. “I mean there’s no guarantee the Deb or any of her gang will ever hear about it, if they don’t still live around here.”

“Exactly. That’s why after you hit the bank in Corren, we’ll be moving our operations further afield. Whittaker wants you to take a day or two off. We’ve got a list of places to scout out over the weekend in Alabama and Mississippi. We’ll hit it intensely next week, two maybe three robberies if we can get them set up. Even if the Deb isn’t around, coverage may jog someone’s memory enough to phone in a tip. We need to keep striking while the iron is hot.”

We
? Yeah, right. She knew who he meant by we.

“And if nothing happens?” It was a question she hadn’t been able to get an answer to. “How long do we keep going?”

“Yeah.” McKenzie looked at Derossiers. “Sooner or later, we’ll have to shelve it if the Dixie Deb doesn’t rise to the bait.”

“Sooner or later, but with Whittaker…” Derossiers shrugged. “This burr’s been under his saddle for a long time. It’s probably going to be later, people.”

Chapter Four

For perhaps the twelfth time that day, he reached into his empty shirt pocket.
Dang
. He’d smoked his last one waiting for her to finish in the service station restroom as he watched shimmers of heat rise off the black asphalt. Sure, he could pick up another pack the next time they stopped, but he knew he shouldn’t. It was an expensive habit, easier to start than stop. And he didn’t need reminding about the dangers of cancer. He took a deep breath and held it. Think of something else. Something distracting.

Right. He looked over to where Jan sat, staring out, arm propped on the open window

“Two jobs down this week, one to go. Maybe we can relax this weekend. We’re heading back to Alabama. Jake says the press coverage is heating up.”

“I’ll relax when this is all over and done with. That one yesterday didn’t do anything for my nerves. The teller setting off the alarm system as we left and the old lady chasing us out in the parking lot with the fire extinguisher? And don’t tell me someday I’ll look back on it and laugh. You didn’t have to run for the car in heels with someone spraying foam at you.”

“Sorry. Can’t see the Deb wearing running shoes though.”

“Another reason to hate her. You tell me, why would anyone who was tall want to wear these things? Do you know how they make you walk?”

Oh, yeah. With that mesmerizing sway. The males in the bank weren’t the only ones watching her long legs, the tight skirt shifting across her butt. He could imagine what was under it.

His hand brushed his shirt pocket again.
Damn
. He cleared his throat. Get your mind on something else, man.

“So you don’t usually wear high heels? Not even on the job?”

“I’m an accountant, not a runway model. Or I was. I just sat behind a desk and ran figures.” She was silent. “And when you’re five-eleven who needs heels?”

“They seem to be popular.”

“With men maybe.” She shook her head. “Or some men anyway. Others not so much.”

Was there a story there? He glanced over. He could see her jaw muscles tense.

“The exception being?”

She met his eyes as he raised an eyebrow in question.

“My fiancé…I guess I should say my ex-fiancé from my ex-career and my ex-life, used to say if I grew another inch I’d have to call myself five-twelve.”

“Ooh, nice guy. His idea of a joke, huh?”

“Yeah, well. I guess he thought so. But that was then, you know.”

“Was he an accountant, too?”

“Mm, we met in college. He bought a small accounting practice in Cartersville, north of Atlanta. I joined him once I got my M.B.A. We called it T and T Professional Accounting Services. Turner and Thimmons. Our logo was T-n-T.” She sketched it in the air.

“TNT, got it. So did the IRS go after him, too?”

“No, Tim was out of it by that time, fortunately for him.” She turned to look out her window again, her back to him.

It was clearly evident she wasn’t interested in discussing it, but at least it got their minds off other things—known carcinogens and overzealous bank customers wanting to do their part for law enforcement.

“So what happened?”

She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug and stared out her window.

“C’mon, Jan, you’re too much of a straight arrow to try and scam the I.R.S. You worry about us not taking our cans back in for the deposit. Besides, you are way too bright to think you could get away with it.”

“I was, I don’t know, overwhelmed this spring I guess you’d say.” Her voice sounded thick. “I was trying to get all the clients’ returns submitted by April fifteenth on my own, since Tim had left. I pretty much just signed my own return and sent it in. I thought there was probably stuff I could have itemized, but I didn’t care if I overpaid. It didn’t seem important. But then when they audited it, they found all kinds of income I hadn’t declared. I don’t know where it came from. Clients paid money through my e-account. With everything else going on, I didn’t keep close enough tabs on it. Obviously. I didn’t mean to cheat anyone, but I know that’s no excuse.”

Turning her back to him, she dug in their fast food lunch sack on the floor. He caught a glimpse of a napkin in her hand as she twisted it.

“So what happened to Tom Terrific?”

“Tim Turner.”

“Whatever. Where was he when the I.R.S. came calling?”

“Working for Pammy’s mom’s company.”

“And that would be? You’ve got to explain that one.’”

“Albertine Hughes owned the wedding service I was using, the Wedding Belles Bridal Salon in Rome, Georgia. Her daughter, Pammy, was the receptionist. She kept Tim company while I was there for consultations.”

He gave a long whistle. “Fast worker.”

“Well, I had a lot of appointments. I kind of changed my mind about the dress. I chose a dress I liked, but then Mrs. Hughes showed me a picture of a beaded sheath she thought might be better for me. It was a lot more expensive, but she said we could order the basic dress and have it altered to look like the one in the picture. I had to keep going in and discussing details about the reception site, flowers, the menu. There’s a lot to decide when you’re planning a wedding.” Her voice trailed away.

“And the receptionist helped herself to your man. Pretty low.”

“Tim had wanted me to use his sister’s dress originally. Just have it taken in. Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t have gotten involved with Pammy.”

“What a winner. You didn’t deserve your own wedding gown?”

“It would have been cheaper. He was big on economizing, being frugal, saving for the future, practical stuff.”

“So a used wedding dress? Jan, did the word cheapskate ever occur to you?”

“His idea was to have a small, inexpensive wedding. He had the future mapped out. First, we had to buy the business, pay off our student loans, get term life insurance, then save toward a down payment on a condo, and get vested in retirement plans. After all that was done, we could think about the wedding. A small wedding.”

“Mr. Romance, huh? He sounds like a real charmer. How long did you two date?”

She said something he didn’t catch.

“Excuse me?”

“Eleven years!” She turned to him blinking, her eyes suspiciously moist. “There was a lot to do. Tim believed in being fiscally responsible.”

“Along with making whoopee with the receptionist while you were planning your wedding, then leaving you to fend off the federal government. Have you congratulated yourself on being rid of the loser?”

“Yes, I know that, but I’ve been a little busy lately, Mac.”

“So what’s back in, where was it, Cartersville now?”

“Not much. I needed to pay off the caterers, the florist, the reception hall, etc. when we cancelled pretty much at the last minute. I’d gotten caught up in the fancy wedding fantasy. Then the I.R.S. froze all my accounts. I had to close the business. The condo was in Tim’s name.” She swiped her eyes.

“Mr. Practical strikes again.”

“Cartersville isn’t a big town and rumors get around. It doesn’t take a lot to ruin you. I don’t have much of a professional reputation to lose anymore. When my career in crime is over, I don’t know what I’ll be doing even if I do get to keep my license.”

He looked over at her as she clenched the napkin, crossed her long legs, and stared straight ahead.

Hopefully, it’d be something involving high heels.

****

The parking lot of the yellow brick Merchant and Farmer’s Savings and Loan was adjacent to the front of the bank so he parked the car on a side street under a shedding catalpa. She watched as he checked the time.

“Third time’s the charm.” Mac looked up at her. “Maybe we can set a new record this time.”

Was he trying to lighten the mood? She pressed a hand against her stomach and tried to remember what a long-ago yoga instructor had taught about breathing. In through the nose, out through the nose.

“Ready?” He looked as serious as she felt.

“Sure.” She tried out her voice. A little high. Hadn’t the Deb ever dealt with nerves? Gosh, she hated that woman. According to Mac, she’d relished the whole nasty business. Probably part of her choice to be a career criminal. She cleared her throat and opened the door, sliding out and adjusting her hat. He retrieved their briefcase from the back.

Heat lightning flashed from somewhere in the west as they crossed the street to the back door of the bank. She had to admit this week’s robberies were going better, but it only took one person deciding to play hero to cause a “contingency the Bureau hadn’t anticipated” as Whittaker had put it.

He opened the door, checked inside, and nodded to her. Taking a breath, she pulled the brim of the hat down to shade her face. At the end of the corridor, a middle-aged woman in a pants suit turned toward them. Eyes widening, she took a step back.

She knew they were coming. Imagine how those not clued in would feel.

Stupid F.B.I. Was this what her tax dollars were paying for? At least the ones she had actually paid over the years.

Ahead Mac had stopped, his hand in his pocket, the clear outline of his empty gun straining against the fabric.

The lobby was full—the manager gaping at them, two tellers behind the counter, customers frozen in various positions, and a young man half-rising from a desk behind a plastic partition labeled loan office.

She swallowed convulsively. It was their biggest audience. What was her line? Mac was looking at her, waiting. Every second felt like an hour.

“We’re just here to make a withdrawal, folks.” Her words came out too fast. She was rushing it.
Deb it up, seduce your audience
. She could hear her F.B.I. instructor words urging her on. She took another breath.

“No one’s going to get hurt. Ma’am.” She nodded to the bank manager standing by Mac. “Y’all need to close up for a while.”

Okay, that was better.

Mac jerked his head in the direction of the front door as she turned back to the first teller, put the case on the counter, and popped the locks. Practice with gloves had helped.

She managed to fake a smile. “Don’t even think about the silent alarm or the dye packs, Sugar.”

Behind her, she heard the hiss of spray paint hitting the camera.

“Let’s just skip the little stuff, please. How about getting some of that delivery out of the safe the Brinks truck left here for y’all today.”

The teller was spilling money from his cash drawer onto the floor. The other teller bent over to help him.

“Marvin, get the bank delivery from the vault and let’s get these people out of here and on their way.” The bank manager had recovered her voice. “The money that was left for the bonus checks.”

The loan officer emerged from behind the chest-high partition and stared at his boss.

“Get the money.” The bank manager pointed at the vault. “I want these people gone. Kelly, leave that, you help him.”

One of the tellers moved over to accompany the loan officer into the open safe.