Smash & Grab (21 page)

This can't be it. I can't—
we
can't—have gone through all this effort and in the end have nothing to show for it.

I walk into the
bank's main branch for the second part of my orientation, my purse clutched tightly to my side. What am I even doing here? Last night proved that whatever slim trail of evidence that exists to link Harrison to my dad and the mortgage scam won't be discovered here. I'm wasting my time. And yet I couldn't stay away. I can't give up, even if the whole thing's hopeless. And then there's the thing with Christian. I'm supposed to get him the security information he needs. I don't have to, but the more I think about it, the more I want to. Stealing from the bank isn't going to hurt Harrison, but it's something to hold on to. Elena thinks I just want an excuse to see Christian again, but that's not it…at least not entirely.

“Angela?” Approaching me with her hand extended is a woman with hair the color of raven feathers and lipstick so red that it almost glows. I shake her hand and muster up a smile. “I'm Stella, the lead teller this morning. You'll be with me today, okay?”

She shows me to the break room, where I put my purse into a locker, before she leads me back out to the teller counter, and together we go behind it. Half a dozen people are lined up in front of computers, fingers flying over the keys or flipping through money, their lips moving a bit as they count. “Every teller is assigned a station,” Stella explains, her voice low, her mouth close to my ear.
So the customers don't hear?
I wonder.

“Each station has a cash drawer and its own small key and a combination safe with backup funds.” Being here, behind the counter, watching the tellers counting out money and handling transactions, is sort of exciting. Maybe I'm imagining it, but the air almost smells like the green stuff, like paper and ink and chemicals. The bills coming out of one girl's drawer are crisp enough that they make this snapping noise as she counts, setting bill after bill onto the counter as the customer in front of her watches, both of them making sure that the amount is correct.

“Okay, so basically our tellers take deposits, cash checks, help with money orders, that sort of thing. Margo?” She walks me up to a stubby red-haired woman with a blizzard of freckles on her arms and chest, a middle-aged, frumpy Lohan type with a set of lines in her forehead so deep that they make her look like she's got the number eleven branded between her eyebrows. “This is Angela, our intern. She's going to sit with you. Talk her through your transactions, and when you think she's got it, feel free to let her handle a few herself.”

“Nice to meet you,” Margo says, but those frown lines of hers make it hard to believe the sincerity or cheer in her voice. I'm mentally scheduling her a Botox session when our next customer walks up. “Good morning, sir.” Margo takes the man's deposit slip and a stack of checks and begins to bring up his account on the computer. Margo processes the guy's deposit and hands him a receipt, and then there's another customer and another. After an hour, I learn something important: after the initial
Oh my god, look at all the money changing hands,
the teller's job is totally boring. I mean, an utter snoozefest. Mainly it's a lot of counting and computer inputting and “Hi, may I help you” and “Have a nice day.” Lather, rinse, repeat. There are a few interesting insider secrets, but they only come in little bursts. Stuff like how much is in the teller drawers (less than five thousand dollars at any given time); where the money with the dye packs is (in Margo's drawer, it's in the center slot) and what it feels like (it makes the stack stiff so it doesn't bend); where the button that activates the silent alarm is (every counter has one, but the bank manager also has a remote one on his person); and the intel on the safes (the teller and the head teller or bank manager have two distinct codes that have to be input to open them). The whole time I can feel the overhead security cameras watching, their black lenses taking in every person's every move in high-def. I see why Christian wanted me to get him as much security information as I could. I can't imagine walking in here cold.

“Angela!” I look up, startled, straight at Harrison's smug face. After last night, it's disorienting seeing him like this. He's on the other side of the counter, side by side with a girl who looks to be in her twenties. She has these little-girl doe eyes that she's emphasized with eyeliner so that she looks like one of those retro Barbie dolls, and her brown hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, making the resemblance even stronger. The only thing that doesn't jibe with her overall appearance is the bruised-looking spot along her collarbone that I'm pretty sure isn't a bruise at all but a hickey.
Ew
.

“Mr. Harrison,” I say, feigning enthusiasm when all I really want to do is spit in his face. “What brings you downstairs?”

“This young woman and I got to talking in the lobby. She used to go to my daughter's school, if you can believe it.”

I look at her. No, she didn't. I would know her if she did.
Weird.

“Small world. Anyway, she wants to open a safe-deposit box and, well, I thought I'd offer to accompany her so I could check up on my favorite intern.” He winks at me and I want to puke. The man is habitually pervy. Not so much that I can be sure it's intentional, but enough that my skin crawls every time he looks at me.

Stella walks over to us. “Mr. Harrison. Nice to see you down here, sir. You know Angela?”

“She goes to my alma mater. Sharp, this one. We'll be fortunate to nab her if she decides that banking is in her future. Stella, this is Stephanie Crawford. Stephanie, Stella. She'll get your deposit box squared away for you.”

“Hey.” Stephanie holds out a hand to Stella, then to me. It's all limp and clammy.
Ugh
. I hate when people don't commit and dead-fish shake.

“Look, I've got to get back upstairs. You're in good hands with these ladies,” Harrison says. He pats Stephanie's arm. I stare at the Rolex around his wrist and the soft, manicured look of his fingers. Everything about him reeks of ease and wealth and untouchability. Stephanie gives him this confused little frown as he starts to walk away.

“It was nice to see you again. I'll have my daughter call you,” he says as he heads for the lobby, a little too loudly. Several tellers look up from their counting.

Stella calls over a woman in an emerald silk shirt and heels so high I'm surprised she can walk. She's probably five four without them, but right now we're almost standing eye to eye. “Brynn, the young lady would like to open a safe-deposit box, and our intern, Angela, will be watching the process.”

Brynn motions us over to her desk. She has Stephanie sit across from her, and me to her right, so I can see the computer as she pulls up the screen.

It is a pretty straightforward process in the end. Stephanie fills out the paperwork and gives Brynn her license and account information. Then it's just a matter of collecting the year's rent for the box, which Stephanie hands her, all in cash, and then Brynn's handing the girl her keys.

“Clint, can you walk down with us to the vault?” Brynn leans back in her chair, her phone balanced in the crook of her neck. “Yes, now. Thank you.”

Stephanie leans down to grab her purse, and a necklace slips out of her shirt. A necklace with a pendant on it. It's unusual in an ugly kind of way. A heart with some diamonds layered on top of…wait. My breath hitches. It's the one Harrison bought the other day. The one he said was for his wife.

“Nice necklace,” I say, leaning in so I can get a closer look.
Yep, it's the one.

Stephanie looks down, her cheeks reddening, and quickly drops it back under her blouse. “A gift from a friend,” she says.

“A male friend, right? And not your garden-variety college boy, either. Are those diamonds real?”

She nods and I whistle. “Wow. Lucky you.” Actually, unlucky her. She had to let Harrison suck on her neck—probably worse.

Clint appears, and there's no time to ask Stephanie any more questions. We follow Clint down the stairs to the vault where the safe-deposit boxes are kept.

“This way,” Brynn says, motioning us down the hall, all of our shoes clicking on the marble floor. It's an impressive space, a throwback to the art deco era. I run a hand along the wall admiringly. No wonder they shot films down here.

“Okay, here we are.” Brynn walks up to the thick steel door at the end of the hallway. There are two key-code pads, and she and Clint each stand in front of one, then punch in a set of numbers simultaneously. “Angela, all the vault access doors have two keypads. To get in, we need both of the employees with codes to enter them at the same time. In this branch it's the head teller, the bank managers, and a few of the loan officers who have the codes. The codes themselves change often and are not shared between employees. For example, Clint would never know my code and I can't know his. This ensures the security of the vault. Well, that and the security cameras.” I look up at the cameras hanging at various points along the hall, at the one right above us, trained on the door. I try to imagine who might be watching us through them right now.

“Is someone inside the bank watching the camera feeds all the time?” I ask.

“At this bank, yes. Our security division is upstairs, but at our other satellite branches, no. Their camera footage feeds directly here and is housed on our security systems upstairs and is only reviewed when there is a security breach.” Brynn opens the door and we walk into the safe-deposit-box room, a sort of antechamber to the actual vault, which is behind another huge steel door more imposing and impenetrable than the first. The walls are lined with boxes, all of them numbered and each with two locks. Brynn leads us to number 1539, down at the end of the left-hand wall, close to the main vault door.

“Ms. Crawford, every time you come to view the contents of your box, you'll need your key. I have the bank's master to release the box from its location, but the box won't actually open without your key. If you were to lose it, we would have to force open the box at your expense, so you're going to want to keep it safe.” Double safety measures on everything. The vault is a fortress.

Brynn slips her key into one lock and then waits while Stephanie does the same. The box slides out, a long narrow shoe box–looking thing. Brynn carries it back down the hall and then veers into another, smaller hallway, where there are a series of cubby-sized rooms. I can't help thinking that they look like the person-sized version of the box Stephanie's holding.

“You can view your box inside this room. Once you're done, flip the switch on the wall and the light outside the door will come on, alerting us that you're ready to put the box back.”

Being down here, with all the cameras, key codes, and steel doors—not to mention the millions housed mere feet from where we are—is enough to leave me speechless. Christian and the Romero Robbers have never hit a vault during one of their jobs. But he wants the layout and location from me.
Are they going to attempt it here?
It seems like a suicide mission.

Brynn sets the box on the small desklike shelf inside the room, and we back up to allow Stephanie inside. What is she planning on keeping in the box? The necklace? Something else? Something of Harrison's? He brought her in to get the box. And he's not hiding anything anywhere else. I think about my own bank account, how the FBI seized my father's accounts, but not mine and Quinn's because they were in our names. There was no way to put a freeze on accounts where there was no evidence of a direct tie to the crime. Like my dad, Harrison made money off those mortgages. Stephanie has to have the money or something that could lead us to it. It makes perfect sense.

“Coming, Angela?” Brynn asks as Stephanie ducks into the room and shuts the door. I stare at it for a second or two, wish like mad for X-ray vision.

“Coming.” I sigh and we walk back to the end of the hall to wait. The only way I'll get into that box is if I break into it. But that's impossible. “So are there cameras inside those rooms?” I ask when it occurs to me that there might be.