Not Safe for the Bank(er) Read online

  Not Safe For the Bank(er)

  A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

  Una Tiers

  © 2013 and 2015 by Una Tiers

  Gavelle Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author.

  Brilliant Cover Art Gad Savage

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. The information about the magnificence of Chicago, Illinois is real. A few places have been rearranged for privacy and my amusement.

  Not Safe for the Bank(er)

  A Fiona Gavelle Mystery

  Una Tiers

  Chapter One

  As the door hit me in the ass, I stopped like a cartoon character inside the door of the bank.

  Feigning confidence to cover my indecision, I scanned the room. Ten or twelve police and an equal number of humorless guys in suits were watching me with at least scorn.

  Mr. Fives, the bank manager was sitting in the lounge area. He was alternating squeezing his face and then running his hands up through his hair making it stand up in goofy clumps.

  His eyes widened when he recognized me.

  “Ms. Gavelle you need to help me.” He stood up part way, looked around at the crowd, and sank down in resignation.

  Relieved to see a friendly face, and inappropriately curious, I started to walk over to him.

  “Are you okay Mr. Fives?”

  Before he answered, a large man stepped between us fuming with exasperation.

  “You can't talk to him," the large man growled.

  “He's asked to speak to his lawyer.” I searched for a poker face and opened my eyes wide (like Annie), trying to suppress my burgeoning grin. Oh how I love when my mind works at lawyer speed.

  After some mumbling and discussion among the suits and uniforms, the large man stepped aside and Mr. Fives and I went into his office. The floor to ceiling glass walls would drive me crazy if I had to work there. Still, in a bank security is at issue.

  Mr. Fives looked considerably less handsome with a splotchy face and caveman hair than when sitting at his desk printing out extra copies of my monthly statements or hawking a new credit card feature.

  “I don’t know what happened…” he started.

  A slight blur of movement distracted me.

  “Wait,” I held up my hand while I looked around the window to confirm my suspicion.

  “They think I…” he continued.

  “Stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Just stop talking,” I whispered impatiently.

  For a few seconds he looked confused. Then he looked out the office to see the curious crowd, inching forward, closer and closer to the glass. They were shamelessly trying to eavesdrop.

  When he figured it out he turned his back to the crowd.

  He started again, “Carol’s dead. She was murdered in the vault this morning.” His nose was running and he wiped it on a real handkerchief wadded up in a death grip in his hand.

  “Carol?” I started. “Murdered?” It wasn’t possible.

  “Dead, murdered, gone, and they think I did it because I was the last one in the vault last night.”

  “You didn’t admit anything did you?”

  His wretched look suggested he had. Didn’t he watch television? Innocent questions and honest answers always get people in trouble.

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” he whined.

  My fingers were less than steady when I pulled out my cell phone and called Bob Noodle, an attorney who actually practices criminal law. I am a graduate of the rerun cop TV school of criminal justice. There the first client instruction is always for the client not to talk to the police.

  “Tell the client to dummy up,” Bob growled, ending in a chuckle. With a smooth confidence, he chuckled again, “He can afford me, right?”

  He was thirty minutes away. Click.

  Embarrassed at the capitalism of my brethren, I slowly put my phone away.

  Chapter Two

  My name is Fiona Gavelle; I’m a fairly new lawyer in Chicago, Illinois.

  Being an attorney is not what you see on television. It really includes a lot of making documents and honing them to fit what the client wants. It’s like a soap opera, because you hear all kinds of sordid details. My time is spent writing wills, filing probate cases, real estate closings and such. I do ghost lawyer work for a small firm in what is called a space for services arrangement. That means I do a set number of hours of their work, in exchange for use of a rather small office. My work is invisible to their clients, resembling the man behind the curtains working the levers.

  My office has one filing cabinet, a wall of built in bookshelves and cabinets, a crummy green metal desk, two client chairs and my cool ergonomic chair. If either of the client chairs is moved, the door won’t close. My window looks out at a brick wall with chipped and peeling white paint. Why was a wall on the fifth floor of a building facing the alley painted anyway? Was there alley advertising? Was it covering up an old Burma Shave ad?

  Soon I plan to put a curtain or a poster of the John Hancock building on the window for the potential charm.

  My personal law library consists of eight books, all stacked haphazardly on my desk to make me look smart. Half of them are very outdated but law books are terribly expensive and clients don’t look too closely at them. A dryer sheet inside the older books conceals the basement aroma.

  Despite the age of most of the books, they still work, if you need a contract to sell chickens, I can help you.

  When I started working at Cebula and Cartofle, I used their phone lines. The receptionist made little pink slips (with carbons) with messages instead of transferring the calls. Although the managing partner said it wasn’t possible to put in a private line, the phone company did.

  The managing partner, Paul Cartofle was upset with my decision about the phone lines, and he called it frivolous. This makes me certain it was a good business decision. After all, I am building my practice, not his.

  Due to a special offer through a bar group, I even have a cell phone on my office equipment list. To me this is the big time, although I know others think it’s routine.

  Bar groups are lawyer clubs. There are at least thirty five of them in the Cook County area. They are all a little different in terms of size, political clout, amenities and dues. Some are large and own buildings, others are run by volunteers and meet in restaurants.

  I’m certain many groups were formed after an argument in another group.

  In exchange for this lap of luxury, I do the work the other lawyers think is menial. The wills are all drafted by me, and I proof read a lot of documents. I’ve drafted a few collection suits, and have been sternly reminded (over and over) never to mention them. Clearly chasing people to pay bills is not prestigious. Actually a lot of the practice of law includes never showing the soft underbelly that would suggest we are human too.

  Some of what I do for the firm includes filing motions and new cases and setting dates on the court calendars. This is clerk work but since I like to go over to court in the Daley Center, I don’t mind. I usually pretend they are all my clients.

  The firm is rather petty about office supplies, forcing me to claim what I need in the evening or on weekends. Staples are okay to take, but they have stapler issues if mine is jammed and I dare to use one of theirs. Missing staplers are hunted down in commando groups.

  Copying has to be either after the managing partner leaves or in five page increments. Paper is best freed from the paper tray of their copy machine.

  As mediocre
as this may sound, it’s a giant step up from my last (also my first) lawyer job.

  Overall, things are going well. Money is coming in, I’m covering my expenses and for that I am really thankful.

  Writing wills and doing probate for a living makes death something I am exposed to a lot. Probate is the management of dead people’s money. Wills of course, give instructions about who inherits the money you don’t spend before you die. Thinking it over most of what lawyers do is to deal with problems and death and of course money.

  My probate clients, as a rule, call me after a civilized funeral of people who have as a rule, lived a long life, prosperous in a different way for each of them. The death of someone like Carol, who was not even retired, was particularly disturbing without even reaching the murder issue.

  Chapter Three

  While we waited for reinforcements, I could feel my hair and nails growing. Mr. Fives and I exchanged forced small talk, and occasionally switched places, turning our backs to the window. Slowly the crowd lost interest and moved away from the window.

  My social worker side was losing interest too. Must I wait with him? Could I still make a deposit or get a roll of quarters?

  Carol was the vault clerk for almost thirty years. When the bank was in their original location, the first floor housed the tellers, bankers and managers. The impressive vault was in the basement and she was pretty much invisible, working alone much of the time but well able to chat with customers or read a book without anyone hovering over her. The second and third floors of the building had offices, mostly of doctors and accountants.

  When I was about ten years old, my Aunt Tess took me to the vault several times and it was a treat. It swelled my imagination. I wanted to stand inside alone, although it wasn’t allowed.

  For me it held secrets and treasures behind the double locks and the severity of the fortress of a door.

  Although the old building had an elevator, my Aunt and I always walked down the wide, green (the shade of money) carpeted stairway to the vault. It came into view slowly on the descent. An enormous round door stood open, displaying gears and wheels worthy of any black and white movie about the 1940s with Humphrey Bogart, gangsters or a bank heist.

  I used to imagine piles of jewels and gold coins in the safe deposit boxes, including tiaras and reproductions of Marie Antoinette’s earrings. Later I assumed many vault boxes had stacks of money in them. My Aunt had only “important papers” and an old watch that didn’t work in her bank box.

  The enormous vault door always fascinated me, and at one time I asked if several people were needed to close it at night. I was too young to be taken seriously at the time and the question only elicited smiles instead of answers.

  After the bank moved, the old building was torn down. What happened to the door when the bank moved? Did the wrecking ball crush it? Was it recycled?

  In the name of progress, the new bank location had everything on the same level. There, Carol had a tiny desk near the door to the vault that appeared forlorn and poorly planned. The banker’s lamp took up most of her desk and her lack of work was pretty much emphasized by the otherwise empty desk. Sometimes she answered the phones, but to do so she needed to hustle over to the reception area. Computers had reduced her workload as much as the decline of safe deposit boxes in general. Computers took over the billing that Carol had addressed by hand for years.

  Carol wasn’t comfortable at the new location but didn’t have a choice since other branches were built after the main bank and had first floor vaults. Starting at a new bank so close to retirement didn’t appeal to her.

  Chapter Four

  Although I was content with standing, waiting quietly, Mr. Fives apparently needed to talk.

  "I can’t believe this has happened. Carol. Dead. Dead.” He repeated while tucking his chin into his necktie. “I can’t believe this isn’t a terrible nightmare.”

  The reminder settled over me like toxic waste. My stomach sent up warnings while I tried to breathe deeply and evenly to appear cool, calm and collected.

  "She was cold. I touched her hand." His voice dropped to an imperceptibly soft level. His chest started to shake and he clenched his lips together fighting for control or fending off a sneeze.

  "You found her?" I don’t know why I was asking questions. Did I think this would calm him? Still I was in the middle of an opportunity that may not come again.

  "I did, I was the first one in today. It was my turn to open. We take turns," he added quietly.

  "I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. How early did she come in?"

  "No, no, that’s part of what I don’t understand. Carol couldn’t come in early, she doesn't have the keys to open. She doesn’t have the code. It changes so only the person who is supposed to open has it."

  “If she didn’t come in early, did she stay late?” I wished I could stop my questions. Outside the door the people were milling about like bees, all with teeny notebooks squinting to write in them.

  “No, no, no…” He was impatient and now his eyes took on a bearlike appearance causing me to step back.

  Was it my imagination or had something changed? Was he tired? Was I asking the wrong questions, or the right ones?

  “She left when we closed yesterday. I walked her to her car because she had a large package. I carried it for her. You know I even saw her drive out of the lot. How she got inside the vault between then and this morning is impossible for me to explain.”

  "I’m sorry, it’s hard to believe.”

  "I don’t believe it and I found her body.” He slumped down in a chair facing his desk with a huge sigh.

  How did Carol get into the vault?

  “Doesn’t it lock automatically at the end of the day?” We were sitting in the customer chairs, covering the sides of our mouth as we talked, like budget spies or apprentice ventriloquists.

  “Well uhhhh,” he squirmed while his eyes looked over his left shoulder.

  There seemed to be only three possibilities, either she returned to the bank last night or came in before they opened this morning. Or maybe she never left, hiding under a desk or in a closet.

  Of course if she was agile, she could have crawled through the ventilation ducts. Maybe she drilled a hole from the floor above the bank.

  “I can tell you everything is on timers Ms. Gavelle."

  “Okay. What was in the package?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious, maybe the police found her car and the package if it had anything to do with…with…this.” Maybe it was filled with money she had been siphoning off for years.

  “Police, no not police well most of these guys are from the FBI,” (Federal Bureau of Investigation). “And I don’t see how the package contents would matter. A lot of the employees shop at lunchtime.”

  Movement outside of the office stopped. Everyone was standing quietly, in a row, like an honor guard. The gurney was rolled out of the vault to the back entrance to the bank. The faces watching were etched with a mix of regret and determination to solve the crime.

  It was hard to look and hard not to look. Focusing on the vault door didn’t keep me from thinking that Carol, or what was left of her, was inside the body bag. The door to the vault looked smug, as if it knew the secret. Of course this wasn’t a talking door.

  Chapter Five

  The bank was in the new building for only about a year. This was about the time I moved into the area. Everything in the new location was characterless, modern, sleek and all on one floor.

  My vault valuables are minimal, they include my engagement ring, car title and five silver dollars from 1850. I’m disappointed I never had a box of my own in the old vault.

  The new vault is small and has only a rectangular outer door with a few gears and a wheel like a ship on it. The second, inner door is clear glass. It lacks the intrigue of the old bank vault. The old bank vault had an inner door of bars, like a jail.

  Now, the vault room is about ten f
eet by ten feet square. The boxes are in rows from the floor to ceiling on two exterior walls. A fifth wall juts out in about the middle of the room. It has boxes on both sides.

  If a person stood behind this row, you couldn’t see them from the door. However it was so small you might hear them breathe or giggle.

  The glass door seemed to be for decoration more than anything else. Maybe it was just to keep people from wandering in to look around. It wasn’t even floor to ceiling. It had open spaces at the bottom and the top. The upper space would allow birds to fly into the vault. The lower gap would allow an animal or a person less than six inches tall to enter, or leave.

  I’ve never seen the outer door closed.

  Chapter Six

  “I don’t understand, if you saw Carol leave and she couldn’t come in when the bank was closed, how did she get back in the bank?”

  “I don’t know Ms. Gavelle, there’s no explanation I can offer.” He raked his fingers through his hair, “I don't know, I don't know how she came back into the bank or when. I saw her leave, she drove away. I walked her to her car about three minutes to five.” His shoulders hunched forward.

  Was this an appropriate reaction to murder of a co-worker?

  Maybe I can’t appreciate the situation since I work in a moderately hostile environment that resembles the reptile house at the Lincoln Park Zoo.

  Annette, the office manager is reasonably nice to me, but I think it’s required in her job description. We’ve never even had a cup of coffee together in the office. One time I invited her to a wine tasting reception. She turned me down, saying she had enough of lawyers during the day. It left me with a huge feeling of rejection and made me question that she was genuinely friendly.