Oh, Lordy, Lord, Lord. The way she was sitting, she couldn’t reach the silent alarm with her toe. Wait until she tried to explain that.
Tellers must he alert at all times.
Practiced fingers slid a wad of bills into the small paper sack along with the note and pushed it toward him. She looked up in time to see the thick tubular muzzle appear over the edge of the counter, the eyes below the bill of the cap fired with a deep, unholy glee.
“Goodbye, Helga,” he whispered.
She jammed her foot against the partition and went over backward just as the gun coughed, the bullet a hot whisper passing over her face; rolling under the protection of the counter as the pistol coughed again.
Her mind was numb. Ice filling her stomach. Noises penetrated: Grace shrieking her name from the booth beside her, a man in the lobby shouting indignantly as he was knocked from his feet, a woman screaming, That man!
Her eyes focused slowly on the dun-colored carpet, the stains and wear magnified, the ice in her stomach now working up toward her heart.
He called me by name. How did he know? Just the initial on the nameplate. Not just a holdup. No. He came to kill me.
Why?
They didn’t believe her, of course. Not uncommon for someone who had just escaped death to believe she’d been singled out. Called her by name? He must have been in before, heard a customer say something like, “See you tomorrow, Helga.” She must have done something to provoke him. She hadn’t? Oh well, these people weren’t wired very tightly, you know. He must have thought she did. No question he was short in the mental department. Most of these people knew that bank robbery was a federal crime and generally avoided adding to the charge.
That silencer. Intriguing detail. They’d have to hit their computer to see if it showed up elsewhere.
She was seated behind the manager’s desk in the small office. Cowper, the senior federal agent, perched on the desk and looked down at her. Dark hair gray at the temples, a face no one would ever pick out of a crowd, gray business suit. Marlowe, his junior partner, leaned against the wall, her hands behind her. Long brown hair with the hint of a wave, thin face with a wide mouth, white blouse and the feminine version of Cowper’s suit. The tape recorder on the desk hummed.
Harry Roth duplicated Marlowe’s pose against the opposite wall, noting the pale face of the woman behind the desk and the hands so tightly clasped in her lap that the knuckles were white. Remarkable woman. No hysterics. He’d seen men who needed a tranquilizer shot. It was there, though, in the face and hands, and couldn’t be controlled forever. Cowper didn’t see it. He was going down one road and she was going down another.
He glanced at Marlowe, caught her looking at him with an appeal in her eyes. As junior member of the team, she could do nothing.
He grunted as he pushed himself erect. “I think that’s enough for today. I’m taking this woman home. She can sign her statement and answer any further questions tomorrow.”
Cowper appeared to be on the verge of objecting, looked at Roth’s expression, and smiled.
“Of course. I hadn’t realized we were being so insensitive.”
Insensitive is newspeak for stupid, thought Roth.
He took Helga’s arm and led her out of the office, where she was immediately pounced upon by Michelle Buford, the branch manager.
“Helga,” she said in a kind voice, “go home and rest. The bank will arrange for you to see Dr. Bostov—”
“I’ll be right back,” said Roth.
He joined Maguire and Polansky to become one of a trio reflected in the plate glass by the grayness of a dim fall morning: Roth of medium height, at least a month overdue for a haircut and wearing a rumpled suit that sagged because he’d never regained the weight he’d lost after his wife died a year ago; Maguire tall and thin, with styled hair and a suit that sagged through style rather than weight loss; Polansky short and broad, dressed better than both, hair trimmed and tie knotted precisely.
“The sexy manager said she had a good look at him,” said Roth. “Take her in to talk to the composite man. We’ll compare what she and Mrs. — ” He turned to Maguire. “What’s her name?”
“Helga Vivaldi.”
“—what they each say. If they agree, fine. If not, we’ll go somewhere in between.”
“Why bother?” asked Maguire. “Bank jobs are for the Feds.”
“Tell me who uses a silencer. A rejected lover? Someone whose toes she mashed when the bus lurched? Why should he anticipate shooting at all? Everyone knows tellers give up the money with no fuss. You don’t even need a weapon. Just a note.”
“You really think it was a hit? Why? Buford says Mrs. Vivaldi lives alone in an apartment, doesn’t own a car, doesn’t go anywhere or do anything except take an accounting course at the university twice a week—”
“Magoogan—” Roth never remembered names. Except his own, and many were convinced he sometimes had trouble with that. “—look at Miss Bedford.”
Maguire grinned. “Buford. It’s a pleasure.”
Michelle Buford wore a very stylish business suit with a very tight, mid-thigh skirt that showed off very long, shapely legs. Her blond hair appeared to be a frazzled halo. Roth didn’t quite approve. How she dressed was her business, of course, but in banking, confidence was the name of the game. Those old bankers with their starched white shirts and somber clothing knew that. People had to be uneasy about trusting their money to someone dressed like a high-priced call girl.
“—to her, a woman like Mrs. Vivucci couldn’t possibly generate enough emotion in a man for him to shoot her. Miss Bufoss lives in a very small world. You, Powloski—”
“Polanski,” he said automatically.
“—while Maginness here talks to Mrs. Vivandi, dig up what you can on Our Gal Helsa. Someone wants her dead, we better move fast.”
“The Feds won’t like it,” said Maguire.
“The bank job may be federal, but no federal statute covers assault with a deadly weapon. That’s ours. If all he wanted to do was to kill her, he could have mugged her or used the old hit-and-run, but if she died in a holdup, we’d never consider her the target at all. Now that he’s missed, everything’s changed. He has to finish the job any way he can, not only to earn his money but to get rid of a witness. That cement head Cowpen doesn’t realize that. He’s running the investigation by the book. Get moving.”
She sat in his car the way she’d sat in the office. Straight, with hands clasped in her lap. Nice-looking woman, thought Roth. Brown hair cut short and obviously cared for at home. Full, round face but with a lot of character. Sensibly dressed in a very subdued tweed with a little green bow at the throat of the blouse. He wondered at corporate policy that made Miss Jiggles a manager and left this one as a teller. People would be far more inclined to trust their money to her.
Must have the fastest reaction time in the world. By the time almost everyone who saw a gun pointed at them realized they were about to be shot, they were dead. Yet she’d made a pro miss. Faster than a speeding bullet. Superwoman.
He cleared his throat. “I agree with what you said. The robbery was a cover. He was hired to kill you, but hit men don’t come cheap. Who has enough money to hire one?”
She shook her head. “My Uncle Dennis is wealthy but he has no reason to want me dead. Neither does my Aunt Stephanie. Or my cousin Roger, for that matter. He lives in Hawaii.”
“Are you in your uncle’s will?”
“If I am, it’s only because he feels a family obligation and it certainly wouldn’t be much.”
“How about a rejected lover or jealous wife?”
She smiled. “Only in my dreams.”