Текст книги "Upholding the Paw"

Автор книги: Diane Kelly

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Chapter Five

Gone with the Wind

Brigit

When the trail on the ground ran cold, Brigit stopped and raised her snout in the air.

Sniff-sniff.

She’d been following three male scents, each with a distinctive aroma. One smelled like some type of adhesive. The second smelled of mentholated shaving cream. The third reeked of gasoline and bananas and marijuana. All of the scents dissipated at this spot. Either the men had climbed into a vehicle or Scotty had beamed them up to the starship Enterprise. Regardless, there was nothing more the dog could do.

She plopped her butt down on the ground and stared straight ahead, giving her passive alert as she’d been trained to do. She also curled her tail tightly against her body. With all these people milling about willy-nilly, there was a good chance one of them might step on her tail if she wasn’t careful. Brigit knew from experience that people often didn’t look where they were walking. If they didn’t step on a dog’s tail, they stepped in its poop. Really, humans could be so stupid sometimes. You wouldn’t catch a dog doing something so dumb. But, then again, the species Canis familiaris was superior in so many ways to mere Homo sapiens. The poor things sported only patchy hair, requiring them to augment with clothing. Their teeth were incapable of ripping through thick meat, requiring them to use forks and knives. Their vision and hearing were vastly subpar, too. Brigit pitied the lowly creatures.

Her partner Megan reached down and gave her a scratch on that sweet spot on the back of her neck. “Good girl.”

Brigit risked a quick tail thump of appreciation and took the liver treat Megan held clenched between her index finger and thumb. My kingdom for an opposable thumb. It was the only thing about humans the dog envied.

Chapter Six

Like Candy from a Baby

The Switchman

Hot damn , this feels good!

All his life he’d done the right things. He’d told the truth. Worked hard. Ate his vegetables—even those disgusting, squishy, boiled Brussel sprouts his mother had foisted on him.

And where had being a good person gotten him?

Nowhere.

But he’d changed all that today. In just a matter of minutes he’d gone from nowhere to on his way. Hell, he’d never even held a gun before today. What a rush! He’d felt powerful. In control. But most of all, he felt vindicated.

Smokestack might have cajoled him into the bank heist, but he’d been right. Only a wimp would accept being tossed out on his ass without fighting back.

Nice guys finish last.

No more Mr. Nice Guy.

The Switchman sat back in his seat on the front row of the bus and slapped his knee. “Who knew robbing a bank and hijacking a bus would be so easy?”

Smokestack, who sat directly across the aisle, sniggered. “Told ya.”

Smokestack had also claimed that ninety percent of crimes went unsolved. The Switchman figured his partner had pulled that number either out of the air or out of his ass. He hadn’t called the guy on it, though. It didn’t matter what the odds were of getting caught. Once he’d decided to go through with this plan of retribution, there was no way he’d turn back. He’d laid out a whole new course for himself and he couldn’t wait to see where it would take him.

Chapter Seven

The Buck Might Stop Here but the Bus Doesn’t

Megan

The bus driver squinted, as if doing so would somehow help him better see the mental vision of the bus-jackers in his mind. “All three wore sunglasses and hats with ear flaps. The taller white guy wore a plaid flannel one with button-down flaps. The black man wore a tan one with fleece on the edges. The shorter white guy wore a knit one with those yarn braids hanging down the sides. His hat was green with big eyes on top.”

“Una rana,” clarified a Latina woman who stood at the front of the crowd that had gathered around me.

“A frog?” I’d learned some basic Spanish, and obtained my Spanish surname, from my father. From my red-haired Irish American mother, I’d inherited a tendency to freckle and that quick temper I mentioned.

“Sí,” the woman replied.

I jotted some notes on my pad and looked up again. “What about the rest of their clothes?”

The people exchanged uncertain glances.

“Loose windbreakers, I think,” said the bus driver.

“No,” insisted a blonde woman with a chubby-cheeked toddler on her hip. “They were wearing oversize sweatshirts.”

“No no no.” A gray-haired man raised a palm. “I’m sure they were in sports jerseys.”

“Which teams?”

The man who’d been so sure only a second ago now seemed uncertain, offering only a shrug in response.

I sighed inwardly. “Can we at least agree on a color?”

No consensus there, either. The responses ranged from dark green to navy blue to black. It wasn’t surprising that the witnesses had different takes. Eyewitness testimony tended to be unreliable. Memories malfunctioned under surprising or stressful situations. People tended to be more concerned about saving their own lives than making mental notes of the criminals’ fashion choices.

The only thing the crowd agreed on was which direction the bus had gone.

“That way,” they said in unison, pointing off to the east.

“What was the bus number?” I asked the driver.

“Five ninety-three.”

“Do the buses have LoJack?” I asked. “Or some other kind of tracking device?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” the man said. “I mean, who’d steal a city bus?”

Who, indeed? A bus wasn’t exactly the typical getaway vehicle. Robbers usually tried to make a quick and subtle exit. Riding off in a large, lumbering vehicle was a bold move. And the bolder a criminal was, the more likely it was that things would not end well.

“You said the men had a rifle,” I noted. “Which one of them was carrying it?”

“The black man in the tan hat.”

I saw no harm in giving the man some details. “The men who took your bus robbed a bank down the street first.”

His jaw fell slack. “Holy cow!”

I squeezed the button on my shoulder mic to speak with dispatch. “Be on the lookout for city bus number five nine three. It was hijacked at the corner of Rosedale and South Henderson by the men who robbed the bank. Suspects are armed. Repeat—suspects are armed.”

The dispatcher responded. “We’ll get a chopper in the air.”

I collected contact information from the people who’d been riding the bus, thanked them for their time, and turned to the bus driver. “The detective who gets assigned to the case will want to speak with you. What’s your cell number?”

“I could give it to you,” he said, “but it wouldn’t do any good. I left my phone on the bus. One of the riders had to lend me her cell to call in the hijacking.”

A squad car pulled up to the curb. Officer Hinojosa sat at the wheel. He unrolled his window and cocked his head in question. “Heard someone stole a city bus?”

“Crazy, huh?”

“Must be spring fever. You need some help here?”

“Thanks,” I told him, “but I’ve got it.”

“All righty, then. Later.” He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel in a casual good-bye gesture, cast a glance over his shoulder, and pulled back into traffic.

I gestured for the bus driver to follow me. “Come with me to the bank. A detective should be there shortly, and I’ll see that you get a ride back to the city bus depot.”

After I clipped Brigit’s leash onto her collar, she stood and followed me and the bus driver back to the bank, her nails click-click-clicking along the pavement.

When we arrived at the bank, I found several other officers, including Mackey, working crowd control, keeping customers and looky-loos at bay until the detectives and crime scene techs could arrive and do their jobs.

“Fire cool off already?” I asked as we walked past Mackey. “What did you do, ask it on a date?” Okay, so it was a dig, and a lame one at that. But the guy never missed an opportunity to point out my shortcomings or give me crap. I was only returning the favor.

“You missed out,” he snapped, treating me to another smirk. “Turns out the fire was intentionally set.”

Arson, huh? Interesting, sure, though arson crimes fell under the jurisdiction of the fire department. They had their own team of investigators who were specially trained in fire science and could identify accelerants.

Detective Audrey Jackson pulled into the lot in her unmarked white cruiser, took the first available spot outside the perimeter of yellow tape, and climbed out of her car. Jackson was an African American woman in her forties, with short perky braids adorning a sharp, perceptive mind. She was dressed in her usual khaki pants, which she’d paired today with a white blouse and a basic navy blazer. Before closing the door, she reached into her car and retrieved her zippered laptop bag that doubled as a briefcase.

I led both Brigit and the bus driver over to her. “Detective Jackson.” I gave her a polite nod and held out a hand to indicate the man next to me. “This is the driver of the city bus the bank robbers hijacked for their getaway vehicle. I thought you might want to speak with him first.” After all, if Fort Worth PD could track down the bus soon, they might find the bank robbers still on board, and the case could be closed quickly and easily. “He says the buses don’t have tracking devices, but he left his cell on board. C-Could his phone be traced?”

“Good thinking, Megan.” After setting her computer bag between her feet, Detective Jackson whipped out a notepad, jotted down the bus driver’s name and cell number, and pulled out her own cell to call Melinda, her administrative assistant who also served as the office manager and receptionist for the Fort Worth Police Department W1 Division. “Get a triangulation on the cell phone ASAP,” she told Melinda. “Call me once you know something.” Jackson ended the call, slid her phone back into her pocket, and returned her focus to the bus driver, beginning with an open-ended question. “What happened?”

“I pulled up to the stop at Rosedale and South Henderson,” he said. “There were a couple of people waiting. They climbed aboard and I was just about to shut the doors when I heard someone yelling for me to wait. I looked in the side mirror and saw three men running toward the bus. I thought they wanted to get on so I left the door open and waited for ’em. When they climbed aboard, one of them raised a rifle in the air and told everyone to get off the bus.”

Jackson held up a finger. “Did the hijackers rob the riders first? Make them hand over their wallets and purses? Jewelry?”

The bus driver shook his head. “No. They only seemed to be interested in the bus. I expected them to force me to drive them somewhere, but they ordered me off the bus, too. Next thing I knew, they’d closed the door and driven off.”

Jackson’s head bobbed slightly as she took in the information. “What did the three men look like?”

“Hard to say,” the bus driver replied. “They were all wearing sunglasses and hats that covered their ears.” He cupped his hands over his ears to demonstrate. “Roomy jackets, too.” He lifted his elbows now to simulate a loose-fitting garment. “But I could tell that two of them were white. One of the white men was average size, but the other was short and chubby. The third man, the one with the gun, was black. A little on the tall and thin side.”

“Any guess as to their ages?” the detective asked.

The man squinted again. “If I had to guess, I’d say the black man was older than the others, maybe even middle age. But I couldn’t tell you for sure.”

“Hair color?”

The man shrugged. “Couldn’t tell. The hats covered their hair.”

“Facial hair?”

“None to speak of. The smaller white guy might of had a little reddish-brown stubble, but it all happened so fast it’s hard to remember for sure.”

Jackson jotted some quick notes on her pad before continuing. “Any distinguishing marks, such as moles or scars or tattoos? Birthmarks, maybe?”

“None that I noticed,”

I chimed in now. “You said they drove off in the bus. Did they have a hard time handling it?” My personal ride was a Smart Car. I could hardly imagine driving something as large and unwieldy as a city bus, at least not without taking out a street sign or two.

“No,” the driver replied. “I couldn’t tell which one of them was at the wheel when it took off, but whoever was driving handled it like a pro.”

Interesting. The detective’s arched brow told me she’d had the same thought.

She eyed the driver closely. “Do any of the drivers you know seem like the type who might rob a bank? Any of them having financial problems?”

“Nobody gets rich driving a bus,” he said. “Most of us are just making ends meet. But I can’t see any of the drivers going so far as to rob a bank. That’s pretty cuckoo.”

“People snap,” Jackson said with a casual lift of her shoulder. “They do things nobody would ever expect. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times.”

I’d seen this kind of behavior myself. I recently responded to traffic call in which a spurned woman intentionally T-boned her ex’s pickup when she spotted him out on a date. Clearly, she’d acted on impulse. Otherwise she’d have realized her lightweight Prius was no match for a Ford F-150 SuperCab. Her entire hood crumpled like an accordion, while the truck had hardly a dent.

The driver glanced down at his watch. “Can I get that ride back to the station now?”

Jackson glanced around at the officers on site. “Mackey!” she hollered, waving him over. When he stepped up, she hiked a thumb at the driver. “Give this gentleman a ride back to the city bus depot.”

“Can’t.” Mackey tugged on the waistband of his pants in his typical nut-juggling maneuver. “Gotta protect the crime scene. Get Luz to do it.”

Jackson arched another brow, this one incensed. “You aren’t stupid enough to disobey a direct order from a superior, are you, Officer Mackey?”

Mackey had enough sense to look sheepish. “No, ma’am. It’s just…” Seemingly unable to come up with a good reason why he shouldn’t have to follow orders, he simply completed his sentence with a grunt and motioned for the bus driver to go with him.

As soon as Mackey was out of earshot, Jackson said, “That man is a pain in my ass.”

He was a pain in mine, too. But we had to tread with some caution. Chief Garelik considered Mackey his golden boy. Unless we wanted to get on the chief’s bad side, we had to tolerate his pet officer.

As the whup-whup-whup of the approaching police helicopter grew louder overhead, Detective Jackson and I headed inside to interview the bank employees.

Chapter Eight

Dollars and Scents

Brigit

As her partner led her into the bank building again, Brigit raised her nose in the air and twitched her nostrils.

Wow. This place reeks.

She smelled the mentholated shaving cream, the adhesive, and the gasoline, bananas, and marijuana her nose had followed to the bus stop. Those odors were stronger here inside, where the building had trapped the smells.

Her sensitive nose also picked up the pine-scented cleaner the custodians had used to clean the floor, the sausage someone in the crowd had eaten for breakfast, a woman’s vanilla body spray, and, of course, the smell of paper money and coins.

But by far, the most prevalent scents were human fear pheromones and adrenaline. Something had taken place here recently. Brigit didn’t know what exactly, but whatever happened had been big.

Chapter Nine

Ring Toss

The Conductor

It might not be as sexy as the Batmobile or as technologically advanced as David Hasselhoff’s KITT from that old Knight Rider TV show, but the Conductor felt like king of the world driving this stolen bus. No one was bossing him around now, telling him what he could or couldn’t do. As he felt his dignity begin to return, his back instinctively straightened and his chin lifted. He owned this damned road.

As he rounded a corner, a cell phone slid out from under his seat and across the floor of the vehicle.

Uh-oh. Who the hell does that belong to?

“Grab that phone!” he hollered. Damn! Could the police track them through the phone? If so, he’d lose more than his recently regained dignity. He’d lose his freedom, too. Bank robbery and grand theft auto were probably good for eight to ten in the state pen.

The Switchman snatched the device from the floor. Without slowing, the Conductor pulled back on the lever to open the bus’s door. Whoosh. A gust of wind blew in as he grabbed the phone from the Switchman’s hand and hurled it out of the bus and into the bushes flanking the road.

Another uh-oh played in his mind. He stiffened and eyed the others in the mirror. “You hear that?”

Not only had the open door let fresh spring air into the bus, it had also let in the distant sound of a helicopter, a soft whup-whup-whup growing louder by the second.

The other robbers grew rigid, too.

Whup-whup-whup.

“The bus number is painted on the roof!” The Conductor’s heart pumped a hundred miles an hour as he glanced furtively around, looking for somewhere he could pull in. He’d hoped to put a little more distance between themselves and the bank before leaving the bus, but he hadn’t anticipated a helicopter. “We’ve got to ditch this thing! Now!”

Chapter Ten

Interrogation Room

Megan

Detective Jackson and I stopped in the center of the bank’s lobby.

The detective scanned the faces in the room. “Who’s in charge here?”

A fiftyish man in gray suit pants, a white button-down, and a striped tie lifted his hand. “That’s me. I’m the manager.”

I followed Jackson as she walked over to him.

“Got a room where we can speak in private?” she asked.

The man lifted a palm, indicating a room at the end of a short hallway. “We can use the conference room.”

“Great.” Jackson turned back to the employees. “Don’t discuss the incident any further until I get a statement from everyone.”

The bank employees murmured in assent.

The manager led us to the conference room. Jackson and I took seats on one side of the large oval conference table, while the manager sat down on the other. Brigit flopped down at my feet. I reached down and gave the back of her neck a nice scratch. It was a small gesture, less than she deserved and not nearly enough to show her how much I appreciated her. Having her by my side when I’d rushed into the bank earlier had made me less fearful and, without her leading me directly from the bank to the bus stop, it might’ve taken longer for us to figure out that the men who’d hijacked the bus were the same ones who’d robbed the bank. Dogs could put clues together that humans couldn’t. They were amazing, actually. Superheroes who wore fur instead of capes.

Jackson placed her laptop bag and notepad on the table and swiveled her seat slightly to better face the bank manager. “Tell me what happened.”

The man raised his palms. “All I know is that I was sitting in my office reviewing last month’s budget data when I heard a shriek from the lobby. By the time I stepped out of my office, the robbers were running out the door. I barely got a look at them.”

The detective twirled her pen in her fingers. “So everything you might be able to tell us would be secondhand information.”

“Right.”

“Do you know if the robbers went to three different tellers?”

“No. Just one. Grant Dawson. He was working the last window on the right, the one closest to the doors.”

“Got it.” The detective made a note. “Retrieve the security camera footage for me. And while you’re getting that together, send Dawson in, would you please?”

“Certainly.” The man left the room, leaving the door ajar.

A moment later, a twentyish young man with chiseled features, perfect teeth, and amber waves of hair stepped into the room. He looked like a modern-day Prince Charming. All that was missing was the white steed and tight breeches. He smelled good, too. Some type of spicy, woody men’s cologne. He wore the bank’s standard teller uniform, rust-color pants with an ivory dress shirt embroidered with the Cowtown National Bank’s longhorn steer logo.

“I’m Grant Dawson,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

Jackson gestured across the table. “Please take a seat, Mr. Dawson. We have some questions for you.”

Grant slid into a chair and leaned back in a cool, comfortable pose, arms crossed loosely over his abdomen. The robbery didn’t seem to have shaken him up much. Hmm …

The detective launched into her questions. “The manager informed me that you interacted directly with the robbers. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I’d just finished cashing a check for the geezer on the scooter when some moron stepped up to my counter. He was short and dumpy and wearing cheap plastic sunglasses and a goofy snow hat with eyeballs on top.”

“Did you recognize him?” Jackson asked. “Has he been in the bank before?”

“I don’t know him,” Grant said. “Whether he’s been in the bank before I can’t say. I probably would’ve remembered someone wearing a stupid hat like that, but if he came in regular clothes he wouldn’t have made an impression.”

“Okay. So he stepped up to your counter. Then what?”

“He handed me this note.” Grant reached into the breast pocket of his dress shirt, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and tossed it onto the table.

Jackson reached out, pulled the paper toward her, and used the tip of her pen to carefully unfold it. I scooted my chair closer to her to read the note. The words were spelled out in letters cut from magazines. The note read:

DEAREST DICKLESS,

GIVE ME ALL THE $ IN YOUR DRAWER.

P.S. PUT A DYE PACK IN THE BAG & I’LL SHOVE IT

SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU’LL SPIT BLUE.

Some of the letters used to make the note were printed on thick, glossy paper, the kind used for magazine covers. Others had been cut from thinner newsprint paper, the type often used for grocery store circulars. The letters also varied in size, color, and shape. A red uppercase D on a circular white background. A lowercase green G on a square gray background. A black upper-case R on a triangular yellow background with the point to the right. Thin black trim appeared along the edge of the triangle’s upper and lower spans, as if the R sat in the center of a greater-than symbol.

“Dickless?” The detective looked at Grant and raised a questioning brow.

He rolled his eyes and waved a hand. “That wasn’t directed at me,” he said, as if the mere suggestion would be preposterous. “The guy probably came to my window because I had the shortest line.”

Jackson and I exchanged looks again before she returned her focus to Grant. “How many tellers were on duty this morning?”

“Three in the lobby,” he replied. “Two in the drive-thru.”

“How many were male?”

“Just me.”

“Yet you think the term ‘dickless’ wasn’t directed at you.” Jackson’s words were more of a comment than a question.

Grant raised a nonchalant shoulder. “If it was, it doesn’t fit.”

I made a note on my pad now. Confirmed—Grant has a penis. Unconfirmed but suspected—it’s tiny and overly manscaped.

Jackson tapped the end of her pen against her chin. “Was the guy wearing gloves when he handed you the note?”

“Mittens,” Grant said. “Mismatched ones. One was red and one was gray.”

Jackson made a note and continued her questions. “Did the robber who came to your window display a weapon?”

“Yeah,” Grant said. “He had a gun in the pocket of his jacket and he aimed it at me.”

“Did you actually see the gun?” she asked. “Did he remove it from his pocket?”

“No,” Grant spat. “But I wasn’t about to risk my life for a few thousand dollars, especially when it’s not even my money.”

Smart decision. Wannabe heroes often ended up hurt … or dead.

“Tell me, Grant,” the detective said. “Who doesn’t like you?”

He issued a snide snort. “Every other man on the planet. They know they can’t compete with guys like me.”

“Guys like you,” Jackson said. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

He gave her a patronizing look. “I mean guys with a face and body like mine.”

Seriously? Grant Dawson really needed to be taken down a peg or two.

Jackson closed her eyes for a moment. She was probably counting to ten herself. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “Who around the bank has a bone to pick with you? Who have you pissed off?”

I had a feeling that list could be very long.

“Last week one of the other tellers got mad when he found out I’d fooled around with his girlfriend. Like it’s my fault she wanted to trade up.” He rolled his eyes. “What a loser.”

Less than two minutes with this guy and already I didn’t like the condescending jerk. He wasn’t Prince Charming. He was Prince Charmless. “So, in your opinion, this other teller is a ‘loser’?”

Grant rolled his eyes and twirled a finger in the air. “Haven’t we already established that?”

My hand played over the baton on my belt. But as tempting as it would be to smack some respect into this arrogant twerp, doing so would only land me in hot water. I only liked to be in hot water if it was bubbly and scented with lavender. Besides, Grant’s judgmental comments might be intentionally harsh. It was possible he was trying to throw us off track.

Jackson tossed Grant a pointed look. “Just stick to the facts, son. Keep the commentary to yourself.”

The smile he offered was as insincere as it was condescending. “Whatever you say, sarge.”

Jackson remained calm. She had years of experience dealing with witnesses, many of whom were uncooperative and belligerent. No doubt she’d dealt with an occasional narcissist, too. “You said the other teller got upset when he found out you’d been seeing his girlfriend. How’d he find out?”

Grant raised a nonchalant shoulder. “I might’ve let it slip. But the guy totally overreacted. He even had the nerve to throw a punch at me.”

“He hit you?” I asked.

“No. He was on the other side of the counter. I pulled back and he missed.”

“He swung across the counter?” Jackson said. “Seems like his chances of hurting you were pretty slim.”

“That’s not the point.” Condescension virtually dripped from his words, as if he were speaking to the stupidest people he’d ever met. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “The point is he took it to a physical level. He tried to assault me, for God’s sake! Serena’s the one he should’ve been mad at. Not me. I didn’t owe the guy anything.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Sounds like you at least owed him an apology.”

Grant’s only reply was an eye roll.

I kept on. “I take it this other teller wasn’t working this morning?”

“Hell, no!” Grant cut me a look that was equal parts incredulity and derision, as though my question was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Chris got canned.”

“Chris?” I put my pen to my pad. “What’s his full name?”

“Christopher Vogel.”

“And the girlfriend?” I asked.

“Serena Herrera.”

Jackson and I wrote the names down before she continued. “You think Vogel could have been one of the robbers?”

“Could be. The guy standing at the doors was about his size.”

The detective eyed Dawson for a moment, her head tilting slightly as she appeared to be assessing him. “Who else have you had run-ins with?”

“There was a woman who came in last week complaining about overdraft fees assessed on her account,” Grant said. “She went ballistic, screaming and hollering like a crazy person. Security had to escort her out to the parking lot.”

“What set her off?” I asked. Could it have been your sparkling wit?

“Hell, if I know,” Grant retorted. “All I did was suggest she brush up on her basic math skills and she lost it.”

Jackson held her pen poised above her pad. “What was her name?”

“Yolanda Wilkes. I remember because I made a note of the incident in her account records.”

Both the detective and I wrote down this name also.

“Anyone else?” Jackson asked.

“A guy who came in two or three days ago claimed I’d shorted him a hundred dollars on a withdrawal.”

“Did you?” I asked.

Grant snorted derisively. “Of course not. I don’t make mistakes.”

Jackson skewered him with a look. “We all make mistakes on occasion, Mr. Dawson.”

“Well, I didn’t. The manager counted my till and it was perfect. Not a penny out of balance. I think the guy who said I’d shortchanged him was some kind of con artist.”

“You remember his name?” Jackson asked.

“Sure do. It was Arthur Scheck.”

“Any others who might have a bone to pick with you?” the detective asked.

“That’s all I can think of. Here at the bank anyway.”

There were likely plenty of other people outside the bank who found Grant Dawson less than appealing. I had a feeling he was at the top of more than one shit list.

“Is Serena here today?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Jackson jerked her head toward the door. “Go get her for us.”

Dawson stood and walked out of the room.

Jackson shook her head. “That boy thinks quite highly of himself.”

“That’s for sure.” I glanced back at the names on my notepad. Christopher Vogel. Yolanda Wilkes. Arthur Scheck. “You think one of the people he named could be involved in the robbery?”

She raised a brow. “What do you think?”

“You’re going to make me reason it out myself, huh?”

“Consider it detective training.”

I mulled over the few details we’d collected so far. “The letter did seem to be directed to a male teller,” I said. “So holding up Grant c-could have been a personal, premeditated choice. Then again, the robbers may have simply cased the place earlier this morning, realized a male teller was working the window closest to the doors, and put the note together right before the robbery.”

Jackson pushed the paper toward me. “Is the glue fresh?”

I carefully picked the note up by the edges, held the page to my nose, and breathed in. Hey, my K-9 partner wasn’t the only one who could sniff out clues. My olfactory senses failed to detect the scent of fresh glue. I set the letter down and gave the red D and black R in “Dearest” a nudge with my pen. Neither moved, firmly affixed to the page. “The glue is dry.”

Still, that didn’t rule out the possibility that they’d prepared the note in advance and hastily added the greeting this morning. The smooth, flat set of the cut-out letters and the lack of telltale ooze around their edges told me the thieves had used a glue stick instead of liquid glue. Glue stick adhesive dried relatively quickly.

I continued to speculate out loud. “I suppose the bank robbers could be strangers, as Dawson claimed. But he seemed awfully calm for someone who’d just been robbed. You think maybe he’s in on the heist?”