I walked back to the bank, cup in hand, and sat in the parking lot. I read the paper, keeping an eye open for Michael Sutton or any of the various and sundry bank officers who should be arriving for work. The paper didn’t offer much in the way of news, only column after column of items pulled off the wire, most of which I’d read the day before in the L.A. Times. I skipped the funnies but pored over the obituaries. The people who’d died in the last few days were in their eighties and nineties. I made a mental note of the names in case William had overlooked a hot one in his search for a funeral to attend.
At 9:54 a petite, dark-haired woman approached the bank, dressed smartly in a suit, panty hose, and heels. She looked like a sympathetic person, and I wished I was in the market for a loan so I could borrow money from her. She unlocked the glass door and punched in the code for the alarm system on a panel to the right. She disappeared from sight. Five minutes later a second woman crossed the lot, passing my car before she went into the bank. If Michael was right and the guy was a bank employee, surely he’d be showing up soon.
As though on cue, I heard heels tapping on the pavement behind me and turned to watch a balding, heavyset fellow lumber past my car. He walked like a man who hurt. He glanced at me idly and I registered a bouquet of fading bruises on his right cheek, purple, yellow, and green—quite the dashing assortment. I hadn’t caught a full-on view of his face so I couldn’t make a judgment about his sporting black eyes. Seemed reasonable to assume that whatever door he’d walked into would have rendered sufficient damage for blackened eyes along with the puffy cheek. I waited until he’d gone in and then folded the paper and put the lid on my coffee cup, which I stashed on the passenger-side floor.
I went into the bank. There were two half-walls in front of me with a wide aisle between. A corridor opened off each side of the reception area. I counted five doors down one hallway and two down the other. There was no sound, not even bad music being piped in. No employees in sight. Clearly, they were in their cubbyholes, gearing up for the day, unprepared for the early arrival of customers or bank robbers, whichever came first. I was at leisure to case the joint, but it didn’t look like a place that carried cash. I’d have paid a hundred dollars for a ladies’ room.
Finally, the petite, dark-haired woman appeared on my right. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was out here. Can I help you?”
“A man with bruises on his face came in here a few minutes ago and I think he may work here. You have any idea who I’m talking about?”
“Sure. That’s Walker McNally, the VP of New Client Relations. He has meetings all morning, but if you want to talk to him, I can see if he has a minute.”
“No need. He looked familiar, but the name doesn’t ring a bell so I must have mistaken him for someone else.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I did not actually gallop back to the car, but I proceeded with all due speed, heart thumping. I didn’t want Walker McNally to catch sight of me. Not to flatter myself, but I still looked much as I had in high school while he’d been transformed into a middle-aged man. I unlocked the car door, slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out. I turned the corner onto the side street and parked. Shit. Walker McNally. A critical piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. Walker had had access to animals galore through his father’s veterinary practice. Our senior year in high school, rumor had it he was dealing dope, which meant he might have supplied weed to Creed and Destiny at the Unruhs’, where they’d parked the bus. That was a stretch, but not beyond possible. If Walker was one of the two pirates, I even had a candidate for his sidekick. He and Jon Corso had been joined at the hip. What a pair. Eighteen years old, arrogant, privileged, stoned, and bored. It didn’t take a leap to imagine them coming up with a scheme to net them some bucks. I couldn’t imagine why either one would be hard up for cash, but maybe their respective parents were parsimonious.
I returned to the office and called Michael’s house again. No answer. Where the heck was he? Madaline had probably already left on her trek downtown. She’d been on the verge of hitting me up for taxi money or a lift, no doubt hoping to inveigle me into waiting while she showered and did her hair.
It was time to talk to Cheney Phillips and I wanted Michael at my side to fill in his part of the story. Again. Sutton’s word was suspect, but what else did we have?
Not one to remain idle, I hoisted my shoulder bag and went out to my car. I drove to the parking structure adjacent to the public library and wound my way upward to the roof, where I found the only spot left. I reached under the passenger seat and hauled out the Thomas Guide to Santa Teresa and Perdido Counties. I toted it with me while I trotted down three flights of stairs and crossed the access lane between the parking lot and the entrance to the library.