Upholding the Paw (6 page)

Serena nodded feebly. “Does that make me a horrible person?”

I was tempted to answer “yes” to that. Everything was
not
fair in love and war. She should've been honest with Vogel. But no sense upsetting a witness further. Besides, it was clear Serena already knew she'd made a mistake.

When neither the detective nor I responded to the question, Serena looked up, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “I feel horrible about what happened. It was my fault Chris lost his job. Everyone around here liked him. The manager wanted to give Chris a second chance, but Grant insisted Chris be fired. Grant said if Chris wasn't let go immediately he'd sue the bank for every penny it was worth.”

Interesting.… Had Grant been looking for an easy way to get his hands on some cash? Maybe even planned to provoke Chris into a physical confrontation?

“Have you heard from Chris since he was terminated?” I asked.

Serena shook her head. “I've left a bunch of voicemails for him and just as many emails. I even tried to message him through Facebook but he'd unfriended me.”

Jackson tapped the point of her pen on her pad. “You think Chris could have been in on the holdup in some way? Could he have been the man carrying the gun?”

Her eyes grew wide and she shook her head. “No. No way. Chris is a really nice guy. He'd never do something like this. He's the type of person who puts change in other people's parking meters when he sees that the time is about to run out.”

The detective frowned. “Are you aware that feeding someone else's meter to extend the time beyond the stated limit is a citable offense?”

Serena's brows lifted. “Are you serious?”

“Mm-hm.”

The young woman's shoulders slumped. “It's just not possible,” she insisted. “Chris doesn't own a gun. He's never been the hunting type. I don't think he'd even know how to shoot a rifle.”

I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table. “What about Dawson?” He was quite the cocky one and didn't seem very upset by the robbery. “You think he knew it was coming? That he could be in on the heist?”

Serena exhaled a long breath. “I'd believe Grant was a part of it way before I'd believe Chris was. Grant's kind of materialistic. He's got every electronic product on the market and has been talking about wanting to buy a Jet Ski before summer. But I really can't see either one of them being in on a robbery.”

Was Serena right? Were Chris Vogel and Grant Dawson innocent? Or were her assessments of the men colored by her relationships with them?

Jackson launched into a series of standard questions. Had Serena noticed anyone odd in the bank lately? Someone snapping photos, perhaps, or loitering without a clear purpose? Anyone who seemed to be casing the place?

“No,” the young woman said. “I haven't noticed anyone suspicious.”

“All right,” Jackson said. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything we missed?”

“I don't know if this is important or not,” Serena said. “But I was working the window next to Grant, and when the guy in the frog hat stepped up I noticed he smelled funny.”

“Funny how?” I asked.

“Like smoke.”

“Cigarette smoke?” Jackson asked.

“No,” Serena replied. “It was different than that. Stronger. And he kind of smelled like gas, too. Like maybe he'd filled his car up on the drive to the bank.”

It took me a moment to connect the dots.

Dot 1—A suspicious fire had been set in the area.

Dot 2—A nearby bank had been robbed by someone who smelled like smoke.

Dot 3—Either the arson was unrelated to the bank robbery—which given the timing and the robber's odor would have been an amazing coincidence—or the fire starter and the bank robbers were one and the same. They might have started the fire to distract and tie up law enforcement.

My money was on the latter. Assuming I still had any money, of course. I banked here. I wasn't sure how much the men who'd held up the bank had gotten away with, but it was likely more than the piddly $236.57 in my checking account.

I turned to the detective. “Just before the bank robbery, someone set a fire in a Dumpster on Eighth Avenue. Think there might be a connection?”

“It wouldn't be the first time a criminal attempted a diversionary tactic,” she said. “Call the fire department. Ask them to let us know if the sandwich shop's security cameras picked anything up.”

I placed a quick call to Seth, knowing he'd be able to put me in touch with the investigator much faster than if I went through the normal channels. I gave him a quick rundown about the holdup at the bank. “One of the tellers smelled smoke on the guy who came to the counter. I have a hunch the men who held up the bank also started the Dumpster fire as a diversionary tactic.”

“Could be,” Seth agreed. “I'll pass your phone number on to the investigator.”

“Thanks.”

The detective and I wrote down Serena's contact information and dismissed her.

A moment later, the bank manager and one of the security guards came to the door. The manager held a laptop computer in his hands. “We've got the security camera footage for you.”

Jackson waved them in. “Let's see what it tells us.”

We huddled around the computer to watch. On the screen, we saw a short, pudgy guy wearing sunglasses and a knit hat with eyeballs on top approach Grant at the counter. He placed the demand note on the counter, put his hand back in his pocket, and aimed a hidden gun—or something that might have been a gun—at Grant. At the doorway to the bank stood a second man. He also wore a hat and sunglasses, and he openly held a rifle. After reading the note, Grant opened his drawer, pulled out a zippered bank bag, and shoved stacks of bills from his drawer into the bag. When he'd emptied his drawer, he slid the bag across the counter to the robber, who snatched it up, stuffed it down the front of his pants, and made a beeline for the doors. The man with the rifle waited for the other man to hit the door, then he spun and exited on his cohort's heels.

The images from the inside cameras corroborated the information Grant and Serena had provided. Unfortunately, nothing in the images seemed to give us a clue to the robbers' identities.

Jackson pointed at the grainy image of the man standing just inside the bank's doors with the rifle. “Could that man be Christopher Vogel?”

The manager's face scrunched in skepticism. “He's about the right size, but…” He ended his sentence with a disbelieving shake of the head.

The security guard looked from the manager to us and likewise shook his head. “Chris is a total Boy Scout. A choirboy. He brought donuts to work every Friday, always made sure to get my favorite maple frosted.” He pointed at the laptop screen. “If that's Chris with that rifle, then I'm the Easter Bunny.”

The security guard might not be the Easter Bunny but, like a rabbit, he did have big ears.

The images from the two outside cameras showed a third, dark-skinned man standing just outside the entrance of the bank, as if guarding the door. He appeared to be taller than the two men inside. Neither the manager nor the security guard recognized him.

“What about Grant Dawson?” Jackson asked. “Either of you think he might have been in on the robbery?”

The two men exchanged unsure glances.

The manager spoke first. “He's not good at managing his money. He came in not long ago and asked me for an advance on his paycheck.”

“Did you give it to him?” I asked.

“No,” the manager said. “It's against policy.”

“Since Dawson works here,” the security guard added, “he'd know the security team is primarily window dressing. We don't carry weapons. We're trained only to observe and report.”

Not arming the guards was a wise decision. As I'd learned in the police academy, statistics showed that the presence of armed security guards actually increases the chances of injuries and deaths. Robbers tended to panic when facing down a weapon, and guards were often not adequately trained to deal with confrontations involving the threat of lethal force.

Jackson reached into her pocket and pulled out a brand-new thumb drive. “Can you download the video files to this? I'd like to have a copy for my records.”

“Of course.” The guard took the drive from her. “It'll just take a minute or two.”

While the guard copied the video files, the detective and I questioned the remaining bank employees. The one who'd been hysterical earlier was still in tears and sobbed throughout our entire interview. The manager let her go on home afterward.

None had anything new to add. No one had seen anyone who looked suspicious, no one recognized either of the men who'd come into the bank, and no one had noticed the third man waiting outside.

After the last witness left the room, I turned to the detective. “Where do we go from here?”

Jackson pulled out her laptop and booted it up. “Let's run a little search on Dawson and his fan club.”

She typed each of their names into the criminal records database. According to the system, none had any convictions, though Arthur Scheck had been arrested a year ago on fraud charges related to refunds of merchandise at a local department store. The store manager suspected the returned items had been stolen. Scheck had been unable to provide receipts and claimed that there were no bank or credit card records of the purchases because he'd paid cash for the items. The charges were later dropped due to lack of evidence. Unless a thief was caught in the act, such cases were hard to prove.

Next, Jackson checked the driver's license records. Curiously, while Grant Dawson, Chris Vogel, and Yolanda Wilkes held only the standard operator's license, Arthur Scheck held a current Class B commercial driver's license that would allow him to conduct vehicles capable of transporting twenty-four or more passengers. His height and weight—5' 11" and 170 pounds—nearly mirrored those of Chris Vogel who, according to his driver's license, was 5' 10" and 165.

“You think Scheck might have been the one standing inside the doors?” I asked. “The one who drove the bus after it was hijacked?”

“I think we should pay him a visit,” Jackson said, making note of his address, “and find out.”

As she slid her computer into her bag, her cell phone rang. She checked the screen. “It's Melinda.” She thumbed the screen to accept the call and put the phone to her ear. “Whatcha got for me?” She paused a moment. “They got a lock on the cell? Great. Have dispatch send three cars to the scene. We're on our way, too.”

I rousted the sleeping dog at my feet, and the detective, Brigit, and I rushed back through the bank lobby. . We burst out the front doors and ran to my cruiser. While Jackson climbed into the passenger seat, I loaded Brigit into her pen in the back. My butt had barely hit the seat before I was speeding out of the bank's parking lot, lights flashing and siren blaring.
Woo-woo-woo!

We sped down Rosedale, took the I-35 frontage road north to Lancaster, and hooked a right, entering an old industrial area with some buildings dating back more than a hundred years. I braked to a quick stop at an ancient warehouse across the street from the former meat-packing plant that now served as the Cutting Edge Haunted House, a seasonal venue open each Halloween. The enormous, club-wielding demon who lorded over the site every October ready to bludgeon passersby now rested on his back atop the building, in some type of off-season, unholy hibernation.

Officers Spalding and Hinojosa had already responded, positioning their cars at either end of the block and waiting for backup. As I pulled to a stop behind Spalding, Mackey pulled up behind Hinojosa at the other end of the street. Following my lead, the officers exited their vehicles, guns drawn. Spalding and Hinojosa headed down the sides of the building to cover the back doors, while Mackey and I approached from the front. Brigit crept along quietly behind me.

The few windows on the warehouse were boarded up, providing no view into the interior, but the tall sliding doors on the front of the warehouse could easily accommodate a city bus. I stopped next to the oversize door, crouching behind a stand of scraggly boxwood shrubs in desperate need of pruning. The foliage wouldn't provide much, if any, protection, but if the bank robbers decided to come out shooting, the bushes might shield me from view long enough to take them out. Mackey bent down behind the bushes on the other side of the door.

After visually verifying that we street officers had the building surrounded, Detective Jackson grabbed the mic for my squad car's P.A. system. “This is Fort Worth PD,” her voice blared through the speakers. “The building is surrounded. We know you have the city bus inside. Put your weapons down and come out with your hands in the air.”

Gun at the ready, I waited, my thigh muscles burning with the crouched stance. On high alert, I was aware of every blink of my eyes, every beat of my heart, every breath of air entering and leaving my lungs.
Come out
, I willed the men.
Now!

Ten seconds passed with no response, no sound from within the warehouse.

Jackson put the mic to her mouth and repeated the order. “Come out with your hands up. Now!”

Still no response.

Dammit!
The last thing I wanted to do was rush into the building, into the unknown. It was like heading down an unmapped river in a canoe, not knowing whether a deadly waterfall lay just around the bend.

When thirty seconds had passed, Jackson motioned with her hand. My eyes met Mackey's across the span. Unlike me, he wasn't quaking in his loafers trying not to wet himself. Rather, he looked like he was having the time of his life, like he couldn't wait to kick some bank robber/bus-jacker ass.
Blurgh.
What I wouldn't have given for some extra testosterone right then. Too bad you couldn't rent testicles on an hourly basis. Nuts-R-Us. There's an untapped market.