“Whoever is taking the money is being careful not to take too much. A few thousand per week at the most. At first, I was convinced we had miscounted somewhere, but now I’m certain. There’s definitely a pattern. Were you able to find anything in the security recordings?”
“Nothing,” the security officer said. “It’s not being taken from the vault.”
“Then someone must be skimming from their drawer. Go back through last week’s recordings. Pay closer attention to the cameras stationed behind the tellers. Look for anything suspicious. Let me know what you find. Until we know our thief’s identity, let’s keep this between us. I don’t want word of this getting out.”
Vero pressed back against the wall as the security guard came out of Mr. Singh’s office, a wake of Old Spice trailing behind him.
Vero looked across the room through the glass barrier at the row of bank tellers—at the fresh-faced, spray-tanned frat boy with the pristine gelled hair and plastic smile, the anxious thirty-something woman who was incessantly wringing her hands, the bespectacled balding man with a ketchup stain he kept trying to hide under his tie… One of them was a thief, a criminal who didn’t deserve to work here. And once Mr. Singh figured out which of them it was, he’d probably fire them.
Vero stared down at her empty application as the promise of a new window began to open. The security guard said he didn’t have any leads, but it might be easier to go looking for dirt with a broom instead of a camera.
Vero uncapped her pen and began frantically filling out her application. She was going to find the bank’s missing money and prove she was as qualified as any of them. She couldn’t return to Maryland to unravel the mystery of who had stolen a mountain of cash from her sorority’s treasury and pinned the theft on her, butthiswas a problem she could solve. She would unmask the bank’s thief and march the evidence right into Mr. Singh’s office. And when she did, she’d be first in line for the criminal’s job.
Chapter 3
Vero arrived at twoP.M. on the dot on her first day of work at the bank. Her mother had always told her to “dress for success,” and Vero had changed her outfit no fewer than three times, trying to figure out which job she should dress for: the custodian, the teller, or the detective. In the end, she opted for something in between: a crisp collared shirt and chinos, practical soft-soled shoes, understated eyeliner, a swipe of sheer gloss, and a stylish French twist. She waited for the manager in the lounge area outside of his office while he chatted in low tones with the security guard. Mr. Singh seemed harried and impatient before the day had even started, and as she overheard bits and pieces of his conversation, she began to understand why.
“I’m working on it, sir, but maybe we should consider bringing in the local police.” Vero stiffened, every instinct telling her to run for her car. The last thing she needed was to get tangled up in a police investigation. Especially one involving stolen cash. “My friend Roddy is a cop with the FCPD,” Mr. Odenberry continued. “We meet up at a bar on Thursday nights. One of his buddies from work is a hotshot detective in organized crime. If I asked him, maybe Nick would help us out.”
“No,” Mr. Singh said firmly. “I don’t want any police involved. We’ll handle this ourselves, quietly,” he added. “I’ll authorize as many overtime hours as you need. Watch every minute of those security recordings if you have to, just find that thief.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Odenberry said. “Also, your new hire is waiting for you in the reception area. Want me to send her in?”
“No.” Papers rustled on Mr. Singh’s desk. “Show her the supply closet and introduce her to the rest of the staff. She’ll work from two to eightP.M., Monday through Friday. Here is her schedule and her list of daily responsibilities. She can start as soon as she’s signed these forms. And make sure she knows to wait until the bank closes to vacuum and mop. The last thing I need is for someone to slip and fall. I don’t want any incident reports. She can remove the trash, tidy the break room, restock the restrooms, and clean the windows until six o’clock. The rest can be done after hours.”
Vero pretended to be reading something on her phone as the security guard came out of the manager’s office with her forms in hand. He was a large, kind-faced man, broad in the shoulders and almost as round. His dark blue security uniform bore a private security logo on its breast pocket, and the key ring at his waist jingled as he approached. She relaxed a little when he smiled. “You must be”—he stared at the paperwork—“Veronica—?”
“Just Vero,” she clarified, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder and make sure no one was listening. “Vero Ruiz.”
“I’m Terence Odenberry, head of bank security,” he said, shaking her hand. “Come with me. I’ll show you around.”
Vero paid close attention, noting all the small details of the place as Terence led her down the hall to an employee break room with a small table, a fridge, and a microwave. He pointed out his tiny office across the hall, a narrow room with several large computer screens, all showing various sections of the bank from different camera angles. A disposable plastic container of salad greens and a packet of fat free dressing sat waiting on his desk. A yellow sticky note with his name on it, along with a smiley face and a heart, had been stuck to the lid. “My wife,” he said bashfully when he saw Vero peeking at it. He patted the strained buttons over his belly. “The doctor told her my cholesterol is high, so she put me on a diet. Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you where to put your things.”
They passed an unmarked door with electronic security features, probably the vault. “What’s in here?” Vero asked, feigning ignorance as she tested the knob.
“That’s where we keep the money,” Terence said.
“How do I get in to mop it? Is there a key? A passcode?”
“You don’t need to worry about cleaning in there. The only people who have a key to that room are me and Mr. Singh. The vault is strictly off-limits.”
Interesting,Vero thought as she followed him down the hall. If the tellers had no access to the vault, then someone was probably skimming from their own till. But how was the thief getting away with it? Wouldn’t the cash in their drawer at the end of their shift have to match the total from all their transaction receipts?
Terence paused beside a maintenance closet and handed her a key. Inside, she found a mop bucket, various cleaning supplies, and cases of toilet paper and paper towels. Vero stowed her purse and jacket inside but kept her phone in her pants pocket, in case she needed to document any photographic evidence or perform a quick Google search on any of the employees.
She sighed as she took in the tools of her temporary new trade. She didn’t mind cleaning, and she liked a tidy, fresh-smelling space as much as the next person, but she didn’t relish the idea of doing this job any longer than necessary. She planned to find her culprit as quickly as possible, present her evidence, and start training for her future career.
She grabbed a handful of trash bags and locked the closet behind her, following Terence back to the reception area. Terence knocked on the side of a familiar small cubicle. A man sat behind the desk, a copy ofThe Wall Street Journal’s finance section spread wide, concealing his face. “Darren, this is our new custodial specialist, Ms. Ruiz. Vero, this is Darren Gladwell. He’s our business account representative and a senior teller. He helps cover the counter when Philip and Helen get in the weeds.”
Darren set down his newspaper. Vero recognized him immediately. It was that same cocky ignoramus she’d met the last time she was here, the one she’d schooled in front of his own damn customers. His cell phone lay flat on his desk in front of him, and Vero would have bet her first paycheck he hadn’t read a word of that newspaper he’d been hiding behind. More likely, he’d been surfing Tinder.
His gaze slithered down her body as he rose to shake her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pretty sure we’ve already met,” she answered drily, waiting for his eyes to find her face. Apparently, the struggle was real.
When he finally dragged his attention north, his sleazy smile faltered. “You? You work here?”
“According to Mr. Singh,” Vero said, looking around his workspace. His office was as impeccably dressed as he was. A mug of bank-branded pens and a stack of notepads rested beside his keyboard. Brochure stands were filled with colorful, glossy flyers promoting the same vanilla business account options he’d been regurgitating ad nauseam to Greg and Linda the other day. A stack of personal finance books rested on the shelf behind him. Not one of their fancy spines had been cracked, and she’d bet every dollar in this bank that he hadn’t read any of those either. She glanced at his computer screen. It was open to the bank’s home page, but every tab visible in the header contained an icon for a social media site.
