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“Private banking doesn’t always happen between nine and five.” His smile arrives a little too fast, then fades as he leans forward. “Cassie, if Connor has been gone since Tuesday and his car is missing, I believe you should call the police.”

“You can call from here,” Rick adds as he stands. “There’s an empty office across the hall where you’ll have some privacy. Use the phone as long as you need.”

He leads Birdie and me into a smaller office with an unoccupied desk and closes the door behind us. I sit in the leather chair while Birdie takes the seat beside me, then I lift the receiver and dial the nonemergency number Rick provides.

The officer who takes my report is patient but firm. Connor is thirty-two, has no known medical emergency, and can leave without notifying his family. I explain the apartment, the missed work, the absent car, the interrupted call, and Murphy’s fear. Aloud, the facts sound worse and less useful.

“Nothing was taken that you can confirm?” the officer asks through the phone.

“Not that I can confirm, but things were out of place.”

“Was there forced entry?”

“No, but my cat was hiding, and he never hides from me.” I hear how that sounds too late. “Connor wouldn’t miss work without calling. Can’t an officer check his phone location or credit cards?”

The officer gives me a report number and promises to note Connor’s vehicle details, but they need legal grounds to do more. If they find the car or I uncover evidence of danger, I’m to call again.

I end the call with my jaw aching. “They took the report, but they won’t search for him without evidence he’s in danger. Apparently, adults leave sometimes.”

A knock sounds, and Rick steps back into the office. He writes his cell number on a business card. “I’m sorry. Connor is important to this bank and to me. I’ve mentored him for four years, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Then tell me what he was working on.”

Rick’s lips press together. “I can review his files, but client confidentiality limits what I can share. If I find any clue about where he went, I’ll call you.”

It’s a reasonable answer, yet the refusal scratches at me. Connor wrote Rick’s name in the planner, but Rick claims not to know why he met Andrei Dragorin after hours. Several pages appear to be missing from his story.

We leave his office with the business card and no real progress. Birdie waits until we pass the receptionist, then murmurs, “Do you believe him?”

“I believe he wants us to think he’s concerned.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I know, which is why I answered a different one.” I tuck the card into my purse. “He called the dinner business but acted as if he had no idea it happened. Wouldn’t Connor tell his boss about a meeting with a major client?”

Before Birdie can respond, a petite woman hurries toward us. She has warm brown skin, black curls threaded with silver, and red glasses on a beaded chain. Her navy blouse is rumpled at the elbows, as if she’s worked late more than once this week.

“Are you Connor’s sister?” she asks, keeping her voice low. Her badge reads LINDA PARK.

“Yes, I’m Cassie, and this is our cousin Birdie.” Hope lifts so fast it hurts. “Have you heard from him?”

Linda’s expression answers before she speaks. “No, and I’ve been worried. Connor has worked late almost every night for two weeks, but he always texts the team if he’ll be even ten minutes late. He would never miss two days without calling.”

“Do you know what kept him here?”

She glances toward Rick’s closed office. “A group of commercial loan files. He found discrepancies and kept checking them after everybody left. He said he needed to verify the pattern before involving anyone else.”

The note about duplicate vendors returns to me. “Did he mention VHL, or D. Morozov?”

Linda’s gaze darts toward my purse, as if she wonders where I found the names. “He mentioned Rick because Rick approved the loans, but he didn’t accuse him of wrongdoing. Connor thought a client might be submitting false invoices.”

Birdie moves closer. “Has anyone asked about Connor?”

“Yesterday afternoon, a man asked for him.” Linda lowers her voice. “He was well over six feet, with dark hair, gray eyes, a charcoal suit, and a slight Russian accent. I sent him to Rick when I said Connor wasn’t here.”

The description points to one name. “Andrei Dragorin?”

“That may have been it. He was polite, but he didn’t look like a man accustomed to waiting for answers. When I told him Connor had missed work, he became concerned.”