twenty-two

Karen Simms flipped on her turn signal to make the right onto William’s street. She saw the line of police cruisers two blocks down and changed her mind. She made a left instead, went farther down, and U-turned back toward the bank. One block away, she pulled into a parking lot behind a local attorney’s office and maneuvered into her private parking space. There, she picked up her cell phone and dialed a number from memory.

“It’s me. I didn’t get there in time. It’ll take me more time for …”

Curses. A pause. The voice on the line was monotone and low—one question.

“No, the cops were already there. I thought they’d still be digging around the bank but they’re at his place.”

Another short, angry question.

“I’m not lying. I know what would happen. They’re there. I can’t get close at all. You’ll have to …”

More questions—jumbled, irritated, fast.

“It’ll be pointless, but fine. I’ll try back later tonight. I don’t see what good it’ll do.”

Silence. Then, harsh words. A threat.

“I’m doing the best I can and so should you. Look, you don’t get it, do you? You have to give me more time. I promise—”

The call went dead.