Chief Inspector Nicolas Vargas of the Buenos Aires Police Department stood in the middle of the safe depository, surveying the wreckage. He had already made a return trip through the hundred-foot tunnel, connecting the bank to the café, so he knew exactly how the thieves had pulled off the most daring robbery of the decade. He bent down and carefully picked up one of the ninety broken boxes that were strewn across the floor of the vault.
At forty, Vargas was one of the youngest and brightest chief inspectors on the city force. He was an impressive looking man. His six-foot-two frame and boyish film-star looks were complemented by a natural charisma that matched his physical attributes. Three years earlier, his life had been brutally derailed by a personal tragedy and, ever since, his mental energies had been focused entirely on his work. This intriguing, high-profile robbery was a welcome new distraction. He placed the box back on the floor and turned to Marcelo Morales, the general manager of the bank.
“Interesting M.O. The drilling on each lock is remarkably neat and precise and, by the look of things, they only targeted the largest boxes. Do we know exactly how many they hit?”
Morales was clearly in shock, still taking in the enormity of what had happened and the severe implications for both the bank and his career. In contrast to Vargas, he was short and rotund, his expanding waistline a casualty of too many client lunches at some of the city’s finest restaurants. It had taken him a lifetime to work his way up to the top of the tree, having started as a bank teller twenty-five years before, and he had no intention of being forced into early retirement. Morales nervously adjusted the waistcoat of his three-piece linen suit and slowly ran his hand through his thinning grey hair. His heavy jowls wobbled as he spoke. The man was a bag of nerves.
“We make it ninety and you are correct, inspector, they only went after the elite boxes.”
Vargas was now peering down the black hole that had been gouged out of the concrete floor. “These guys ran this like a military operation. The tunnel must have taken months to complete and it seems they took the lease out on the café last March. This job was a long time in the making.” Vargas paused for a few moments before continuing. “Señor Morales, I want the names and contacts for every box owner in the vault, regardless of whether their boxes were broken into or not. I’m particularly interested in anyone who rented one in the last twelve months. Also, we’ll need the footage from the monitoring cameras in here.”
Morales made copious notes in his diary before replying. “Of course, inspector. All the cameras record onto a massive hard drive, so you can take it away today. Unfortunately, the interior vault cameras don’t transmit through to our exterior monitoring operation and are only viewed internally when the bank is open. I’ll email you the owner list in the next hour.”
Vargas gestured to his colleague, Juan Torres, who’d been listening to the conversation between his boss and the bank manager. “Detective Torres will stay behind to collect the drive and I’d also like you to provide him with a list of any owners who have visited their boxes in the last year.”
Morales acknowledged Torres and turned back to face Vargas. “Inspector, obviously there are some very notable people who use our service, so I would ask you to use extreme discretion if you decide to contact any of them directly.”
Vargas nodded. “By the way, Señor Morales, did you ever frequent Café Torino?”
The bank manager gave a wry smile. “Regularly. I’m a creature of habit. Every morning, on my way to the bank, I would stop off for a cappuccino and a croissant. It was terribly run down but very authentic and I was quite upset when the owners went bust. It has a sign on the door saying it is being renovated and, ironically, I’ve been looking forward to it reopening.”