Vero arrived at two P.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 eight P.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 of The 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.
Darren was a lying phony. He couldn’t manage anyone else’s money responsibly, much less his own, she guessed, and he had just jumped to the top of her list of suspects.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day,” she said, holding his hand a moment longer than office decorum deemed appropriate. “Maybe we can start over? I’d love to hear more about the kind of work you do here.” If anyone could help her understand how those cash drawers were checked and balanced, it was probably the senior-most teller. She batted her eyelashes and his frown softened.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Drop by anytime.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to empty your trash.”
“You’ll find everything you need under my desk,” he said with a salacious wink. Vero wasn’t sure if she wanted to punch him or puke.
“Counting on it.” She hoped his trash can was full of all kinds of incriminating surprises.
Terence gave Darren a reproving look as the guard led Vero out.
“Be careful of that one,” Terence said in a low voice once they were out of earshot.
“Why? What’s his story?”
Terence chuckled as he unhooked his key ring and searched for one in particular. “His daddy sits on the board of the bank. The old man got him the job, and the kid’s still living at home in his momma’s basement. She probably still washes his underwear. Believe me, you could do a whole lot better.”
Vero liked Terence already. And he seemed to have warmed up to her pretty quickly. That could be good for her investigation.
“Come on,” he said, unlocking a door, “let’s introduce you to the other tellers.”
He directed her behind the customer service counter. They passed an empty teller window with a darkened computer screen. Darren’s name was printed on the nameplate, and Vero assumed this must be his station when he was helping to cover the counter during their busier shifts. She glanced in the trash bin as they passed, but it was empty.
“Vero Ruiz, this is Helen Cho,” Terence said, introducing the teller at the next station. “Helen’s worked with us for about six months now, but she knows the place pretty well. She can help you find anything you need.” Helen’s smile was fragile. Her hand shook with fine tremors as she took Vero’s fingers in a tentative greeting. They were slightly oily and smelled like lavender. A collection of lotions and tincture bottles were organized neatly on her desk. Helen wrung her fingers, checking the clock on the wall between quick glances at the empty lobby.
“Where’s Philip?” Terence asked her, gesturing to the window beside hers.
“The bathroom,” she said irritably. “As soon as he’s back, I’m locking up for my break.”
Terence leaned close to Vero’s ear and explained, “Philip’s got IBS. He spends his afternoon breaks … well … in the restroom.”
Vero peeped at Philip’s station. A banana lay on his desk beside a box of Metamucil and a stack of travel magazines. His trash can contained several empty water bottles, some used tea bags, and little else.
“It’s about time,” Helen said, as a bespectacled man in a sweater-vest and loafers entered through the employees-only door. “What took so long? Never mind,” she added quickly, “forget I asked.”
The man, presumably Philip, walked past them to his station, never once looking up from the folded section of newspaper in his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbled down at his crossword puzzle, “I was stuck on number seventeen. Seven letters down, a platinum queen. Five letters across, rule of risk.”
“Beyoncé,” Vero answered. “And Bayes,” she added, “as in Bayes’ rule of conditional probability.”
Philip glanced up from his puzzle, blinking at her over the wire rims of his glasses. Vero extended her hand.
“This is Philip Biggs,” Terence said as they exchanged polite greetings. “He just won a longevity award. How long have you been a teller here, Philip?”
“Twelve years,” Philip answered.
“Twelve years without a single day off,” Terence told Vero in an awed tone, pointing out an acrylic statue on Philip’s desk.
Interesting, Vero thought. The senior-most employee isn’t the senior teller. Darren’s daddy must have a lot of sway. Wonder what else he lets his son get away with.
“Denying our mental well-being isn’t something we should be celebrating. It’s not healthy,” Helen said grudgingly.
“Is that why you’re so pleasant?” Philip clapped back. “Perhaps I should take a lesson from you and use all my leave in the first three-quarters of the year.” Vero choked down a laugh as he tucked his crossword under his keyboard and unlocked his cash drawer. She had to give him credit. Philip might have been passive-aggressive, but at least he had a backbone.
Helen looked agitated as she locked her own cash drawer and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’m going on break,” she announced. “It was nice to meet you, Vero,” she added as she rushed out the back door of the bank like her ass was on fire.
“Helen takes her afternoon breaks outside in her car,” Terence explained. “She’s a little easier to deal with after she meditates.”
Philip scoffed, only half listening as he resumed his work.
Why was Helen so anxious? And why had she been in such a hurry to go? Terence said she had started here only six months ago, which begged the question, when had the thieving begun? Darren was still suspect number one in Vero’s mind, but Helen had just become suspect number two.
“Well, that’s everybody,” Terence said. “Where would you like to start today, Vero?”
Vero snapped open a plastic bag. “I think I’ll start by taking out the trash.”