Six
HOLLY GOT INTO HURD’S CAR AND SLAMMED the door. Ham got into the backseat. “Take me to the station,” she said.
Hurd turned and looked at her, his usually placid visage showing astonishment. “Holly, you ought to go home and rest.”
Ham, who was sitting in the rear seat with Daisy, spoke up. “God, you’re not thinking of going to work, are you?”
“What else am I supposed to do, Ham? Go home and bounce off the walls? Make keening noises and curse God? Right now, work is all I’ve got, and there’s work to be done.”
Hurd recovered himself, started the car and drove off toward the station.
Holly sat mute, collecting her thoughts. She couldn’t think about Jackson on a slab in the hospital morgue; plenty of time for that later. She had an investigation to organize, witnesses to question, bank robbers—no, murderers—to catch.
First things first. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and dialed a number she knew by heart.
“FBI,” a man’s voice said.
“Harry Crisp,” she replied.
“Mr. Crisp’s office,” a secretary said.
“This is Chief Holly Barker of the Orchid Beach Police Department,” Holly said. “I need him.”
“One moment, Chief.”
“Holly, how are you?” Harry said cheerfully.
The year before, she had worked a huge case with him on her home turf, and they had become friends.
“What’s up?”
“First of all, I have to report to you that the Southern Trust Bank in Orchid Beach was robbed less than an hour ago. Bank robbery is a federal crime, so consider yourself duly notified.”
“All right,” Harry said. “I’ll get people on it right now. Is there something else, Holly? You sound funny.”
“A bystander was killed,” she said.
“Duly noted; I’ll let the crime-scene team know.”
“My team will work with them,” she said.
“That’s not necessary, Holly.”
“Yes, it is. The bystander who was murdered was my fiancé.”
“Jackson? Oh, my God, Holly, I’m so sorry.”
“Be advised right now,” she said, “my department will work the homicide. I’m happy to have your people’s advice, but—”
“Holly, the homicide is ours, too, since it was part of the bank robbery.”
“Harry, I’m asking you, don’t fight me on this.”
He was silent for a moment. “All right, it’ll be this way: officially, it’s according to the book. Unofficially, and I mean unofficially, your people work side by side with mine, on both the robbery and the homicide. All statements to the public come from this office. The U.S. Attorney gets the call on the prosecutions. You’ll have to rely on my word and my judgment about the way we handle the evidence. That’s the best I can do.”
“All right,” she said tightly. “But I want your word that no information, no evidence will be withheld from me. I get the reports simultaneously with you.”
“I can arrange that. Are you all right, Holly?”
“I’m . . .” She had almost said “fine,” but that would be dishonest. “I’m managing,” she said.
“I know you will. I’ll give my personal attention to the case from this moment forward. If there’s anything you need from me, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, Harry,” she said. “I’ll expect your people.”
“They’ll be there inside of three hours.”
“Bye.” She punched off. “Hurd, take me to the back door; I don’t want to be seen at the station in this dress.”
“Sure.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, then Hurd dropped her off.
Holly walked through the back door of the station, followed by Daisy, and down the rear hallway to her office, closing the door behind her. She locked the door and got out of the dress, then went to a closet for a uniform. Shortly, she was dressed for business in khaki shirt and slacks. “Stay, Daisy,” she said to the dog. She took a deep breath and opened the door that led into the squad room.
There was more than the usual hubbub; witnesses were lined up on benches down one wall, and somebody was bringing them coffee and sandwiches. Holly was pleased that her people had been thoughtful.
Then they noticed her, and the room grew quiet. “Carry on,” she said to them. “Do it right.” She walked over to Hurd’s office, rapped on the door and opened it. Hurd was behind his desk. Across from him sat a blond man in his early forties, wearing what Holly recognized as a Hawaiian shirt belonging to Hurd. Both men stood up.
“Please sit down,” Holly said.
“Chief,” Hurd said, “this is Mr. Barrington. He was in the bank when the robbery took place.”
The man held out his hand. “How do you do?”
Holly took his hand. He seemed very quiet and self-possessed for someone who had just witnessed a bank robbery and a murder. Suddenly, she realized why he was wearing Hurd’s shirt.
“Mr. Barrington,” she said, “you were wearing a yellow knit shirt this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for trying to help him. I’m very grateful to you.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
“I’m going to join you for this one,” she said to Hurd, and pulled up a chair.
“Good, we were just getting started,” Hurd replied. “Mr. Barrington was just about to tell me what happened.”
“Please go ahead,” Holly said.
“I went into the bank to pick up a cashier’s check. I’m buying an airplane from Piper, over in Vero Beach. Mr. Oxenhandler—that was his name?”
“Yes, Jackson Oxenhandler.”
“He came in and was in line behind me; we chatted a little, discovered that we were both lawyers. We talked a little about airplanes; the line was held up by someone depositing a lot of checks and cash.”
“Go on.”
“Four men came into the bank; they were wearing identical blue coveralls, yellow construction hard hats and masks, the kind you wear when you’re sanding floors or dealing with a lot of dust. All four were carrying shotguns.”
“Descriptions?” Holly asked. She nodded at Hurd, who got out a notebook.
“Three were around six feet—within an inch or so—one was shorter, around five-nine. The bigger men were middle-age beefy, though the coveralls probably made them look heavier than they were. The shorter one was much thinner. Two of the bigger men had gray hair showing around the edges of the hard hats; one had darker hair, nearly black. The smaller man had sandy hair and eyebrows. He was wearing brown oxford shoes; the other three were wearing sneakers, one pair of New Balance, two of Nike. All four men were wearing wedding bands, and one of the larger men wore what looked like a college ring.
“The shotguns looked like Remingtons, standard police riot guns. I think all four men were wearing shoulder holsters, too, under the coveralls.”
“Did any of them speak?”
“One of them, I’m not sure which, told the people to behave, and they wouldn’t get hurt. Any other talk was between themselves and quiet. They went immediately to the area where the desks were, and the shorter man indicated that a bank officer was to accompany them to the vault.”
“Do you know which officer?”
“One in the second row of desks. I don’t know his name, but the robber seemed to know who he wanted.”
“Go on.”
“Two of the four men guarded us, while one went with the shorter man and the bank officer to the vault. They were in there maybe a minute, and came back with a four-wheeled hand trolley containing a pile of canvas bags, maybe a dozen. As they passed close to where we stood, the taller of the two men bumped into Mr. Oxenhandler, and there was an exchange of words.”
“What sort of exchange?”
“Truculent, on the part of the robber. Mr. Oxenhandler replied in a manner that showed no fear. The exchange escalated a little, then, to my astonishment, the taller robber shot Mr. Oxenhandler, who fell backward at my feet. I immediately took off my shirt and applied it to Mr. Oxenhandler’s chest, to try to control the bleeding.”
“Why were you astonished at what happened?” Holly asked.
“Up to that moment, the whole operation had been quick and professional. The sudden display of anger on the part of the robber seemed out of character with the team, though, of course, the mask may have prevented me from seeing it coming, since I couldn’t see any facial expressions.”
“After he shot Jackson, what happened?”
“The shorter man came and shoved him toward the door. He said something, but I wasn’t able to understand him, because of the mask. The four men left the building, and a moment later, I saw a white van—a Ford, I think—leave the parking lot and drive west, toward the mainland. I shouted toward the desks for someone to call nine-one-one and ask for an ambulance, and I stayed with Mr. Oxenhandler until the EMTs put him into the ambulance.”
“Did he have anything to say?”
Barrington looked her in the eye. “He said, ‘Holly’s going to be very upset about this.’ I asked him to relax and be quiet, but he wanted to talk.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he was on the way to his wedding. He didn’t seem to be in a lot of pain, but certainly in shock. He said I should tell Holly that he was sorry he ruined everything, but that she should see Fred, that he had everything in hand and under control. Who’s Fred?”
“His law partner,” Holly replied. “Anything else?”
“No, the EMTs arrived about that time and got him into the ambulance. If it’s any consolation, they got there fast and did their work well, did everything they could do. Mr. Oxenhandler didn’t want for the proper medical attention.”
“Thank you for telling me that, Mr. Barrington. That was an excellent report; tell me, are you a police officer?”
“Used to be. I had fourteen years with the NYPD, finished up as a detective, second grade, at the Nineteenth Precinct, working homicides, mostly.”
“You seem young to have retired.”
“Medical disability; I took a bullet in a knee.”
Holly nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Barrington; you’ve been a very big help.”
“Please call me Stone.”
“Stone it is.”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“There was something familiar about the robbery.”