AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Rachel narrowed her eyes and felt Shane put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Mr. Norman must have seen her disgusted look because he backpedaled fast.
“Don’t get me wrong, my dear. I’m so pleased you chose my bank for your nefarious purposes. According to my bank manager, people are opening new accounts left and right because of the notoriety. I’m afraid someone on my staff might have told the media you’re a customer, and I do give my apologies for that, my dear, and promise to reprimand the guilty party right away. But business has really picked up. And with the economy the way it is too,” he said, shaking his head.
“Glad I could be of help,” Rachel said stiffly.
“And now it’s my turn to help you,” Mr. Norman said. “And maybe you’ll think about transferring all of your father’s assets over to Suretrust once he’s declared legally dead.”
Before Rachel could say anything to the disgusting little man, Carrie turned around in her seat and leveled her gun right between his eyes. “Mr. Norman,” she said sweetly. “Kindly shut up.”
Carrie waited until she saw his nod of agreement before turning back around in her seat. Rachel saw the grin on Wildcat’s face and had to duck her head down so her own smile couldn’t be seen. Shane was looking out the window of the SUV, but she could feel his body shaking with laughter.
The rest of the trip was made in silence.
* * *
Suretrust Bank was directly across the street from Loyola University. It was one of the reasons Rachel had originally chosen it. When she’d first opened her account she’d been a student at the university and it had seemed the most convenient place to do her business.
Contrary to what others thought, she hadn’t lived on the money her father continuously deposited into her account. She’d had a job all the way through college to supplement the athletic scholarship she’d received for target shooting, and she’d made meager deposits every week for four years. If only she’d known about Neville Norman’s tendencies for high drama and his big mouth back then, she would have gladly made the trek across the city to a different bank every week.
Mr. Norman was given permission to speak again once the bank came into view. He led them around the back of the building to the employee parking lot, and Jones parked the SUV so it blocked the back entrance.
The bank was housed in what used to be an old Catholic church built sometime in the mid-1850’s. The architecture was gothic, similar to most of the churches built during that time in Chicago, and they hadn’t changed the outside much when it had been converted into a bank during the early part of the twentieth century. They’d replaced the stained glass windows on the street level with sturdier material and had them wired with alarms, but the stained glass on the upper floors where all the offices were held was as it always had been.
“I hope you all understand how inconvenient this is for me and my bank,” Mr. Norman said. “We would have gotten national news coverage if you’d brought Ms. Valentine in to collect her things during peak traffic hours.”
“We’re sorry for the inconvenience,” Jones said as diplomatically as possible. “But perhaps it would be best if you opened the doors and let us in before any of Angelo Valentine’s men decide to use us for target practice.”
Mr. Norman paled at that bit of news and hurried to the back door. Carrie and Shane kept Rachel between them, and she didn’t like the fact that they were risking their own lives trying to protect hers.
Mr. Norman opened the outer door with a key and moved into a short entryway that was barred with an electronic gate. He punched in a long series of numbers on a keypad and held his thumb to a scanner. The bars around them lifted from the ground and into the ceiling.
“No lights,” Jones ordered as Mr. Norman was about to hit the main switch. “We draw as little attention as possible to ourselves.”
An urgency she couldn’t explain started to hammer away at Rachel’s insides, and she looked behind her nervously, afraid Angelo’s men were hiding around the corner. Something didn’t feel right, and from the way the others held on to their weapons and swept slowly throughout the building, she thought they might be having the same feelings.
“Rachel, which direction is your safety-deposit box?” Shane asked.
“I can answer that,” Mr. Norman said as if he were the star pupil in a classroom. Using his keys to unlock a drawer behind the main counter, he pulled out a large key ring that held dozens of numbered silver keys. “Ms. Valentine purchased the VIP safety-deposit box, which is housed in the basement level of the building. And as with all our VIP customers, only the best security will do,” he said proudly.
Rachel rolled her eyes, perfectly aware of what kind of safety-deposit box she had and where it was located in the building, but she let Mr. Norman prattle on because despite his irritating personality, she could sense the layer of tension he was hiding behind the professional façade.
“We’ll have to take the stairs down,” Mr. Norman said apologetically. “We felt adding elevators would be compromising the integrity of the structure.”
The stair railings were dark and polished to a high gleam, and the stairs themselves were gray-veined white marble. Rachel followed behind Mr. Norman down the stairs to the basement level. There were ornate sconces lining each side of the walls on the way down, and they cast only a small yellow glow in the darkness.
“I’m assuming I can turn the lights on down here,” Mr. Norman said insolently to Jones.
“By all means,” Jones said.
Mr. Norman flipped on several switches beside a round steel door and harsh fluorescent lighting came on overhead. He typed in yet another key code for the door and used his keys before turning the handle. The room wasn’t terribly large. Rachel guessed an independent bank only had a handful of what they considered VIP customers. The walls were lined with numbered silver boxes and there were heavy stainless-steel tables in rows down the middle of the room. The sterility of the room didn’t match the rest of the bank at all.
“Now, Ms. Valentine,” Mr. Norman said. “All you need to do is use your key and collect your belongings. I can have everyone wait outside and give you some privacy if it makes you more comfortable.”
“But I don’t have my key,” Rachel said. “It was in my apartment when it caught fire. I didn’t have time to get it.”
Mr. Norman clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Then I’m afraid I’ll need two valid forms of ID before I can open it for you. We’ll need to go back upstairs and fill out the proper paperwork. You do have ID, don’t you?”
“Not on me,” Rachel said with a hesitant smile.
