The images from the inside cameras corroborated the information Grant and Serena had provided. Unfortunately, nothing in the images seemed to give us a clue to the robbers’ identities.

Jackson pointed at the grainy image of the man standing just inside the bank’s doors with the rifle. “Could that man be Christopher Vogel?”

The manager’s face scrunched in skepticism. “He’s about the right size, but…” He ended his sentence with a disbelieving shake of the head.

The security guard looked from the manager to us and likewise shook his head. “Chris is a total Boy Scout. A choirboy. He brought donuts to work every Friday, always made sure to get my favorite maple frosted.” He pointed at the laptop screen. “If that’s Chris with that rifle, then I’m the Easter Bunny.”

The security guard might not be the Easter Bunny but, like a rabbit, he did have big ears.

The images from the two outside cameras showed a third, dark-skinned man standing just outside the entrance of the bank, as if guarding the door. He appeared to be taller than the two men inside. Neither the manager nor the security guard recognized him.

“What about Grant Dawson?” Jackson asked. “Either of you think he might have been in on the robbery?”

The two men exchanged unsure glances.

The manager spoke first. “He’s not good at managing his money. He came in not long ago and asked me for an advance on his paycheck.”

“Did you give it to him?” I asked.

“No,” the manager said. “It’s against policy.”

“Since Dawson works here,” the security guard added, “he’d know the security team is primarily window dressing. We don’t carry weapons. We’re trained only to observe and report.”

Not arming the guards was a wise decision. As I’d learned in the police academy, statistics showed that the presence of armed security guards actually increases the chances of injuries and deaths. Robbers tended to panic when facing down a weapon, and guards were often not adequately trained to deal with confrontations involving the threat of lethal force.

Jackson reached into her pocket and pulled out a brand-new thumb drive. “Can you download the video files to this? I’d like to have a copy for my records.”

“Of course.” The guard took the drive from her. “It’ll just take a minute or two.”

While the guard copied the video files, the detective and I questioned the remaining bank employees. The one who’d been hysterical earlier was still in tears and sobbed throughout our entire interview. The manager let her go on home afterward.

None had anything new to add. No one had seen anyone who looked suspicious, no one recognized either of the men who’d come into the bank, and no one had noticed the third man waiting outside.

After the last witness left the room, I turned to the detective. “Where do we go from here?”

Jackson pulled out her laptop and booted it up. “Let’s run a little search on Dawson and his fan club.”

She typed each of their names into the criminal records database. According to the system, none had any convictions, though Arthur Scheck had been arrested a year ago on fraud charges related to refunds of merchandise at a local department store. The store manager suspected the returned items had been stolen. Scheck had been unable to provide receipts and claimed that there were no bank or credit card records of the purchases because he’d paid cash for the items. The charges were later dropped due to lack of evidence. Unless a thief was caught in the act, such cases were hard to prove.

Next, Jackson checked the driver’s license records. Curiously, while Grant Dawson, Chris Vogel, and Yolanda Wilkes held only the standard operator’s license, Arthur Scheck held a current Class B commercial driver’s license that would allow him to conduct vehicles capable of transporting twenty-four or more passengers. His height and weight—5' 11" and 170 pounds—nearly mirrored those of Chris Vogel who, according to his driver’s license, was 5' 10" and 165.

“You think Scheck might have been the one standing inside the doors?” I asked. “The one who drove the bus after it was hijacked?”

“I think we should pay him a visit,” Jackson said, making note of his address, “and find out.”

As she slid her computer into her bag, her cell phone rang. She checked the screen. “It’s Melinda.” She thumbed the screen to accept the call and put the phone to her ear. “Whatcha got for me?” She paused a moment. “They got a lock on the cell? Great. Have dispatch send three cars to the scene. We’re on our way, too.”

I rousted the sleeping dog at my feet, and the detective, Brigit, and I rushed back through the bank lobby. . We burst out the front doors and ran to my cruiser. While Jackson climbed into the passenger seat, I loaded Brigit into her pen in the back. My butt had barely hit the seat before I was speeding out of the bank’s parking lot, lights flashing and siren blaring. Woo-woo-woo!

We sped down Rosedale, took the I-35 frontage road north to Lancaster, and hooked a right, entering an old industrial area with some buildings dating back more than a hundred years. I braked to a quick stop at an ancient warehouse across the street from the former meat-packing plant that now served as the Cutting Edge Haunted House, a seasonal venue open each Halloween. The enormous, club-wielding demon who lorded over the site every October ready to bludgeon passersby now rested on his back atop the building, in some type of off-season, unholy hibernation.

Officers Spalding and Hinojosa had already responded, positioning their cars at either end of the block and waiting for backup. As I pulled to a stop behind Spalding, Mackey pulled up behind Hinojosa at the other end of the street. Following my lead, the officers exited their vehicles, guns drawn. Spalding and Hinojosa headed down the sides of the building to cover the back doors, while Mackey and I approached from the front. Brigit crept along quietly behind me.

The few windows on the warehouse were boarded up, providing no view into the interior, but the tall sliding doors on the front of the warehouse could easily accommodate a city bus. I stopped next to the oversize door, crouching behind a stand of scraggly boxwood shrubs in desperate need of pruning. The foliage wouldn’t provide much, if any, protection, but if the bank robbers decided to come out shooting, the bushes might shield me from view long enough to take them out. Mackey bent down behind the bushes on the other side of the door.

After visually verifying that we street officers had the building surrounded, Detective Jackson grabbed the mic for my squad car’s P.A. system. “This is Fort Worth PD,” her voice blared through the speakers. “The building is surrounded. We know you have the city bus inside. Put your weapons down and come out with your hands in the air.”

Gun at the ready, I waited, my thigh muscles burning with the crouched stance. On high alert, I was aware of every blink of my eyes, every beat of my heart, every breath of air entering and leaving my lungs. Come out, I willed the men. Now!

Ten seconds passed with no response, no sound from within the warehouse.

Jackson put the mic to her mouth and repeated the order. “Come out with your hands up. Now!”

Still no response.

Dammit! The last thing I wanted to do was rush into the building, into the unknown. It was like heading down an unmapped river in a canoe, not knowing whether a deadly waterfall lay just around the bend.

When thirty seconds had passed, Jackson motioned with her hand. My eyes met Mackey’s across the span. Unlike me, he wasn’t quaking in his loafers trying not to wet himself. Rather, he looked like he was having the time of his life, like he couldn’t wait to kick some bank robber/bus-jacker ass. Blurgh. What I wouldn’t have given for some extra testosterone right then. Too bad you couldn’t rent testicles on an hourly basis. Nuts-R-Us. There’s an untapped market.