The detective twirled her pen in her fingers. “So everything you might be able to tell us would be secondhand information.”

“Right.”

“Do you know if the robbers went to three different tellers?”

“No. Just one. Grant Dawson. He was working the last window on the right, the one closest to the doors.”

“Got it.” The detective made a note. “Retrieve the security camera footage for me. And while you’re getting that together, send Dawson in, would you please?”

“Certainly.” The man left the room, leaving the door ajar.

A moment later, a twentyish young man with chiseled features, perfect teeth, and amber waves of hair stepped into the room. He looked like a modern-day Prince Charming. All that was missing was the white steed and tight breeches. He smelled good, too. Some type of spicy, woody men’s cologne. He wore the bank’s standard teller uniform, rust-color pants with an ivory dress shirt embroidered with the Cowtown National Bank’s longhorn steer logo.

“I’m Grant Dawson,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

Jackson gestured across the table. “Please take a seat, Mr. Dawson. We have some questions for you.”

Grant slid into a chair and leaned back in a cool, comfortable pose, arms crossed loosely over his abdomen. The robbery didn’t seem to have shaken him up much. Hmm …

The detective launched into her questions. “The manager informed me that you interacted directly with the robbers. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I’d just finished cashing a check for the geezer on the scooter when some moron stepped up to my counter. He was short and dumpy and wearing cheap plastic sunglasses and a goofy snow hat with eyeballs on top.”

“Did you recognize him?” Jackson asked. “Has he been in the bank before?”

“I don’t know him,” Grant said. “Whether he’s been in the bank before I can’t say. I probably would’ve remembered someone wearing a stupid hat like that, but if he came in regular clothes he wouldn’t have made an impression.”

“Okay. So he stepped up to your counter. Then what?”

“He handed me this note.” Grant reached into the breast pocket of his dress shirt, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and tossed it onto the table.

Jackson reached out, pulled the paper toward her, and used the tip of her pen to carefully unfold it. I scooted my chair closer to her to read the note. The words were spelled out in letters cut from magazines. The note read:

DEAREST DICKLESS,

GIVE ME ALL THE $ IN YOUR DRAWER.

P.S. PUT A DYE PACK IN THE BAG & I’LL SHOVE IT

SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU’LL SPIT BLUE.

Some of the letters used to make the note were printed on thick, glossy paper, the kind used for magazine covers. Others had been cut from thinner newsprint paper, the type often used for grocery store circulars. The letters also varied in size, color, and shape. A red uppercase D on a circular white background. A lowercase green G on a square gray background. A black upper-case R on a triangular yellow background with the point to the right. Thin black trim appeared along the edge of the triangle’s upper and lower spans, as if the R sat in the center of a greater-than symbol.

“Dickless?” The detective looked at Grant and raised a questioning brow.

He rolled his eyes and waved a hand. “That wasn’t directed at me,” he said, as if the mere suggestion would be preposterous. “The guy probably came to my window because I had the shortest line.”

Jackson and I exchanged looks again before she returned her focus to Grant. “How many tellers were on duty this morning?”

“Three in the lobby,” he replied. “Two in the drive-thru.”

“How many were male?”

“Just me.”

“Yet you think the term ‘dickless’ wasn’t directed at you.” Jackson’s words were more of a comment than a question.

Grant raised a nonchalant shoulder. “If it was, it doesn’t fit.”

I made a note on my pad now. Confirmed—Grant has a penis. Unconfirmed but suspected—it’s tiny and overly manscaped.

Jackson tapped the end of her pen against her chin. “Was the guy wearing gloves when he handed you the note?”

“Mittens,” Grant said. “Mismatched ones. One was red and one was gray.”

Jackson made a note and continued her questions. “Did the robber who came to your window display a weapon?”

“Yeah,” Grant said. “He had a gun in the pocket of his jacket and he aimed it at me.”

“Did you actually see the gun?” she asked. “Did he remove it from his pocket?”

“No,” Grant spat. “But I wasn’t about to risk my life for a few thousand dollars, especially when it’s not even my money.”

Smart decision. Wannabe heroes often ended up hurt … or dead.

“Tell me, Grant,” the detective said. “Who doesn’t like you?”

He issued a snide snort. “Every other man on the planet. They know they can’t compete with guys like me.”

“Guys like you,” Jackson said. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

He gave her a patronizing look. “I mean guys with a face and body like mine.”

Seriously? Grant Dawson really needed to be taken down a peg or two.

Jackson closed her eyes for a moment. She was probably counting to ten herself. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “Who around the bank has a bone to pick with you? Who have you pissed off?”

I had a feeling that list could be very long.

“Last week one of the other tellers got mad when he found out I’d fooled around with his girlfriend. Like it’s my fault she wanted to trade up.” He rolled his eyes. “What a loser.”

Less than two minutes with this guy and already I didn’t like the condescending jerk. He wasn’t Prince Charming. He was Prince Charmless. “So, in your opinion, this other teller is a ‘loser’?”

Grant rolled his eyes and twirled a finger in the air. “Haven’t we already established that?”

My hand played over the baton on my belt. But as tempting as it would be to smack some respect into this arrogant twerp, doing so would only land me in hot water. I only liked to be in hot water if it was bubbly and scented with lavender. Besides, Grant’s judgmental comments might be intentionally harsh. It was possible he was trying to throw us off track.

Jackson tossed Grant a pointed look. “Just stick to the facts, son. Keep the commentary to yourself.”

The smile he offered was as insincere as it was condescending. “Whatever you say, sarge.”

Jackson remained calm. She had years of experience dealing with witnesses, many of whom were uncooperative and belligerent. No doubt she’d dealt with an occasional narcissist, too. “You said the other teller got upset when he found out you’d been seeing his girlfriend. How’d he find out?”

Grant raised a nonchalant shoulder. “I might’ve let it slip. But the guy totally overreacted. He even had the nerve to throw a punch at me.”

“He hit you?” I asked.

“No. He was on the other side of the counter. I pulled back and he missed.”

“He swung across the counter?” Jackson said. “Seems like his chances of hurting you were pretty slim.”

“That’s not the point.” Condescension virtually dripped from his words, as if he were speaking to the stupidest people he’d ever met. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “The point is he took it to a physical level. He tried to assault me, for God’s sake! Serena’s the one he should’ve been mad at. Not me. I didn’t owe the guy anything.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Sounds like you at least owed him an apology.”

Grant’s only reply was an eye roll.

I kept on. “I take it this other teller wasn’t working this morning?”

“Hell, no!” Grant cut me a look that was equal parts incredulity and derision, as though my question was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Chris got canned.”

“Chris?” I put my pen to my pad. “What’s his full name?”

“Christopher Vogel.”