“And the girlfriend?” I asked.

“Serena Herrera.”

Jackson and I wrote the names down before she continued. “You think Vogel could have been one of the robbers?”

“Could be. The guy standing at the doors was about his size.”

The detective eyed Dawson for a moment, her head tilting slightly as she appeared to be assessing him. “Who else have you had run-ins with?”

“There was a woman who came in last week complaining about overdraft fees assessed on her account,” Grant said. “She went ballistic, screaming and hollering like a crazy person. Security had to escort her out to the parking lot.”

“What set her off?” I asked. Could it have been your sparkling wit?

“Hell, if I know,” Grant retorted. “All I did was suggest she brush up on her basic math skills and she lost it.”

Jackson held her pen poised above her pad. “What was her name?”

“Yolanda Wilkes. I remember because I made a note of the incident in her account records.”

Both the detective and I wrote down this name also.

“Anyone else?” Jackson asked.

“A guy who came in two or three days ago claimed I’d shorted him a hundred dollars on a withdrawal.”

“Did you?” I asked.

Grant snorted derisively. “Of course not. I don’t make mistakes.”

Jackson skewered him with a look. “We all make mistakes on occasion, Mr. Dawson.”

“Well, I didn’t. The manager counted my till and it was perfect. Not a penny out of balance. I think the guy who said I’d shortchanged him was some kind of con artist.”

“You remember his name?” Jackson asked.

“Sure do. It was Arthur Scheck.”

“Any others who might have a bone to pick with you?” the detective asked.

“That’s all I can think of. Here at the bank anyway.”

There were likely plenty of other people outside the bank who found Grant Dawson less than appealing. I had a feeling he was at the top of more than one shit list.

“Is Serena here today?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Jackson jerked her head toward the door. “Go get her for us.”

Dawson stood and walked out of the room.

Jackson shook her head. “That boy thinks quite highly of himself.”

“That’s for sure.” I glanced back at the names on my notepad. Christopher Vogel. Yolanda Wilkes. Arthur Scheck. “You think one of the people he named could be involved in the robbery?”

She raised a brow. “What do you think?”

“You’re going to make me reason it out myself, huh?”

“Consider it detective training.”

I mulled over the few details we’d collected so far. “The letter did seem to be directed to a male teller,” I said. “So holding up Grant c-could have been a personal, premeditated choice. Then again, the robbers may have simply cased the place earlier this morning, realized a male teller was working the window closest to the doors, and put the note together right before the robbery.”

Jackson pushed the paper toward me. “Is the glue fresh?”

I carefully picked the note up by the edges, held the page to my nose, and breathed in. Hey, my K-9 partner wasn’t the only one who could sniff out clues. My olfactory senses failed to detect the scent of fresh glue. I set the letter down and gave the red D and black R in “Dearest” a nudge with my pen. Neither moved, firmly affixed to the page. “The glue is dry.”

Still, that didn’t rule out the possibility that they’d prepared the note in advance and hastily added the greeting this morning. The smooth, flat set of the cut-out letters and the lack of telltale ooze around their edges told me the thieves had used a glue stick instead of liquid glue. Glue stick adhesive dried relatively quickly.

I continued to speculate out loud. “I suppose the bank robbers could be strangers, as Dawson claimed. But he seemed awfully calm for someone who’d just been robbed. You think maybe he’s in on the heist?”

The detective slid the note into a clear plastic evidence bag. “What I think, Officer Luz, is that anything is possible.”

Chapter Eleven

Floored

Brigit

While the humans continued their conversation, Brigit lay on the floor of the conference room, wondering if she could reach that remnant of pink frosted donut that lay forgotten under an empty chair on the other side of the table. It looked a day or two old, dry and crusty with the glaze flaking off. But dogs weren’t picky eaters. Heck, she’d once gobbled down a week-old, brick-hard slice of pepperoni pizza her first owner had left in a delivery box on his coffee table. She’d enjoyed every last bit of it, too.

She slunk toward the treat, pulling her leash taught, and stretched her neck toward the donut.

Got it.

Yum!

Chapter Twelve

In Your Parking Lot and in Your Face

Smokestack

“There!” Smokestack cried, pointing through the windshield at a building just up the road. “Pull in there!”

“The police station?” the Conductor asked. “Are you nuts?”

Nuts, no. Stoned, yes. His partners-in-crime seemed unnecessarily tense and uptight. They could benefit from a relaxing toke or two.

“Come on!” pleaded Smokestack, snickering again. “It’ll be a hoot and a half!”

The Conductor eyed the Switchman, who shrugged and said. “It’s the last place anyone would expect to find this bus.”

“I suppose you’re right. Besides, we don’t have much time. That chopper’s nearly on us.” The Conductor slowed and turned the bus into the police station parking lot, pulling to a stop at the end of the lot next to a blue Smart Car.

The Conductor opened the door with another whoosh, left the keys in the ignition, and scurried down to the asphalt. Thankfully, the large bus would block the view of any security cameras that might be on the building.

Smokestack hopped down after him, turned, and lifted his chin. “There’s a gas station with a food mart two blocks over.”

“So?” the Switchman said as they quickly headed across the street.

“So let’s get a beer.” He also wanted a hot dog and barbecue potato chips and Oreos. Thanks to the marijuana he’d ingested this morning, he had a raging case of the munchies. Hey, was that where the term “pot belly” came from?

“A beer?” The Conductor glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon yet.”

The Switchman frowned. “It would be better if we split up as soon as possible. Like you said last night, the cops will never be able to connect us, to figure out that we know each other. Not unless they catch us together.”

Smokestack issued a derisive snort. “Weren’t you the guy who said he was sick of playing by the rules? Of being a candy ass? Besides, we took that bank for three or four grand and got away with a bus. Hell, man! That’s cause to celebrate!”

Chapter Thirteen

On Track

Megan

A young woman with latte-color skin, dark hair, and brown eyes bright with anxiety stepped into the doorway of the conference room. “I’m Serena,” she said, her voice tight and squeaky with barely controlled emotion. “Grant said you wanted to see me now?”

Detective Jackson waved her in. “Take a seat.”

Serena slid into the chair Grant had vacated.

Jackson launched right into her questions. “Did you recognize the robbers, Serena?”

“No,” the young woman replied, her lip quivering. “I didn’t recognize either of them.”

“Either?” I repeated. “So you saw only two men?”

She nodded.

“What did they look like?” Jackson asked.

“It’s hard to say. It all happened so fast and—” She paused to wipe an errant tear from her cheek. “I was so scared. I was afraid they’d shoot us all.”

Jackson nodded in understanding. “Just do your best, hon. That’s all we ask.”

“Okay.” Serena chewed her lip in concentration. “Both were white. The one who came to the counter was short. He was wearing a dark hoodie and mittens and a green hat made to look like a frog. He had his right hand in his pocket and was pointing a gun at Grant through the fabric. The one who stood at the doors was average height, I guess. He wore a plaid hat that came down over his ears. The kind that lumberjacks wear. He also wore sunglasses. He was holding some kind of rifle or shotgun. I’m not sure what kind exactly. I don’t know much about guns.”