collected a gazillion signatures, and the city eventually made castings of the original structure. Around 1964, I think, they tore the whole thing down, then rebuilt it in concrete.”
Burden, striding to catch up, shook his head. “I don’t know how he keeps all these facts crammed into that brain of his.”
“Is he like this with everything?” Vail asked.
“
They had walked through the colonnade and were headed toward a large rotunda. Vail stopped and brought her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes against the bright gray, glaring sky as she looked at the columns. They were conjoined by a walkway of sorts, with what appeared to be female figurines standing with their elbows draped across the top of the portico, as if peering over its uppermost boundary.
“It’s quite beautiful.” She swung her gaze to Friedberg. “But where’s the husband?”
“In here.” Friedberg led them into the rotunda, a large structure that dwarfed the pergola and served as its centerpiece.
“What’s he afraid of,” Burden asked. “That the killer’s going to find him?”
Friedberg stopped walking. “Nope, that’s definitely not a concern of his.”
“Then why meet us here?” Burden asked. “Why not the local Starbucks?”
“I think the answer to that question’ll be evident in a minute.”
Vail peered up and around the vast structure, which she figured stretched over fifty feet into the air. Half a football field ahead, there appeared to be a body of water. “C’mon, Friedberg. You interrupted my morgue visit, and you just gotta know I cherish my time in those places. Where is this guy?”
Behind them, footsteps. Vail turned and saw a man dressed in a county uniform marked CSI. He was carrying a kit. She looked at Friedberg.
Friedberg took a long drag on his Marlboro, then pulled it from his lips and watched the smoke swirl on the breeze. He then tipped his head back and gestured above them with the cigarette. “Agent Vail, meet William Anderson.”
Vail and Burden craned their necks and saw, twenty feet above them, an ashen elderly man. Tied to the base of a massive wine-red column.
“That’s William Anderson?” Vail asked.
Friedberg brought his eyes down to meet Vail’s. “Yes ma’am.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Right again.”
Vail looked away. “Shit.”
11
MacNally pulled his shoulders back, shoved his right hand in a pocket, then looked up and met the teller’s eyes.
“Good afternoon,” she said with an absent-minded glance down at her watch. Then, with rote skill: “How may I help you?”
The woman’s nameplate read, Mrs. Wilson. MacNally slid the note forward, keeping his gaze locked on the woman’s face. Looking for a gesture toward the security guard, an unfriendly movement of any kind.
Her eyes rotated from her watch to the note, then quickly up to MacNally’s face.
“It’s real easy,” MacNally said, hardening his brow. In a low voice, he said, “Do it. Now. Fast, or I start shooting. You’ll be the first I kill.”
Mrs. Wilson fumbled for her drawer, then pulled it open. Her hands were instantly unstable, trembling as she reached for the neat stacks of bills. “This is a very dangerous thing you’re doing, Mister.”
“I don’t want any kinda commentary. Put it in a bag. Do it real quick. That’s all I want you thinking about.” He moved his arm, as if he was tightening his grip on the phantom weapon in his pocket.
“I don’t have a bag,” she said.
“And I don’t want excuses. Put it in something. Fast.” Fact was, though, he had zero leverage here. If she refused, or called his bluff, he could only run out empty-handed.
It was a moot point because Mrs. Wilson began stacking the bills in front of her. But she was moving slowly, as if stalling for time.
MacNally was trying to look calm, but how could he? He was perspiring from having the wool wrapped across his mouth and nose, and the pressure of the moment was no doubt making things worse. He stole a glance at the guard to his right. The man was folding the newspaper. He tossed it aside and looked up. MacNally swung his head away, back toward Mrs. Wilson.
Jesus Christ, hurry the hell up!
She grabbed a brown bag that was pushed to the side, removed a container, an apple, and a bottle of Coke. She stuffed the money into the sack, which was bulging from being so full, and attempted to roll the top closed.
“That’s good,” MacNally said. Glance at the guard. He was headed toward him. “Give it to me.”
He snatched it, then took a breath to relax. He didn’t want to look guilty, but he needed to get the hell out of there before Mrs. Wilson flagged the approaching man.
In five long strides MacNally reached the glass door. He pushed through, then continued to the curb, where Henry was sitting and the Chevy was idling. MacNally got in, Henry pressed the accelerator, and the heavy car swiftly left the curb.
Lacking skill, Henry hung a right faster than he was able to control. The rear of the sluggish vehicle swung wide, but he recovered control and seconds later they were speeding down the side street.
MacNally tore open a seam in the bag. “Whoo-hoo! We did it, son.”
“Did we get enough?”
MacNally flipped through the combination of used and new bills, watching the twenties and hundreds as they fluttered by his eyes. “I…I don’t know. Must be like a thousand. Something like that.”
“A thousand
“Hey, hey,” MacNally said, pointing at the road ahead of them. “Keep your eyes where I taught you.” He shoved the bills back in the bag, then leaned back. “Yes, son. Dollars. Lots of dollars.”
12
Vail shook her head. “Inspector, forgive me if this is a dumb question. But why the hell didn’t you tell us he was dead?”
Friedberg squished his Marlboro against the outsized cement brick that made up the adjacent wall of the rotunda. “You didn’t ask.”
“It’s not you,” Burden said to Vail. “He sometimes gets like this.”
