Читать книгу The Coltons: Nick, Clay & Jericho - Marie Ferrarella, Beth Cornelison - Страница 13

Chapter 6

“What?”

Georgie stared across the counter at the bank teller as if he were babbling gibberish.

It was just a little after nine in the morning and Georgie stood in the center window of the First Western Bank. Of the two banks housed in Esperanza, First Western was the older, more established one. That was why she’d originally chosen it. Safety and stability had always been exceedingly important to her.

Getting here this morning was a semi-victory on her part. A victory because that Secret Service agent who’d invaded her life hadn’t wanted her to go into town. Semi because in order to leave the house at all, she’d had to accept that he was accompanying her. He’d told her in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t allow her to leave his line of sight for more than five minutes. Five minutes being the amount of time, according to the insufferable man, that a person should be able to take a shower and get dressed again. She hadn’t bothered pointing out how ridiculous that was because she’d been in a hurry to get to the bank to put her money away.

Because she’d been in a hurry, Georgie had given in to him and even agreed to let him drive Emmie and her in his sedan. All she’d wanted to do was to get to the bank to make this final deposit.

And now all she wanted was not to throw up. Within the last minute, her stomach had twisted into a knot and then risen up into her throat.

If only she could do the last few minutes over again. Walk in, nod at the teller and have the man take her deposit slip with a smile, and not say what he’d just said.

She just couldn’t have heard him correctly.

Javier Valdez looked at her over the tops of his small, rimless glasses. “I said I guess we’re going to have to open an account for you.”

That made absolutely no sense.

A feeling of impending doom tightened about her throat. She fought to ignore it.

“But I already have an account,” Georgie reminded him. To back her up, she pushed forward the bankbook she’d brought with her, along with her deposit slip and the money she’d won during the last five months. “This one. Trudy Miles opened it for me the day before she retired,” she remembered. “It was the same month that Emmie was born.”

The month she’d realized that she wasn’t a child anymore. Eighteen or not, she was a mother. A mother with responsibilities. Clay had given her the hundred dollars that she’d deposited that day. It was a gift for Emmie, her brother had told her. He was giving her money because he “wasn’t any good at buying stuff for babies.” Georgie could remember tearing up as she’d made that first deposit.

Now tears threatened to come for a completely different reason.

Javier frowned. “But you closed that account,” he told her gently. “Said you lost the bankbook so we had to match up your signature. Don’t you remember?”

That was impossible. She hadn’t been here in five months. She hadn’t.

“You saw me?” she challenged. Behind her, she heard Sheffield shifting his weight. Probably getting ready to handcuff her and lead her off, she thought. With all her heart, she wished the man was somewhere else. Preferably in hell.

“Everybody saw you,” Javier told her with a soft laugh. “That red hair of yours is hard to miss.” He smiled at her. A widower, it was obvious that he was a little smitten with her. “Nobody else around here’s got hair the color of a Texas sunset.”

“But that’s not possible,” Georgie insisted.

Listening to the exchange between the Grady woman and the bank teller, Nick found himself thinking that the distress and anguish in her voice sounded genuine. She was probably an accomplished actress. Most con artists were and this was beginning to take on the shape of a con.

But still, he couldn’t quite shake off the effect of her voice.

Moving forward so that he stood beside Georgie, Nick appraised the short, dark-haired teller. “Were you the one who closed the account for her?”

Javier’s black eyes darted toward Georgie, as if to silently ask if it was all right for him to answer the question. “Is he with you?”

Beads of sweat slid down her spine at the same time a chill took hold of her. Javier’s voice echoed in her head. It took her a second to make sense of the question. She was doing her best to block the onslaught of some very terrifying thoughts.

“For now, unfortunately, yes,” she reluctantly acknowledged.

Javier’s eyes shifted back to the tall man beside Georgie. “No, I didn’t. Mr. Welsh did.”

“Can you get him over here?” Under no circumstances could that be mistaken for a request. It was a tersely worded command.

One that clearly made Javier nervous. Sheffield probably got a lot of that, Georgie thought. And he probably reveled in it. Right now, she didn’t care what the Secret Service agent did as long as he got this mess untangled for her.

Clearing his throat, Javier shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

Georgie felt Sheffield take a half step closer. The very movement seemed intimidating to Javier. She saw the man’s eyes widen.

“And why’s that,” Nick’s eyes dipped down to the teller’s name tag. “Javier?”

“Mr. Welsh is on vacation,” Javier recited, never taking his eyes off the man beside Georgie. “His daughter’s getting married in Colorado, so he and Mrs. Welsh went there.”

Pretty convenient, Nick thought. “When did he leave?”

Javier looked like a man whose mind had gone blank. And then, mercifully, he recovered. Partially. “A few days ago.”

“Can you get him on the phone?” Nick asked in the same no-nonsense monotone.

Was he actually going to help her? Georgie wondered. The thought made her feel a little better.

Javier opened and closed his mouth several times without actually saying anything intelligible. A squeak emerged. Flustered, he glanced over his shoulder at the small row of desks lined up against the wall.

“Mr. Collins?” Javier’s voice cracked as he squeezed out the bank manager’s name. “Could you come here, please?”

A tall, somewhat heavyset man in his thirties came over after pausing to close a folder on his desk. Crossing to the teller’s window, Allen Collins offered Georgie a genial smile.

“Nice to see you again so soon, Georgie. Emmie,” he nodded at the child. “Change your mind about closing your account?”

This was some awful nightmare. It had to be. “I didn’t close my account. I haven’t been here,” she insisted. “I’ve been on the road. Winning this.” She pushed the neatly banded pile of checks forward. “There’s got to be some mistake.” She silently pleaded with him to agree.

Nick’s eyes shifted from the bank manager’s face to Georgie’s profile. The teller’s statement dovetailed nicely to back up the fact that the Grady woman had been here all along, churning out poisonous e-mail. That was his intellectual take on the situation. His gut, however, said something else. Her eyes conveyed that her whole life had been turned upside down. It had him doubting the validity of his own theory.

“No, no mistake,” Collins assured her. In the face of her insistence, his expression seemed just a shade uneasy. Suddenly, he held up his right index finger, indicating that she needed to wait for a moment. The manager crossed back to his desk and the old-fashioned rectangular metal file box he kept there. Flipping through it, he found what he was looking for. Collins removed a single index card and brought it back with him to the window.

Placing the card on the counter, he turned it around so that she could see. “See, there’s your signature, plain as day.”

Georgie stared numbly at the card. The signature was dated last week. It matched the original one from five years ago down to the circle over the letter i.

Was she losing her mind? Or was someone playing a horrible joke on her?

All she could do was repeat what she knew to be true. “I didn’t sign this.”

“But that’s your signature.” At this point, the smile on the bank manager’s face wore thin.

Georgie was afraid to look at Sheffield, afraid of what she’d see on his face. Smug triumph. What the bank manager was saying made it look as if she’d lied to Sheffield about her whereabouts. As if she’d been here all the time, conducting her life. Raiding her bank account and sending threatening e-mails to damn Joe Colton.

But it wasn’t true. None of it.

Stubbornly, Georgie shook her head. “Someone must have forged it. I didn’t sign the card, I didn’t close the account.” Her voice rose as she enunciated each word. “I wasn’t here.”

“Mama was with me, riding in the rodeo,” Emmie piped up. The pint-sized defender added in a logical voice, “Somebody stole our money.” And then she turned around to look at the man who’d come with them. “Are you going to help us get our money back?”

No way was this a four-year-old, Nick thought. She had to be one of those midgets—what was it they called themselves these days? Little people? She was one of them. And right now, this little person was putting him on the spot.

Rather than answer her directly—he had no idea how to have a conversation with someone too young to vote—Nick looked at the bank manager.

“You have surveillance cameras in this place?” he asked Collins.

The bank manager took offense. The smile on his face vanished without a telltale trace. “Just because we’re a little off the beaten path doesn’t mean that we’re primitive.”

Nick heard what he needed to hear. “I take that as a yes. Mind if I see the footage from the day Ms. Grady was supposed to have closed her account?”

Collins squared his shoulders. “I’m afraid that’s highly irreg—”

Nick stopped him by taking out his badge and ID and holding them up in front of the man.

The man’s small, brown eyes darted back and forth, reading the information over twice, before he finally raised them to look at his face. “Secret Service?” he asked uncomfortably.

Nick’s own expression was impassive, giving nothing away. “Yes.”

Collins and Javier both gazed uncertainly at Georgie. Collins found his tongue first. “This is a government matter?”

“It’s complicated” was all Nick would say.

“No, it’s not,” Georgie cried, turning toward him. Her bank account had nothing to do with the government. “Someone’s stolen my money.” She thought of the e-mails, the ones she hadn’t sent. Was there a connection? Had someone done all this to get back at her for something? Or was this a random attack? “And my identity.”

“Georgie, you don’t look so good,” Javier observed. There was concern on his drawn face. “You want a glass of water or to sit down, maybe?”

“What I want,” she replied, desperately trying to get a grip, “is my money.”

This couldn’t be happening. By her reckoning, with this last batch of winnings, she should have been up to a little more than three hundred thousand dollars. More than enough to buy her some time and some peace of mind before she decided what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Instead, someone had wiped her out. All she had left were the winnings in her hand. Thank God for that.

And then, as if she wasn’t already reeling from this unexpected turn of events as well as being accused of terrorism by computer, something else suddenly occurred to Georgie.

Oh, dear God, no.

Georgie struggled to keep her hands from shaking as she pulled her wallet out of her back pocket. Flipping it opened, she took out her credit cards. There were four in all. She clutched them for a moment, as if that could somehow keep them safe. Keep them hers.

Watching her, Nick frowned. Now what? “What are you doing?”

Georgie’s breath grew shallow. She wasn’t going to panic, she wasn’t. She knew if she did, she’d scare Emmie. As it was, she was scaring herself. But this thing was just mushrooming. Before answering, she turned the cards face down one by one.

Picking up the first one, she searched for a toll-free number. “I’ve got to make some phone calls,” she told him, hoping against hope that she was wrong. The sickening, metallic taste in her mouth told her she probably wasn’t.

The expression on the manager’s face turned compassionate. “You’re welcome to use the phone on my desk, Georgie.”

She nodded, murmuring, “Thank you.”

The manager beckoned her over to the far side of the bank, unlocking a swinging half door so that she and Emmie could enter.

Georgie felt as if she was moving in slow motion, trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. And all the while she kept telling herself that this couldn’t be happening. She had been knocked down so many times before and had always managed to get up again. If the worst came to pass, she could do it again. But this time it would be harder. This time her daughter was old enough to understand what was happening.

Nick followed her, putting his hand out to stop the door as the manager began to close it after Georgie and her daughter had passed through.

“The tapes?” he prodded.

Embarrassed, the manager’s face turned a light shade of red. “Yes, of course. Right this way.” He led them to a small back room where all their monitors and tapes were kept.

Georgie was barely aware of Sheffield leaving. Very slowly, as if she’d just aged fifty years, she gripped the side arms and lowered herself into the manager’s chair. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the streamlined, black phone closer to her on the desk.

“It’s gonna be all right, Mama,” Emmie assured her quietly. She offered her mother a big, broad smile.

Georgie almost cried.

She looked into the small, perfect face. That was supposed to be her line. She was the one who was supposed to do the comforting, not be the one on the receiving end.

Doing her best to rally, she gave the little girl’s hand a quick squeeze. “Of course it is, Emmie. I just have to make a few calls, get a few things straightened out, that’s all.”

Georgie hoped to God she sounded convincing.

“It was her.” The manager repeated nervously as he entered the small, darkened room. Nick was directly behind him. “The tape’ll prove it.”

So he’d already said. But the more the manager echoed his statement, the less inclined Nick was to believe that Georgie had actually closed her account. Why go through this big act if she knew it was closed? For whose benefit?

The pieces just didn’t fit together.

“Let’s just see it” was all that Nick said in response.

He noted that the bank manager seemed to be growing more agitated. Because he’d made a mistake? Or because he was guilty of something? There was no way to tell—yet. This situation was getting messier by the minute.

“Right,” Collins agreed, as if forcing himself to sound cheerful. Opening the deep drawer where surveillance tapes from the last month were kept, he rummaged around. “Somebody took them out of order,” he complained. He read the dates marked on the side of the tapes under his breath. “Finally.” He flashed a smile at Nick, then let it fade when all he got in response was a stony stare.

Plucking out of the drawer the tape in question, he held it up like a trophy. “Here it is,” he declared with relief, as if the mere finding of the tape would somehow vindicate him.

Nick nodded toward the video player. “Play it,” he instructed.

“Yes, of course.” But Collins continued holding the tape in his hands in a manner that indicated he didn’t know which end played. “Abby?” Collins turned toward the teller directly outside the small room where the video equipment was kept. “Would you play this for Mr. Sheffield?”

Abby entered dressed in a turquoise skirt so tight it resembled a tourniquet. Her eyes swept over Nick slowly, taking in every inch from head to toe. The appreciative smile was quick in coming.

She’d taken measure of him, Nick thought. As an expert on body language, he could tell she liked what she’d seen.

Abby took the tape from the manager, but her eyes remained on Nick. “It’ll be my extreme pleasure,” she purred.

Tape in hand, Abby sat down at the video recorder, taking care to sit slow enough to better show off the more compelling parts of her anatomy. Tucking her legs over to one side, she leaned forward and popped the tape into the machine. After glancing over her shoulder at Nick, she hit Play.

“Here we go,” she announced.

The time stamp in the corner said it was nine o’clock, which was when the bank opened its doors. Nick had no desire to stand behind the brassy blonde and watch an entire day’s worth of transactions.

“Fast forward it,” he told her.

Again, she looked over her shoulder at him, her smile particularly seductive.

“Whatever you want,” Abby said, her tone indicating that she was open to more than working the buttons on the machine.

Nick ignored her the way he did anything he didn’t particularly care for. Focusing solely on the activity on the screen, he watched and waited. Customer after customer came and went across it, all of them resembling characters going through their paces in a keystone cops silent movie.

And then he saw her. Georgie. Tight jeans, work shirt, worn boots and all.

“Slow it down right there,” he ordered. Abby complied. It was obvious she had no idea what he was looking for, nor did she want to know.

Nick caught his breath.

There, on the screen, with her telltale red braid hanging down to the small of her back, was Georgie Grady.