M Sellars - Harm none

“Could be.” I leaned against the doorframe and let out a long sigh. “That would probably help.”

“I don’t mean to push, especially on that note, but you mentioned somethin’ about money on the phone earlier,” Ben queried. “Any idea what it means yet?”

“No, not yet… And there’s a perfect example of what I mean about the clues being obscure. What I saw in the dream wasn’t actually money, it was a tarot card.”

“You mean like those fortune teller cards,” Deckert intoned.

“Exactly.” I pushed away from the doorway and retrieved a tarot deck from the top drawer of the buffet then seated myself back at the table. “This deck belonged to my mother,” I told them as I unwrapped the square of white silk that encompassed them. “Neither Felicity nor I have ever been really into tarot, so I had to look some of this up. Ariel, on the other hand, was fascinated with it. In my dream, we were sitting at a table, and she was reading the cards for me…but not really FOR me, more like TO me.”

“I don’t believe I’m asking this,” Ben spoke this time, “but what did she tell you?”

“Nothing really.” I fanned the deck of seventy-two oversized cards before us and began carefully choosing those that had appeared in the dream. “I think this one represents the killer.”

As they watched, I placed the Knight of Cups face up in the center of the table.

“Why’s that?” Deckert asked.

“Whenever Ariel read tarot,” I explained, “she used a method know as the Celtic Cross. The variation of the style she followed requires that the reader choose a card called a significator to represent the person being read for. This was the card she chose in the dream.”

“So what does that tell us?”

“If you follow the assigned, or divinatory as it’s called, meaning of the card, then it would represent a young man with light hair and eyes.”

“Not exactly a specific description is it,” Ben ventured rhetorically.

“She continued with this card.” I reached out and placed The Devil over the significator card. “As you would expect, this card can signify violence and black magick. In this position of the Celtic Cross, the card represents the general atmosphere surrounding the subject.” I placed The Tower across the two cards. “Next, the sixteenth card of the Major Arcana, representing an overthrow of existing ways of life, imprisonment, even death. This position shows the forces that oppose the subject of the reading.”

“It represents us,” Felicity whispered softly.

“That’s my guess,” I agreed. “Anyway, that’s where the reading stopped. Suddenly everything changed, and I witnessed her being murdered by a shadowy figure once again.”

“Excuse me if I appear stupid,” Ben puzzled, “but where in the hell did ya’ get money outta that?”

“From this card,” I answered and tossed the Seven of Pentacles face up onto the pile. “Seventh card of the suit of Pentacles, sometimes called coins. The money card. A little girl appeared in the dream and handed it to me… It recurred several times in the next nightmare as well. That’s why I think it’s important.”

“You still just don’t know why,” Deckert volunteered.

“Exactly.”

At that moment, the wall clock executed its assigned task and announced the time with a loud bong. The singularity of the tone signified that it was half past the hour. The black metal hands imperceptibly rotated around its ornamental face and showed the time to be 4:30 P.M.

“Sheesh, I didn’t realize it was gettin’ this late,” Ben announced after glancing over his shoulder at the timepiece. “I still have to get by the bank and hit the ATM.”

The bank.

Mentally, I turned the piece of the imaginary jigsaw puzzle in my ethereal hands. Its curved, interlocking fingers instantly took on a familiar shape, matching obviously with its mate. I pressed the fragment downward and watched it slip snugly in where it belonged.

“That’s it,” I whispered.

“What’s it?” Felicity asked. “Are you okay, Rowan?”

“The bank,” I spoke more audibly. “Money. The bank. The killer works at a bank.” I turned quickly to Ben and Deckert. “The four victims. Did they go to the same bank?”

“I don’t know,” Ben answered. “But I doubt it. They all lived in different parts of the city.”

“I don’t know either,” Deckert admitted. “But we can find out. Ben’s probably right though. Even if they did use the same bank, that doesn’t mean they used the same branch.”

“Let’s check it anyway,” I told them adamantly. “It has to be the connection. It just has to be.”

Material leftovers from the lives of the four women resided within catalogued and labeled plastic bags-purses and wallets that, until the deaths of these women, had been sacred repositories of their ordinary, extraordinary, and personal items. Purses that husbands and boyfriends refused to violate, taking them instead to their loved one held at arms length and waiting patiently for her to pull that which he sought from its depths. Purses, the contents of which had now been heartlessly fondled, inspected, dusted, and inventoried by the hands of complete strangers.

These tangible remnants, once owned by the four women, now lay neatly upon the surface of the conference table at the Major Case Squad command post. “Bagged and tagged” as Ben would often say. Dispassionately “bagged and tagged” and now waiting for Ben, Deckert, and myself to join the ranks of the prying strangers.

“I wouldn’t bother with any credit cards,” I volunteered as they began rummaging through the contents of the clear plastic bags. “It’s going to be a checking or savings account. Something that would get them into the bank where he could see them.”

“Here’s one,” Deckert announced and tossed a worn, blue leather checkbook on the table in front of me. “It’s Ariel Tanner’s.”

I reached for the checkbook and hesitated noticeably when he volunteered the identity of its former owner. I don’t think either of them noticed, as Ben was still searching through a bag, and Deckert had turned his attention to the next one in line. I took a deep breath in through my nose and then let it out slowly through my mouth, forcing myself to relax. Only then did I pick up the checkbook and flip open the cover.

The checks were a simple mottled tan, a line of text boasting the fact that they had been printed on recycled paper. Across the upper left corner, ARIEL R. TANNER was imprinted in bold black letters, her address and phone number followed beneath in slightly smaller type. Just above the memo line was a shadowy, stylized logo of a domed building bisected by a line of sturdy type.

“Capitol Bank of Missouri,” I read aloud.

“Same here,” Ben echoed, peering up from the checkbook he was holding, then added, “Ellen Gray.”

My heart started to race. Thus far, two of the four women had used the same bank. While there were several branch offices throughout the metropolitan area, it was easily possible they had both visited the same one at some point in time. My theory with regard to the last two nightmares was being proven true.

“This is it,” I exclaimed. “I was right. This is the connection.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Deckert interrupted, a sagging frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Community Bank of Overmoor.” He waved the grey vinyl-covered checkbook at me. “Karen Barnes.”

“Westview Federal Savings,” Ben recited in a dejected tone. “Darla Radcliffe… Sorry, Rowan… It was a hell of a try though.”

My rising bubble of elation had been abruptly punctured by Detective Deckert, and as I began dropping back toward earth, Ben ripped a mile wide tear in the fabric that sent me crashing. There were three different banks between the four victims. I didn’t understand. That piece of the puzzle had fit in so perfectly. I couldn’t be wrong.