Dennis Lehane - Since We Fell

She shot Rachel a vague smile as she approached and emitted the air of someone who was rarely present in a conversation but who’d learned her lines enough to imitate someone who was. She was about thirty, in a sleeveless top, the better to show off well-toned arms and a spray-on tan. She had straight brown hair that fell to her shoulders, a rock the size of a Prius on her left ring finger, and she might have been pretty if the skin weren’t stretched so tight against her face it gave her the unfortunate look of someone who’d been struck by lightning during an orgasm. She flashed eyes as bright as they were dead and said, “What can we do for you today?”

Her name tag identified her as Ashley.

Rachel said, “I need access to my safe deposit box.”

Ashley crinkled her nose at the counter. “Do you have ID?”

“Yes, yes.” Rachel produced the Nicole Rosovich license and dropped it into the tray beneath the glass partition.

Ashley pushed it back out with two fingers. “I don’t need it. You’ll need it for Mr. Thorp, when he’s available.”

“And when will that be?”

Ashley gave her that nothing smile again. “I’m sorry?”

“When will Mr. Thorp be available?”

“You’re not the first customer of the day, ma’am.”

“I never claimed to be. I’m just wondering when Mr. Thorp will be available.”

“Mmmm.” Ashley gave her another smile, this one tight with waning patience. She crinkled her nose again. “Shortly.”

Rachel said, “Is that ten minutes? Fifteen? How would you define it?”

“Please take a seat in the waiting area, ma’am. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She dismissed her by looking past Rachel’s shoulder and saying, “Help you, sir?”

Rachel’s spot was overtaken by a guy with snow-white hair and a shy, apologetic gaze that he dropped as soon as she stepped away from the counter.

She sat in the waiting area with a twentysomething woman with a blue-black dye job, a few New Age neck and wrist tattoos, and sapphire eyes. She wore high-end biker boots and high-end wrecked jeans and a black tank top over a white one, both under a white cotton shirt that was perfectly pressed but two sizes too big. She leafed through a local real estate magazine. After a few glances, Rachel ascertained that she was quite pretty under the dye job and had the kind of posture one associated with supermodels and finishing-school grads.

Not the kind of person one would assume worked for Cotter-McCann and spent her days staking out a bank. In fact, she’d barely looked at Rachel, her eyes locked on the pages of the real estate magazine.

But it was a suburban real estate magazine, the homes on the cover of the small Cape, starter home variety, and this girl didn’t give off that vibe at all. She was downtown loft space all the way. Then again, Rachel herself had leafed through plenty of literature that she’d normally never pick up in a variety of waiting rooms over the years; once, while waiting for her car to be serviced, she’d read an entire article on the best after-market chrome accents for your Harley, fascinated by the similarities between that article and one she’d read in a hair salon a few weeks prior on the best ways to accessorize your spring wardrobe.

Even so, the way this girl read the real estate magazine, her brow furrowed, her eyes studiously — conspicuously? — glued to the pages made Rachel wonder why she could be sitting there. The accounts manager, Jessie Schwartz-Stone, sat in a typical glass-enclosed office, tapping on her desktop keypad with the eraser of a pencil, and both tellers were currently unburdened of customers. The office of Vice-President Corey Mazzetti, also glass-enclosed, was empty.

She’s waiting for the same guy you are, Rachel told herself. Maybe she has a safe deposit box as well. Not something you usually see in the possession of a twentysomething at a hick bank twenty miles from a medium-size city, but the box could have been passed down through generations.

Who passes a safe deposit box down through generations, Rachel?

She glanced at the girl again only to find her staring directly back at her. She shot Rachel a smile — of confirmation? of triumph? of simple acknowledgment? — and went back to her ridiculous magazine.

The brown door opened and Manfred Thorp stood in the doorway in a light pinstripe shirt, red skinny tie, dark suit pants. As Brian had said, he looked quite fit. He had dark hair and dark eyes she didn’t like — they seemed hooded, although that could be because his eye sockets were slightly large for his face. He looked at the two women in his waiting area and said, “Miss...” He looked down at a scrap of paper. “Miss Rosovich?”

Rachel stood and smoothed the back of her skirt, thinking, Okay, so who the fuck is she waiting for?

She shook Manfred Thorp’s hand as he ushered her into the office. He shut the door behind her and she imagined the girl in the waiting room diving into her bag, grabbing her cell phone, and texting Ned or Lars: She’s in the bank .

Ned and Lars, if they were watching the parking lot from one of the cars under the great sugar maple, would now search the parking lot. They’d find Brian easily enough — lying on the backseat of a car under a tarp was hardly foolproof. One of them would open the door, place the muzzle of that silencer to his forehead, and — pop! — lather the backseat with his brain matter. Then all that would be left to do would be to wait for her to exit the bank.

No, no, Rachel. They’d need Brian alive to get the money wired back into their account. So they wouldn’t kill Brian.

But what did they need her for?

“Now how can I help you?”

Manfred was looking at her funny, waiting for her to speak.

“I need to access my safe deposit box.”

He opened a drawer. “Of course. Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

She opened her bag, fumbled inside for her wallet. She retrieved it. Opened it. Pulled out the fake license and handed it across the desk to him.

He didn’t look at it. He was too busy staring at her. She hadn’t been wrong about his eyes — they were, if not cruel, callous and entitled. He’d never formed an opinion about himself and his place in the world that wasn’t flattering.

“Have we met?” he said.

“I’m pretty sure,” she said. “My husband and I rented this box about six months ago.”

He tapped a few keys, looked at his computer screen. “It was five months ago.”

Like I said, she thought, about six months ago, dick .

“And you have all-access privileges.” Another click on the keyboard. “So if all’s in order, we can take you down there.” He held her license up to the screen — comparing signatures, she assumed — and his eyes narrowed. He sat back in his chair, pushed the chair an inch or two back on its wheels. He flicked his eyes at her and then back at the screen and then down at the license in his hand.

Her throat closed.

Followed by her nasal passages.

No oxygen coming in, no oxygen going out.

The office was unreasonably hot, as if it sat on a thin ledge of shale over the mouth of an active volcano.

He dropped her license to the floor.

He leaned sideways in his chair and picked it back up, tapped it off his knee. He reached for the phone and she thought of pulling the gun from her bag, pointing it across the desk at him, and telling him to take her to the fucking safe deposit box right fucking now.

She couldn’t imagine a world in which that scenario ended well.

“Nicole,” he said, the phone in his hand.

She heard herself say, “Uh-huh?”

“Nicole Rosovich.”

She realized she’d sucked her lower lip so deeply into her mouth it probably looked like she’d vacuumed up her chin in the process. She opened her mouth and looked across the desk at him, waiting.