So the immediate question was whether or not First Columbia knew he was dead. The Morgans had never banked there. Beverly had no idea why he chose it. It was a huge bank with a million customers, and they decided that the odds were against it.
Darby was tired of playing the odds. She'd blown a wonderful opportunity last night to get on a plane, and now here she was about to be Beverly Morgan matching wits with First Columbia so she could steal from a dead man. And what was her sidekick going to do? He was going to protect her. He had this gun, which scared her to death and had the same effect on him though he wouldn't admit it, and he planned to play bodyguard by the front door while she pilfered the lockbox.
"What if they know he's dead," she asked, "and I tell them he isn't?"
"Then slap the bitch in the face and run like hell. I'll catch you at the front door. I've got a gun, and we'll blast our way down the sidewalk."
"Come on, Gray. I don't know if I can do this."
"You can do it, okay? Play it cool. Be assertive. Be a smartass. It should come natural."
"Thanks so much. What if they call security on me? I have this sudden phobia of security guards."
"I'll rescue you. I'll come blazing through the lobby like a SWAT team."
"We'll all be killed."
"Relax, Darby. It'll work."
"Why are you so chipper?"
"I smell it. Something's in that lockbox, Darby. And you have to bring it out, kid. It's all riding on you."
"Thanks for easing the pressure."
They were on E Street near Ninth. Gray slowed the car, then parked illegally in a loading zone forty feet from the front entrance of First Columbia. He jumped out. Darby's exit was slower. Together, they walked quickly to the door. It was almost ten. "I'll wait here," he said, pointing to a marble column. "Go do it."
"Go do it," she mumbled as she disappeared inside the revolving door. She was always the one being fed to the lions. The lobby was as big as a football field, with columns and chandeliers and fake Persian rugs.
"Safe deposit boxes?" she asked a young woman behind the information desk. The girl pointed to a corner in the far right.
"Thanks," she said, and strolled toward it. The lines in front of the tellers were four deep to her left, and to her right a hundred busy vice presidents talked on their phones. It was the largest bank in the city, and no one noticed her.
The vault was behind a set of massive bronze doors that were polished enough to appear almost golden, no doubt to give the appearance of infinite safety and invulnerability. The doors were opened slightly to allow a select few in and out. To the left, an important-looking lady of sixty sat behind a desk with the words SAFE DEPOST BOXES across its front. Her name was Virginia Baskin.
Virginia Baskin stared at Darby as she approached the desk. There was no smile.
"I need access to a box," Darby said without breathing. She hadn't breathed in the last two and a half minutes.
"The number, please," Ms. Baskin said as she hit the keyboard and turned to the monitor.
"F566."
She punched the number and waited for the words to flash on the screen. She frowned, and moved her face to within inches of it. Run! Darby thought. She frowned harder and scratched her chin. Run, before she picks up the phone and calls the guards. Run, before the alarms go off and my idiot cohort comes blazing through the lobby.
Ms. Baskin withdrew her head from the monitor. "That was rented just two weeks ago," she said almost to herself.
"Yes," Darby said as if she had rented it.
"I assume you're Mrs. Morgan," she said, pecking on the keyboard.
Keep assuming, baby. "Yes, Beverly Anne Morgan."
"And your address?"
"891 Pembroke, Alexandria."
She nodded at the screen as if it could see her and give its approval. She pecked again. "Phone number?"
"703-664-5980."
Ms. Baskin liked this too. So did the computer. "Who rented this box?"
"My husband, Curtis D. Morgan."
"And his social security number?"
Darby casually opened her new, rather large leather shoulder bag, and pulled out her wallet. How many wives memorized their husband's social security number? She opened the wallet. "510-96-8686."
"Very well," Ms. Baskin said properly as she left the keyboard and reached into her desk. "How long will this take?"
"Just a minute."
She placed a wide card on a small clipboard on the desk, and pointed at it. "Sign here, Mrs. Morgan."
Darby nervously signed on the second slot. Mr. Morgan had made the first entry the day he rented the box.
Ms. Baskin glanced at the signature while Darby held her breath.
"Do you have your key?" she asked.
"Of course," Darby said with a warm smile.
