A dozen or so desks and chairs were arranged artfully along the walls. There were old-fashioned windows, tellers on high stools manning each station. All of the bank employees seated at the desks were dressed sharply. People waited in a snaking line, peeling off whenever there was an open window. It seemed quiet and orderly, old-fashioned and really quite civilized.
Sala said, “I hope Al Capone doesn’t burst in with a tommy gun.”
She smiled. “I’ll bet the bank was built in the thirties, and everything is authentic. They’ve buffed it up, made repairs, and kept all the original stuff. It’s like stepping back in time. Would you listen to me, I’ve already lowered my voice to a whisper.”
“Do you know, I can’t remember the last time I was actually in my bank. I do all my banking online now. But maybe I’d change my mind if I had a bank that looked like this.”
Ty flashed to Harry Potter’s Gringotts Wizarding Bank. This layout was pretty close, minus the goblins manning teller windows and the huge chandeliers hanging overhead. They heard people talking to one another, all whispers, like they were in a cathedral, and more than once they heard the name Gunny Saks.
They stopped at the security station, a beautifully carved art deco podium. A tall redheaded man with blue eyes and a big smile stood beside it. He was dressed in a well-pressed dark blue guard’s uniform. Sala thought he looked about as forbidding as a poodle, even with the SIG in his holster.
They introduced themselves, showed Mr. Nathaniel Hoolihan their creds, and were directed toward the ornate staircase at the far end of the lobby. “Mr. Calhoun’s office is right behind the big bank of windows overlooking the floor.”
Ty looked up. “Why would he have all those windows? Seems to me it would be distracting.”
Mr. Hoolihan cleared his throat, leaned close. “When Mr. Calhoun became president, he broke out the wall and had those big windows put in. It lets him look down onto the floor, see the customers that come in every day—that and he likes to see we’re all doing what we’re supposed to. It wasn’t that way when Mr. Henry was running things.”
Sala bent close to Ty’s ear as they mounted the beautifully shined staircase. “So Mr. Calhoun LaRoque has already seen us. Does he know who we are, I wonder?”
“I’ll bet he does by the time we get to his office,” Ty said. “Are you ready to meet Mr. Eccentric?”
“As in ‘too rich to be called crazy’? You bet.”
At the top of the stairs they were met by a very pretty young woman wearing three-inch stilettos, a pencil-slim black skirt that wouldn’t allow for an extra pound, and a white silk blouse under a matching black jacket. She had spectacular dark hair in wild curls around her head down to her shoulders. She gave them a huge smile showing straight white teeth. “I’m Courtney Wells, Mr. Calhoun’s senior private assistant. Mr. Hoolihan called up, said you were FBI, that it was important you speak immediately to Mr. Calhoun. Is this about Gunny Saks? Did she die yet?”
Ty smiled. “No, she didn’t die. And yes, we’d like to see Mr. LaRoque immediately. Thank you, Ms. Wells.”
Courtney was too young to hide her disappointment. She huffed, turned on a skinny heel, and walked to a magnificent mahogany door, opened it, and stuck her head in. “Mr. Calhoun, the two FBI agents I told you about are here to see you.” She stepped back, waved them in.
They walked into a big square office directly out of a fashion magazine in the 1930s. The magnificently carved desk, the chairs, the sofa, and the museum-quality credenza behind the desk were all classic art deco. On top of the credenza sat a series of framed photos—the frames art deco, of course—all of the ma
n himself and his wife, from their twenties to the present, a photo chronicle of their lives together. Behind the big desk sat Mr. Henry’s one and only child. He slowly rose and gave them a smile. Calhoun LaRoque looked to be about Ty’s father’s age, but unlike her dad, Calhoun was at least six foot three and skinny as a toothpick. He was dressed in a bespoke dark blue suit with narrow white pinstripes, a white shirt, and a bright red power tie, like a uniform in its way, like her father’s blue Washington State Patrol captain’s uniform with its black bow tie.
Calhoun LaRoque had a head of thick pewter-gray hair with a few strands of black still woven in. His eyebrows were dark and thick over deep brown eyes. He waved at Courtney and very nicely asked her to close the door behind her.
Courtney left the door open a crack. LaRoque cleared his throat, loudly. She closed the door with a snap.
Calhoun said, “Courtney used to listen at the door, so I saw to it they put in a thicker one. It steams her not to know everything before anyone else.”
“Why didn’t you fire her?” Sala asked.
A dark eyebrow went straight up. “Didn’t you see her, Agent Porto? She’s drop-dead gorgeous, the most beautiful girl in Haggersville. Looking at her every day, believe me, it offsets her small, er, lapses, makes her mistakes seem nearly insignificant. She’s worked for me since she was nineteen. She’s twenty-three now. Did you see all that hair? She knows I like it in curls flying everywhere, so she’s careful to keep it that way. Now, I know you’re federal cops. Is this about poor Gunny Saks?”
44
* * *
Calhoun LaRoque hadn’t taken a breath. Into the brain and out of the mouth. Sala loved being surprised by people, their various incarnations never failed to amaze him.
Calhoun rose as Sala stepped forward and handed him his creds, shook his hand, introduced Ty. “Chief Christie is from Willicott, and I’m FBI. We’re not here to speak to you about Gunny Saks, sir. We’re here to ask you about your father, Mr. Henry LaRoque.”
A dark eyebrow shot up. “Mr. Henry? Why, for goodness sakes? The old man’s been gone longer than Courtney’s been able to vote. He’s old news. Wait, has Chief Masters discovered something after all this time?”
“No, sir,” Ty said.
Calhoun sighed, sat down again, and waved at two plush green leather chairs facing his desk. “I was all geared up to talk about Gunny Saks. That’s the story of the day, what everyone wants to know. Oh well, up to you, up to you. Sit down.”
He sat forward, folded his hands, and tried to look the dignified, serious, concerned banker, but he couldn’t pull it off. He looked too excited, like a kid on Christmas morning, and they heard his toes tapping beneath the desk. “At least can you tell me if she died?”