The branch of First Virginia was only a block away from Bell Atlantic headquarters. It was another freestanding bank. Did that mean something to the perps? Probably. What, though? The few clues we had so far weren’t adding up to anything. Not for me, anyway.
I noticed a Dunkin’ Donuts and a Blockbuster Video directly across the street. People were going in and out. The suburban neighborhood was busy and operating as if nothing had happened.
Something had definitely happened.
I spotted four dark sedans clustered together in the bank parking lot. I suspected they were FBI cars and pulled in beside them. There were no police cars on the scene yet. Kyle had called me, but he hadn’t called in the Rosslyn police. Not a good sign.
I showed my detective’s badge to a tall, lanky agent posted at the back door. He looked to be in his late twenties. Nervous and scared.
“The ADIC is inside. He’s expecting you, Detective Cross,” the agent said in a soft Virginia accent not unlike Kyle’s.
“Casualties in there?” I asked.
The agent shook his dark, crew-cut, bullet-shaped head. He was trying not to show that he was nervous. “We just arrived, sir. I don’t know the casualty situation inside. I was told to wait out here by Senior Agent Cavalierre. It’s her case.”
“Yes, I know.”
I opened the glass door. I paused for a beat alongside the ATMs in the vestibule. Focused. Prepared myself a little. I saw Kyle and Betsey Cavalierre across the lobby.
They were talking to a silver-haired man who seemed to be the bank’s manager, or possibly the assistant manager. It didn’t look as if anyone had been hurt. Jesus. Was that possible?
Kyle saw me and immediately walked my way. Agent Cavalierre stayed close at his side, so close she looked glued to Kyle.
“It’s a miracle,” Kyle said. “No one’s hurt here. They took the money and got away clean, though. We’re going to the manager’s house. His wife and daughter wer
e held hostage, Alex. The phones at the house are dead.”
“Call the Rosslyn police, Kyle. They’ll have squad cars there.”
“We’re three minutes away. Let’s go!” Kyle barked. He and Agent Cavalierre were already headed toward the door.
Chapter 26
THE MESSAGE FROM KYLE was loud and clear. The FBI was in charge of the bank robbery–murders investigation. I was welcome to join up, or leave. For the moment, I went along. It was Cavalierre and Kyle’s case and their huge headache, their time in the pressure cooker.
No one spoke as we rode through Rosslyn in one of the FBI sedans. One pattern of the robberies had been clear so far: Somebody died when a robbery took place. It almost seemed that a serial killer was robbing banks.
“The bank alarm went directly to the FBI?” I finally spoke up about something that had bothered me since I got Kyle’s call at St. Anthony’s.
Betsey Cavalierre turned toward me from the front seat. “First Union, Chase, First Virginia, and Citibank are all connected to us for the time being. It was their decision — we didn’t pressure them. We’ve moved several dozen extra agents into the D.C. area so we’d be ready when and if another bank was hit. We arrived at the branch in Rosslyn in less than ten minutes. They got out, anyway.”
“You call the Rosslyn PD yet?” I asked.
Kyle said, “We called, Alex. We don’t want to step on anybody’s toes if we don’t have to. They’re on their way to the bank branch.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “Not to the bank manager’s house, though.”
“We want to check the house ourselves first,” Agent Cavalierre answered for Kyle. “The killers aren’t making any mistakes. Neither can we.” She was brusque and impatient with me. I didn’t much like her tone, and she didn’t seem to care what I thought.
“Rosslyn has a very good police force,” I told her. “I’ve worked with them before. Have you?” I felt I had to defend some of the people I knew and respected.
Kyle sighed. “You know it depends on who responds first. That’s the problem. Betsey’s right — we can’t make mistakes on this one. They don’t.”
We turned onto High Street in Rosslyn. The neighborhood looked peaceful, serene, thriving: nicely groomed lawns, two-car garages, large homes both new and old.
They always kill somebody, I couldn’t help thinking. They’ve done it to a family before.
We parked in front of a house with a big red number 315 on a pale yellow mailbox. A second dark sedan edged into the curb behind us — more agents. The more the scarier.