Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

“No shit. It’s for a box at Chicago Security Bank and Trust. The key is a really old-fashioned shape. They don’t use them much anymore, and I found people complaining about it on a forum online.”

“You are a genius!”

“I try. And it turns out, Gabriel Keene is a co-owner of the account.”

Now, that was interesting. “And was Gabe aware of that fact?”

“I mean, I only—cough, cough—received this private bank information anonymously.” Of course he had. “But there’s no signature card on file, at least as far as I can tell from what the anonymous informant passed along.” He said each word carefully, like the FBI was listening in. Which probably wasn’t impossible.

“There’s one more thing,” Jeff said. “The account was set up only a couple of days before Caleb was killed.”

My blood chilled, and my magic must have, too, because Paige looked back at me.

“He got a safe-deposit box, put Gabe’s name on it, hid the key, and was killed,” I said, working through the timeline. “His death might not have been some spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said darkly. “That’s what I was thinking. You should get down there.”

I checked the clock. “It’s late. What time does the bank close?”

“We’re in luck. They run special summer hours two nights a week. This is one of those nights.”

I was already rising. “You’ll talk to Gabe?”

“Already done,” Jeff said. “I’m still programming. He’ll meet you there.”

• • •

Ethan and I met Gabriel at the bank, and we snuck in right under the wire. A woman in khakis and a bright polo—CSB&T embroidered in white on the pocket—was putting keys in the lock when we arrived.

“You’re closing?” Gabriel asked.

“Nope!” she said with a smile. “You’ve got ten minutes. I’m just locking the side door here.”

“We’d actually like to open a safe-deposit box,” Gabriel said. “I just found out I was named as an owner, but I’m not certain what’s in it.”

She smiled. “Of course. You have a key and identification?”

“I do.” Gabriel pulled out his wallet—black leather on a silver chain—slid out his ID, handed it and the key to the woman.

“I’ll just check this,” she said, and gestured us to follow her. She walked behind a desk, sat down in a rolling chair, and began to type.

“All right,” she said after a moment, handing the items back to him. She opened a drawer, pulled out a second key on a long silk cord, and rose again. “Just follow me, please.”

Easy enough, Ethan said silently.

The deposit boxes were in a long vault behind a barred door, open since we were still, technically, there during business hours. The woman walked to a row of boxes about halfway down the right-hand wall, slid her key into one of the two slots, gestured for Gabriel to do the same.

When the tumblers moved, she pulled open the small door, then took out the long black box. She slid out a tray built cleverly into the wall, and put the box on top of it.

“You only have five minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch, “but you’re welcome to visit again tomorrow if you need more time.”

“We can do it in five,” Gabriel said, and waited until she’d left before opening the box.

Gabriel pulled out a single folded piece of paper. Without a word, but with an eyebrow arched, he opened it . . . then handed it to me.

On the piece of torn paper, hastily scribbled, was a list of alchemical symbols.

“Damn,” I whispered, staring at the slanted writing when he offered it to me. “It’s a cipher.”