Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers (15 page)

ACROSS THE STREET, RILEY'S MOM
was finishing up lunch in the break room at the bank.

She'd packed a tuna fish sandwich and an apple. Her friend and coworker Diane was using a napkin to blot grease off the cheese on a slice of pizza she'd picked up at the Pizza Palace. Neither one was interested in the box of doughnuts left over from the morning.

“Oh, Maddie,” said Diane, “I meant to ask you: Is Riley going on the field trip this Saturday?”

“I don't think so. What is it?”

Diane found her purse and handed Mrs. Mack a flyer. “It looks pretty interesting. We're supposed to meet all the other kids and parents at the Sherman Green
Flea Market this Saturday at eleven a.m. for a ‘History Through Trash and Treasures' lecture at someplace called Grandma's Antiques.”

“Oh,” said Riley's mom, reading the details at the bottom, “this is for fifth graders. Riley's in seventh.”

“Jeff and I are going with Timothy. Sounds like fun.”

“Excuse me, ladies.” It was Mr. Weitzel, poking his head through the doorway. “Maddie? Do you have a minute?”

“I was just finishing up my lunch.”

He beamed his smile. Blinked. “This is important.”

“I'll put your sandwich in the fridge for you,” said Diane.

“Thanks,” said Riley's mom, standing up. “Is everything okay, Chip?”

The smile tightened. “Probably best if you called me Mr. Weitzel today.”

“What's wrong?”

He gestured sideways. “Let's talk about this in my office.”

“Is Riley okay?”

“Your son? Yes. I mean, as far as I know.” He gestured again. “My office?”

“Okay. Sure.” She followed him up the hall.

“You have visitors.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Rada Rollison, her son Roger, and two
gentlemen from the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Bank Fraud Division. I didn't catch their names.”

He pushed open the door.

Two beefy men in dark-blue suits and sunglasses were standing behind chairs occupied by Mrs. Rollison and a middle-aged man. Mrs. Mack figured the man to be Mrs. Rollison's son. He had her eyes but none of her smile.

One of the suits whipped off his shades.

“Are you Mrs. Madiera Mack?” he asked.

Mrs. Rollison craned her neck like a bird. “Is Maddie here?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Where?”

The son pointed. “Right in front of you.”

“Oh. Hello, dearie!”

“Hello, Mrs. Rollison.”

“Mrs. Mack?” said the suit.

“Yes?”

“Do you regularly work teller window number three here at the First National Bank of Fairview?”

“Yes.”

“Were you working window three on Monday of this week?”

“Yes.”

“And is Mrs. Rollison, the elderly woman seated here, a regular customer?”

“I always go to Maddie's window,” said Mrs. Rollison with grandmotherly pride. “She's the sweetest, the nicest—”

“Ha,” grunted her son.

“Sir?” said the second suit. “We talked about this in the car. You need to stay calm.”

“Calm? She robbed my mother! If you think I'm going to sit here and say nothing…”

Riley's mom was in shock. “I did what?”

The first suit addressed Mrs. Rollison. “Ma'am, did you bring four thousand dollars in cash to this bank on Monday afternoon?”

“Yes. I already told you that. In a cigar box. Remember, Maddie?”

“No.”

“Really, dear? You kept the box.”

“You also kept three thousand dollars!” added her son.

“What?”

“You're a chintzy, two-bit embezzler is what you are!”

“Mr. Rollison?” Suit two put a hand on the seated man's shoulder. “One more outburst and I
will
be escorting you out of this room.”

While Mr. Rollison fumed in his chair, the FBI agent who was apparently in charge showed Riley's mom a plastic evidence bag. Inside the Baggie, she saw a canary-yellow slip of paper.

“This, Mrs. Mack, is the deposit slip for Mrs. Rollison's four thousand dollars. It is dated this past Monday and time-stamped five twenty p.m. Were you working at five twenty on Monday?”

“Bank hours are ten to six Monday through Friday,” offered Mr. Weitzel. “Ten to three on Saturdays.”

“I was here,” said Riley's mom. “But honestly, I don't remember seeing you, Mrs. Rollison. And if you gave me a deposit in a cigar box instead of an envelope, well, I think I'd remember that.”

“There, there,” said Mrs. Rollison. “Maybe it just slipped your mind, dearie. I know I'm always forgetting things. This morning, I couldn't find my glasses and, wouldn't you know it, I was already wearing them.”

“Mom?” sighed her son. “Let the FBI people handle this.”

The agent in charge dangled the evidence bag under Mrs. Mack's nose.

“Is that your handwriting?”

“No.”

“Did you change Mrs. Rollison's four to a one?”

“Of course not!”

“Well, somebody sure did,” huffed the son.

“It wasn't me!”

“Tell it to the judge!”

“Mr. Rollison?” said agent number two. “Let's step outside.”

“Let me get the door,” said Mr. Weitzel, eager to help.

“Mrs. Mack?” said the agent in charge. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“No, I…”

“You should find one. You are under arrest.”

“What?”

“You have the right to remain silent.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

The room was spinning.

“You have a right to have a lawyer present while you are questioned.”

She glanced over to the door. Mr. Weitzel looked so disappointed in her. What about Riley? What would he think?

“I need to call my son….”

“If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you.”

“I need to call my son!”

“We'll let you do that from jail,” boomed a familiar voice.

There, standing in the corridor outside Mr. Weitzel's office door, was Chief John Brown.

“I figure you boys need to borrow a cell to hold her, am I right?”

“Thank you, chief,” said the agent in charge. “Always helpful to have the full cooperation of local law enforcement authorities.”

The chief smiled widely. “Happy to help, gentlemen. Happy to help.”

OTTO AND FRED, THE SUBURBAN
bank robbers, were sitting in a booth near the front windows of the diner on Main Street.

“You see what's going on across the street?” said Fred. “All of a sudden, Thursday is Doggy Adoption Day?”

“You want to go look at the dogs after lunch?” asked Otto.

“Are you kidding?” said Fred. “I hate dogs.”

“Yeah. Me, too. That one time I went to prison? German shepherd sent me there. I was working a warehouse job. The security guard was sound asleep, per usual. The guard dog, however, was not. Fritz the
fleabag clamps on to my ankle as I'm attempting to boost a giant-screen TV off a storage rack. Dog locks its jaw. Crunches down hard on my fibula like he's munching on a Milk-Bone.”

“For me, it was Winky,” said Fred.

“Who?”

“Winky. The chow chow that lived next door when I was a kid.”

“Chow chow? That the pickled relish?”

“No, it's a Chinese-Mongolian dog breed. Looks like a little puffy lion. Anyways, one summer, I'm maybe five years old. We're in the backyard; my dad's grilling hamburgers. All of a sudden, Winky comes barreling through the bushes, snatches my burger right out of my hand.” Fred held up his right hand. “You ever notice my pinkie finger don't have no fingertip? I call it my Winky pinkie.”

“Man,” said Otto. “I hate dogs.”

“Me, too,” said Fred.

They were both feeling kind of blue, when they saw an armored car rumble up Main Street, headed for the bank.

“Cheer up,” said Otto. “Here comes our money!”

Both men watched the boxy truck pull to a stop in front of the bank.

Two security guards wearing holstered pistols and bulletproof vests came around to the rear of the
steel-plated truck, their heads pivoting side to side as they checked the area for any signs of trouble. Satisfied that all was as it should be, the armed goons tapped on the rear door, which quickly swung open. A third goon with a gun hopped out toting several pillow-case-sized sacks of cash.

Otto and Fred were beaming.

It was the weekly shipment of cash in advance of Friday's payday rush at the bank.

And tonight? It would all be theirs!

RILEY MARCHED STRAIGHT UP TO
Chief Brown's desk.

“Where's my mother?” he asked, very politely, which was remarkable given his current mood.

“Right where the FBI wants her,” the chief answered smugly, leaning back in his chair. “In my most secure jail cell.”

“Can I see her?”

The chief grinned maliciously. “What's the magic word?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please may I see my mother, Chief Brown?”

“Well, now—at least your bank-robbing momma
taught you a few manners. Or maybe that was your daddy. Where is he anyway? Oh, right. He's way off in Afghanistan, playing soldier with his army buddies. What a shame. Maybe you two should've moved out of town like I suggested.”

“Can I please see my mother, Chief Brown?”

“Say ‘pretty please' and I'll think about it.”

Riley said it. Heck, he'd say anything if it helped get his mother out of this mess. And then? He'd deal with the bullying blowhard police chief. He'd deal with him big-time.

 

“I didn't do anything, Riley!”

“I know, Mom. But tell me what they
think
you did.”

They were sitting side by side on a flimsy cot bolted to a cinderblock wall in a cramped jail cell. The floor was rough gray concrete. A shiny steel sink and toilet were attached to the far wall, only six feet away from the bed. The door was made of solid steel bars. The tiny window, too.

“Did you call the army base?” his mom asked.

“Yeah. They're sending down a lawyer. Guy named Cameron Williams. Dad's friend, General Morgan, says he's the best.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Williams can't get here till tomorrow morning. He's wrapping up a trial.”

“So I have to spend the night in jail?”

“Unless we can come up with fifty thousand dollars in bail money.”

“What about you?”

Riley took her hand. “Don't worry about me, Mom. I'll be fine. I can stay over at Mongo's or Jake's.”

“Oh, Riley. I wish your dad were here.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

His dad's words came ringing back:
“Protect your country, protect your family….”

Riley's duty was clear: his dad was busy protecting the country. That meant Riley was in charge of protecting his family.

“The more I know,” he said, “the more I can do to help.”

His mom took a deep breath. “They say I robbed Mrs. Rollison, one of my regular customers. That I took three thousand dollars out of a cigar box and fudged the deposit slip, changed her four thousand into a one thousand.”

“She made her deposit in a cigar box?”

“She's a little eccentric. She's also hard of hearing and, I think, legally blind.”

“When did you supposedly steal this money?”

“Monday. Five twenty p.m. There was a time stamp on the deposit slip.”

“Did they check the security tapes?”

“What?”

“There's a video camera focused on your teller cage to make sure you, or whoever is working window three, isn't taking home any free samples. I saw it the last time I dropped by to bum pizza money.”

“Mr. Weitzel didn't mention any security tapes.”

“Interesting,” said Riley. “Weitzel's the guy with the shiny teeth, right? Always telling people to call him Chip?”

“That's right.”

“What's his story?”

His mom shrugged. “I don't know him all that well.”

“Good for you,” said Riley. “He seems kind of skeevy.”

His mom actually smiled. “Skeevy?”

“Simultaneously sketchy and sleazy.”

“Then Mr. Weitzel is definitely skeevy.”

“Okay,” said Riley, “Monday was the day you had to open up the bank in the morning, am I right?”

“That's right. I almost forgot. Mr. Weitzel wasn't feeling well. Said he needed a sick day, even though he did show up for work later that afternoon. Oops.”

“What?”

“I forgot to destroy the access code for the back door! I wrote it down on a slip of paper, even though it was ridiculously simple. But I got so busy, I forgot to tear up the code!”

“Where is it?”

“In my purse.”

“And where's your purse?”

“They confiscated it out front. Right before Chief Brown took my fingerprints and made me pose for a mug shot.”

“Do you remember anything about Monday, late in the afternoon? What were you doing between, let's say, five and closing time?”

“I was working my window and we were busy—we're always busy right after five, people get off work and…”

She stopped.

“And what?”

“Mr. Weitzel asked me to run to the drugstore for him!”

A chief's deputy clicked up the corridor.

“Did you do it?”

“Yes!”

The deputy rattled his nightstick against the bars. “Okay, kid. Visiting hours are over.”

Riley stood up.

“Don't worry, Mom,” he said. “I'll go get you your medicine.”

She gave him a very quizzical look, which Riley immediately countered with the slightest head bob toward the guard at the door.

“And then,” he said, “we're gonna get you out of
here. I guarantee it!”

“Let's go, kid.” The guard held the door open and jerked his head sideways.

“I need to get my mom something out of her purse.”

“What? A nail file so she can saw through the bars?”

“No. Her heart medicine. So she doesn't die.”

Okay, it was a big fat lie, but it shut the guy up.

And, when they let him rummage through his mom's purse, looking for her heart medicine, Riley was able to palm the access code to the bank's back door.

As for the medicine? That was easy. He sent that deputy back to his mom's cell with a couple white Tic Tacs.