Mystery of the Vanished Gold

By Joe B. Hewitt

Three robbers wearing Alfred E. Newman rubber masks rob a Dallas bank of $20 million and several safe deposit boxes containing gold. During the robbery a killer handcuffs two men together to a barred gate and executes them with a .22 bullet to the head.
The invasion robbers move with military precision and vanish with the money and gold.
A newly-commissioned Texas Ranger, Hank Garcia, chases the gold and money to Spain, South Africa, and Panama. Not only is the vanished gold a mystery, but also the motive for murder.
Hank’s 16-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, gets involved and vanishes.
FBI Agent Naomi Robertson works with Hank and becomes a love interest.
Some of the other characters that lend color to the story include, Emo Etto a Nigerian soldier of fortune; Wan Ol Key, a 130-pound martial arts expert using a Mongolian passport; Sheikha Eisha ben Ali, wife of a mysterious Arab of questionable existence, who can charm the gold out of men’s pockets; Handsome Jòrge Sanchez, a Panamanian lover of women and gold; Nurse Alberta Shehzad whom Hank covets; Emile Deutchmann, South African soldier of fortune; and two beautiful young women, Gayle and Katie, who are involved more than they know.
Regardless of numerous suspects and possibilities, Hank’s excellent detective work triumphs.
If you like mysteries, action, interesting characters, frequent changes of scenes, an adventure story with romance, but no gutter language, you will like this novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe B. Hewitt
• Release date: Oct 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310616761

Joe B. Hewitt

About the AuthorJoe B. Hewitt, BD MAAuthor Joe B. Hewitt started writing as a newspaper reporter for the Lima, Ohio, News. He covered the police beat, courthouse beat, and was an investigative reporter. He went under cover for three months and published an expose of vice and crime. He served as national and international news editor and “slot” man on the city desk.He owned and published the following Texas weekly newspapers, Throckmorton Tribune, and Springtown Review, and was a stockholder, editor and publisher of the Richardson Digest.His newspaper career ended when he was called into the ministry.. He served the Richardson church 13 years.He resigned that pastorate to go into vocational evangelism. However, during those four years he was called by Christian leaders in many communities to lead special election campaigns. Of 13 major campaigns, he won 11. He turned down an offer to manage a US Congressman’s re-election campaign.During those years in the pastorate he wrote a nonfiction book on personal experience that has sold 45,000 copies. He wrote curriculum for Bible study teachers and teachers commentaries for LifeWay, the publishing arm of the Southern Baptist Convention as well as the youth devotional guide, and Open Windows the 1.1 million-circulation adult devotional guide. For 10 years wrote columns for the Rockwall Success, and Rowlett Lakeshore Times, local newspapers. His magazine articles were published in Mature Living, The Baptist Standard, and Leadership magazine (published by the Baptist General Convention of Texas), Faith for the Family, Reproduction Methods, and the Christian Crusader. Photographs have been published by Associated Press, United Press International, Popular Mechanics, and several detective magazines (from the days when he was police reporter.).His travel articles and pictures have been published in The Dallas Morning News, and the Houston Chronicle's Sunday Magazine. Guest editorials have been published in The Dallas Morning News and Spirit of 76, publication of Fort Worth, Texas, Mensa.Hewitt served as a temporary missionary in Mexico, Brazil, Russia, Oregon, Idaho, New York, and pastored a church in England for a month in an exchange with the pastor of the English church. He served as volunteer chaplain and coordinator of jail ministries for the Rockwall County Sheriff’s Department for 10 years. I also served two days a month as volunteer chaplain at Lake Pointe Medical Center in Rowlett for 10 years.On one of his three trips to Russia, Hewitt preached in Muravlenko, Siberia, a city of 40,000, built on 600 feet deep permafrost located 1650 miles east-northeast of Moscow. The nearest airport was 100 miles south at Nyabresk where the Aeroflot plane broke down and Hewitt and his wife were stranded two days.In addition to the mission trips, Hewitt visited Cypress, Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, Israel, Greece, Italy, France, Spain, Belgium, Holland, Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and many Caribbean islands. Hewitt has traveled extensively throughout all 50 of the United States, Mexico and Canada.After retiring from the Pastorate in 2001, Hewitt began training as a mediator and has served Dallas and area courts as a court-appointed mediator to settle lawsuits.Hewitt received a BD degree from Bible Baptist Seminary, and an MA degree in Biblical Studies from Dallas Baptist University. He is a member of Mensa, the high IQ society.

Book preview

About the author:

Author Joe B. Hewitt started writing as a reporter for the Lima, Ohio, News. He covered the police beat and later the courthouse beat. He went under cover for three months and did an expose of vice and crime in Lima and Allen County. During that time his life was threatened and he believed he needed to be armed but Ohio law said only sworn and bonded peace officers could carry concealed weapons. The sheriff of nearby Auglaize County, where Hewitt resided, appointed him a special deputy sheriff investigator, sworn and bonded but not paid.

Hewitt was promoted to national and international news editor and occupied the city desk’s slot from which he coordinated other editors’ work. He later was editor and publisher of three different Texas weeklies, two of which he owned.

He continued to write non-fiction books, articles and curriculum. Murder on the Sky Ride was his first novel, which was set in 1978 in San Marcos, Texas.

This novel is set in 2007 in Dallas, Texas and has a second generation of characters from the first novel. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. ---Joe.

Some of the characters:

Enrique Hank Garcia, Texas Ranger.

Naomi Robertson, FBI Agent.

Elizabeth Garcia, Hank’s 16-year-old daughter.

Enrique Gar Garcia, Hank’s father, Dallas police chief and former Texas Ranger.

CHAPTER 1

Grabbing the Gold

Dallas, Texas, Wednesday, July 25, 2007, Day 1

Two minutes before closing time, Southwestern National Bank security guard Frank Pritchett aimed a heavy brass key to lock the main door. A man on the outside pushed it open, held up his watch and said, It’s not 4:30 yet. He shoved the startled bank guard aside and squeezed in.

Pritchett’s mouth opened in surprise as the man pushed past him. A rubber mask of Alfred E. Neuman, mascot of Mad Magazine, covered the man’s face. Suddenly a second Alfred E. Neuman, a smaller man, pushed in behind him. Then a third, taller man with the same kind of rubber mask on his face, squeezed in. The small one stuck a 9 millimeter automatic pistol in Pritchett’s face and spoke with a thick accent. Give me your gun.

Ten blocks away at Dallas Police Headquarters, Assistant Chief Al Sherman rushed into the chief’s office nearly out of breath and announced, I thought you’d want to know about this, Chief. Traffic on the five major freeways is blocked. Downtown is grid-locked. Vehicles are backed up for miles. I’m afraid something’s up.

Chief Gar Garcia, with even more brass on his uniform than the assistant chief, stood and motioned to a young man sitting across the desk dressed in khaki with a gun belt heavy with cartridges and two six-shooters. Al, I think you know my son Enrique. He was just commissioned a Texas Ranger.

Enrique, Hank Garcia, tall and blond, his brown eyes surrounded by a light complexion, felt a little awkward. He hadn’t quite gotten used to the signature western hat with a circled star Texas Rangers badge. On his belt the twin .45 Colt, single-action revolvers felt heavy and kept getting in the way. He extended a hand. Glad to see you.

Sherman continued, "Switchboards are jammed. Our radio frequencies are full of static and interference. Phone circuits are so flooded that land line phones are useless. Vehicle traffic is not moving. Eighteen-wheelers have jack-knifed and are blocking all the major freeways leading into downtown. Streets are locked tight. It’s too much for coincidence.

He laid a large aerial photo of downtown Dallas on a table. Hank examined the photograph. With gridlock, added to jammed radio frequencies and telephone lines, I’ll guess it’s a major robbery, Hank said. What do you think, Chief Sherman?

It’s a good guess. We’ve got some big banks downtown with lots of money. But if it’s a bank robbery, they couldn’t get away, Sherman said, and quickly added, We should block the entrances to the underground shops.

Good idea. I’ll guess they plan to fly out. They’ll have to land a helicopter on a roof. Which building would be suitable for that?

Sherman pointed at a photo of a building. This one is the tallest but no flat roof for landing. The forty-four story Southwestern National Bank Building has a flat roof and heliport.

At the Southwestern National Bank in the middle of downtown Dallas, Frank Pritchett a retired police officer, took mental notes: The first perpetrator wore surgical gloves but Pritchett could see black skin on his wrists. This one spoke with a British accent. Pritchett continued to make mental notes of height, weight and clothing, preparing for the questions he’d be asked later, if he lived that long.

The tall perpetrator snatched Pritchett’s key and locked the door. Do not turn around. You look outside only. Tell anyone who tries to get in that the bank is closed. If you turn around, you’ll get shot. This one had no accent. Could have been from anywhere.

The black one jumped up on the teller’s counter and made a sweeping motion with a stubby, Uzi submachine gun. This is a holdup, he shouted. Everybody get behind the counter. His command echoed off the marble surfaces of the bank lobby. Customers hushed and stared up at the rubber-masked gunman.

Get over there, he ordered, pointing to the line of tellers. Everyone put your hands up high.

All stretched their arms upward.

At Police Headquarters, 10 blocks of tall buildings away from the bank, Chief Garcia asked, Any clues in the nine-one-one traffic?

Plenty, Sherman said. Most of it’s got to do with the traffic jams and accidents but also calls of robberies in progress in 15 different downtown locations, including five banks. We’ve tried to check the banks by phone but can’t get through. Hank thinks it’s a bank robbery and the perps will try to escape by helicopter.

Chief Garcia said to his son, Now, Texas Ranger, here’s an opportunity for you to do something brilliant. What do you suggest?

The new Ranger didn’t hesitate. We can’t do much with vehicles, since traffic is grid-locked. You’ve got traffic officers on foot and bicycle officers and motorcycles downtown. I suggest you get your dispatchers to try to clear a frequency for them and get them to check all downtown banks. The Ranger looked at his watch. They’ve only been closed for 10 minutes.

That’s my boy. Good plan. Then to Sherman, Go ahead.

I’ll get on it, Hank, Sherman said to Enrique and turned to leave. Hope it’s okay for me to call you Hank.

I’ve been called that so much I answer to it. But I guarantee my mother doesn’t like it, the new Ranger said with a smile. Get a helicopter high enough to see the roofs of the higher downtown buildings. Watch for a helicopter landing or taking off on one.

Will do. Sherman answered like a disciplined subordinate, although he was almost old enough to be Hank’s grandfather. Sherman had been in law enforcement longer than Hank had been alive. As chief of detectives in San Marcos he had worked with Gar Garcia, then a Texas Ranger, on a murder case, when Hank was eight-years-old.

Hank called behind him. Get one of your motorcycles to pick me up at the front door and see if you can find an extra helmet.

Standing in front of the heavy glass door of the bank, Pritchett knew the tellers would be busy feeling with their feet for silent alarm buttons but he dared not turn around to see. He continued to look outside through the thick glass door.

Get in a line along this counter, the black perpetrator shouted from his perch on the counter.

Pritchett sneaked a look behind him, hoping it wouldn’t be his last. The tall one opened a shopping bag and held it out in front of Chief Cashier Harvey Oliver. Oliver sagged against the tellers counter.

Put your cell phone in here, the tall perp said.

With trembling hands, Oliver fished his cell phone out of his pocket and dropped it in the bag, then hurriedly put his hands back up. His face was as gray as his suit. Sweat popped out on his forehead.

Everyone, get your cell phone out. Drop it in the bag, the tall one shouted to the knot of employees and customers behind the tellers’ counter. He gathered the cell phones and took them toward the door.

Pritchett turned back around quickly and stood frozen in fear, dreading a bullet in the back for having turned around. He looked out the glass door at the snarl of traffic outside. Those people have no idea what’s going on in here.

The bank’s thick glass door kept out the July Texas heat and sounds of angry grid-locked traffic. Outside on the sidewalk, a boy about 12 rode up to the door on a bicycle. The tall perp opened the door a crack and dropped the shopping bag of cell phones into the bicycle’s basket. Hot dry air burst in the door. Cars outside stood as still as a broken movie film. Drivers stood by with their car doors wide open. Some drivers yelled. Impatient men and women honked horns incessantly as if the noise would somehow cause the still traffic to move again. The bank’s thick door closed out the noise. The boy pedaled down the sidewalk and away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pritchett saw Oliver fading to a lighter pale as he continued to lean on the tellers’ counter with his arms stretched high.

Can we rest our hands? We’re getting tired. Mrs. Nellie Cantrell, one of the tellers pleaded. Usually all business, well dressed and confident, she spoke with a quaver in her voice. Pritchett felt sorry for her. She was a gentle lady and shouldn’t have to suffer this indignity.

The black perp shifted his weight on the tellers counter, waved the Uzi and shouted through the rubber mask, Okay, lock your fingers together and put them on top of your head. Relax your arms, he shouted like a British army drill instructor.

Pritchett hoped the perp wouldn’t notice that bank employees moved their feet like they were stepping on cockroaches as they felt under the counter with their feet and pressed the silent alarms again and again. As the perp waved the Uzi, Pritchett also hoped the little machine pistol didn’t have a hair trigger. He must not have a military background because he keeps his finger on the trigger, which no army allows except when you’re ready to fire. But this invasion still smacks of military planning. Maybe he’s violating a military safety rule with his finger on the trigger. And maybe he does it because he wants someone to think he has no military background, Pritchett thought.

The little perpetrator shoved Oliver away from the counter and frisked him for weapons. The perp then pushed a customer wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt against the counter. While holding his 9 millimeter automatic on the man the perp reached to the small of the man’s back and pulled a .38 revolver from under the loose shirt tail. You a cop? the little one demanded.

No. I’m licensed to carry. Just a citizen, the man said with trembling voice.

You would have shot me, wouldn’t you, citizen? The little one stuck the .38 into his own waist and then shouted to the crowd, Keep those hands on your heads. Then to the man he had just disarmed, You stay right with me, citizen and keep your hands on your head with your fingers locked.

The little one continued to frisk the men. He felt around the waist of a tall man and found another .38 in a holster and a leather case with handcuffs. He jammed his 9 millimeter into the man’s ribs. You a cop?

Yes, Rockwall Police Department.

Rockwall, what’s that?

It’s a town east of here on the other side of the lake. I’m a police officer.

The little one shoved the officer toward the safe deposit vault. Get in there, he ordered and pushed the citizen in after him.

The little perp ordered the officer to stick his arm through the bars of the vault’s gate. He cuffed the two together with the officer’s handcuffs. Now, if you want to get away, you got to pull the other one through the bars, he said with a cackle.

At police headquarters Hank met a motorcycle officer by the garage entrance.

Where to, Ranger?

Suddenly Sherman ran out the door and waved. Hank, we got a report from one of the bicycle officers.

Hank stopped. What?

Out of breath, Sherman said, He said Frank Pritchett, the guard at Southwestern National Bank is standing looking out the front door like he’s in a trance. The officer waved at him, and Frank stood there like a statue. There may be something going on there.

That settled it. Hank mounted the Harley Davidson behind the officer. Southwestern National Bank.

The motorcycle accelerated so fast Hank feared it would throw him off onto the hot street. A broken head on a Dallas sidewalk would end his career before it started. He grasped the

motorcycle officer around the waist with one arm and hung on to his hat with the other. The slipstream almost tore the hat out of his grip. The blasting police siren became the melody to disharmony of honking car horns. The motorcycle cop bounced the Harley Davidson over a curb and sped down the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered away from the screaming motorcycle.

The motorcycle stopped in front of the wide glass doors of the 44-story Southwestern National Bank Building. The siren whirred to a growl and fell silent.

Two bicycle cops in short pants and fat white helmets peered with cupped hands through thick glass doors into the bank lobby.

Hank dismounted the motorcycle, swept the helmet off his head, handed the helmet to the motorcycle officer and pressed his Stetson on a sweaty brow. Thanks for the ride. Then he exhaled, That was a ride.

You’re welcome, the officer replied with a mischievous grin.

Door’s locked, one of the bicycle cops called out. Frank Pritchett was there looking weird. He’s been gone quite a while now.

Hank looked inside the bank and saw figures moving behind the tellers’ counters. He pounded on the door with the flat of his hand that made a muffled booming sound. A gray man in a gray suit raised his hands and motioned for them to go away. Hank pounded again. The man in gray held up his arm and pointed to his watch. Then he held up both hands with fingers apart.

A police sergeant rode up on a bicycle.

He wants us to wait 10 minutes, Hank said in disbelief. Cover all the exits. Don’t let anybody out of the building.

The newly-arrived sergeant sent bicycle cops scurrying to their posts.

The man inside frantically pointed to an object lying on the shiny marble floor in the middle of the lobby. He held up 9 fingers. Hank could make out a red display on the object, 09. The numbers changed each minute, 08, 07, 06.

CHAPTER 2

Wednesday Afternoon, Day 1

When the object on the floor of the bank stopped flashing numbers, it displayed 00 and then went dark. A flood of people emerged from behind the tellers’ counters and disbursed into the lobby. The gray man in the gray suit ran to unlock the heavy glass doors.

He pushed the door open. We’ve been robbed. He gasped. They had a bomb with a motion detector. If we set foot beyond the counter before 30 minutes expired we’d be blown up.

Are you the CEO? Hank asked.

No, the gray man said, I’m Chief Cashier Harvey Oliver. The bank president has gone home for the day.

You said bomb? the bicycle cop asked.

Yes, a bomb, the excited Oliver said unloading his lungs.

We have to get the bomb squad here. Don’t touch it, the officer said.

Hank rushed into the bank lobby and examined the device without touching it. The device looked like a sandwich with a digital alarm clock taped to one side and a motion detector on the other side between six red sticks of dynamite.

Leave that thing here. All you people come with me, Hank ordered.

While the crowd followed him, Hank’s mind raced back in time. While special agent of the FBI, he attended a seminar that included displays of documents captured in an Al Queda training camp in Afghanistan. The bomb found on the bank floor resembled one of the Al Queda bomb diagrams.

Because one of the perpetrators might be hiding among the customers, he told the officers, Make sure everyone comes. Don’t let anyone leave.

Hank led the people out of the bank lobby and into the main lobby of the building while the three police officers rode herd behind. Hank sat on a lobby couch and motioned to Pritchett, the bank guard. Come here, please, Mr. Pritchett and tell me what happened. Sit down and relax.

Pritchett eased down onto the comfortable couch. He loosened his tie and took a deep breath.

Now, take your time and tell me what happened from the beginning. Hank took notes as Pritchett related how the three men in Alfred E. Neuman masks forced their way in and how ashamed he felt of being disarmed and helpless.

They moved in military precision. The robbery must have been meticulously planned and I have an idea they tried to cover that fact.

How so, Hank asked.

You know how any military man won’t rest his finger on the trigger, how he keeps it out straight by the trigger?

Yes.

Well, this guy perched on top of the counter kept his finger on the Uzi trigger all the time. It’s a good thing something didn’t startle him.

It may be so. Keep going.

"I had to sneak a peek now and then from my position by the main door. The smallest perpetrator passed a large gray canvas bag along the tellers’ counter and the black one shouted, ‘Put all your bills in the bag. No dye packs; if anyone puts a dye pack in the bag they get shot.’

While the tellers put their bills in the bag, I noticed Mrs. Cantrell, leaning against the wall. I was afraid she would pass out. She looked at me as if to say, ‘What shall I do?’ I nodded to her. She understood and stayed put. Oliver opened her cash drawer, dumped the loose bills into the canvas bag and then withdrew a bundle of bills." Pritchett paused and took a deep breath.

Keep going, Hank said.

The little perp shouted out hysterically, ‘That’s a dye pack, isn’t it?’ Oliver admitted that it was. The little one grabbed the bundle and told Oliver it was a good thing he told him or he’d be dead. Then he threw the bundle of bills against the wall. The bundle exploded sending dollar bills flying like confetti in the wind. The red dye covered the wall and Mrs. Cantrell with it. Pritchett paused, took a deep breath and continued, It looked like bloody murder with all that red dye splattered around.

And then?

That’s about it.

FBI agents and Dallas detectives trooped in. Pritchett stood to leave.

Just a minute, Pritchett, I won’t take much longer. Sit tight for a moment.

Hank greeted the new arrivals and briefed them on what he knew so far. They took over questioning from the uniformed officers.

Hank returned to his seat beside Pritchett and asked, how about the silent alarms?

Oh the tellers pushed the buttons okay but nothing happened. Pritchett shook his head. I could see them moving their feet around under the counter. It looked like they were stepping on bugs. I thought it’s time the police arrived. It’s been long enough but the first police officers we saw were the bicycle cops trying to get in the front door.

The robbers must have known there were alarm buttons on the floor and under the counters, Hank said.

Apparently they didn’t care.

Okay, then what?

Well, that’s all, Pritchett said. Wait a minute. I left something out.

Go ahead.

After getting the safe deposit boxes the black perp shouted out, ‘hey, look there, the main vault is still open. We might as well rob the bank while we’re here.’ He sounded more like a British lawyer, very precise English. The tall one nodded his Alfred E. Neuman face enthusiastically and told me to get a cart. We went into the vault and took all the bundled currency we could stack on the cart and wheeled it away.

Hank looked up from his note pad. Are you saying that robbing the bank was just an afterthought?

Only that it appears that way. The safe deposit boxes clearly were their first priority. Pritchett squirmed like he wanted to get up from the couch.

Just another minute, Pritchett, Hank said. So you helped haul the loot out on a dolly.

Yes, I did. Really, I had no choice.

Of course, where did you take it?

"The little one pushed a cart, the tall one pushed a cart and I pushed another to the elevators. The little one took the elevator. The tall one escorted me back into the bank. When we got there the black one jumped down off the counter. He held the Uzi on the customers and staff and told them they were to stay where they were for 30 minutes. After he left they could take their hands down but they were not to go around the counter. If they did, a motion detector would set off a bomb.

About that time the little one came back with a package wrapped in brown paper. It was the bomb you found on the floor. Pritchett sighed and leaned forward in his seat.

How long was the little perp gone after he entered the elevator? Hank asked.

I don’t know, maybe a few minutes.

Did you check the time?

No.

Do you think he had time to go all the way to the roof and back?

I doubt it but couldn’t be sure.

Anything else you can think of? Hank asked.

No, that’s all I can remember, Pritchett said.

While the three police officers gathered names and addresses and checked IDs of the others, Hank managed to get Oliver calmed down. Pritchett got up and the Oliver took Pritchett’s place on the couch and told Hank about the robbery from Oliver’s point of view.

A bicycle officer rushed in. Ranger, we found two bodies back there.

Hank followed the officer back to the safe deposit vault and found the bodies of two men handcuffed together through the gate’s bars. A faint odor of burned gunpowder touched Hank’s sense of smell and then was gone like an air kiss. Each man had been shot in the back of the head with a small caliber bullet that left little blood around the entrance wounds and no exit wounds.

Looks like a twenty-two wound, execution style, Hank said. He picked up a wallet beside the victim on the outside of the bared door. Preston Powers, Hank said. Here’s a license to carry. It looks like his right arm was pulled hard through the bars.

I know this guy, the bicycle cop said. He’s Morris Tobolowsky, an officer with Rockwall PD. Tobolowsky’s body lay on the floor with his right arm outstretched and handcuffed to Powers’ arm through the bars of the door. Each slain man’s wrist oozed blood around the steel handcuffs.

Looks like Tobolowsky tried to pull the other one through the bars, the officer said.

I suppose if he saw the other guy get shot in the back of the head, he’d try to get away, Hank said. From the blood and bruises on his wrist, I’d say he tried really hard.

Hank summoned Pritchett. Did any of the perps have a twenty-two?

No, like I told you, there was an Uzi, two what I guessed to be nine millimeters, my thirty-eight and the two thirty-eights they took from these poor guys, Pritchett said defensively.

Pritchett, you’re an experienced police officer. You know the difference between a nine millimeter and a twenty-two.

Sure I do, Pritchett said, with a trace of indignation in his voice. There was no twenty-two that I saw.

Traffic began to move outside. Several more police officers entered the bank and marked off the area with yellow crime scene tape. FBI agents and Dallas detectives continued with interrogations from the uniformed officers.

Hank questioned the woman in charge of the safe deposit vault and learned that one of the robbers had gone through the files, looking up names and box numbers. Only eight large safe deposit boxes had been taken. Wan Ol Key had rented two and Eisha ben Ali had rented six. Although the woman in charge of the safe deposit vault had been near the safe deposit vault during the robbery, she heard no gunshots.

"Six large safe deposit boxes, isn’t that a lot for one person? Hank asked.

Yes. It is, she said. One big box holds a lot. This lady, Eisha ben Ali, had six and she was here nearly every day. She’d cart things in a suitcase with wheels like what people drag around in airports and put things in her big safe deposit boxes. The box was sometimes so heavy she had to have help getting it back into its slot.

Do you have any idea what she had in them? Hank asked.

Oh, no, she answered as if he had touched a nerve. All those transactions are private and were done in the private room. I never saw anything. I didn’t want to see anything. Her voice trembled.

How many signatories on her access cards? Hank asked.

It was just her. No one ever accessed the boxes except her.

Hank with Pritchett at