OVERDOSE
A Novelette
Ray N. Kuili
The robbery was unprecedentedly brazen.
That’s what the newspapers were about to call it tomorrow. Brazen. Brazen and bold. Some would even go as far as labeling it, “The Robbery of the Decade.” “The Robbery of the Century” sounds even better, but it would be too much of a stretch even for the local reporters. “Decade” is just about right. Headlines like that can work miracles even in this age of shrinking circulations. Yet there was nothing bold about this robbery. Dull and downright cheeky, maybe. But not bold. And, as usual, they’ll blame the police. They have this way of making cops looking worse than robbers. As if—
“Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Steve Gorton looked up.
Inspector Kelly’s smile was shining before his eyes like a shot from a toothpaste commercial. Gorton made an effort not to wince. Recently he had been making efforts like that rather often.
“Yes, inspector?”
“We’ve finished inspecting the place. No signs of a break-in. No prints anywhere. No doubt we’re dealing with a team of professionals. There must have been at least three of them. Maybe even four. And I think . . .” Kelly paused as if emphasizing the significance of what he was about to say, “I think they got some help.”
He lowered his voice and looked around.
“You know, inside help. Someone had to turn off these cameras.”
“Certainly,” said Gorton, just to say something. “Have you already questioned everyone?”
“Everyone who’s already in. The branch manager just got here.”
“Keep talking to them as they arrive,” said Gorton, knowing full well that his directive was completely useless.
“Will do. What do you think about my theory?”
I think it’s just as dumb as all your other theories, Gorton wanted to reply. And I think you can take it and—
“Very plausible,” he heard his own voice. “And why do you suppose there were three of them?”
Kelly livened up even more.
“Well it’s very obvious if you think about it. It’s not like this bank is in the middle of nowhere. This is 2nd Avenue, of all places. They had to have someone on the lookout. Then a safecracker. Plus a driver. Three.”
“I see. All right, you can go now.”
Asking Kelly why the robbers needed a personal driver was too much of an effort. When you’re in your late twenties and your fierce enthusiasm is rivaled only by your equally fierce idiocy, you have an answer for every question. For anyone else, this combination would have been a serious career inhibitor, but when your uncle happens to be the mayor, you’re getting a free pass on many things. As for your desire to make a name for yourself and your tendency to come up with grandiose theories that have more to do with Hollywood than with real life, they only make you more original.
Gorton sighed and discovered that Kelly was still towering next to him.
“Anything else?”
“You wanted to speak with the manager,” Kelly reminded him.
Gorton waved him away.
“Not anymore. I’m sure you can take care of this. In an hour, check who didn’t show up for work. Then give me the name and run a background check.”
Kelly looked puzzled.
“Why are you so sure someone won’t show up?”
“Intuition,” replied Gorton sourly.
Making efforts had become too hard.
* * *
“David Borovsky,” Kelly reported an hour later. “Forty-six years old, nineteen years in this bank. In fact, in this branch. Loan officer. A very dedicated and reliable employee. Quiet, but sociable. Always comes to work on time; moreover, typically he’s one of the first employees in the office. We tried calling him at home, but no one is picking up the phone.”
“Married?”
“Yes. His wife is also in finance, works in Prudential. They have a grown-up daughter. She’s getting her master’s from some LA college.”
“I’m impressed,” said Gorton, surprised by the appreciative tone of his own voice.
Kelly smiled proudly.
“It wasn’t too hard. They all know everything about everyone. And Borovsky’s been here forever. Everyone says that if he didn’t call, something must have happened.”
“True,” Gorton agreed. “Something happened. I take it the branch manager is still here?”
“Yes. But I already spoke with him. Nothing useful. You said—”
“I know what I said. Everyone else had already showed up, right? Hand me your notes, please.”
* * *
“No,” the branch manager repeated for the third time. “This is impossible. Anyone but him. Borovsky couldn’t do it.”
He was fanning himself vehemently with a large white envelope. Drops of sweat glistened on his bald head despite the low humming of the air conditioner.
“Of course, it’s easy for you to suspect him—you don’t know him like I do. But this is ridiculous. A bank robbery? Borovsky wouldn’t steal a penny! He’s quiet and shy, and he’s a great employee. He just got sick. Can’t you get sick these days without becoming a suspect?”
He stopped fanning abruptly.
“You just want to close the case, don’t you? That’s what you’re after. You just need a scapegoat, right? But you know what? A scapegoat is not enough in this case. I need my money back. I don’t think you really understand the situation. My safe got cleaned out! Not a dime was left. Last night, this place was full of cash. This morning—nothing. So how’s declaring my employee a robber going to help me get those bills back?”
He resumed fanning with even greater vigor.
“By the way, your assistant—that nice young man over there—he’s talking about a gang of robbers. A gang. Now, that’s the direction I would expect your investigation to take. That would be so much more useful than suspecting a faithful, dedicated employee who’s been working here for ten years longer than I have!”
“Are you done?” asked Gorton.
The manager snorted derisively.
“We’ll give the gang theory all the attention it deserves,” Gorton assured him. “But in the meantime, I need to know more about Borovsky. Please tell me what you know about his interests, hobbies, habits and anything else that may be relevant.”
“Relevant . . .” For a moment the manager had a look on his face as if he was about to roll his eyes. “You’re wasting your time. But sure—why not? It’s your job, I guess.”
He heaved a sigh.
“He likes sports. I mean he’s a fan. He’s got a decent-sized collection of football stuff. Hobbies . . . well, Borovsky has been really into fishing recently. He’s been talking to everyone at the office about it. I’m sure he’ll tell you more when you speak with him.”
“Is he a good employee?”
“He’s a great employee. Very dedicated, very diligent, a good team player. He’s always willing to do more—and that includes things he’s not responsible for. His customer satisfaction numbers have been great for years. He’s a very quiet, very dependable man. Certainly not the kind that causes trouble.”
Gorton had to make another one of his little efforts.
“I know. I’ve already heard that he’s quiet. What about his career growth? He’s been here for nineteen years.”
The tiredness on the manager’s face became even more pronounced.
“Borovsky—unlike many others—doesn’t ask for anything. He has a very healthy attitude and I wish there were more people like him. He does what he’s expected to do, expects to get rewarded accordingly and gets paid fairly for his efforts. He takes whatever he’s given and is happy with what he gets. You give him a bonus—he takes it. You give him better medical insurance—he takes it. But when something isn’t his—like our clients’ money, for example—he doesn’t even think about taking it. So I don’t know what you’re after—”
“I’m after getting you your money back,” said Gorton in a flat voice. “That will be all for now. Please show me Borovsky’s desk.”
“Do you realize that you’re about to jeopardize an innocent man’s future?” the manager blasted out. “What would his colleagues think when they see you fumbling through his papers? Why are you so hell-bent on making him the suspect?”
Gorton sighed. What a perfect way to start a work week. First—Kelly and his theories. Now—this. Plus, the morning quarrel with Clara. Suddenly, he felt that making an effort had become too hard.
“Everyone in this office is a suspect,” he said. “Including you.”
The manager’s face twitched and he mopped his head with the envelope.
“As for jeopardizing anyone’s future,” continued Gorton, “I’d like to remind you that we have sent all your employees home. And now I would appreciate if you could show me Borovsky’s desk.”
David Borovsky’s desk was as standard as they come, with a gray computer humming quietly under it and a flat monitor crowning its cream matte surface. There was an obligatory advertisement featuring a new kind of loan (“Your Business—Our Guarantee!”), a stack of papers in the far-left corner, and a dozen pens and pencils sticking out of a cup made of thin black wire mesh.
Quiet and dependable, recalled Gorton as we sat down on a black rotating office chair. His eyes followed the manager who was walking back to his office. Even his back was full of indignation. I probably was too hard on the guy, thought Gorton. But he had it coming. He wouldn’t talk like that to a pizza man, but somehow being snotty with a police officer is perfectly acceptable. Well, at least he won’t be interfering now.
He turned back to the desk.
Pictures. Of course. Every self-respecting office worker must have family pictures on display on his desk. To remind him—or her—that there’s more to life than work. Or to make his workday bearable. Only, sometimes, these pictures curiously face the visitors, who, as they utter suitable compliments and ask befitting questions, don’t realize that the pictures are there for them and not for the happy family man.
But the photos on David Borovsky’s desk were facing Gorton. He looked into the face of a middle-aged, slightly heavyset woman. Even though he was seeing her face for the first time in his life, the smile on that face looked familiar. Very familiar. He knew that smile—the kind of smile where the eyes stay non-smiling, cold and almost grim—all too well. The young twenty-something woman in the second picture smiled more warmly. He looked at the face that seemed like a fresher version of the face on the left, trying to decide whether it was warmth or just a combination of a younger age and better posing skills.
Skills, he decided at the end. Not that it mattered though.
He pulled the drawer open.
Not much. Last year’s football almanac. A notepad—unfortunately empty. A pack of tissues. More pens and pencils. A brand new The Ultimate Guide to Fishing with a lucky smiling fisherman on the cover in the company of his not-so-lucky catch. A stapler. That’s all. No, here’s a business card in the corner. David Borovsky. That’s hardly useful. Although there’s a handwritten number on the back. No name. Now, that is worth checking out. Suppose—
“Lieutenant?”
“Yes,” Gorton replied, without turning towards the sound of the jovial voice bursting with energy. He wasn’t sure whether his tolerance of Kelly’s theories had been fully restored.
“We found no fingerprints.”
Now he’ll say they used gloves . . .
“No doubt, they worked in gloves.”
So they must have been professionals . . .
“We’re dealing with pros.”
It pays to have the mayor for an uncle . . .
“I’m going to tell our men to check with people living in the nearby apartments.”
“Are there any apartments nearby? It’s downtown.”
“Hmm . . . we’ll check. If there are some we’ll go door to door.”
“Good plan.” Gorton finally decided to swing round in his chair and face Kelly. “Keep me posted. And find Borovsky’s wife—I need to speak with her.”
Once Kelly’s steps had traveled far enough, Gorton arranged all the pens and pencils flat on the desk. David Borovsky clearly liked to collect items—and that wasn’t limited to sports. Gorton had high hopes for this particular collection.
Three pens marked with the bank’s logo. Of course. Prudential Financial. That must be a souvenir from Mrs. Borovsky. Dr. Mitchell: Your Smile is Our Priority. You don’t say. Days Inn. Hmm . . . The address? Yes, that’s a local Days Inn. Now why would you need a hotel in your own town, where you have a house and a caring wife? There could be a few reasons, but let’s not rush to conclusions. Another Prudential. A bank. Not just any bank—a competitor just a couple of blocks away. So you work for a local bank, but prefer to keep your own money in a national chain? Smart. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And what do we have here? Golden Skydiving Inc. Now, why would Mr. Borovsky need a parachute? To land on Days Inn’s roof? Or is this a new fishing technique? What a nice quiet family man . . .
What else have we got here? We’ve got a catch. The kind of catch even The Ultimate Guide to Fishing would be proud to feature on its cover. Dr. Moore. This doctor isn’t a dentist. He is a PsyD. He doesn’t peer into your mouth—it’s your mind he’s interested in. And apparently Dr. Moore has taken some interest in Mr. Borovsky’s mind. Unless he came here looking for a loan and left his pen as a security deposit. Anything else?
Yes, as a matter of fact there’s one more pen. Speak Easy: Spanish Immersion Programs. Good choice, Mr. Borovsky! Good choice. Travel is so good for your health. After all, it must be so tiring to sit in this office day after day, week after week, month after month for nineteen years. Just sit and talk about loans, deposits and down payments. And there’s no change in sight, short of retirement, which is not yet exactly around the corner. And every day you go back to your football collection and the woman with the grim smile. So yes, seeing some new places sounds like a perfect idea. Especially if you can speak the language. Way to go, Mr. Borovsky!
Well, that’s not so bad for a single drawer. Not bad at all. Plus there is that number.
Gorton reached for the phone.
“Jeb’s Guns and Gun Range,” said a flat voice in the receiver.
“This is David Borovsky,” Gorton said.
“Mr. Borovsky!” the voice livened up. “How are you, sir? Calling for another personal lesson?”
“Absolutely,” Gorton replied. “How about . . . you know what, let me call you back. I need to check my schedule.”
“Any time,” said the voice. “The guys would be happy to see you whenever you can make it.”
Gorton slowly returned the receiver into the cradle.
So the guys at Jeb’s Guns would be happy to see Mr. Borovsky at any time for another private lesson. How nice of them.
The pieces of the puzzle were snapping together perfectly to form a crisp picture. There was just one problem: they had been snapping together a tad too easily.