The bank teller looked up as Milton York entered the small branch of Bank of Greater Wisconsin that afternoon. She smiled, recognizing the elderly man from other visits, knowing him by face, name, and limp.
She nodded as he stepped before her at the counter. "Good afternoon, Mr. York. What can we do for you today?"
York returned her smile. That was what kept him coming back to the modest local bank branch, personal attention, and one of the few banks that hadn't outgrown the needs of Musgrove's aging population. "I'd like to see my deposit box. One-thirty-nine."
"Very well. I'll have Chuck put you through." She turned to look across the lobby to where the security guard stood near an open doorway in the brick wall. "Go right in, Mr. York."
He crossed the hushed room, his steps slow on the low pile, well-worn dark red carpet. The security guard, Chuck, was in his sixties, a thin man whose holster drooped on his lean waist. He tipped his hat to York as the older man passed and went into the safe deposit room.
It was a little room, holding the smaller of deposit boxes, devoid of table or other furnishings, and a younger woman was at her box at another wall when he stepped in. York went to Box 139 and fit his key into the lock, turning it. From his pocket he took the velvet pouch and pulled the sapphire ring from it. For a moment his fingers were tight on it, his thumb pressing into the inscribed band, memories of fifty years of marriage playing through his mind. His hand began to tremble slightly, and he put the ring back in the pouch, and pulled out the box. Inside were two larger black cloth pouches.
He loosened the drawstring on one and slipped the blue pouch inside it, then tightened the string and folded the top over itself. A shooting pain caught his chest, and York put a hand to his heart, pressing firmly, wincing. The pain seized for a moment longer, and then eased off. He breathed slowly, a chill sweat breaking out over his face.
He pushed the box closed, twisting the lock. He looked around the room. The woman had left. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. He breathed carefully, and then made his way slowly out of the room.
*****
It wasn't the first such episode, and they'd been happening more lately. York didn't want to admit it, even to himself, but his health was failing. His thoughts had turned to Rukia, his sole grandchild, his only heir.
He took his time walking home, savoring the late afternoon shade and fragrant tuberoses that leaned over a neighbors fence as he passed on the sidewalk. Even as he climbed the three steps to the porch of his house, York knew something wasn't right, and it was getting worse.
His breath fell short of his lungs as he passed through the living room and into the kitchen. He sank heavily into a chair at the table, the cane sliding, falling to the floor. He put a shaky hand to his pants pocket, searching for the handkerchief there.
"Milt!" Frank's voice called from the screen door at the front porch. "Got your mail again!"
York's hand clenched the handkerchief, his other hand holding his chest. He heard the screen door open and close.
"You'd think after fifty years they'd get the damn mail straight," Frank's voice grouched, nearing the kitchen.
York tried to rise, his legs buckling as he collapsed to the floor.
Frank rushed into the room. "Milt! Oh lord!" He knelt beside the older man, a hand going to his back. "Hold on, Milt!" He grabbed the phone of the table as York gasped, falling to his side on the floor. Frank punched in a few numbers on the phone. "Get me an ambulance!"
*****
By the time the paramedics loaded Milton York into the ambulance it was near dark. Grace and Frank lingered at the back of the emergency vehicle, her face an ash color beneath her wrinkles, her hands clasped in front of her as her eyes shot between Frank and the medics.
The head paramedic sighed, nodding to them as he approached. "He's stable now. We can reach at the number you gave Leroy?"
Grace looked to the younger medic closing the ambulance doors. "Milt has a granddaughter. She should know, too."
Frank put an arm around Grace's shoulder. "It's his only kin."
The medic nodded. "Do you have her name?"
Grace started to the house, oblivious to the lights of the ambulance flashing around the yard, the dogs yipping across the lane. "Milt has to have it somewhere in the house..."
The paramedic gave Frank a business card. "Call this number when you find a name."
Frank nodded as the medic got into the ambulance.
*****
Later that night Ichigo was back at the bar, watching the pool game in progress as Gralini inspected the box of gemstones he'd recut. Ichigo wanted out of New York. He'd been there for three days, and that time was about all he could take of the city.
Gralini smiled, his aged eyes taking in the gleam of the gemstones in the poor light of the bar. He sifted through the bright stones.
"They're clean now?"
"Yup." Ichigo took a drink of his beer. "Don't try to sell them back to the jewelers, Mr. Gralini. If you want to get rid to them, let me know."
"No. My grandchildren. They'll come to you, you see."
Ichigo had heard it before. "Fine. Be careful. And keep up with the new monies."
Gralini nodded, reaching for his wallet in his jacket pocket.
Ichigo shook his head. "Forget it."
Gralini looked to him in surprise. "No. What is your charge for repackaging stones?"
The younger man leaned over the table as one of the men playing pool looked over at them. "No charge. You're a good client, Mr. Gralini. A good grandfather."
The older man thought this over for a moment, scratching his balding head. "In the old country I would kiss you for this."
Ichigo chuckled. "I'll pass." He watched the man place the stones in the box. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"No. You've helped more than you know."
Ichigo stood and put the money for their drinks on the table. "Let me know if you need anything else."
"My thanks. Take care, Ichigo."
Gralini watched the younger man leave the table, head for the door and into the noisy night. He looked back down at the small box.
No one would suspect the $100,000 worth of stones inside. Or that a man like him would carry them.
*****
The phone ringing woke Rukia from a thick sleep that night. At first she settled closer to Michael, burying her dark hair in his chest as his arm came around her, until neither of them could ignore the incessant ringing.
"Who could that be now?" he grumbled, reaching over to the night stand and flicking on the lamp.
Rukia squeezed her eyes shut against the low light, pulling the lavender and plum comforter closer about them.
Michael picked up the phone and put it to his ear. "Yes?"
Rukia slowly opened her eyes, hearing his heartbeat quicken as he listened. She looked to his face as his eyes dropped to her.
"Yes, she's here..."
He frowned, sitting up slowly. Rukia dropped onto her own pillow with a plop, staring at his back.
"I see."
She sat up, leaning against his arm. "Who is it?"
His voice was lower. "Yes. I'll tell her."
She sat straighter, pulling her peach camisole strap higher over her shoulder as it slipped over her arm. "Who was it?"
His eyes softened as he looked to her, running a hand through his hair. "Honey, it's not good news."
Her fingers embedded in his arm, eyes imploring his. "What? Who?"
"I'm sorry, Rukia. Grandpa York was taken into emergency earlier tonight. Heart-attack."
Her breath caught, eyes widening. "Oh, no!"
His arm closed around her. "I'm sorry, honey. He's gone."
Rukia buried her face in his chest as the tears welled in her eyes. She felt him kiss the top of her head as she drew her knees close.
*****
By the time morning came Rukia had cried herself out. She tried to busy herself in the kitchen, hating the sunshine that streamed through the window over the sink between her small potted plants on the ledge there.
Mocking her anguish, it seemed.
She packed Michael's lunch for the day, intermittently wiping her eyes that threatened to storm again. She looked to the kitchen doorway as he appeared there, dressed for work in jeans and t-shirt.
He stood beside her at the counter, his arm warm and protective around her. "I can stay home, hon."
She tired to smile, but it was a meek failure. She took a mug from the overhead cupboard and poured him a cup of coffee. "No. I'm okay. I've got a few phone calls to make."
"All right." He took a short drink of the hot coffee. "I'll call at lunch."
She nodded and finished packing the lunchbox. "What do you want for breakfast?"
He looked at the scrambled eggs still in the pot on the stove she'd made to prepare his lunch. "You got plans for those?"
She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."
"I'll just take an egg sandwich to go then. Get out of your hair early."
She smiled up at him, this time a fuller smile. "I don't want you out of my hair."
He smiled, kissing her cheek.
*****
Aizen and Paulson arrived at the small branch of Bank of Greater Wisconsin that afternoon. It was a regularly scheduled visit, one that was on their route for the year, a mediocre job that they'd both done a hundred times in the Midwest. The inspections usually produced nothing, but lately, the last six months, there'd been more activity, resulting in IRS audits at a thirty percent increase.
Aizen headed for the bank teller with an open window as Paulson waited at the roped barrier a few feet behind him. The teller looked over their long dark coats and watchful nature with her own suspicions.
"Welcome to Bank of Greater Wisconsin," she said, a cautious smile on her face. She looked to Paulson for a second, and then back to Aizen standing before her. "How can I help you?"
He showed her the D5 badge beneath his coat lapel and she sighed in visible relief. "Agents Aizen and Paulson, Division Five. Personal safe deposits, please."
She nodded and pointed to the open doorway in the brick wall to their left where the security guard was watching, one hand on his sagging holster at his side.
"Right that way," she said.
"Thank you."
Another, older teller sidled up to the first as the men left for the small room under Chuck's scrutiny.
"Hmph," the more experienced teller grunted. "Monthly assets scan? That should be illegal."
The first teller shook her head, watching Aizen and Paulson disappear into the room housing the deposit boxes. "Nothing is illegal for Division Five anymore."
Aizen and Paulson nodded at Chuck as they passed the security guard, and he eased into his usual slouch against the opposite wall. Inside the room another older woman was at a box pulled out from the wall, her aged shoulders hunched in an osteoporosis slump over her slight figure, blue-gray hair carefully curled over her wrinkled face. She looked up at them, faded blue eyes disdainful.
Paulson moved closer to her as she put a protective hand over the items in her deposit box. "Excuse me, ma'am. We're going to have to ask you to step out for a moment."
She gave him and Aizen a loathsome look, sliding the box into the wall. "Nazi IRS bastards," she grumbled before leaving the room.
Aizen chuckled. "She's got you pegged."
Paulson looked after the old woman before turning to the wall of boxes. "Us."
"Charmer."
Paulson withdrew a small scanner from his coat pocket and moved it in a sweeping motion across the rows of boxes.
Aizen was doing the same at the other wall, the flat end of the scanner moving slowly over the rows of boxes, one row at a time, passing over York's Box 139 without reacting. When the red LED point read Box 129 the scanner beeped twice. Aizen passed over the box in question again, and the scanner reacted once more. He pulled out a hand held device the size of a deck of cards, punching in the box number and bank routing code on the keypad.
"I hate these damn small buttons," he muttered as he pressed 'clear' and reentered the numbers.
Across the room Paulson had finished without any reactions to the scan, and joined him. "That's because they're designed with teenage girls' fingers in mind."
Aizen ignored him. On the device a name popped up on the equally small screen. "Box One-twenty-nine belongs to Marvin McAllen, attorney-at-law. Two blocks from here." He took out a set of keys out of his pants pocket and found the pass key for Bank of Greater Wisconsin. He fit it into the box lock and pulled out the box.
Paulson leaned closer to see a narrow black velvet case inside. He shook his head as Aizen opened it to expose six four-carat faceted Mozambique rubies. "Likes his rubies, does he?"
Aizen nodded. "Unwashed, chemically clean rubies." He snapped the case shut and closed the empty safe deposit box. "Get us an arrest warrant faxed over for Mr. McAllen, Pauly, and we'll pay him a visit."
*****
Evening fell over Rukia's small hometown, the cooler air lifting the scorching day one degree at a time, bringing the fragrance of wisteria across the modest backyards in the row of older homes that shared her street. She sat with Michael at the rear of their home, on the porch that was merely a poured slab leading out from the back door for four feet-by-four feet, with a cement step running the length of it.
They sat with their backs leaned to the door behind them, her smaller stature just enough so that her head cleared his shoulder in height. She sat in the crook of his arm, their empty glasses of iced tea to one side on the cement. The yard was empty of anything, save a few garbage cans and an old sandbox that had been there when they moved in two years ago.
There was little sand left in it, as it was mostly weeds and wild flowers inside now that had sprung up from non-use.
She sighed, her eyes going to the next yard over as their neighbor came out her front door. She was plainly visible, Ambra was, as her house sat back farther than most on the street, being one of the larger lots. Ambra looked to them, waving, her jean skirt short, tight, barely covering what it was designed to cover. Her tank top was loose -- as usual -- the thin straps draping across and down her dark tanned shoulders, gathered at the bottom at her small waist. She pushed her long auburn hair over her shoulder as she stooped -- strategically, it seemed to Rukia -- to pick up the tawny cat sideling around her bare feet.
Rukia bit her tongue at the words that came to mind. Ambra was much like that barfly Michael had found so irresistible. Her eyes narrowed as Ambra sat down at her front porch, in full view of them, and leaned against her house, bringing the cat to sit in her lap, its paws resting on her chest.
Beside her, Rukia saw Michael's eyes following the movements of cat and neighbor alike. She couldn't resist asking. "Wishing you were the cat, Michael?"
He shook his head, his attention going to Rukia. "How could you think that?"
She looked down as his hand closed over hers, the touch not bringing the reaction in her she knew he wanted. "You know how. The question is, do you?"
His hand tightened. "You know better than that now, honey."
"Do I?" Her tone had more misgivings than it usually did when she thought about the affair. She looked back to Ambra, who was petting the cat's back fondly. "She doesn't act like a married woman, that Ambra. I wonder if Larry gets half the attention that cat does."
Ambra looked to them, waved again.
Rukia fought a shudder, returning a short wave. "Even snakes smile."
Michael shook his head, wishing to change the subject. "What else did Grandpa York's attorney have to say?"
She sighed. "That's about it. I need to wrap up what little business he had. The house will likely be in poor shape. He sold off most of the back acreage to the township a few years back. It should only take about a week to put his affairs in order."
He nodded. "Won't be much to inherit."
Rukia frowned. "I should have seen him more."
He looked at her small fingers laced in his. "You couldn't. Not really. Not with just the one vehicle we have. I promise I'll get a second car as soon as we can afford one. At least you had one final visit. Remember him like that, Rukia." He moved his thumb over the back of her hand. "I'm sorry I can't go with you to the funeral. I'll be working the weekend. Sorry, Rukia."
"Overtime?" She saw him nod slightly. "It's been a while for that. We could really use it."
"Yeah. They're looking to make another foreman at the company."
"You?"
He grinned at her new smile. "Hope so. Will you be all right on your own tomorrow? It's a short bus ride there."
She nodded, then glanced to Ambra. "Will you."
He squeezed her hand. "I'm all yours, honey."
She smiled at the sincerity in his eyes. "Good."
*****
Ichigo sat in the newer model truck at the cemetery just outside the town limits of Musgrove, waiting for the funeral to be over, trying to recognize a woman he'd never seen before.
He sat back behind the steering wheel, a cigarette burning away in his hand draped at the lowered truck window. He could easily see the graveside proceedings. It was a small ceremony, with most of the figures of senior age, thinning hair, gray or white heads bowed as the Baptist minister spoke lowly.
Ichigo looked down at the letter he'd received from Milton York just a few days ago at the Fields address he'd given the older man. He also had a letter forwarded to him to the same address from the Offices of Ramos and Sanders, York's attorneys.
He looked back to the funeral. It was a nice day for the burial, warm but not quite muggy, just enough of a breeze to keep the insects at bay. He much preferred it over New York.
"A photo would have helped, York," he said under his breath, trying to sort through the figures across the street and half acre of gravestones. The minister finished speaking, and some of the mourners moved to other spots, comforting each other. He saw an older woman put her arm around a shorter, diminutive figure with dark hair.
Ichigo pulled his binoculars from under the road map beside him on the seat and trained them on the woman. She was definitely the youngest one there, her slender form dressed in a black dress and dark purple shawl. Her head shook slightly as she sobbed, the older woman's hand brushing across her back consolingly.
Ichigo nodded to himself. So that was Rukia Parker.