Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
We drove through the midday traffic in silence, the windshield wipers clearing the last of the mist from the glass. The city looked different now, brighter and colder than it had when we entered the building two hours ago.
“Are you going back to Martha’s?” Frank asked as we stopped at a red light on Westheimer.
“Only to get my things,” I said.
“You have the keys to the River Oaks house now,” Frank said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “The locks will need to be changed again.”
“I will call the locksmith from Martha’s kitchen,” I said.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Houston National Bank ten minutes later. The red brick building looked solid and safe under the pale afternoon sun.
“I have the safety deposit box key,” Frank said, holding open the heavy glass door for me. “Box four hundred and twelve.”
We walked down the steps to the basement vault, where the air was cool and smelled of old paper and brass polish. The vault manager, a quiet man in a grey suit, led us to the private viewing room and set the long metal box on the table.
