Read Chapter 16: The Rehearsal

The morning sun threw long shadows across LaSalle Street as Walter and Roy walked the Federal Trust block for the fourth time. Walter kept his eyes on the granite columns of the bank's entrance, counting the seconds between the guard's patrol passes. He'd done this dance a hundred times in his old life—timing, observing, mapping the predictable rhythms of institutional security. The trick was finding the gaps.

"Forty-seven seconds between the front door and the side alley," Walter murmured, barely moving his lips. "The guard stops to check his pocket watch at the corner. Every time."

Roy nodded, adjusting his fedora. "You've got a good eye, Crane."

"I had a better one when I wasn't trying to rob the place."

They crossed the street and entered the lobby of the office building adjacent to Federal Trust. From the third-floor window of an abandoned law office they'd scouted the day before, Walter had a clear sightline down into the bank's main floor. He pulled out his notebook—the same kind he'd used at Halcyon Mills, the same careful columns and annotations—and began sketching the security rotations.

"Two guards on the main floor during business hours," he said, pencil moving. "One at the vault door from noon to closing. The vault itself has a time lock, so we're not touching it. We're after DeVries's private strongbox in his office."

"The combination you memorized."

"I didn't memorize it. I wrote it down. Memorizing is for people who trust their memories." Walter flipped a page. "DeVries keeps the master ledger in his office safe, not the vault. His office is on the fourth floor. Private elevator from the parking garage. We need the audit celebration to get us past the lobby."

Roy leaned against the window frame, watching the street below. "And the celebration's in three days. The auditors will be crawling all over the place. Security will be tighter than a drum."

"Which is exactly why we'll walk in through the front door." Walter set down his pencil. "The auditors are coming from the Federal Reserve's Chicago branch. They'll have paperwork, seals, credentials. Doc can forge the audit seals. I can replicate the routing certificates. We walk in looking like we belong, and no one questions us."

"Until someone recognizes you."

The words hung in the air. Walter felt the weight of them.

"I've been gone four years," he said. "My face isn't on any wanted posters. I was a mid-level accountant at a bank that went under. No one remembers Walter Crane."

"No one but the people you worked with."

Walter was about to answer when movement below caught his eye. A figure in a gray suit emerged from the Federal Trust entrance, briefcase in hand, heading toward the coffee shop across the street. The man's stride was familiar. The way he held his shoulders, the slight limp from an old war injury.

Walter's blood went cold.

"Roy," he said, his voice tight. "I need to leave. Now."

Roy turned. "What's wrong?"

"That man. The one in the gray suit." Walter pointed with his chin. "His name is Edward Marsh. He worked with me at Halcyon Mills. We shared an office for three years."

Roy looked at Walter, then back at the man. "He's heading this way."

Walter stepped back from the window, pressing himself against the wall. His heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel the old shame crawling up his throat—the memory of Edward's face when the bank collapsed, the accusations, the lawsuits. Edward had lost everything too. His pension, his reputation. But Edward had a family. A wife and two girls. He'd watched Edward's world crumble just as surely as his own had.

"Does he know what you've been doing?" Roy asked.

"No. He knows I disappeared. Cleaned out my desk the night before the auditors showed up and vanished." Walter swallowed. "He probably thinks I was part of the fraud."

"Were you?"

The question hit Walter like a physical blow. He turned to face Roy, his jaw tight. "I was the one who found the fraud. I was the one who tried to stop it. And I was the one they blamed when it all came down. Edward believed them. He testified at the hearing—he said I'd been cooking the books for years. He was wrong, Roy. He was wrong."

Roy was quiet for a long moment. Below, Edward Marsh crossed the street and disappeared into the coffee shop.

"He's thirty minutes from here every morning," Walter said, regaining his composure. "He'll be inside the bank during the celebration. If he sees me, if he recognizes me, everything falls apart."

Roy rubbed his jaw. "So we make sure you're not seen."

"The plan was already going to be tight. Now it needs to be seamless. I can't be anywhere near him. Which means I need to know his schedule—when he moves through the building, where he sits during the audit presentations."

"How do you plan to get that information?"

Walter looked back at his notebook. There were pages of observations, hours of work. But this was different. This required access to Federal Trust's internal operations—the kind of access he no longer had.

"The audit attendees get a schedule," he said slowly. "A list of sessions, locations, times. If I can get my hands on that list, I can map Edward's movements. I can ensure we never cross paths."

"And how do you get the list?"

Walter thought for a moment. The celebration was an annual event, held in the bank's grand hall. It was by invitation only, and the invitations were printed on Federal Trust letterhead with a distinctive watermark. He'd seen them before, back when Federal Trust was considering a merger with Halcyon Mills. He knew what they looked like.

"I need paper," he said. "Federal Trust letterhead. I know the weight, the finish, the watermark pattern. If I can get a sample, I can forge an invitation."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Where are you going to get a sample?"

Walter's mind raced. There were firms in Chicago that handled Federal Trust's printing—he'd know the names if he were still in the business. But he'd been out of it for years. His contacts had dried up. His reputation was ash.

"There's only one place I know to look," he said. "The bank itself. They keep spare letterhead in the supply closets on the administrative floors. But getting into the building before the celebration..." He trailed off.

Roy was watching him with an unreadable expression. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I need another set of eyes inside." Walter closed the notebook. "Edward Marsh worked with me for three years. I know his habits. He keeps copies of everything—memos, schedules, the works. If I could get into his office, I could find the attendee list in minutes."

"But you can't get into his office."

"No." Walter looked out the window. Edward was emerging from the coffee shop, a cup in his hand, heading back toward the bank. "But Doc could. He's a new face. No one would recognize him. And he's got the chops to talk his way past a receptionist."

Roy considered this. "Doc's not sold on this job. He doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust either of us. But he wants in on the take." Walter watched Edward disappear through the bank's revolving doors. "I'll talk to him. Make him understand the stakes."

"Forge a letterhead, get the list, keep you clear of Marsh." Roy shook his head. "This is getting complicated."

"Complicated is the price of staying alive." Walter slung his bag over his shoulder. "I need to go. There's a print shop on Wabash that sells reproduction paper. If I'm lucky, they'll have something close enough to work with."

He was halfway to the door when Roy called after him. "Crane."

Walter paused.

"The girl you worked with. Edward Marsh." Roy's voice was low. "Is there anything else you're not telling me about him?"

Walter thought about the file folder in his apartment. The one marked with Edward's name. The ledger pages he'd kept, the transactions Edward had signed off on, the transfers Edward had approved in the weeks before the collapse.

"No," Walter said. "Nothing that matters."

He left before Roy could ask another question.

Back in his rented room that evening, Walter pulled out the envelope he'd been carrying for two days. The letter from his daughter, Margaret. She'd written to him at the boarding house address he'd left with her before everything fell apart. He'd received it a week ago and hadn't been able to afford the postage to send a reply.

He opened the envelope, unfolded the letter.

*Dear Dad,*

*I know you said not to write. But I wanted you to know I'm okay. Uncle Frank says you're doing something important. I hope you're being careful. I miss you.*

He read it three times. Then he folded it carefully and put it back in the envelope.

He couldn't afford to send a reply. He couldn't afford to let anyone know where he was. But the paper was good quality, heavy stock. It would take ink well without bleeding through.

He looked at the letter for a long time.

Then he took out his pen and began to rule lines across the back. Practice strokes. Testing the paper's surface for the forgery he'd need to create his invitation.

The letter from his daughter became the foundation for a lie.