WestOne's lobby resembled nothing of the chaos it had been in when she'd last seen it. Fresh paint covered the bullet holes in the drywall. Two more new large planters full of brightly colored, fake flowers bloomed with vibrant colors at either end of the teller's counter.

Jeremy waited for her near the counter. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Yes."

"You can work with me if you want."

"Thanks, but Lisa already complains about preferential treatment. And I'm sure my desk is overloaded."

"I'll let you get to it, then."

She flipped on the lights in her office. Nothing had changed. A mound of paperwork awaited her. She sifted through the mess hoping routine would drown the nervous energy rippling through her body. Two customers had complaints about their checking account balances, a real-estate developer wanted additional financing, and several qualified individuals had applied for the recently vacated teller position.

One by one, employees knocked on her door to welcome her back. Emilie searched their faces for any sign of insincerity.

Mollie hugged her, while Miranda hung back, guilt written all over her face. She'd been the one to press the alarm despite being trained not to.

"Miranda, it's all right," Emilie said. "You were scared. I'm not blaming you."

"I knew better," Miranda sobbed. "If I hadn't done that, maybe the man wouldn't have tried to take you."

"You probably saved me. The alarm got the cops here and made the Taker rethink his plan."

Lisa was the last to arrive. Ronson had released a statement to the press that bank employees had been cleared, but Emilie knew Lisa was still on the list.

"I see you've come back." Lisa didn't bother to knock. She leaned on the door frame, stick-thin in the black dress she wore. Her over-processed blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Thick makeup covered the blemishes on her cheeks.

"Yep."

"Sure you're ready for that?"

"Yep."

"Didn't you just have a breakdown?"

"No."

"That's what the newspaper said."

"Newspaper was wrong." Emilie slammed her hand down on the stapler. Too bad she couldn't staple Lisa's mouth shut.

"Cops interviewed me, you know."

"Did they?"

"Apparently I was a suspect."

"I'm sure they talked to all the employees."

"They did." Lisa folded her skinny arms across her small chest. "But they talked to me more than once. Someone thought I had motive to hurt you."

"Get to the point."

"My point is that you must have told them I could be involved. I don't appreciate that."

"Anything else?"

Lisa stepped into the office and ran her finger over the nameplate on Emilie's desk. "Just that you should be careful. The bad guy is still out there, and the cops know nothing about him. With all the effort he put into trying to kidnap you, I bet he's going to try again." Lisa's smile was about as real as her hair color.

"I will be." Emilie looked at the clock. "Past nine. We should both get back to work."

"Of course. Welcome back."

"Thanks. Would you shut the door on your way out? I have so much work to catch up on."

"Sure."

As she pa.s.sed the office's window, Emilie was certain Lisa winked at her.

Had she just been warned?

Nathan and Johnson peered through the two-way gla.s.s in one of the station's interrogation rooms. A man sat alone in the small, gray room, his shoulders hunched over and his forehead resting on his hands.

The man, whose name was Rod Burrell, wore ratty cast-offs. His brown cargo pants were frayed at the cuffs and his red T-shirt was worn thin. His generic work boots were scuffed and one was missing a lace. A large knapsack rested near his feet. Nathan guessed it held Burrell's worldly possessions. He wore a dingy white cap, his brown hair curling around the cap's edges.

"What's his story?"

"He used to work at White Knights Cleaning Service," Johnson said. "They clean WestOne Bank. Ronson said this guy was fired eight months ago and wound up in the tunnels."

"He's seen the Taker?"

"That's what he says."

Nathan shifted his attention as Ronson entered the room looking cool and collected. Two steps behind her Avery faltered. He clamped his hand over his nose and mouth.

"p.u.s.s.y," Johnson chortled. "What'd he expect? The dude's been living in the tunnels. Showers aren't easy to come by."

"He shouldn't even be allowed in there," Nathan said.

Ronson took the seat directly across from Burrell and leaned forward as if she were talking to an old friend. Avery rested his elbow on the metal arm of his chair and covered his nose.

He looked ridiculous.

"Mr. Burrell," Ronson began.

"Call me Rod."

"Rod. Can you start from the beginning? How long were you employed with White Knights?"

"About nine months."

"And during that time you cleaned WestOne Bank?"

"Yeah."

"What areas did you clean?"

"Me and another guy were responsible for the entire main floor."

"So how'd you end up in the bas.e.m.e.nt?" Avery asked.

Burrell shifted uneasily and glanced at the two-way mirror. "There'd been complaints, so I was getting shifted to a business down the street. Bunch of bulls.h.i.t. Anyway, my co-worker was out sick. It was my last night. Figured I'd do some exploring and see what I could find. Ended up in that storage room. Couldn't believe it was unlocked."

"What did you take?" Avery demanded.

"Nothing." Burrell drummed his fingernails on the table. "Am I going to be in trouble if I say I did?"

"No," Ronson said. "The theft of a few office supplies is the least of my concerns. Please, go on."

Nathan wished she'd send Avery out of the room.

"So I was lookin' around down there," Burrell continued. "I could tell no one was in there much. Place was dusty as s.h.i.t. I was about to leave when I saw this big stack of boxes in the corner. Might be something good in them, you know? Started digging one by one, moving them around. The door was hidden behind them. Thought I was hallucinating at first."

Nathan waited for the question he knew Ronson would ask next. The police had been deliberately vague to the media about the door's exterior and condition.

"Can you describe the door?" Ronson asked.

"Old. Wood. Probably oak. Solid." His words were coming faster now, as though telling the story out loud was a great relief. "It was faded and cracked, but the handle still worked. Took some elbow grease, but I got the thing opened enough to squeeze through."

"You touched the door?" Avery asked.

"Wouldn't you?"

"Your fingerprints weren't found."

"That's 'cause I'm no dummy. I wiped it clea.n.u.sed a cleaner from my kit."

"What did you see after you opened the door?" Ronson asked.

"Nothing, for a minute. Turned on my flashlight and about p.i.s.sed myself. Cobwebs everywhere, big old spiders, c.o.c.kroaches, some squirmy, grub lookin' things. And the stink. Holy G.o.d, it was awful."

Nathan's heart raced. Burrell was telling the truth.

"I shined my light and could see it was a tunnel of some sort. Bunch of c.r.a.p was on the floor: yellowed newspapers, old gla.s.s bottles, some coins. I wanted to check those out, but I couldn't go too far in. The spiders hung from the ceiling and creepy-crawlies moving all around. Couldn't handle that s.h.i.t."

"You see anything like that either time you were in there?" Johnson asked.

"No," Nathan said. "The Taker likes history. He probably took everything."

"You live in the storm drains," Avery said. "We're supposed to believe you were too creeped out to explore the tunnel?"

Burrell stared at Avery. "I live in the tunnels because I don't have anywhere else. That night at the bank, I still had a home."

"Then what?" Ronson pressed forward.

"I chickened out. Shut the door, latched it, and stacked the boxes back. Got the h.e.l.l out of there." Burrell rubbed his biceps as though suddenly cold. "Weren't just the bugs, you know. The place gave me a creepy feeling, like the earth would swallow me up if I went inside."

"That was eight months ago?" Ronson asked.

"Yeah."

"When did you first enter the storm drains?"

"I didn't want to end up there, you know." Burrell fidgeted with the black string tied around his wrist. "I'd heard about the homeless down there but never thought...well, my life was paycheck to paycheck. I couldn't pay the rent and was out on my a.s.s.

"That was around Christmas time. It was chilly. Some dude told me to get into the drain on 15-the one near the 'Welcome to Las Vegas' sign. So I did."

"All the bigwigs and high-rollers in this city, and we got people living in the f.u.c.king sewer." Johnson shook his head. "Welcome to the American dream."

"Tell us about your encounter with the suspect," Ronson said.

"Was in January," Burrell said. "I remember 'cause it was cold, in the low thirties. Me and a dude I'd hooked up with-they call him Snake because of this tat around his waist, a big-a.s.sed boa constrictor. f.u.c.king creepy." Burrell took off the dirty cap and a pack of GPC's fell out. "Can I smoke in here?"

"No." Avery's lip curled. "Continue."

Burrell shoved the cigarettes back in the cap and stuck it back on his head. "Snake had a little fire pit. Used to gather up newspapers and trash to burn when it was cold. So we were sitting by the fire, drinking some beer Snake'd come by. Two guys come up. Snake knew them both."

Nathan leaned forward. Had the man actually seen the Taker?

"They asked if they could share our fire. They had more beer. We said yes."

"What did they look like?" Ronson asked.

"One was short and real skinny, malnourished looking. Probably from the d.a.m.ned crack he kept smoking. He was white, too. Pale white. Too much time down below."

"Definitely not Joe," Nathan murmured.

"And the other man?" Ronson offered Burrell a bottle of water.

"Tall. Beard, but not too long. Trimmed. Couldn't tell for sure if he was black, but I thought so. Maybe mixed race. Talked weird. Kind of choppy. Seemed fake."

"Emilie was sure the Taker disguised his voice," Nathan said.

"I didn't think he was legit." Burrell shrugged. "He looked poor enough. His clothes weren't any better than ours. But he was real clean, and his nails were nice and trimmed. And he spoke like a higher-up."

"A higher-up?" Avery asked.