THE PHANTOM HEIST

Chapter 2: The Investigation Begins

The Meridian National Bank stood like a fortress of granite and glass, its Art Deco facade a remnant of a more optimistic era. Sarah pulled into the employee parking lot, her weathered Ford Taurus standing out among the sleek luxury sedans of bank executives.

Frank Reynolds, the bank's head of security, greeted her with a look that was one part suspicion, two parts exhaustion. He was pushing sixty, with silvery hair and hands that had clearly seen decades of service.

"Ms. Mathews," he said, extending a calloused hand. "Didn't expect the police to keep digging after the arrests."

Sarah produced her official folder, crisp and meticulously organized. "Just tying up loose ends, Mr. Reynolds. I'd like to review the bank's security logs and speak with your staff."

His eyes flickered—just for a moment—with something that looked like fear.

The bank's internal layout was a maze of modern security systems and preserved historical architecture. Reynolds walked her through, pointing out camera positions and vault security protocols. Sarah noticed his hand trembled slightly when they passed near an old section of wall.

"How long have you worked security here?" she asked casually.

"Thirty-seven years," Reynolds replied. "Started as a night guard back in '86. Seen a lot of changes."

Sarah's ears perked up. 1986—the year of the first robbery she'd discovered in her research. "Must have been quite different back then."

Reynolds stopped walking. For a moment, Sarah thought he might not answer. Then: "Some things don't change as much as you'd think."

Their interview was interrupted by Martin Greene, the bank's assistant manager. Perfectly pressed suit, designer glasses, nervous energy. He practically materialized at Sarah's elbow.

"Is this really necessary?" Greene asked. "We've already cooperated fully with the investigation."

Sarah's smile was professional but sharp. "Just dotting our i's, Mr. Greene. Standard procedure."

As Greene excused himself, Reynolds leaned closer. "Be careful asking too many questions," he muttered. "Some stories are better left alone."

The staff interviews proved frustrating. Most were cooperative but offered nothing substantial. Until Sarah spoke with Elena Rodriguez, a junior teller who'd worked the night shift during the robbery.

"There was something weird that night," Elena admitted, her voice low. "I know everyone will think I'm crazy, but... the vault area felt different. Cold. Like someone was watching."

Sarah pulled out her notebook. "Cold how?"

"Not just temperature," Elena said. "Like a presence. I've worked nights for two years. Something was... off."

The final interview was with Reynolds again, this time in a quiet back office lined with decades of security logs and old photographs. Sarah noticed a framed newspaper clipping from 1944—something about a hospital fire.

"You've been here a long time," Sarah said. "You must have seen everything."

Reynolds' facade cracked. He pulled out an old photo from his wallet—a group of hospital workers from decades ago. His finger traced a figure in the back of the image.

"Not everything," he said quietly. "Not by a long shot."

As Sarah was leaving, a detective called with disturbing news. Michael Torres, one of the captured bank robbers, had been found dead in his jail cell. Cause of death: unknown. His face was frozen in an expression of absolute terror.

The investigation was no longer just about a bank robbery.

It was about something much darker.

Something that had been waiting—watching—for far longer than anyone realized.