He reached the counter, set his leather folder down gently, and waited for the young man behind the glass to look up from his terminal.
Dean Foster had worked as a teller at Meridian Trust's flagship branch for just under two years, a position he'd taken initially as a stepping stone toward what he hoped would eventually become a career in private wealth management — the corner offices upstairs, the six-figure client portfolios, the particular polished prestige he associated, rightly or wrongly, with the bank's most senior positions. In the meantime, working the teller line, he had developed a set of instincts about which customers were worth his most attentive service and which were, in his private estimation, simply passing through — instincts built, gradually and without much conscious examination, out of two years of watching which customers arrived in tailored coats and which arrived looking, in his private judgment, considerably less consequential.
He looked up as Edward Harris approached the counter, took in the worn overcoat, the cane, the battered leather folder, and something in his expression shifted, almost immediately, from neutral customer-service pleasantness into a faint, barely concealed skepticism.
"Can I help you?" he asked, in the particular flat tone that suggested the question was more formality than genuine offer.
"I hope so," Edward said, his voice steady, carrying the mild warmth of a man who had spent his entire career greeting strangers across a counter much like this one. "There's a transaction on my account I don't recognize. I'd like some help looking into it."
Dean's eyes moved across Edward's coat, his cane, the frayed edge of the folder resting on the counter between them, and something in his posture straightened slightly — not with attentiveness, but with the particular defensive alertness of someone bracing for a conversation he'd already decided, before it had properly begun, was likely to be a waste of his time.
"Your account, sir?" he said, a faint, unmistakable note of skepticism creeping into his voice. "Do you even know what kind of bank this is?"
Edward paused for a moment, absorbing the question with the same mild, unhurried patience he brought to most things, though something in his expression suggested he understood, precisely and immediately, exactly what was actually being asked underneath the surface of the words.
"I believe I do," he said simply. "I'd still like you to check the account, if you don't mind."
"This is a private bank," Dean said, his tone carrying now the particular over-explaining cadence people use when they've decided the person in front of them requires basic facts spelled out slowly. "We manage significant client portfolios here. I'm not sure this is really the right place for—" he paused, seeming to search briefly for a phrase that sounded polite while conveying exactly what he meant, "—for general banking questions."