He sampled the sausage puff pastry while his speechless staff stopped eating. Jackie wouldn’t appreciate plates coming back with food untasted.
“There’s more?” Devon asked for all of them.
Bryce reached for his coffee. “I’m told there is.”
He’d been working the numbers in his head most of the morning. “Devon, I’d like to take everything we have in present inventory down in price to our cost plus eight percent. It will move inventory, raise cash, and give us much-needed vault and display space. But that’s going to put enormous strain on the website business for processing orders, packaging, and shipping coins. I need you to go back through the employment records, look at those we have employed on a temporary basis to help at auctions, at coin shows, select those who are careful, who work well with minimal supervision, and staff us up to handle it. As soon as you have enough staff on hand to provide quality service, take down the prices.”
“I can think of several possibilities without even pulling the files.”
“They’ll be temp positions, but at least four months of steady work.” Bryce considered the problems he had identified. “Depending on the pace of sales, managing the vault space is going to be one of the squeeze points. We’re fine for the first five hundred coins, but it’s the group after this one that starts to get interesting. So for now, Devon, I’m going to take back on my plate all purchase decisions on new inventory.”
“I’ve got no problem with that, boss. I imagine cash flow is going to be interesting for a while too.”
Bryce nodded. “I broke my piggy bank this morning and told my banker I was putting another slug of personal cash into the business. When you see the coins over the next few days, you’ll understand the gamble. I think we have the potential to secure our profitability for the next several years if we manage this carefully. We need to expand vault space so we can hold more inventory—I’ll be focused on fixing that.”
Bryce settled back in his chair, his coffee in his hand. “One last thing. I’m not going to tell you much about the estate, or the lady selling. She’s got some sting to her.”
Devon appeared to think about that. “Sounds interesting.”
Bryce laughed. “Oh, she is that.”
He finished his coffee, then the last of the crepe. He hadn’t enjoyed a breakfast meeting more than this one in ages. He glanced at the time and made a decision. He set aside his napkin, pushed back his chair. “I’m going to let the three of you enjoy your breakfast and plan the details of this while I go get the first hundred coins. I’ll meet you back at the shop in, say, an hour and a half.”
Sharon smiled at him. “I don’t think you’re bored anymore, Bryce.”
“Not so much.”
“We’ll be ready for the coins. It’s going to be fun,” Sharon promised.
To his surprise Bryce found that Sharon was right about the fun. With Charlotte out of the picture for a couple of weeks, he could focus on what needed to be done and was enjoying the work. He arrived at Bishop Chicago the third day just after nine, carrying yet another box of coins. The store was humming with activity. The front window display had been changed, photographs of coins in the vault were strategically placed, and fresh coffee and donuts were set out. Kim, on the phone, looked over, smiled, and held up two fingers.
Sharon had the center display case open, and Bryce stopped beside her to see what had just sold. “Kim placed the 1866 Gold Liberty ten and the 1880 Gold Indian three,” Sharon told him, moving the coins into archive-quality sleeves and placing them into sales boxes.
“Two of the best coins in the group.”
“And priced accordingly,” Kim said, smiling as she hung up the phone. “Jim wants to see anything else we get in Indian threes.”
“I’m carrying another four.”
Kim did a bit of a dance. “I love sales days.”
Bryce laughed. “Where are we at, total?”
“Twenty-nine sales, and strong prospects on the others we have graded and photographed so far. Current clients should absorb the first hundred coins without much problem. Devon thinks he’ll have the grading finished today.”
“I’m carrying the beginning of the second hundred. It’s going to be a good day. Find me if I can help you with anything.”
He left the coins with Devon and headed to his office. He wanted every coin Charlotte planned to sell. Four million in thirty days was his goal, and his plan on how to get there was coming together. Selling current inventory, some of the estate coins, adding another equity slice of his own personal cash were pieces of the answer.
The final piece was to put together a group of buyers for the coins so their cash was available if necessary. He planned to buy aggressively for Bishop Chicago. But the one thing he could not afford was having Charlotte go into business next door. Having a syndicate of buyers as a backstop would mitigate that risk. Bryce opened his address book and picked up the phone. He’d be ready within thirty days.
“Bryce, this got couriered over.” Kim caught him in the hall to hand off a package.
“Thanks, Kim.”
The package was from Chapel Security. Bryce took it back to his office, slit open the envelope inside, and pulled out a single page.
Interesting request, Bishop. Charlotte Graham is the owner of Graham Enterprises, Trust, Wisconsin. It’s the third largest transportation, warehouse, and storage business in the country. She inherited ownership of the business from her grandfather, Fred Graham, who passed away in May of 2011.
Fred Graham never married, but the grandfather/granddaughter connection has legal standing. It appears Fred Graham had a daughter he never acknowledged. The connection is through Charlotte’s mother. I’ve got threads that suggest Charlotte changed her last name to Graham in 2006.
Charlotte Graham owns residential property in Silverton, WI, that she bought in 2007 and paid for with cash. The truck she drives is registered to that address. She leased the storefront using the law firm of Baird, McRay, & Scott out of New York. All bills related to the storefront route to that law firm.
Before 2006 the picture is murky. Looks like Charlotte’s from Texas. Age unknown. Marital status unknown. Birthplace unknown. Prior name unknown.
Eric Chapel had added a handwritten note.
She might be the sketch artist CRM. Serious talent if I’ve got her pegged right. More as I find it. Call if you have further specific questions.
Bishop thoughtfully folded the page. It wasn’t what he expected. The art in the shop next door had caught his attention, and he wondered if he’d find something with those initials. If she was more than just a passive owner, was now running the transportation and warehouse company, he doubted the business was something she found easy to do or that it gave her much time for her art. He had some sympathy for her situation. The fact she’d inherited a company and the responsibilities of it, along with some wealth, had a familiar ring.
THREE
Paul Falcon leaned against his wife’s worktable and waited for her to stop typing. Ann had lifted a finger when he walked into their shared home office to signal she needed another minute. He had no idea what story she was working on—she was stingy about giving out details before it was done—but she would work the hours to write it, and he would enjoy the book when it was done. Black was leaning against his knee, and out of habit Paul shared a pretzel from his handful with the dog.
“Thank you. Done for the day.” Ann glanced back at the screen. “Or at least for the next hour.”
Paul leaned over and kissed her.
She offered a smile and kissed him back as her attention fully shifted away from the story to him. “Welcome home.”
“It’s late. I brought work home with me. Dinner smells good.”
“Jackie said put the crock pot on low and leave it alone. I could do that.”
He smiled. “We’ll both enjoy it.”
“How was work?”
“Decent day.” Though she had been out of law enforc
ement for a while, her security clearance was still higher than his, so he told her the details while she worked his tie loose. “Someone might be studying security around the former Sears Tower, and it’s got me worried. On the good side, we finally busted that shipment company moving cash around for the Madoni family. Didn’t net as much cash as I hoped, but it sent a message.”
“How much?”
“Sixteen million. I think we hit their supply of fives and tens, so it might at least annoy them a bit.”
He nudged her toward the couch in their office so he could sit and put his feet up for twenty minutes. “Sam and Rita are out on a date tonight. They don’t think I know, but give a boss credit for being a good sleuth. Dinner at Porchello’s followed by music somewhere I didn’t manage to nail down. Probably not the question tonight, but it looks promising. That was my day. How was yours?”
“Pretty quiet. I slept in, read a book, typed on a story. Your dad called—he said you should call him back. Boone wants to buy an ice-skating rink. Your mom said yes for lunch tomorrow here, and we’re going to go shopping afterwards. Black and I discussed a play date with Jasmine.”
Paul glanced down at the dog, now looking up at the sound of his name. “Budding romance is getting serious, is it?”
The dog slapped a tail against the floor, then leaned over to pick up Ann’s shoe and disappeared toward the bedroom.
Ann watched him leave. “The problem is he only puts one of them away.”
Paul laughed, and relaxed for the first time since the day had begun. He was normally on the way to the office by seven a.m. For security reasons a driver and bureau car were provided now that he ran the Chicago office. He started his workday in the back seat, reading the overnight brief that came to his home by secure fax. Catching half an hour of normal time with Ann when he got home each night was something he treasured.
“What cold case did you bring home?”
He curled a strand of her hair around his finger. “What makes you think I did?”
“We solved the last one.”
She might be a retired homicide cop, and he’d managed to get himself promoted too high for the rewards of hands-on running a case, but they both could keep their hand in. He dropped a kiss on her hair. “Baby Connor.”
“I wasn’t a cop yet, but I remember it, the funeral.”
“Of the cases I considered, this one stood out for its sadness. A three-month-old baby boy taken from a stroller at a shopping center, the note left says We’ll be in touch. The father gets a call on the fourth day from a local pub telling him how to find where his son is buried. The case needs solving. I brought a copy of the call home with me. The audio guys cleaned it up with today’s equipment; they were able to separate several of the background conversations.”
“Anything useful?”
“A busy pub on a Wednesday night.”
“I’ll enjoy working on it with you.”
“Nineteen years old. It’s ice cold.”
“We enjoy a challenge. It’s open. That’s what matters.”
Paul reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small archive-quality, clear plastic sleeve. “I also stopped by to see Bryce for a couple minutes. He thought you might enjoy this one.”
The coin inside was a silver-capped Bust half-dollar, one of the 1834s she favored. Paul knew she would enjoy it, and Bryce had assured him it was in better condition than most Ann had handled during the years she had dealt coins.
“You’ve got good taste,” she said, turning the coin over.
“Bryce helps with that. Have you heard anything more about why Charlotte is in town?” Ann’s sources were better than his on some matters.
“Her business with Bryce is simply selling the coins from her grandfather’s estate. Probably where this one came from. But the rest of it—she’s got the kind of decisions ahead of her I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I touched base with John. He seems . . . well, not worried but cautious, watchful. She really needs a quiet few months.”
“After seeing Bryce, I phoned the office to have them pull the Bazoni file.”
“You’ll need a big room. Look at how it ended.”
Paul smoothed hair back from her face. “Know something?”
Ann simply shrugged.
“Yeah.” The two women shared a history of having been snatched. Ann would know Charlotte’s story. “I think she’s got Bryce a bit flustered,” Paul mentioned.
“Really?” Ann smiled. “There’s a first for everything. I’ve never seen the man flustered.” She tucked the coin back in his pocket. “Ginger Nyce said yes to coming to dinner.”
Paul was pleasantly surprised at the thought of Bryce and Ginger together as a couple. If they clicked, it would be a very good fit. “Ginger Nyce. That’s an interesting choice.”
“She’d be good for him. Going to go running with Bryce this weekend?”
“If the weather cooperates.”
“Mention Ginger likes to travel and shares his taste in music.”
Paul smiled. “I’ll see if I can work it in.”
Black came back carrying his dinner bowl.
Ann leaned down to take it. “Black, you had dinner.”
Her dog dropped his head on her knee.
Paul watched the quiet conversation between the two of them and let his wife up when she gave in to Black’s plea. He could remember the days he didn’t have a wife and dog, but he wouldn’t trade anything to have those days back. This was simply too entertaining. “You’re a pushover.”
“You share your breakfast. And I saw you give him a pretzel.”
“Didn’t say I wasn’t one too. Has he gained weight?”
“The vet says he’s lost three pounds. I’m jealous of our dog.”
“I’ll fix our dinner while you fix his second course.” Paul stopped to open his briefcase and get out the baby Connor summary so Ann could read it while he worked on the meal.
Paul opened one eye as Ann’s elbow pressed into his rib cage from her side of the bed. Her light was still on.
“‘Baby Connor Hewitt, three months old, was abducted from a stroller at the outdoor Lincoln Square shopping center,’” she read aloud, “‘when his mother stopped to assist a girl who had fallen and skinned her knees. It happened at 6:14 p.m. July twenty-first, a Saturday night, when the shopping center was crowded with foot traffic.’”
She was rereading the summary file at . . . he tried to make out the time on the clock, then conceded reality and closed his eyes. He’d married a woman who was as much a night owl as he was a morning lark. For her it wasn’t the middle of the night.
“‘Interviews with those in the shopping center and the parking lots produced no direct eyewitnesses to the abduction, but a consensus formed of two young men, one carrying a child, jackets, jeans, ball caps and gloves, getting into a white panel van.’” He heard the folder close. “Question.”
“Okay,” he murmured, both eyes still closed, but listening.
“Do we think two guys took baby Connor? Or were the witnesses giving us simply an innocent family out shopping? People try to be helpful when a cop asks them a question like ‘Did you see anyone walking toward the parking lot with an infant?’”
They both knew the odds the consensus was wrong. “At least two people,” Paul replied. “One to hold the baby, one to drive. Not sure I’d take a baby, though, if I’m a guy. What do you do with it the next day? And the one after that? Better to grab a child who can sit at the table and eat a sandwich, follow directions, already be potty-trained.”
“Someone took an infant and wasn’t worried about what the day-to-day details would be like.”
“This probably wasn’t just two guys,” he noted. “And babies cry. Though that might explain why baby Connor was shaken to death within three days. I think we’re looking for a family with money problems. Brothers maybe, drag in a wife to handle the day-to-day of caring for a baby.”
She thought about that. “Thanks.” She shut off the light.
“I bet you get odd looks when guys ask what kind of gifts you give your wife, and you say old coins and cold cases.”
“Only from those who don’t know my wife.” Whoever had taken baby Connor was enjoying their last months of freedom, they just didn’t know it yet.
“You can sleep now.”
“Going to.”
The room grew quiet enough Paul could hear the dog breathing by the foot of the bed. He wrapped an arm around his wife. Life was good.
Paul paused in the kitchen on his way to take Black for his morning walk. Ann was writing on a pad of paper and drinking coffee, and she wasn’t one to particularly like coffee. “You’re up early. What’s got you puzzled?”
Ann handed him the coffee mug. “Listen to the baby Connor call again.” She cued up the recording.
“This is not the ransom call you are expecting. Your son died yesterday. I got asked to bury the child and declined. The FBI is tracing this call so you know I’m at the Dublin Pub in Meadow Park. The bulletin board by the pay phones, on the back of a photo of Mrs. Leary’s lost cat, you’ll find a map to where your son is buried. They did the job themselves after arguing with me for a bit. If the information is good, leave ten thousand with the bartender and I’ll consider calling back when I have more to say.”
The tape went to static. Ann shut off the recording. “We’ll talk about the call itself another time. It’s not the call that’s got me puzzled. It’s the Mrs. Leary’s lost cat. It’s like the inside joke of Chicago, Mrs. O’Leary whose cow started the great fire of 1871. It feels like a tongue-in-check reference to that.”
“Somewhere in the notes they figured it out,” Paul told her. “The name on the photo was actually Mrs. Cary. He altered it. I suspect our caller drew the map, played with the name while he thought about what he wanted to say on the call, stuck the photo back on the bulletin board, and dropped his coins into the pay phone. Which reminds me—make a note to see if anyone thought to check for fingerprints on the coins. He wiped down the phone and the photo, probably didn’t think of the coins.” Black was leaning into the back of his knee to move him toward the elevator. Paul ruffled his ears in apology.
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