Dolled Up for Murder

by Jane K. Cleland

  “You said he was eating.”

  “God, Wes, you’re ruthless.”

  He grinned. “Nah. I’m a pussycat.”

  I grinned back. Wes was one of a kind.

  Wes asked me to e-mail him the scans of the Civil War currency, and I agreed. He said that he would try to get the digital X-ray showing the European doll’s hollow head filled with money from his police source.

  “That’d be off-the-chart cool,” he said. “Spooky, too, like a dead doll.”

  “Have you heard anything about the keycard or the cars?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

  “Why are you asking about them?”

  “I was thinking there are a lot of leads for the police to work—like the stuff the kidnapper gave me, and maybe his car’s tire tread, if they can isolate it in the mud. Of all the options, though, I thought the two that probably offer the best promise are the hotel keycard, which he either stole or got because he registered as a guest, and the cars, which he must have bought somewhere. I mean, buying a cash-and-carry phone, a simple black dress, run-of-the-mill flip-flops, and nothing-special towels is one thing. Getting your hands on a hotel keycard and purchasing two cars is another thing altogether. There have to be records.”

  “Good call, Josie! The keycard was issued to a man who checked in the day after Eric was kidnapped. He registered for three days.”

  “Three days? Why three days? Why not one? Or two? Why three? Oh!” I exclaimed before Wes could respond. “I know … because he didn’t know how long it would take to work out the exchange, he guessed. He wanted to avoid having to contact the hotel to extend his stay if he could—figuring the less contact he had with anyone, the better. Am I right?”

  Wes grinned. “No one can think of any other reason. Good going, Josie!”

  “So who is it?”

  “George Shankle. He used a California driver’s license to check in. It has a fake Fresno address.”

  “Let me guess, no one remembers him.”

  “Right. There’s a security camera at the front desk, which shows a white guy wearing a Red Sox baseball cap. He kept his head down and his back to the camera as much as he could, as if he knew it was there.”

  “Do you have the photo?”

  “Yeah, two of them,” he said, scrolling through images on his smart phone. “The camera takes shots every three seconds. These are the only ones that show any part of his face.” He handed the unit to me. “Here.”

  The photos were black-and-white and grainy. The man was tall, or so it seemed. He wasn’t overly thin or noticeably heavy. He wore a puffy down jacket, too warm for the season but effective at hiding his body’s size. He stood with his chin almost resting on his chest, his cap’s bill casting long, dark shadows over his face. In one of the photos, he was signing the registration card, and I looked at his hands. He wore no rings. His nails were neatly clipped. I saw no scars or tattoos or birthmarks.

  “How on God’s earth did you get these, Wes?” I asked.

  “Cool, huh? Do you recognize him?”

  “No. Did you steal the photos?”

  “Josie!” He sounded outraged. “The police gave them to me. They want to publicize it. They’re up on our Web site already and will be all over the news tonight. They hope someone will recognize him.”

  “Amazing. What about the cars?”

  “The Camry was purchased for cash in Brookline, Massachusetts, by, wait for it, George Shankle. The Sonata was purchased from a used car lot in Quincy, Massachusetts, also for cash, also by Shankle.”

  “Wow,” I said, thinking it through.

  “There’s more.” From his tone, I could tell he was big with news. “The same guy, George Shankle, bought a third car—an Impala. This one came from a lot in Newton, Massachusetts. Same deal. Lots of used car lots have security cameras installed, but none of these do, so the police think maybe that’s why he chose those three dealers over all the others.”

  I grew up in Wenton, outside of Boston, so I knew the area well. Brookline, Newton, and Quincy were all on the subway line. He could take public transportation to the dealers and drive away.

  “Interesting … so he was driving the Impala.”

  “That’s what they figure.”

  “When did he buy them?”

  “All three were purchased yesterday—the day after Eric was kidnapped.”

  “The day after?”

  “Yup, the same day he registered at the hotel. He bought the first car at eight in the morning, the second at noon, and the third at four.”

  I nodded, thinking. “What about the license plates?” I asked. “Can’t they trace him from the tags?”

  “Nope. They were stolen from vehicles parked in the long-term parking garage at Logan Airport, from three cars parked next to one another. The police figure he picked those particular cars because they were parked in a remote, dark corner, and there were no security cameras.”

  “A long-term parking garage … So there might be a good chance the owners wouldn’t be back to their cars for days. Even then, who checks if your front plate is in place?”

  “I know. Wicked clever, huh?”

  “Yeah … wicked,” I said, not rolling my eyes but wanting to. “Have they found the Impala yet?”

  “Yup. Want to guess the first place they checked?”

  “The long-term parking garage at Logan Airport.”

  “Hot banana, Josie! That’s what I thought, too. So did the cops. It’s logical, but no dice.”

  “Which means he didn’t leave his own car in that garage.”

  “Right. There are security cameras at the cashier’s booth. If he’d parked there, he would have had to exit in front of the cameras, and they’d have him for sure.”

  “So he walked into the garage to get the license plates,” I said, thinking aloud, “and he walked out. Where did he park his car?”

  “Who knows? He could have parked it in a commuter lot anywhere along the line and taken the subway to the airport. Lots of people do that.”

  “So if they didn’t find his Impala in the long-term parking garage at Logan, where was it?”

  “At the Round the Clock diner,” Wes said.

  “The Round the Clock? Why would he park there … oh! Got it. The express bus to Logan leaves from there. Wow … so the morning after he kidnaps Eric, he leaves his car at the diner and takes the bus to the airport. He takes the T, the subway, to Brookline and buys a car. He drives it back to the diner in Rocky Point, about a ninety-minute drive, maybe two hours, if there’s traffic. The diner is so busy all the time, no one would notice a car that hadn’t been moved, at least for a few days. Were there any dolls in the car?”

  Wes frowned. “I don’t know. The police aren’t talking.”

  “Okay, then. The kidnapper hops the bus back to the airport, takes the subway to Newton, and buys the second car.”

  “Actually Quincy was second. Newton was third.”

  “The bus drivers can’t ID him?”

  “Nope. Working backward from the time the cars were purchased, they can estimate when he boarded the buses. If they’re right, there are three different bus drivers involved, and none of them noticed anything. My request for other passengers to come forward is already posted on our Web site. The police think community cooperation is their best shot for ID’ing him. They have his schedule and his photo—don’t you think there’s a good chance it will work?”

  I shook my head and handed back his phone. “No one notices other people on a bus or train. Even when you sit next to someone for hours, like on an airplane—unless you had some kind of meaningful conversation or something weird happened—by the time you’ve collected your luggage, they’re gone from your brain. Plus, I figure he wore a disguise.”

  “Like he made you do, huh? I hear you look good as a blonde.”

  “Wes! Who said that?”

  “I’m not telling,” he said, grinning.

  The young EMS guy, I thought. Neither Ellis nor t
he older paramedic would comment on my appearance to a reporter, but I could see the young guy getting into it with Wes. I didn’t want to know the details.

  “What about the car dealers?” I asked, changing the subject. “Can’t they ID him?”

  “Not really. A middle-aged white guy. Crazy red hair and glasses, and a mole. The police artist took one of the photos and extrapolated what the guy would look like straight on, then Photoshopped it to add the red hair and so on.” He punched a button on his phone. “Here, take a look.”

  The photo was unrecognizable. “It could be any of them—Lenny, Ian, or Randall,” I said.

  “Yeah. They all have motives, right?”

  “Right, and you could make a case that Alice told any one of them where the money was. In other words, the more we learn, the less we know.” I sighed. “What about fingerprints?”

  “None. They’re certain he wore gloves the whole time.”

  “They’re tracking the purchases of the phone and clothes and so on, but I bet they’re not going to find anything.”

  “Probably not. They’re hoping Eric will remember something, anything, that might help them. Like how long it took to drive from the log cabin to the meet off Old Garrison. Like the view from the window where he was kept. Like whether the kidnapper spoke with any kind of accent or used any unusual words. Anything.”

  I nodded. “The devil’s in the details, and Eric might remember a detail that causes the kidnapper’s whole plan to unravel.”

  “Yeah. So when is Eric coming back to work, do you think?”

  “When he’s ready. I don’t expect him before Monday.”

  “When he comes in, take a photo,” Wes said.

  “Wes! Don’t be crass.”

  “What’s crass about that? He’s hot news, Josie. Let him have his fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll see. I doubt he’ll want me to. Eric’s not a chasing-celebrity kind of guy.”

  “Take it when’s he not looking.”

  “Forget it, Wes.”

  He sighed, a to-his-toenails indictment of my discretion. He glanced through his notes. “The kidnapper sure thought of everything, didn’t he?”

  “A detail-oriented risk taker. Or someone desperate enough to risk everything.”

  “Who fits that bill?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What else you got?” Wes asked.

  “Nothing. You have it all.”

  “Great! Thanks! Catch ya later!”

  I watched him slide-walk down the dune and jog to his car.

  Wes was always in a hurry.

  * * *

  When I got back to work, surviving another pass through the media gauntlet, Cara handed me a message. Barry Simpson, the numismatist, had called. I climbed the steps to my private office and dialed his number, eager to hear his findings.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, “but some of the currency you sent me is counterfeit. Are you sure you sent the right packages?”

  My mouth fell open and my heart sank, inch by inch, to the pit of my stomach. I stood up, then fell back down. Was it possible that I’d given the kidnapper the genuine bills?

  Dawn and I had laid out four bills from what was supposedly the real stash on the photocopier’s glass. I recalled extracting them from the pile. As soon as we had a good-quality make-ready, I’d placed those bills in the safe with the others. She and Fred had meticulously cut and trimmed the photocopied bills. The currency I removed from the Chatty Cathys went in envelopes. The fake currency went into the dolls. What I’d sent Barry was the currency I’d intended to send him.

  “You said ‘some.’ Which part?”

  “All from one envelope, three hundred bills.”

  “All of them?” I asked, stunned.

  “Yup. It looks that way.”

  “I’m shocked, Barry. Really shocked. I thought all the bills I sent you were real. What about all the others?”

  “They look promising.”

  Relief washed over me. I’d taken bills from the stash of one hundred to create the make-ready. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t my mistake. “What can you tell me about the three hundred you think are phonies?”

  “Here’s what I know: The currency is printed, not photocopied, and printed well—it’s a complicated, detailed design, and it’s in perfect registration. Specifically, the money was printed on an offset press using Pantone inks, which if you want to ID the counterfeiter doesn’t help much because both of those components, the press and the ink, are about as common as it gets. What I can say is that you’re looking for a master printer. A real craftsman created the plates used to print these bills. Which narrows the field a little, but not all that much. There are lots of good printers here and around the world. The paper is called Elegance. It’s good quality, archival, appropriate for the purpose, manufactured in Minnesota by Penterman & Sons. Elegance features a quill pen watermark. The paper was introduced in 1965 and discontinued four years ago when the company was acquired by Eastham. It was never sold overseas.”

  “So the counterfeits were made in this country and more than four years ago?”

  “Most likely on both counts. It’s possible someone shipped the paper to another country, just as it’s possible there are some reams of Elegance still knocking around, but that would be a fluke. Based on the materials used and the old-school printing quality, my guess is that someone created these bills years ago.”

  “I don’t have a clue about what’s going on, Barry—but I know I have to report this to the police right away. Can you e-mail me your report?”

  “I have a hard copy of it here. Let me fax it over. Do you want me to send out an alert to dealers, a BOLO?”

  I recognized the acronym: Be on the lookout. “Yes, please, and ask them to report any sightings to Police Chief Hunter.”

  I gave him Ellis’s contact information and our fax number, asked him to ship the counterfeit currency back for next-morning delivery, and told him to send his invoice. I added one more thank-you, then hung up and dashed downstairs. I wanted to get the fax myself before anyone else saw it. I didn’t want to take the time to explain Barry’s findings; the situation was too urgent and the potential ramifications too dire to risk any delay in reporting it to the police. Jamie and Lorna had to be told—I only hoped they’d believe me when I assured them I hadn’t tried to pull a fast one.

  I knew Ellis would want me to give an official statement, so I made a photocopy of Barry’s fax, filed the original in a locked drawer of my desk, and called Ellis from my private office.

  “I have something to tell you and something to show you that can’t wait. Can I stop by now?”

  “Yes. I’m in the middle of six things, as you can imagine, but I’ll fit you in for sure.”

  Downstairs, I told Cara I’d be back in a while and left.

  * * *

  Cathy, the Rocky Point police civilian admin, showed me into Ellis’s office. The office furniture and the layout were unchanged from when Ty had been the police chief. The desk, bookcases, and guest table and chairs were crafted of ash. From where I sat, I had a good view of Ellis’s framed Norman Rockwell posters that lined the walls.

  The door opened. “Thanks, Cathy,” Ellis called over his shoulder. He smiled as he closed the door. “It’s nice to see a friendly face.”

  “You look harassed.”

  “I feel harassed.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  He sat down and arched his back a little, stretching, maybe trying to loosen taut muscles or ease an ache.

  “I guess it’s all right for me to tell you,” he said. “The attorney general wants the world to know, and it’ll be all over the news in about an hour anyway. The attorney general, in cooperation with the federal prosecutor, has issued warrants for Lenny Einsohn and Randall Michaels. He’s calling a press conference on the courthouse steps at four thirty, just in time for the evening news. Our part in the production is to organize the perp wa
lk. We’ll be marching them up the stairs during his presentation.”

  “Holy cow! What are the charges?”

  “Racketeering and fraud are the big ones.” He took in a breath. “Various charges related to financial improprieties at Alice’s company.”

  “Are you happy to cooperate? Or are you feeling dragged into a media circus?”

  “A little of both. The AG is a good man. He wants to reassure the victims that law enforcement is on the case and making progress, and he wants to warn other scammers that they’re not going to get away with it on his watch, and this is a good way to do it. Yet it does feel a little staged.” He shrugged. “I’m just a cop. It’s not my place to judge.”

  “You’re such a good man, Ellis.” I paused. “Lenny I expected … but Randall?”

  “Yeah, I think the evidence is a little slim myself, but the AG is confident. According to his theory of the crime Randall’s business is just a front, a tax dodge. He thinks it operated as a department of ADM Financial Advisers Inc., not an independent entity, and that as Alice’s chief marketing strategist, Randall knew or should have known about the Ponzi scheme. Essentially, they’re saying Randall was his mother’s puppet.”

  “Yikes.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Yikes, indeed. We have to leave in about forty minutes. What can I do for you?”

  I slid Barry’s report across the table. Ellis’s eyes dropped to the paper. He scanned it, then raised his eyes to meet mine.

  “Counterfeit?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  He read the report, taking his time, then rubbed his nose, thinking. He tapped the paper. “So the currency from the doll we X-rayed and two of the Chatty Cathys is fine, but the currency from the third Chatty Cathy, all three hundred bills, is fake, is that what he’s saying?”

  “Yes—and that it was printed between 1965 and four years ago, although the four-year mark isn’t set in stone since a store or printer might have had some leftover reams in inventory.”

  “Would you agree that in all probability Jamie and Lorna don’t know the currency is phony?”

  “Yes. Which means that probably Selma, their mom, didn’t know either.”

  “So someone replaced the real stuff with fake bills sometime between 1965 and a few years ago. Is there any way to narrow the timeline?”