Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  “See that man over there,” she said pointing briefly to a short thin man wearing a form-fitting dark blue power suit and sporting a prematurely receding crew cut. He stood very erect, stiff and precise in his movements; his clean-shaven face and bright blue eyes darted about the room absorbing every nuance and detail. “That’s Paul Fallon, Maynard’s right-hand man.”

  As if on cue, Fallon spotted Debbie and quickly strode our way, hand extended.

  “Glad you could make it, Miss Macklin,” Fallon said, his unsmiling face the antithesis of his words. Debbie introduced me and we shook hands. His handshake was firm but his fingers damp. I thought I detected a brief glimmer of recognition in those keen eyes when he heard my name.

  He kept his focus on Debbie, and for that I was thankful.

  “Mr. Maynard won’t have face time for you tonight. Remember you are not here as a member of the press. Enjoy the energy and excitement of the evening.” He nodded as if to include me. “Dr. Adams.”

  The tightly-wound little man spoke with clipped and precise words. He turned on his heels and strode away, talking non-stop into his Bluetooth. He seemed self-assured and calculating.

  Just as he had in the bathroom at City Hall.

  I ate tiger shrimp in a delicate ginger sauce and end-cut prime rib from a Noritake crystal plate while Debbie nibbled on a carrot stick and broccoli stem. I wondered how she was able to keep standing erect and wondered if she ever ate a pint of ice cream alone in a midnight-darkened kitchen. I gazed beyond the draped bunting as two stately white swans glided along the glass top of a clear lake and large koi of all colors slowly swirled below. The sun began to set and the lower horizon turned sanguine. I grabbed a second glass of the bubbly, feeling the beginnings of a warm glow in my belly.

  A modern-day life of Riley.

  The string quartet switched to a light, up-tempo version of Happy Days Are Here Again. That and the flashing lights cued the guests to their seats. A pudgy balding man in his fifties, old man Haller’s eldest son, trudged to the podium. He acknowledged and thanked the mayor, two former mayors, various state senators, and representatives and other key officials for attending the first party fundraiser for the vacant senate seat. Uncomfortable with public speaking, he reminisced briefly about his father’s love of business and politics. When he said his dad was here in spirit smiling down on them tonight, the crowd applauded and lifted their glasses in a toast. He thanked Paul Fallon for providing tonight’s security, pointed to some of the several strapping young men in solid dark coats standing along the walls and at the main entrance, and then turned over the microphone to the mayor of St. Louis.

  Current and former elected officials gave emotional and truncated party speeches, little more than preaching to the choir, but each speaker urged everyone to open their checkbooks tonight for the party. Two politicians received polite applause when they announced their intent to seek the nomination. Other speakers mentioned John Maynard and whether he planned to throw his hat into the ring. The two who’d announced shot furtive glances at Maynard’s table.

  Maynard was one of the last speakers and appeared reluctant to walk to the dais, long enough for Fallon to be seen prodding him forward. On the way he stopped to shake hands and receive pats on the back. Heads turned and glasses rose as he flashed his trademark smile. “I wish to thank those of you who want to hear another announcement. Your support and confidence mean a great deal to me, and I know some of you want me to begin following in my father’s footsteps tonight, but I have a major trial to prepare for and a city to clean up. With that in mind, I must disappoint you tonight, but as dad used to say, ‘Never say never.’”

  A muffled buzz spread through the attendees, who looked blindsided by the news.

  “I want to thank the Haller Foundation for hosting this gala.” Looking at the tables of local businessmen, he raised his glass. “I praise you, captains of industry … you are the true visionaries, the men who form the backbone that makes this the greatest country in the world. Thank you for the jobs you create. With your support, our party will surely win the Senate seat next fall. Gentlemen, give each other a round of applause!”

  While he spoke I watched him and those listening nearby. They waited on his every word; he turned their disappointment over not running into joy with his mini pep rally. The buzz in the air was for the party but also for him. He had national name recognition and brains and looks, but he’d turned them down. I wondered how long it would be before “never say never” turned into “if not now, when?”

  As the applause for him continued, one thought kept coming to mind: John Maynard Junior looks tipsy.

  I asked Debbie if she saw it, too.

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s a fundraiser and he’s schmoozing, working the movers and shakers. He had a drink in his hand at the podium, but I hear he limits himself to one.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “He has what’s called a flushing response—if he has more than one alcoholic drink he gets physically ill. After one drink he switches to water with a slice of lime. He can never abuse alcohol. Don’t be such a skeptic, Mitch.”

  I’ve read about the alcohol flushing reaction caused by the diminished ability of a person’s body to break down alcohol, the telltale red face or blotches caused by excess dilation of the capillaries. Because roughly half of Pacific Rim Asians have the condition, it’s often called the Asian Glow. The condition is much rarer in the rest of the world. Research says people with the condition are much less likely to be alcoholics. I let it go at that.

  For the next hour we mingled with supporters. I watched Debbie work the crowd, trying to absorb it all. At one point she was so engrossed in a conversation she actually nibbled a bite of prime rib from my plate.

  The horror!

  Shortly after that, four local sports celebrities cornered us and proselytized their evangelical agenda. Two, wearing wedding bands, ended their spiel by hitting on Debbie. Throughout the evening many older men asked what I did for a living and my reply was often followed by awkward silence or surprise. A few replied: There’s money in that? before moving on. One octogenarian with bushy brows and hair sprouting from his ears simply walked away shaking his head.

  After the clean-cut Christian Crusaders renounced us to search for fresh converts and conquests, Maynard appeared, handsome in his tailored tux and flashing a lot of teeth. He thanked Debbie for attending. He was shorter than I imagined. He’d already extended his hand to me as Debbie said, “Chief Prosecutor Maynard, Dr. Mitchell Adams is a—”

  He took an extra step, so close I could feel his breath. His unblinking eyes fixed on mine. “I know all about Dr. Adams and his fine work.”

  He knew I was seeing Lonnie.

  I smelled gin on his breath, saw no blotches on his face or neck, and noted the scotch in his cut crystal glass. “And I’m learning more about you every day,” I said, “from the arrest coverage, of course.”

  “You were in the audience on the steps at City Hall when the news first went public,” he said coyly, waiting for my reaction.

  How could he possibly know that? Did he also know I’d been a fly on the wall in the bathroom?

  “You have an outstanding memory or a very observant staff.” Or every speaking event is taped by your security force.

  “Fortunately I have both.” A confident grin formed on one side of his face.

  And those eyes, do you even have eyelids?

  “It sounds as if this case is interfering with your career plans.”

  “On the contrary,” he studied my face and said, “I anticipate every possible turn in each case and use them to my benefit. I take surprises out of the equation. That’s why I always win.”

  I handed him a personal check. “I had hoped my contribution would go toward your election, but it seems the party and I will have to make do without you again this year.”

  He looked at the numbers and said, “This is most generous. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Didn’
t see that coming, did you? You can’t predict every twist life throws at you. Such as: three of the four men remain at large and trials can be delayed ad nauseum.”

  “Justice will be served and on time. Life remains on course.”

  “For you, perhaps. Not for the little black man.”

  He raised an eyebrow, lowering his voice. “Should we pity him? Does a less-than-happy childhood excuse criminal behavior? He had his chance for the American Dream but chose a darker path.”

  “Not everyone had the opportunity to grow up on Dogwood Farms.”

  “He’d hurt anyone for money.”

  He briefly acknowledged a silver-haired dowager with a wink and smile as she passed.

  I glanced at Debbie, her mouth open in stunned surprise.

  “There‘s a lot of that going on these days. I'm sure it will all come to light.”

  At last he blinked. He started to respond when Paul Fallon congenially called his name and stepped between us. Behind Fallon loomed two unsmiling security men, their attention now on me.

  “Am I about to get the bum’s rush? I can make quite the scene.”

  “Be our guest,” Maynard said. “It’s all about you—”

  Fallon interrupted Maynard again, saying, “John, the mayor has a favor to ask before he leaves for another pressing engagement.”

  Maynard flashed his winning smile a final time as he walked away, handing my check to Fallon.

  Fallon gently guided me away from listening ears and said in sotto voce, “You made quite the news splash this time last year, Dr. Adams. Keeping your cool in such a life-threatening situation must have been great publicity for your business. Now that limelight’s faded,” he spread his arms, looking about the great room and loggia, “you are here. Looking for another run as a feature on tomorrow’s six o’clock news.”

  I mirrored his tone. “You can spin bullshit until the cows come home, it’s still bullshit.”

  The stiff-backed Fallon fixed his smarmy smile on me. “Like last year, you’re involved with yet another dangerous man.”

  “You have a very distinctive voice, Mr. Fallon. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Fallon's smile was part sneer. “Of course. Be careful, Dr. Adams. Don’t let your client drag you down into his hellish world. It’s a long road back, and if anyone should know about long lonely roads, it’s you.”

  He hadn’t picked up on the voice comment.

  He leaned close and whispered in a voice dripping with velvet menace, “We don’t want anything else to end unhappily for you.”

  “If I didn’t know your boss was such a law-abiding citizen, I might take that as a threat. Your concern is touching, but I’m adept at spotting wolves in sheep clothing. You are right about one thing—I am enmeshed with another dangerous man.”

  He took a step forward. “One day you’re going to find yourself in a situation you can’t talk your way out of.”

  “Happens to all of us sooner or later, doesn’t it? C’est la vie.”

  He turned on his heels and left. One buff young security man wearing shades and a stone face lingered, my apparent shadow the rest of the evening.

  Debbie walked up to me, puzzled, placing a hand on my arm. “I thought you and John had never met?”

  “First time tonight.”

  “He certainly knows you.”

  “Deb, I see Lonnie Washington in therapy.”

  I watched as the pieces fell into place in her mind. She put a hand to her mouth. “The counterfeiter who shot the pregnant security guard?”

  “I'm not convinced he shot or robbed anyone.”

  “Why on earth would you see someone like him?” she asked, eyes wide, dumbfounded.

  “Helping people is what I do.”

  “He’s an amoral criminal, for God’s sake.”

  “He may be.”

  She folded her arms, her movements stiffening. “This is why you asked me out in the first place, isn’t it? This was all about your work. You used me, you bastard.”

  She threw her water in my face and stormed out.

  By that time, Maynard and Fallon were high and dry, safe on the other side of the mansion. But the mayor, politicians, celebrities, captains of industry, and every blue hair and bald head nearby turned and looked on as I pinched lemony water from my eyes, combed back my sopping hair with my hands, and tried in vain to slough the water from my tux. The beefy security guy stepped forward, his meat hook of an arm reaching out.

  And I was worried I wouldn’t get the chance to cause a scene.

  chapter twelve

  one person at a time

  The next day I returned to the North Side and knocked on the door of Shondra McKinney, and a middle-aged, light-skinned African-American lady answered. She had a wide face and nose and almond-shaped eyes; a thin streak of bright white hair interrupted the left side of her closely cropped Afro. She was of average build and wore no jewelry. Her blue jeans and bright yellow top had a somewhat baggy Walmart quality, but they were clean, as were her comfortable-looking white Converse tennis shoes. She was guarded at first, but at mention of Coretta’s name she readily invited me inside. The small living room was furnished in Spartan fashion but painted bright and cheery.

  “Etta Mae said you might drop by. After meeting Lonnie, do you think he is capable of shooting a pregnant guard and committing armed robbery?”

  “I believe most people have the capacity for much worse, if desperate enough. In my work, I’ve seen too much of what man is capable of. If Lonnie is the counterfeiter people say he is, my answer is a resounding yes.”

  “Then you don’t know him very well.”

  “You’re right. I don’t, but I’m learning.”

  Shondra made a quick sign of the cross.

  “I am a foster mom. That is what I am. My husband Jimmie and I were foster parents over twenty years. After completing a tour in Afghanistan last year, he returned home changed. He’d wake up crying from horrible nightmares. A pint of Jack sometimes helped him sleep, he said. He saw a counselor at the VA about his drinking and post-traumatic stress but he still struggled. One cold winter night he said he was going to the store for coffee but went missing for hours.”

  Her jaw tensed and her fingers curled into fists. “Then at two in the morning, I thought the gas furnace had exploded. Turned out Jimmie’s truck was … was right here.” She pointed at the space between us. “Crashed through the front wall, snow and ice blowing through the house.”

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. McKinney.”

  She wiped her eyes and nodded. “They say he died instantly. He was drunk. Thank God our little angels were in bed. The next day I woke with this shock of white in my hair.”

  A horn blared in front of the house.

  Her mood instantly changed. “Come with me and I’ll show you something precious.”

  We walked down a homemade handicapped ramp to the front yard where a battered white and blue Call-A-Ride van sat parked. The driver, a stocky black man with a smiling round face, operated the wheelchair lift that contained a white teenaged male with severe hydrocephalus. At the same time, the side doors opened and a chubby white Downs Syndrome girl and a tall, skinny black teen with no arms raced to Shondra’s side. Looks of delight filled the two smiling faces. Shondra introduced me to Kathy and Dimitri, then to Andrew in the wheelchair, calling them her babies. Kathy gave me a hug and wanted a kiss. Shondra wheeled Andrew up the ramp into the house while Kathy and Dimitri ran inside ahead of us.

  Shondra turned the television on low for Dimitri and asked Andrew if he had to use the bathroom; when he nodded, she wheeled him down the hallway. She called over her shoulder to the others not to eat more than two cookies with their milk before dinner.

  Dimitri, who looked about fifteen, turned to me and said, “I know why you’re here.”

  He gives me a good answer and I’ll put him on the payroll with Ty and DeAndre.

  “Why am I here?”

  “Because you want to learn abou
t that man in jail. Here’s all you need to know—he’s a hero.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Most rich people care only about things—if they have five cars, they want six; if they have a plane, they want a yacht. That man didn’t know us, but Kate and Andy and I would’ve lost our home if not for him. My birth parents didn’t want a boy with no arms. Same shit, different day with Kate and Andy. Miss Shondra and Mr. Jimmie put a roof over my head and loved me for who I am.” He said with a voice calm as a glassy pond, “You better not hurt him or I’ll be really mad.”

  “I'm trying to help him. Maybe Miss Shondra’s the hero here,” I said.

  He looked at me. “Why can’t they both be?”

  “You’ve got a point, but I can think of a third hero in the story.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You. A grounded young man who’s overcome adversity and has the wisdom to realize what matters is definitely a hero in my book.”

  We heard Shondra return from the hallway bathroom as Dimitri whispered, “Miss Shondra and that man are my heroes.”

  She sat down and sighed. “Where was I? Neighbors took us in that night as Family Services worked on finding emergency housing for us. Every dime of what money we had went for the kids or into the house and, since you’re a social worker, you know no one’s ever gotten rich being a foster parent.

  “The same morning, a tow truck winched out Jimmie’s truck and a work crew arrived to remove all the debris after the police, EMTs, and insurance people did their jobs. I hadn’t contacted the workers; I was still in shock. They just rode in, right through the fog I was lost in back then. I assumed our homeowners’ insurance must have sent them. After the clean-up, a construction crew of nine men and women pulled up and began installing a replacement wall, door, and storm windows. They rewired, insulated, and dry walled, primed and painted; they replaced the destroyed carpeting; they delivered this used furniture; and then they began on the outside work, installing vinyl siding to the front of the house and new guttering and downspouts. The last thing they installed was that steel safety barricade in front of our yard along the bend in the road to help prevent an accident like this from happening again.”