I looked away, feeling crushed and sick to my stomach.
“What happened to his killer?”
“The Man got him in isolation.”
“Kendall,” I said, sarcastically.
Baker snapped a toothpick in two with his teeth and inserted a fresh one. “Makes sense this time. Lotta righteous brothers in lockup wanna even the score. I can’t wait to interview the fat piece of shit. Some penny-ante dirt bag name of Terrell Burnett.” He saw the look on my face and stopped.
I recalled the wife-beater shirt, the Lakers’ sweats, the hemostat, and the scowl behind the sunglasses. “I met him. He lives one street over from LaKeesha and goes by the name of T-Bone. He likes pot with his Wheaties for breakfast and hated Lonnie for not bankrolling a buddy’s lame business scheme. Terrell hoped to be a bouncer at a sports bar with pole dancers, I think.”
“The attack was planned. The Aryan skinheads served as lookout when it went down. Gonna have to be a closed casket.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, walking to the door. Needing fresh air, I walked outside and sat on the front steps while Baker said he’d be a minute. The moon was fat in the sky, low on the horizon. The city was peaceful, sleeping early tonight.
He came out carrying two large Styrofoam cups, handing one to me. I could smell what it was.
“Does his mother know?”
He shook his head.
“She’ll have to be told, and soon.”
He nodded. “Skinny on her way.”
Another toothpick snapped. This one he didn’t replace. “I’m gonna lean on him hard. He gonna tell me who he cut a deal with. This was murder for hire.”
“Lonnie will be front-page news by morning.”
He snarled, “Think your bony blonde pin cushion gonna tell the viewers ’xactly how the little brother was murdered?”
I let the sexual reference slide. “For Maynard, this effectively ends the counterfeiting story, other than the trials of Earl and Tyrone. We’re not going to let that happen.”
He didn’t acknowledge my remark. We sat in silence—me thinking, Baker fuming.
Shaking his head, he said, “I can’t believe a brother does this to another brother. ’Specially a crippled one. But the sad truth is it happens all the time.” Baker pulled off the lid to his coffee cup and groaned. “Us brothers got a long way to go.”
“Man has a long way to go. Technology advances outstrip our emotional intelligence.” I had an idea. “If an eye for an eye continues, everyone ends up blind.”
Baker raised an eyebrow. “That pretty profound for a social worker. You make that up?”
“I don’t remember the exact quote, but no. Gandhi did.”
“Hmm. He the little bald, toga-wearing dude in India who also said if he had access to enough guns he’da used ’em on the British instead of taking the non-violent path?”
“The one and the same.”
“Go figure,” Baker said. “Life’s a bitch. He musta been from a ’hood, too.”
“One of the worst. He fought them the best way he knew how, given the resources he had.”
“Like Martin Luther King,” Baker said.
“The eye-for-an-eye cycle has to stop somewhere. Might as well be with us,” I said.
“Maybe you right, Cool Breeze, but I don’ think so tonight.”
“When did you first meet Lonnie again?”
Baker paused behind those dark shades as he watched an unmarked make a right at the intersection. “I told you. In school. I noticed a light on in a locker and opened the door to see this poor little dude inside, trussed up on one of those rusty metal coat hooks like a side of beef, calmly doing his homework like it was just another day, a pocket flashlight hangin’ from his mouth. At the time it was one of the saddest things I ever saw. I lifted him off the hook and got the bullies off his back. We became tight, but less than a year later he ran away from his foster home and never returned to school.”
“Huh,” I said.
We sat in more silence until Baker said, “Drink up.”
“You know damn well I don’t drink coffee.”
Baker stared me down. “You almos’ always try my patience, Cool Breeze, but today be extra shitty. Don’ make me mad. Drink the damn coffee.”
It was the strongest Irish coffee I’ve ever had.
Baker lifted his sixteen-ounce Styrofoam cup to the night sky and said, “To the little brother, no one fuckin’ with you anymore up there. You always kept it real.”
We took another pull and I raised my cup. “To a modern day Robin Hood, defender of the weak against the strong, the deck was stacked against you from birth, yet you did a lot for many good people.”
Baker smiled and said, “My man, Cool Breeze. You found the truth on the streets on your own. It means more that way, don’ it?” He produced a dented metal flask from his black leather jacket and refilled our cups. The alcohol warmed my empty stomach and Baker hoisted his cup again. “To the little brother who helped Cool Breeze get his balls back.”
The more we drank the more the hard liquor burned my insides. I had the beginnings of a buzz when another blast from my recent past made his dramatic entrance.
I tensed immediately and thought I saw Baker straighten up ever so slightly at the sight of him.
He was nattily dressed in a three-piece suit that matched his short salt-and-pepper hair. He’d traded the glasses for contacts and walked to us with a cock-of-the-walk bounce to his step that belied his diminutive stature. Last year I’d known him as Detective Francis LeMaster, Baker’s former partner in city homicide. He was now Assistant Police Chief LeMaster. In addition to Baker and Kris's killer, he’d been the other major player in my nightmares from last year.
Ignoring me, LeMaster told Baker, “You’re off the case and you damn well know why. Hand over your badge and gun; you’re suspended until further notice. I can’t have my officers going rogue. If I hear one word from any of my sources that you’re still working this case or in any way aiding or abetting this one here,” he warned, pointing a manicured finger at me, “The chief will know and you will be directing traffic for the rest of your days. Is that clear?”
“Yassir, boss,” Baker said, snapping to mock attention. He lifted his cup as if for another toast.
LeMaster ignored the attitude and turned to me. “Stay out of this. You’ve used up your nine lives here.”
“My client’s dead. I’m off the case.” I thought: What else is there you don’t want me looking into?
“Badge and gun,” he said, facing Baker again.
He handed over both in one fluid motion.
LeMaster left us on the steps, his polished Florscheims clicking loudly on the concrete.
“Little big man’s gone corporate,” Baker said.
“Do you think he’s part of all this?”
“Dunno. He just got promoted. Not yet part of the inner circle. Prob’ly not.”
“What’d you do to piss him off?”
He weighed his answer. “Combination of things. Convincin’ you to take the case, enlistin’ help on the inside for the little brother to survive, helpin’ his family.”
“Why did the Secret Service break down your door?”
“To search my crib. I didn’t feel like it, warrant or not. I may face an obstruction charge.”
“What were they looking for?” I said, waiting for an answer that never came.
When he remained quiet, I asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Go home and get another piece. Then do whatever I can to settle this shit. I just came into a lotta free time and so did you.”
Lonnie said he would ask things of me, difficult things, but he never had the chance.
I recalled Maynard’s personal calendar Debbie had copied.
“Remember what I said about Gandhi? That we might as well be the ones to stop the cycle of violence?”
Baker nodded.
“I have another idea....”
I told him about it while
he drove me home.
$ $ $
In bed that night I flashed back to my first trip to the morgue a year ago. Baker and LeMaster had escorted me there in the hope I could identify a Jane Doe. I half-expected the corpse to be that of Lisa Carter, a client of mine who was a no-show for an appointment, but the shock of seeing Kris's destroyed face on the slab threw me into an emotional blackout. While the detectives searched for evidence to convict me, I didn’t have time to grieve because I was fighting for my life. I desperately tried to hold on to her image and raged when I lost a little sense memory of her with each passing day. How fleeting and fragile life is; how much can be taken away in an instant. Her killer framed me, forcing me to either give up or catch him. I got lucky. None of us is the same person we were a year ago. We evolve, adapt, and shed our old skins to hopefully become better versions of ourselves.
I fought last year and look what it got me. What did I tell Peebles about prisons?
I could exist off the practice, avoid tough clients, and stay on the couch. I could do web cam therapy. I could move to another office, mail my life in, wrap myself up in layers of dead skin until I could feel no more.
The black envelope promised danger.
Lonnie died for what he believed in.
He asked me to tell the world his story.
I had a decision to make that would define me.
chapter twenty-one
flash drive
My idea made perfect sense the more we drank and toasted Lonnie, flushed with hard liquor and anger and bent on retribution, but in the sober light of a new day it all looked like so much Swiss cheese.
Still, doing something is better than nothing.
My curiosity mingled with anxiety.
And sometimes curiosity gets a cat killed.
The mail in my box from yesterday did nothing to calm my fears.
A plain brown manila folder with a letter containing three colored business-size envelopes had been stuffed into my mailbox. It bore no return address and the stylized calligraphic letter inside read:
Dear Mitchell,
If you’re reading this, you know I’m dead. Whatever version Maynard releases to the press, know this: I was murdered in cold blood. I’ve moved on to a better place, but this story needs a final chapter. You deduced the existence of Mr. Anthony on your own, and that means others can as well. He is completely untraceable to me and loyal to a fault. My final wishes will be carried to their fitting conclusion, as long as Mr. Anthony remains undisturbed.
The green envelope contains a modest reimbursement for your counsel and the friendship you offered. I know you see gratis clients but that didn’t seem right, so I based the amount on a sliding scale therapy rate for local not-for-profit agencies of twenty-five dollars an hour since I was technically indigent. I allocated my entire share to others more worthy than I and Mr. Anthony has the accounting records to prove it. I realize this amount is far below your normal hourly wage, but I thought it was a fair compromise. If it was all about the money, you wouldn’t have seen me at all and ventured out of your comfort zone for a stranger. You helped me stay sane in an insane place, but as the weeks passed, I think in some small way I helped you get your drive back. I saw the fire return to your eyes a little more each week. You have a difficult job, but you probably hear that all the time. I wish you the best.
The red envelope is to be used at your discretion and contains, among other items, fifty of my counterfeit US one-hundred-dollar bills. When we first met, I warned you that I wasn’t a pet sociology project of yours. Consider this a sociology test, if you will. Have special agent Wilson inspect the bill with the small white paper clip attached to it. Tell him you received it at a venue that would be impossible to trace, perhaps from a cashier at a local casino, and you’re concerned about its authenticity. I sensed skepticism when we discussed this earlier, although you were kind enough to reserve judgment after the news segment.
Once the bill passes the scrutiny of the St. Louis Secret Service office (and it will), you may be tempted to think this is a legal tender US bill I planted among my counterfeits. That will be the party line of the experts. Have them vet all fifty bills if you wish. That is why I’ve attached the dated photograph. The truth should never be a casualty.
Beware the black envelope. Hide it in the safest place you know. It is dangerous and I cannot in good faith ask you to act directly on what is inside. If Benny’s murder is a prelude to the confirmation of my worst fears, and if by some twist of fate you or the proper authorities are able to find those who possess his duffel bags, this will seal their guilt. Wouldn’t that be something!
If this plays out the way I believe it will, and if you are able to successfully use the last two envelopes, this time I think you should consider a book or movie deal.
I'm sorry that so much information was withheld from you. Painted into the same corner, I'd do it all over again, but at least now you know why.
Good luck and watch your back.
LW
P.S. Mr. Anthony sent you the lone bill. I hope you had it checked. It was also one of mine.
Not knowing what else to do, I opened the black envelope. A brief note explained the flash drive. I inserted it in my computer to make sure it contained what the note promised and taped it securely to one of the top blades of my bedroom ceiling fan. Then I picked up Maynard’s personal schedule that Debbie had pilfered from his office and began following him.
The first day, the Golden Boy was phallanxed by beefy security staff who limoed him to every daytime destination while Fallon clung like a sycophant and hovered like a mosquito. He had lunch with his trophy wife Barbara, the mayor, and Fallon downtown at Tony’s on Market Street. By day’s end, I worried that my sporty rental Mustang may be too conspicuous, so I stayed farther back. Maynard attended meetings in the city and county, leaving his office four different times, but all I could do was watch him enter and exit buildings. After his last scheduled meeting that night, security drove him to his gated community home, leaving me on the wrong side of the bars, parked alone in the dark with my mind numb from one of the longest, most boring days in memory. I left Maynard’s locked gates and traded the flashier white Mustang for my parents’ nondescript blue Toyota Camry LE. Sensible Dad, a tenured professor of accounting, kept asking why I had to trade cars in the middle of the night, while Mom, a retired school teacher who still pined over selling my great aunt’s ’67 Corvette when I was young, happily grabbed the keys.
“It’s a long story, Dad,” I said.
“I’m sure he has a good reason,” Mom told him, hanging the Mustang keys by the door, smiling. “We’re going for a ride in the country tomorrow to put that pretty white horse through its paces.”
Mom picked up on my anxiety level when I left, but didn’t ask questions. She was the intuitive one and knew I’d talk when I could, deftly balancing a mother’s trust with a mother’s worry.
I drove home in their car and invited Tony over for a drink. I’d studied the bug earlier and Googled it. It seemed to be a compact transmitter only, with no built-in recording feature or miniaturized cassette tape.
I showed it to him.
“Where’d you get this?” he said, slowly turning it over in one hairy hand.
“Taped under the table where I meet—met with Lonnie. The same room where he met with his attorney.”
“Slap my ass and call me Susan!” He did a double-take and said, “No shit?”
“Is there any way to track where this came from, Suzie?”
He took a gulp of beer while he thought. “A friend in vice occasionally shows off some of her spy toys to me. It’s a newer transmitter, but there’s no way to find out where it came from or who planted it because your prints are undoubtedly the only ones on it now. There’s another problem …”
My hopes sank. “Which is?”
“There are more sophisticated models to listen in on even whispered conversations from greater distances and the drop ceiling in t
hat moldy room is a perfect place to conceal it, even a miniature camera if they wanted.” He tossed it back to me. “Somebody has to be listening in for this little baby to be effective. If you had the tapes of your privileged conversations or testimony from the person eavesdropping, you’d have something.”
No wonder Kendall was so smug. I imagined a cop sitting in another room with his feet up, eating doughnuts while he listened. My gut told me this is how they found Earl, but I had no proof. Any hope for a mistrial with the bug now seemed like a mirage on a distant road. Kendall was right, the cops would continue to claim they used good old-fashioned, honest police work to capture Earl.
“Who’s his court-appointed?”
The guy was so unremarkable I had to pause. “Young kid named Hanover.”
He rolled his eyes. “He’s a newbie. Wouldn’t be surprised if they cherry-picked him.”
He looked around the living room. “Shit on a shingle, I just thought of something.” He whispered conspiratorially, “What about here?” He made crawly motions with his fingers.
I shrugged.
He drained his beer. “Jumping Jesus Christ, you’re in deep shit again, Mitch. Too deep, buddy. You gotta let this one go.”
“He may have been a counterfeiter, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered. I think—”
Tony shushed me by putting his finger to his mouth.
He wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Will bring over my vice friend with detector equipment tomorrow night—only way to be sure.” He winked and smiled, “She looks up to me.”
“Don’t be stupid and venture down that road again.”
He waved away my admonition with a hairy hand. “Strictly platonic—but she does have a great rack.”
He badgered me with more scribbled questions until it grew tiresome and I kicked out my paranoid friend and went to bed.
I dreaded my second mind- and butt-numbing day of undercover work. I thought, what would Baker do?, and put together a bag for the car. Eight years of college and I was borrowing my parents’ Camry and sticking a pee jar in the front passenger seat.
Counterfeit Page 19