Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  “Why?” we both asked at the same time.

  “I searched that building from top to bottom and there was no money in it, other than small bills in the cash register and the two counterfeit sheets downstairs. Also, the chief and his second-in-command were never there.”

  “Did you find guns at the scene?” I asked.

  “Not a one.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Who called you?”

  He didn't answer.

  “We will protect you if you testify,” Baker interjected. “I can get the Secret Service—”

  He shook his head. “I think they got to one of them. You don’t know who to trust any more than I do. This isn’t just my life; he made threats to my ex-wife. I know most guys hate their exes. The divorce was my fault; I want her back.”

  “Who called you? Who are the players? Tell us and that man will mobilize an army to keep you safe,” I said, pointing to Baker.

  Quinn sat slumped, staring beyond his spare tire, picking at his patchy beard with chewed fingernails.

  Baker and I made eye contact. He looked optimistic.

  “I don’t know you,” Quinn said before pointing to Baker, “but I know about him.”

  “What you think you know, Irish?”

  “You’re a homicide dick with a good conviction record. You’re old school, but not my school. You also aren’t above bending or breaking the rules to get what you want.”

  “That something else we got in common, Irish.”

  He considered that for some time. “I want immunity from prosecution. I want new identities and two safe houses for me and my ex.” He hesitated. “She can’t stand the sight of me right now. I want details about the deep cover, and I want it in writing. Give us immediate protection and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “One safe house, Irish. Two costs too much and is harder to defend. It’s either hide out against the forces huntin’ you or take your chances under the same roof with the ex.”

  He thought about it for a long time. “Okay, one house.”

  “You’ll testify?”

  “I’ll testify.”

  “You got a deal,” Baker said. “I’ll put it in motion.” He pulled out his cell.

  We have our witness. At last we were going to hear the names Maynard and Fallon, the police chief, and others. I leaned forward and asked, “Who are the players, Officer Quinn?”

  He leaned back and when he opened his mouth a spray of warm liquid hit my face, stinging my eyes. Glass chunks rained down on the wooden planking while Quinn shook and twitched in his chair, falling face first in a heap in front of me. Something crashed through a second window and exploded at the base of the wall near Baker, hurtling him head first into the iron stove and setting the drapes ablaze. I collapsed to the floor, stunned and disoriented, my ears ringing from the blast. The flash fire turned the wood cabin into a tinderbox; a solid wall of flames blocked our exit. Baker lay motionless as the cabin filled with the stench of gasoline smoke, choking us both. Lungs burning, I dragged him into the bedroom while another concussive device rocked the kitchen floor. The flames followed us into the tiny bedroom, licking at our heels. I crawled to the dresser and tried to slide it with all my strength, but its feet were stuck in the uneven floorboards. I climbed to my knees, the dense black smoke engulfing me, stinging my eyes as I fumbled blindly for the dresser. I hit it hard with my chin and nearly knocked myself out. Flames danced as they devoured the sheets, clothes, and the old mattress behind us, spreading ever closer. Consuming everything, the hungry beast roared and raged, licking at my feet, ready to devour us. I fumbled for the top edge of the dresser and pushed it over. I tugged on the weathered brass latch to the trap door, but it was frozen shut. Our only hope gone! I groped for Baker’s knife and pried under the latch with its tip. Pain shot up my ankle and I screamed as I popped the latch free from the trap door. I pulled a dazed Baker through the square opening by the collar of his leather jacket. My pants caught fire as I crawled out and landed on top of him.

  I lay there panting and coughing as Baker slowly began to come around, both of us taking in better air. Red embers slowly dropped through the spaces of the floorboards above us. It felt like we’d landed on the grate of a giant barbecue pit. We had to make a run for the woods near the river.

  “We gotta go back and get him,” I shouted over the roar of the inferno.

  Baker finished a coughing jag. “He was dead before he hit the floor. Took two rounds from a rifle with a silencer. One in the neck, one in the head.” He pulled at my collar and said, “The shooter’s still out there. We can’t stay here.”

  “We reach the woods by the river, maybe we can lose him there. The smoke’ll give us some cover. You good to run?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  We crab-walked out from under the fiery shack and ran together. I expected to feel a bullet in my back and, sure enough, I felt searing pain. We kept running until we made it into the woods and caught our breath behind cover within view of the cabin. I went to my knees, the pain worsening, terrified I’d been badly wounded when Baker spun me around, hunting knife in hand, and dug a large smoldering ember from the back of my shirt. It must have landed on my back during our escape. We watched the cabin collapse to the ground and heard a third explosion. Quinn’s propane barbecue tank exploded, twisting and dovetailing in the air like a missile. It landed in the shallow waters of the Black River, where it rotated slowly like a smoking dreidel.

  Baker’s eyebrows had been singed off in the fire. He had a head laceration and a large ugly knot on the right side of his skull.

  Once he regained his wind he said, “We circle back through these woods and see if we can come up behind these sons of bitches. We no match for a high-powered rifle.”

  We trudged through a moderately dense thicket, making as little noise as we could, but still making plenty. We had to hump two miles until we exited the woods not far from Baker’s Fleetwood, which appeared undisturbed. He grabbed the spare gun in the glove compartment and handed it to me as we retraced our pre-dawn steps. Over the crest of the hill a small number of people stood gawking, drawn by the explosions, near the burning pile of wood and twisted metal that used to be Quinn’s cabin.

  They looked to be fellow campers and fishermen.

  “Did anyone see a car or SUV speed away from here, or anything else suspicious, just before the fire?” I asked the small gathering.

  A skinny man in a Bass Pro Shop baseball cap turned to us and shook his head. “We called the local fire department. They’re all volunteer, so it’ll be awhile. Hope that wasn’t your cabin.” He looked at us closer and added, “If you boys were in there, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  My thoughts returned to Quinn.

  “Time to boogie,” Baker said.

  “What about Quinn?”

  “He still dead. You drive. I'm seein’ two of everything.”

  “You probably have a concussion. You need a neurologic workup.”

  “No, but I could use a Red Bull. Take me back to the ’hood. I’ll show you where to drop me off.”

  “What about your shotgun and fingerprints? They’re in the wreckage.”

  “It ain’t registered, but my prints are. That fire was so hot, with all that soot and gas accelerant, the chances are slim any prints remain in that rubble. A rifle killed Irish, not shotgun pellets.”

  Before leaving, he closely inspected under the car and hood for anything out of the ordinary—a bomb, tracking device, tampered brake lines and the like—and pronounced it clean.

  I produced a Dictaphone from my pocket and listened to the conversation I’d taped with Quinn. Someone high up the police food chain had told Quinn he was officially retired but we never heard who made the threats, oblique or direct, to his ex-wife. We knew Malvern, Carter, Downey, the Police Chief, and assistant chief Rhymes were involved on some level, but we still had no proof.

  Baker slumped in the passenger seat. The
dazed look returned to his face as he noticed the recorder. “Thanks for havin’ my six, Cool Breeze. You still think quick on your feet, like last year. I won’t forget it.”

  I made sure Baker didn’t fall asleep on our return to St. Louis and dropped him and the Fleetwood off where he wanted. He’d be out of commission, and I told him to see a doctor, knowing that would fall on deaf ears. By then it was noon and I took a cab home.

  After a long, cold shower and treating the burn on my back as best I could, I wolfed down lunch with four aspirin. I wanted to climb into bed, but our informant was dead and we had a small window to identify the missing money before it vanished forever.

  I’d never seen a person die in front of me before, much less have their blood and brain matter speckle my face. I scrubbed myself red in the shower; the image of Quinn falling forward replaying in my mind. Baker and I almost suffered a worse death. I made a mental note to seek out Quinn’s ex after this was over and tell her his final thoughts were of her. I hoped Lonnie’s vision of heaven was right, so Quinn would eventually be reunited with his ex.

  I gathered Maynard’s crumpled schedule, bottles of water, and my pee jar. I had to find the bags.

  chapter twenty-three

  on the run

  I’d missed the second morning of tailing Maynard, but tonight was a late one on his private calendar. His first evening engagement came at a downtown convention center as the keynote speaker to a Christian family group. The last cryptic notation on his calendar that night, the only one written in his hand, intrigued me. Jack Murphy, 1810 Concierge, 23:30, B-ham, Your wildest dreams, Marte / Gisselle, 3K.

  Even his handwriting was creepy.

  Who’s Jack Murphy? The Buckingham Hotel in Clayton has eighteen floors, is Maynard meeting three people at 11:30? Is 3K three thousand dollars? What’s “Your Wildest Dreams?”

  From across the street I watched the Maynard convoy pull into the center’s underground parking garage and his entourage enter the building. The marquee flashed tonight’s topic: the role of faith in the political arena. He’d be occupied for the next two to three hours, so I grabbed dinner at a nearby St. Louis Bread Company. Sliding into a booth with my order, I watched other couples mingle in the crowded restaurant and thought of Kris. Would I ever stop missing her? I opened the book I brought with me but kept reading the same line over and over, so I put it down.

  I imagined following up on Lonnie’s idea to pursue a book or movie deal. He’d be the star and it could be called Modern Day Robin Hood or A Good Man. Don Cheadle could play Lonnie, though he’s getting a bit long in the tooth for the role. Same goes for Ving Rhames as Baker. John Hamm, a St. Louis native, could go blonde and play Maynard. Sofia Vergara could be Kris, in flashbacks. As for me—I guess it depends on how this all ends, because I can’t see me right now. The book cover was also blurry. I'd need much more than quick thinking and clever words to come out of this one with anything close to a happy ending. I speed dialed Baker’s cell. The recorded opening of the Shaft theme song filled my ear, followed by his one-word command: “Speak.” Beep.

  “You okay? Call me.”

  I had to do something. I had to find the ending.

  What would Baker do? Anything he could, legal or otherwise.

  Back in my parent’s Camry, I took a chance and dialed the front desk at the Buckingham and said, “This is Rex Smith, Jack Murphy’s assistant, calling to confirm Mr. Murphy’s reservation this evening. I see he’s due to arrive at eleven thirty tonight, and the room number is 1810.”

  After a brief silence the female clerk returned on the line and confirmed the reservation and room number. No questions asked and in a silky, refined British accent she told me to have a lovely evening.

  I drove to the regal Buckingham and parked along the street under a curving line of small trees a block from the hotel. Any closer would have meant valet parking. Since I was early, I reacquainted myself with the opulent main floor lobby—brown marble walls and dark polished wood glistened everywhere the eye turned; the expansive open floor plan contained black Steinway grand pianos, immense gas fireplaces, several bars, a high-end gift shop, Grill Room, a Cigar Club, and plush multicolored carpeting in a bright, almost modernistic pattern. The men’s room sparkled with green marble walls and classic black accents. Light jazz music played discreetly in a back corner of the ground floor.

  Kris and I had stayed at the Buckingham one night after a wedding. We made love in front of a marble fireplace and watched the downtown Fourth of July fireworks from the balcony.

  I climbed the extra-wide twisting staircase to the second floor. Here were huge meeting, reception, and board rooms each capable of holding several hundred guests. Some sat vacant while others were in use. In each were giant round wooden tables brimming with tall cut floral displays, ornate crystal chandeliers suspended from twelve-foot high ceilings, and the latest electronic and overhead A-V equipment. Subdued oil paintings of hunting dogs on point, bucolic landscapes, and wealthy women posing with privileged children lined the hallway walls along the second floor. Easels stood in front of two board rooms bearing the words “Maynard Party,” so I huffed it down the staircase and bought a gin and tonic.

  I settled into a plush, over-sized armchair with an unobtrusive view of the entrance within easy earshot of the front desk. I read my book while I waited for the Golden Boy to make his entrance. Well-dressed older couples milled in and out of The Grill or Cigar Club. I worried my casual dress would make me stick out, but after eleven, younger people in polo shirts or Cardinals attire began to trickle into the bars. I overheard the Cards had just defeated the visiting Cubbies. I sipped my drink and opened a Robert B. Parker book, keeping half an eye on the front glass doors. Tough guy Spenser had just won a funny verbal sparring session with the latest bad guy, a prelude to an inevitable physical confrontation, when a sleek black limo discharged the Golden Boy right on time. A young security man wearing sunglasses exited with him. The body builder was the same lead security dog for Maynard I’d seen shadowing him before. The one that escorted me out the door at old man Haller's estate. The same one who’d hoisted the heavy duffel bags into the dark SUV.

  Jack Murphy must already be in room 1810 waiting for the others. Is he another high roller Maynard supporter? Is he tied to the plan to steal the counterfeit money or is he a phantom?

  I pulled the bill of my Cardinal cap down to conceal my face as he briefly lingered at the front desk to pick up his key. The desk clerk, the same distinguished lady from across the pond said, “Good to see you again, sir. Have a most pleasant stay, Mr. Murphy.”

  Mr. Murphy! Pieces of the puzzle instantly began falling into place. It was the last thing I wanted to hear, but it confirmed my worst and most sordid suspicions. Maynard and his security man abruptly turned and walked straight toward me. I held the book in front of my face and lowered my head.

  Please don’t recognize me. I'm not tough-guy Spenser.

  They turned right, walking toward the guest elevators. I exhaled in relief.

  Before they reached the elevator Maynard said, “Might as well wet your whistle, Mr. Dodd. My guests are late, as usual.” The big bodyguard silently veered off into the bar across from the elevators. Maynard took the elevator alone. There was no display above the elevator to indicate which floor Maynard punched, but I already knew.

  Mr. Dodd nursed a beer with half an eye on the hallway near the elevators. Every so often he checked his watch and looked at the revolving glass entry door. I waited ten minutes, then kept my back to Dodd as best I could and joined others walking to the elevators. The hand-polished cherry wood interior shined and smelled of rich pungent oils. I rode to seventeen and climbed the stairs, with a good idea who the guests were now.

  I caught a break on the penthouse floor. Room 1810 was at the end of a wide hallway that contained an alcove with a window and two oversized floral print colonial chairs. I sat waiting in one of the chairs with my Spenser book and drink. After midnight the eleva
tor doors whooshed open and discharged two leggy young women with long flowing hair—a blonde and a redhead—wearing fur coats and black fuck-me pumps with stiletto heels. Oblivious to their surroundings, they chattered away about a guy named Alfonse.

  They hadn’t noticed me at the far end of the wide hallway. I stood, moved around the corner wall, and peered out with a perfect view of room 1810. As they approached, the blonde appeared drunk or high, wobbly on her heels. She started to knock on the door to 1808 when the redhead whispered, “Gisselle, you idiot, the cash cow is over here. With any luck, he’ll be drunk and pass out quickly, like before. Be wary of this one. He likes to choke.”

  The redhead, whom I assumed was Marte, quietly knocked on the door to room 1810 and struck a sexy Vogue pose against the door jamb after she poked Gisselle in the ribs as a reminder not to slouch.

  John Maynard, Jr., a.k.a. Jack Murphy, opened the door and made a quick, desultory sweep of the hallway. He didn’t see me behind the wall. He was shirtless, revealing a well-toned abdomen for a man his age, and wore a red-striped business tie wrapped around his forehead like a makeshift sweatband. He held a drink in his hand. “I love it when you girls come together. Let’s see if we can make that happen at least once more tonight. Après vous.” The Golden Boy opened the door wide enough for them to enter as he fondled and pinched their asses. The girls giggled and shimmied in feigned delight as he slowly closed the door.

  VIPs gone wild. I’d recorded the call girls’ hallway conversation and Maynard even smiled for my camera phone.

  When in doubt, go with your gut. I was feeling pretty cocky that my early diagnosis was right on the money, and then—

  The elevator doors at the other end of the hall whooshed open again and Mr. Dodd stood glaring at me with my cell phone aimed at the door to Maynard’s suite. He drew a gun from his speed holster and sprinted toward me. Blocked from the lone elevator, I ran down the hallway away from Dodd. All the doors I came to were other hotel rooms. I heard Dodd gaining on me, when I spotted the red exit sign above the last door on the right. In my panic I’d forgotten about the stairwell I’d taken up from the seventeenth floor.