Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  I pushed open the heavy fire door and flew down the steps, nearly falling as my shoes slipped on the sharp edge of a step. Even the stairwells in the Buckingham were wide and clean, with fresh beige paint on the walls, and thick metal hand railings. I opened up some space between us as I negotiated the turns and steps faster than my larger, more muscle-bound pursuer. I resisted the urge to look back because it could slow me down or make me stumble. I had to shake this guy on my own. Safety in numbers wouldn’t help—he’d simply call Buckingham security and Clayton PD, and have me arrested. He’d claim I assaulted or threatened Maynard and that’ll be the end of me. I couldn’t take that chance.

  Racing down the steps to the fourteenth floor, I wondered whether I should exit and try to lose him or risk getting an elevator, but figured I didn’t have enough time. I kept sprinting down the steps and nearly stumbled several more times. It sounded like the young security guard was a little farther behind me now, or at least I hoped so. As I raced down the ninth, eighth, and seventh floor stairwells I heard his breathing echo in the confined space. Was he tiring? I hadn’t seen a fire alarm during my mad dash or I’d have pulled it. Between the third and second floors I heard a pfftt! and sparks exploded from the metal railing next to my hand. My left hand suddenly burned. He’d attached a silencer and the bullet had ricocheted off the metal rail and my hand. I rocketed down the stairs, hitting the door marked LOBBY hard with my shoulder and winced as sharp pain shot up and down my left arm. The fire door banged against the inner wall, and I darted and weaved around a startled elderly couple standing near the exit by the registration desk. Blood dripped from my hand onto my slacks.

  Sprinting past the perplexed clerk with the British accent, out through the main entrance and into the cool night, I looked behind me for the first time. My pursuer bowled over the confused elderly man and raced after me, his gun concealed again. I ran along the cobblestone and circular brick entrance in the opposite direction of my car, sped past two bewildered valets and punched a quick number in my cell phone as I ran. I darted around the corner of the building, as Dodd took aim again. Shit! Maybe I should’ve yelled “Fire!” in the lobby. Too late now.

  I kept running and tripped over concealed wiring for the hotel floodlights illuminating the blue and white Buckingham sign and fell face first into a hedge of rose bushes. Scratched and bleeding, I bounced up and bolted down the street, past a row of closed businesses, and careened into a shadowy alleyway behind them. I whispered a few quick words into the phone as loudly as I dared, and sprinted farther down the dark alley only to discover it dead-ended in a tall concrete wall with no exit. I’d run myself into a corner. The only way out was the same way in. I yanked on every back door used for deliveries. All locked. Halfway down the dark alley sat a wide stack of packing crates, five feet high and partly illuminated by an overhead light. I tore a ridiculously lightweight stick of thin pine from one of the packing crates and kept running to the end of the alley where, on the left, in almost total darkness, stood a Dumpster. I scrambled behind it, breathing hard, and listened. The sole light to my left came from a dim streetlamp fifty feet away, partially blocked by trees and another building. I hoped my shadow couldn’t be seen to my right.

  I heard footfalls running down the street I’d been on and prayed they’d pass the alley entrance, but they skidded to an abrupt stop. Dodd walked slowly down the deserted back alley, methodically testing each locked door I had tried. By the time he tested the last door, his shadow had grown to monstrous proportions. I held my breath and peeked out from behind the Dumpster to see Dodd screwing the cylindrical silencer back on his gun. A smug smile crossed his face. He hadn’t uttered a word during the chase, his detached professional calm a sharp contrast to my abject terror. He would reach my hiding hole in seconds. My heart thudded in my ears as I flashed back to last year’s crime scene photos of Kris. So much for the grand book idea. Would I meet my end next to a Dumpster just like Kris? If I was, I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. I squeezed the flimsy stick and, just as I was about to make my stand, a spotlight flooded the mouth of the alley. A voice called out over a loudspeaker, “You sir, there in the alley. Over here.”

  Dodd stopped with his back to the police cruiser. He discretely removed the silencer, reholstered his gun, and walked to them. Two uniformed Clayton police officers stood next to their vehicle. I couldn’t make out their muffled conversation, but in the brilliance of the floodlight, I saw Dodd glance back at the Dumpster and crack his sick smile. The three seemed to be having a light conversation; their body language indicating it was about to end. Dodd knew if I was hiding in the alley I was trapped and, once he appeased the cops, he’d return to finish me.

  I decided to give up and take my chances with the Clayton police. It might not go well, but it’d be better than a bullet between the eyes. I stood against the grimy Dumpster when a sudden noise to my right startled me. The back door nearest me rattled open. A kitchen worker smoking a cigarette and overloaded with garbage bags trudged with stooped shoulders toward the Dumpster. I sprinted past the kitchen worker toward the closing door as the diminutive Mexican worker called out, “Hey man, you can’t go in there.”

  “Watch me,” I said, catching the steel door before it closed.

  As I ran for the closing door, Dodd faced me, the only one who saw me race through the door. The appalling smile returned. He seemed perfectly willing to resume his pursuit later, which frightened me even more. Maynard’s men planned to handle this loose end on their own.

  I sped through a maze of industrial dishwashers and ovens, tall stainless steel bread racks and various food supplies. I juked past the late-night, three-man cleaning crew, darted between tables stacked with inverted chairs, and ran out the front door without looking back. After turning a corner and running for blocks, I forced myself to walk. I found my bearings and circled back to the nondescript Camry, avoiding the streets and business lights as best I could. I looked over my shoulder frequently for Mr. Dodd or a dark SUV.

  Back in the car, I felt the sting of blood in my eye and throbbing in my hand. I pulled thorns from my scalp and found a rag from the Camry's back seat to wrap the base of my thumb. The bullet had hit the fleshy area between my left thumb and index finger. The shot from the stairwell above must have missed my skull by inches.

  I’ll never ask, ‘Where’s a cop when you need one?’ again. The cruiser had responded to my 911 cell phone call just in time.

  Glad his men were probably searching the area for my red Solstice, I drove the Camry to an ATM and withdrew the maximum my bank allowed in a day. They’d be staking out my townhouse; I couldn’t go home. I knew not to check into a hotel with plastic because my location could be tracked the instant I used my card. Soon enough they’ll discover I used a credit card to rent the white Mustang. I had to get it back from my parents.

  Who could I turn to? Tony and Baker would be under surveillance. I thought of the seven therapists in my practice, especially Marilyn, the one with the most seniority, but the connection was too obvious and I didn’t want to put them in danger.

  I had to find someone with no connection to me. Many caring people in the city sympathetic to Lonnie’s cause would gladly hide me on his behalf, but Lonnie’s enemies also lived among them. Maynard and his team wanted me and that video. I had to trust someone and involve an innocent. The only idea I had was a crazy one.

  I snuck in the back door to my parents’ home like I’d occasionally done in high school, woke my startled parents, and returned their Camry for my rental Mustang. I borrowed all the cash they had. Mom gave me some bandages and Betadine and, God bless her, made me a sandwich. I told them not to worry even though I knew they would, not to believe the news reports if my name was mentioned, that I was helping someone, and would explain everything soon. I apologized for the blood in their car. I said I loved them, hugged them longer than normal, and drove to Lambert’s long-term airport parking. I parked the Mustang in a remote end of the lot, took
a shuttle bus, and used cash to check into a nondescript motel near the airport.

  I showered, soaked my bloody shirt and slacks with soapy water in the sink, and hung them to dry. I disinfected my wounds—my hand had stopped bleeding but would need stitches and the burn on my back stung. I ordered room-service steak and potatoes and washed down four more aspirin with two Beck’s. I fell asleep with the television on, nothing on the news reruns about me. In my dreams, Quinn's warm blood and brains kept splattering onto my face. Only this time the side of my face was missing and the cabin floor rose up to hit me. I heard Fallon’s voice in the background saying, “You won't be able to talk your way out of this one.”

  chapter twenty-four

  mouth of the lion

  I slept past noon when a car backfire startled me awake. I called Tony’s cell from my drab and musty hotel room on a prepaid cell phone. I ached in places I didn't know I had muscles and chewed more aspirin.

  “Fuck me sideways, what hornet’s nest from hell did you step on? Where are you? I hope you’re holed up in Hitler’s bunker somewhere planning to hibernate.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “There’s an APB for your arrest. Judge Reinhold rubberstamped search warrants for your townhouse and office. You should’ve seen Marilyn when they arrived at the office this morning. She turned into a protective mama grizzly with your files; they arrested her for obstruction of justice. I went to post her bail and they tossed me in a room and grilled me. After all the chest thumping and posturing, they let us go but I’d bet money they’re tailing me and listening in on my phone calls. They wouldn’t say why they’re looking for you. Judas Priest, they’ve interviewed your parents, canvassed your neighborhood, and knocked on every door in your subdivision. I used the spare key you gave me to your place and you won’t like this—they turned everything inside out looking for something. Your computer’s gone, your office files ransacked. They have a real hard on for you, Slick. Just like last year, only worse. What’s going on?”

  I worried about the flash drive taped to my bedroom ceiling fan and hoped they didn’t know exactly what they were looking for.

  “The less you know the better. Hopefully we’ll have a beer and laugh about it soon.”

  “Let me know what I can do. Don’t get killed. I used to live vicariously through you. Until last year,” he said. “It looks like the old Mitch is back. Stay one step ahead of the bastards.”

  It was too late for room service breakfast, so I carb loaded with pasta, mashed potatoes, and bread. My clothes were still wet and wrinkled so I stayed put and turned on Channel Four.

  I caught the tail end of a news flash announcing Maynard's eleventh-hour plan to run for the vacant Missouri senate seat. Mere mention of this caused several candidates to drop out and shift allegiances to the Golden Boy.

  I called Baker’s cell, got his voice mail again.

  When in Rome … I dialed the one man who seemed to fit the bill. For the second time in a year, my life was in the hands of a moody, unpredictable, volatile personality with poor impulse control.

  I bought a Hard Rock Café shirt and a Rams cap. We met at midnight in the bar of another nearby airport hotel. I chose a dark corner booth facing the entrance; this time I was the first one there when a stooped-over figure in a London Fog trench coat sat opposite me and removed his Fedora.

  “Mr. Bread and Circuses. This had better be good,” Milton Peebles said, a sour look on his face. “I drove a helluva long way. I’m not supposed to drive at night. You’re lucky I’m an old man who can't sleep.”

  “I don’t feel so lucky right now,” I said, ordering him a Guinness.

  I described Lonnie's execution, how he'd spent his share of the counterfeit money, and the run for my life from Dodd. I played my trump card, the video of Maynard with the hookers.

  “I have duplicates, so if anything happens to me they will be sent to diverse people in the media, police, Treasury Department, and Secret Service.”

  Peebles took a long pull from his frosty mug. Sensing my anxiety, he said, “Relax, I’m not going to call the fucking cops. Your entire story, while entertaining and not out of the realm of possibility, still hinges on whether your boy’s bills can pass the scrutiny of an expert.”

  “You brought what I asked?”

  He smiled. “You’re going to be sorry.”

  I withdrew two crisp hundred-dollar bills from my wallet and placed them on the table in front of Peebles. “Let's do a double-blind test. I obtained one of these bills from my bank early this week and the other was made by Lonnie. You’re the expert, you decide.” I leaned back and sipped my diet Coke.

  Peebles leaned closer and his eyes widened in anticipation, holding his breath briefly, like a lover awaiting a kiss or an addict his fix. He raised a bushy eyebrow as he reached deep into a coat pocket and withdrew a jeweler’s loupe and other tools. He held both bills to the light, inspecting the watermarks and security strips, then scrutinized the fine lines of both Benjamin Franklin portraits. He fished tiny colored vials from his coat pocket and subjected both bills to various chemical tests. He felt them, crumpled them, snapped the bills, tried to peel them apart; he studied the color of the ink on both bills and examined the detail on both backs.

  His Guinness sat untouched for thirty minutes until he said, “These are both real. You’ve been conned.”

  Still? “You can’t have it both ways, Peebles. One of these is Lonnie’s.”

  “He duped you into believing he created perfect duplicates because deep down something inside you wants to believe him. How do you know one of these is the dead Schwartze’s handiwork?”

  “Answer my question and I'll show you proof. Which is fake?”

  “You’ve been conned,” he said, looking at me like I was the one child left behind. “They’re both the real deal.”

  “Pick one anyway, just for fun.”

  He frowned, studied the bills, still undecided. After a minute he picked one.

  I pulled out part of the contents from the red envelope, photographs, and arranged them on the table between us. He used the loupe to compare what he now saw to the bills themselves. He went back and forth at least ten times, making odd grunting and clucking sounds.

  He looked up at me, incredulous, shaking his head. “I'll be damned. The little Schwartze did it. I can’t tell them apart.” He leaned back in the booth. “I wish I could have shaken his hand and bought him a drink.”

  I pointed to the photos. “The first one is Lonnie and Earl standing in front of the printing press with a freshly printed thirty-two bill sheet of Benjamins. In the next one he's pointing to a serial number on a bill.” I picked up the one Peebles thought was authentic and said, “This bill. The pictures were dated and timed, with a copy of that day’s Post-Dispatch in the foreground as further proof. The others showed enhanced detail of the bill, still uncut, and surrounded by other bills of equal high quality.

  He drained his mug and said, “I need another.”

  I flagged the waitress and ordered for us. “Why would Agent Winston go on record in front of millions and say the fakes were poor quality? Is he in bed with Maynard?”

  “I have an idea about that,” he said, sipping his next beer. “There were two practice sheets found at the scene, right? Imperfect ones?”

  I nodded.

  “If Winston only had access to bills from the two test sheets, that would explain it. Too much ink blurred the detail and made it appear lines are missing, darkening the bill’s color. His critique is correct, except for the black light. The Schwa—Lonnie's bill clearly glows light red, which means Winston is involved, unless he delegated some of the work.”

  “I talked to Winston. He did.”

  “Sloppy on his part. Just so you know, Maynard's goons will hunt and destroy you and that video. Now that he’s thrown his hat into the ring, the last thing he wants is you jeopardizing everything. Power is a drug; he craves his next fix and it has to be more than before.”
<
br />   “Lonnie said they removed all twenty-five mil from the basement the night before the arrest.”

  Nearly salivating, he held up Lonnie's bill and said, “If he made a quarter million of these beauties....”

  “He gave away his six and a half million, which leaves eighteen mil give or take. I know who took at least some of the money the day the police murdered Benny, but I don't know where it is now or who has it.”

  He drained his second mug. “Let’s say everything you claim about Maynard is true. You will never link him to Lonnie’s death. How are you going to tarnish his silver spoon?”

  I sat nursing my diet Coke. “He knows the money’s counterfeit and, even though the bills have passed inspection so far, he’ll want to legitimize them, get the counterfeits into bank circulation so they can never be traced back to him. He told me at the party he anticipates every possible outcome in advance and eliminates them. He wants no doubt to remain about the money. He’ll launder the bills as soon as he can.”

  He leaned back and smiled. “There you go, you have the entire weekend until nine Monday morning to find the money and connect it to him.”

  “I can use the tape against him, threaten to go public. I could ruin his reputation if he runs for office.”

  For the first time tonight I heard the old man laugh. “He wants to avoid that, but contacting him centers you in his cross hairs. If somehow you survived and went public with the tape, it would be a bump in the road, but it might not derail him.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said, raising my voice. “This ruins Maynard.”