DeFrane intervened. “You better stay up nights praying no harm comes to him or his family, Mr. Maynard. If it does, I will connect you to it and add it to your growing list of felonies.”
Maynard protested, “Don't you know who I am? Besides, I didn’t make that money—”
“John, SHUT UP NOW!” Snodgrass screamed. Then: “I told you not to trust the fat bastard!”
Fallon remained quiet as death; only his eyes moved.
Lucchesi seemed to derive special delight in reading these men their Miranda rights a second time, which he delivered with the excessive flare and stage presence of a Shakespearean actor.
“Gentlemen, I prefer not to be handcuffed when you take us outside,” Maynard said.
Lucchesi smiled. “And I want to be married to a young Sophia Loren. Guess that’s the first in a long line of arguments you’re going to lose, Counselor. Hands behind your back. And no damn sunglasses for any of you. That goes for you, too, Incredible Hulk.” He tore off Dodd’s shades and for a split second appeared ill at ease when he noticed the man’s rapacious eyes.
“You’ll be writing traffic tickets along St. Louis Avenue or chasing smash and grabs near Jennings and West Florissant when this is over,” Snodgrass threatened.
Lucchesi laughed. “I think you’ll be the expert on moving violations in the joint, Brillo pad.”
During the controlled police action, the few bank customers inside had been safely escorted into the parking lot, which was now filled with patrol cars. The cars in turn had drawn a sizable crowd of gawkers, growing by the minute. Everyone outside assumed the bank had been robbed and they’d have a surprise coming when the truth eventually came out that the criminals were actually caught trying to deposit money.
Life has its enjoyable little ironies every so often.
As agents DeFrane and Lucchesi prepared to lead the six men in custody to waiting squad cars, I stepped out of the bank manager’s office next door that had served as command central. I watched and listened to the scenes play out on multiple hidden surveillance cameras, alongside uniformed officers ready to spring into action. Bruce Finch lay sprawled on a sofa with a wet towel draped over his forehead. (He’d nearly passed out in there. When he excused himself on the pretense of needing forms, I gave him a quick pep talk.) He fanned himself and chewed Tums like they were Skittles.
I walked up to Dodd and said, “They don’t want you. They want the big fish. Do yourself a favor. Cut a deal. Do that and I won’t press charges.”
His heterochromic eyes stared into mine and that sick, crooked grin appeared like a slice made by a knife blade. “Remember, I will get out.”
It’s a good thing he couldn't see the chill I felt creeping up my spine.
Through the clear double doors, I spotted a Channel Four news van rumble into the parking lot and screech to a stop near the police barricade. Debbie Macklin and a male crew member hoisting a portable TV camera hopped out and double-timed it to the lobby entrance.
I walked up to Maynard. “I heard you two missed hooking up the other night, so I invited Ms. Macklin to your coming-out party. Or is it now a going-away party?
“Once I knew the real man behind your public persona, the rest became relatively easy to figure out. Lonnie and the Secret Service helped obtain the proof. From behind bars, even after his murder, he was a step ahead of you. When I learned the “Big Top” is code for the Secret Service, I knew you had a mole there. An underling of Winston’s.”
Recognition dawned in those icy blue eyes. “You ... you overheard us.”
“Your career is in ruins in part because I had bad tacos for lunch the day you announced Lonnie’s capture. Something else to blame on the Mexicans,” I said. I held up my phone and watched his eyes grow larger. “I know you and Dodd were concerned about my cell phone the other night. I want you to know that it’s in safe hands.”
I stepped back so Maynard was in my phone’s field of vision and took a picture of him in handcuffs. He had that same faraway, dead look in his eyes that I first saw in Lonnie’s mug shot. “That’s exactly how I want to remember you.”
“You’re no better than he was. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll be out in a matter of hours once I clear up this little misunderstanding. You’d be wise to keep that in mind,” he said, above the protestations of his wire-haired attorney to keep his mouth shut.
I smiled. “I had you pegged for a bully—you don’t disappoint. It’s good to keep a positive attitude, but my friend Lonnie was also a brilliant, meticulous man. He was more patient than you. He kept records of everything. You’ll hear more about that at your trial.”
Maynard’s tanned face turned to white marble.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Maynard. Good luck with the election. After you settle in, I think you'll be a shoe-in for prisoner representative.”
He took a step toward me and spoke in a hushed tone. “You think you've done something good here, even noble. You think you’ve stopped me. My cause will endure. I am a patriot. Unlike you, I love this country and will fight for her and the direction she must take. You’ve just weakened our country.”
“I'm sure you believe that, ‘Mr. Murphy.’”
In a face-saving gesture, he stood about to say more when Snodgrass yelled, “John, keep your damn mouth shut!”
Maynard stood his ground, fists balled, and stamped his feet.
Lucchesi stepped between us, chuckling to himself, and patted me on the back. “That’s enough, Big Dog. You talk to him anymore and he’ll be on suicide watch.”
“Thanks for giving me a minute.”
DeFrane and Lucchesi stayed behind to insure proper chain of evidence collection of the subpoenaed bank records and shredded items and to take Finch into custody as a material witness. The special agents called me into Finch’s now vacant office and carefully opened the trunks.
“Show me the money,” Lucchesi said, rubbing his meat-hook hands together, as the special agents raised both lids simultaneously.
Each contained a large duffel bag with the Green Bay Packer logo on the sides. Inside them were neatly banded stacks and stacks of Benjamin Franklins. It appeared every bill was the 1996 hundred-dollar enlarged portrait variety. They looked like the real thing to my untrained eye.
When Lucchesi tried to lift one of the duffels from the large ornate silver trunk he grimaced, his wide face red from the effort and said, “Holy Magnolia, one strong MoFo must have toted these babies around.”
“That would be Mr. Dodd,” I said, remembering my terrifying night in the dark alley.
DeFrane turned to Lucchesi. “We have the serials of every counterfeit bill he and his crew made, thanks to Dr. Adams.” The two agents had found the flash drive intact taped to my fan, right where I’d hidden it.
“That’s a quarter of a million numbers, ace,” Lucchesi said, looking at me skeptically.
“I can do the math,” I said. “The flash drive has more than enough space to contain the randomly generated numbers. So if this passes inspection from the experts—”
“The Golden Boy and his followers face the charge of intent to distribute counterfeit money, same as counterfeiting. That carries the same penalties Lonnie Washington faced,” DeFrane said.
“Maynard planned to use the forgeries to finance his senate run, even though he was worth millions.”
“Why the hell would Richie Rich risk it all if he had his own money?” Lucchesi asked.
I smiled. “As they say, you can never be too thin or too rich.”
BOOK THREE
FINDING THE WAY
In a gentle way, you can shake the world.
~ Mohandas Gandhi
chapter twenty-seven
immortality within reach
DeFrane’s late-night phone calls set in motion a frenzied dash the weekend before the banks opened Monday. DeFrane had enlisted the help of his DOJ friend Dom Lucchesi to investigate Maynard’s banking history. A team of experts in white-collar methods of money laundering intensely scrutini
zed Maynard’s business dealings. They discovered possible past improprieties with Bruce Finch acting as go-between every time. They struck pay dirt when they questioned the excitable Mr. Finch at his home late Sunday. Armed with insider knowledge, it was a matter of exerting the right type of pressure on Finch to testify in exchange for immunity from prosecution and the chance for a fresh start. His nerves and bad acting had nearly compromised the undercover operation, but Maynard’s greed caused him to ignore his attorney’s recommendation. I hoped he’d come to regret it.
I went home after I helped Finch hyperventilate into a paper bag to alleviate his panic attack. A tiny manila package waited for me in the mail. Inside was a storage key and a note which read:
Dear Mitchell,
This is another posthumous letter I’d hoped to avoid. When time allows, go to the Glover Storage facility off south Kingshighway. The items in Unit #10 are my hobby, my personal treasures. I promise there is nothing illegal or stolen within. I decided to store them here when we entered the production phase, in the event of my arrest. I didn’t want them falling into unfriendly hands.
They are yours to keep or give away as you see fit. My only request is that they be given away, not sold, to people who will appreciate them. The space is climate-controlled and in order to empty unit #10 in one trip you will need a small truck and the help of a discreet friend. Once done, please close the Glover account number listed below and you will receive a refund for the remainder of the year’s rental fee. Use the balance for your trouble as you see fit.
Account #2694746.
LW
P.S. I wish I possessed your talent with people.
P.P.S. I was rejected for restorer technician as well. You will understand when you visit #10.
Tony Martin, my former mentor and supervisor at River City State Psychiatric Hospital, owns a truck and offered to help.
We met at Glover Storage late one sunny afternoon. It was an old, sprawling one-level storage facility similar to others in the area, with rows and rows of units painted basic orange and brown behind rusting metal bars.
When I pulled up the heavy tri-hinged metal door to Unit #10, it rattled in its aluminum track with a rumble like rolling thunder or the groan of an angry god. The first thing I saw was DaVinci’s Mona Lisa and her subtle smile. She smirked and laughed at me from an old easel. I wondered how Lonnie could have pilfered it from The Louvre. Beyond tiny and inscrutable Mona, I saw DaVinci’s Last Supper, Monet’s Water Lilies and The Lily Pond, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, Rembrandt’s Blue Boy, Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, Degas’ Letoile, and Goya’s Nude Maja. We walked through the private art gallery in silent awe until Tony emitted a low whistle and said, “Are you seeing this, too, or am I imagining it?”
I picked up Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus and turned it around. The initials LW had been brushed on the back in the most elaborate calligraphy.
At the back of the storage unit, Tony said, “Your guy had a sense of humor. Look at this one.” With a devilish grin he held up a frame for my inspection.
I saw a large red and black dollar sign splashed on a beige background. "One of Andy Warhol's many images of money," Tony said.
I couldn’t suppress a sad smile. “He’s right, there’s nothing illegal here. He created these in his free time.”
“He was a talented little felon,” he said.
I silently nodded agreement.
“What a waste,” Tony said, shaking his head. “He could have used his gifts for good.”
He’d tried. He’d applied for work as an art technician who restores priceless works of art that have begun to fade due to the ravages of time. Rejected again, his past denied him the chance to keep masterpieces immortal.
“I think he changed his little part of the world the best way he could.”
Tony stared at me like I’d sprouted a second head.
I couldn't explain everything to him yet, for Maynard’s fate was far from sealed and he still possessed many powerful and intricate ties with the police. “A lot of doors closed on him. After the truth comes out, I’ll explain it all over a couple beers.”
“At the risk of sounding like a racist, did Lonnie help only black people?” he asked, thumbing through a cabinet that contained hundreds of sketches and lithographs wrapped in plastic.
I examined a duplicate self-portrait of Leonardo DaVinci. “Since Maynard’s arrest, I’ve spent time piecing together Lonnie’s story. A couple weeks ago, I met a lady who’d taken in her infant granddaughter because the mother’s a crack junkie who tried to sell her baby on the street for drugs. Grandma has her own health and financial problems, but couldn’t bear the thought of her grandbaby with strangers in foster care. A few days later I met a man who runs after-school programs for underprivileged teens in the city whose ministry was being forced to close its doors due to lack of funding. Both received eleventh-hour financial aid, accompanied by a mysterious letter from an LW thanking them for their selfless deeds. Both are whiter than Wonder Bread, and there are more. LW was color blind. He didn’t see anyone’s ethnicity, sexual orientation, or age. All he saw, those he helped, were people in need who spent their lives helping others. But once word got out, especially in his own neighborhood, he made more than his share of enemies. I met several who wanted start-up capital for bars, escort services, pawn shops, or cash advance loan stores. He turned every one of them down because, for Lonnie, it wasn’t where you came from or who you were, it was what you did and what you lived for.”
He held up a brightly colored oil and pastel on thick cardboard and said, “Damn, This looks just like The Scream by Munch.” Still gazing at Lonnie’s handiwork, he ruminated, “We’ve both worked with criminals who occasionally toss money into church poor boxes to help relieve their inner guilt over stealing. Was he one of them?”
“I don’t think so. There was a lot more to him.” A modern-day Robin Hood came to mind again. His philanthropy could have made him an intriguing figurehead for the Occupy Wall Street movement if he’d had a political bone in his body. But, he shunned the limelight like a blind mole. “The fact is unique, extraordinary people come along, grace the rest of us with their presence, and then are gone.” I thought of Kris, her smiling face flashing before me. “Like shooting stars, sometimes we enjoy them before their light goes out, sometimes we don’t.”
He eyed another painting and said, “Hey, could I have this Vermeer for Cindy? She loved that movie about the girl with the pearl earring. We watched it together a lot. She lusts over Colin Firth and you know I have a thing for Scarlett Johansson.”
His wife Cindy followed her favorite actors with a groupie-like zeal unusual for someone in her mid-forties.
“As long as she’ll appreciate it,” I said, with a sudden air of propriety. He turned to look at me, and I felt my cheeks flush. “Which I know she will.”
We carefully loaded Tony’s truck. While he completed the final rope ties, I walked to the manager’s office. It was a stale smelling room made of cinder block walls painted mauve and a water-stained drop ceiling that reminded me of the visiting room at Gateway Jail. A morbidly obese black man with mutton chop sideburns looked up and scowled when I walked through the door. He returned his attention to the baseball game on a tiny black-and-white television perched precariously on a warped plywood desk. He fiddled with the rabbit ears on the old TV and made no move to acknowledge my presence.
“I’m here to close the account for unit number ten,” I said, dropping Lonnie’s keys on the grimy pockmarked counter.
The man’s ears perked up at mention of the unit number. He turned off the set, his sullen indifference now sudden attentiveness. He stood up, wiped his hands on his shirt, and said in a soft, high-pitched voice, “ID, please.”
I showed him my driver’s license.
“Uh-huh,” he said, his droopy hound dog eyes carefully comparing the picture to my face like a wary passport inspector. “I have your refund
here. You can be on your way in a minute, sir.”
“How can that be? I didn’t rent the storage unit.”
“Don’ matter,” the corpulent man said as he lumbered to a gray metal filing cabinet. He bent to the lowest shelf, wheezing from the exertion. He pulled out a manila folder and handed me a check for over three hundred dollars.
“This is already made out in my name. How did you know I would be coming here?”
“Somebody called ahead, said to be expecting you within the month and for me to cut the check.” More wheezing, heavier this time. I noticed an inhaler next to the television.
“Was it Michael Anthony?”
His face was calm but I thought I saw those muddy eyes briefly widen at mention of the name. “I can’t say, sir.”
“You know who Lonnie Washington is, don’t you?”
“Everyone know him. He been on the news for weeks. That the most I can say. Have a blessed day.”
I noticed his name badge and decided to take a shot in the dark. “Michael Anthony sure has a sweet, silky voice. A most pleasing accent reminiscent of tropical islands. What do you think she looks like, Reggie?”
For an instant, he stopped in his tracks, then suddenly grabbed the inhaler and waddled through an arched doorway marked “FOR EMPLOYEES ONLY.” It barely accommodated his girth, and the plastic red beads hanging in the narrow archway rattled against each other like hollow bones in his wake. He did not return. As I left I thought I saw those same sad, hangdog eyes peer at me through the lengthening shadows past the dirty window pane.
As I walked to the truck, I wondered if Reggie was placing a call to Michael Anthony.
chapter twenty-eight
if it bleeds...
The next day, life took another bizarre turn.
All the stations had reporters in attendance yesterday at the federal grand jury when the Assistant US Attorney prepped the jurors that the law had been violated. The AUSA read the counts of the indictment and witnesses, like me, described the facts. There was no cross-examination because there was no established defendant or defense. The jurors asked questions when they needed clarification. After all the testimony was given, the jurors voted on the spot for an indictment and an arrest warrant was issued and signed by the judge.
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