Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  “You don’t question the integrity of a man like Mr. Yeong.”

  Jake wasn’t about to back down. “When I get back to my place I’m weighing this. If it’s light your next container’s gonna be light.”

  Tommy raised his voice slightly. “You never challenge a man like Mr. Yeong in his office in front of others.”

  “You call that a challenge? I never even put a gun to his head.”

  “You must always leave a man with his dignity. To do otherwise is to make an enemy.”

  “That must be more Confucius because I can’t think of a country song with that line in it,” said Jake.

  Tommy looked over his shoulder.

  “They aren’t coming,” said Jake.

  “You think you know our ways but you’re wrong.”

  “I’m still trying to catch up on all these Asian customs.”

  “You better hope you live long enough to learn them.”

  Jake needed to drop Tommy at his car, which was parked in a strip mall two miles from the restaurant. The undercover agent knew Tommy was agitated by the performance in Yeong’s office, so he decided to lighten up the conversation as they were driving.

  “Candy’s beautiful,” said Jake.

  After a prolonged moment Tommy said, “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. Better keep a close eye on that one. Somebody with money will grab her in a heartbeat.”

  “That’s why I’m working so hard to please her.”

  “Whatever generates our revenue stream pleases me, my friend,” said Jake.

  With the tension eased, Jake decided to press the investigation.

  “What’s the deal with a black bartender in a Korean bar serving only domestic beer?” asked Jake, trying to sound as if he were only making conversation and not all that interested.

  Tommy seemed forgiving in his response. “His name’s Kareem. He did time with Candy’s brother at Folsom. They were in the same unit for a year or so and Kareem got to know the family. After Kareem got off parole and needed a job, Candy convinced Yeong’s manager to hire him to tend bar.”

  “The bartender’s name is Kareem?” said Jake, glancing over at Tommy.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he Muslim?”

  “I’m not sure. He doesn’t worship at my mosque,” replied the Korean sarcastically.

  “Funny, Tommy. Is Candy’s brother still in?”

  “Yeah, and he’s not getting out anytime soon.” Tommy paused briefly before asking, “Why are you so interested in all this? Are you writing a book?”

  “No, just seemed odd, a black guy with a Muslim name working in a Korean bar.”

  “Submit it to Ripley’s,” came Tommy’s quick response.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jake dropped Tommy at his car and headed south on Vermont Avenue toward the freeway, hoping to get out of Koreatown quickly. He raced in and out of traffic, constantly checking his mirrors, looking for a tail. He doubted Tommy and the crew would try to follow him, but he was carrying more than four pounds of a controlled substance under the front seat. Like every good dope dealer he wanted to get it to the next stage in the distribution process without interference. For Jake, it meant Trey Bennett, his case agent.

  Using the speed-dial function on his phone, he punched in the code for Trey.

  “I’m out of there,” said Jake over the speaker.

  “How’d it go?”

  “It went. I’m heading over to the Santa Monica Freeway and will eventually get up to the Westside. Meet me in the parking lot across the street from this morning’s tryst, Cupcake,” said Jake, smacking his lips, making kissing sounds.

  “You’re sick.”

  “You’re cute.”

  When Jake pulled off the 405 Freeway at Sunset Boulevard, he called Trey. “Everything look good?”

  “Yeah, the parking lot’s clean.”

  “I’ll be there in two. Is junior with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With drugs in the car, I don’t want to stop at some minimart. Have him run across the street and grab me a Dr Pepper at the liquor store.”

  “Got it. He’ll be waiting with drink in hand when you get here.”

  As soon as Jake pulled onto the side street leading to the Brentwood public parking lot he spotted Trey Bennett’s Ford Fusion. Jake checked his mirrors one last time before pulling into the lot. Trey and Brian Carter were waiting outside the car.

  “At least you took off the ties,” said Jake as he exited his car, handing the paper bag to Trey, who was wearing clear latex gloves.

  Brian handed Jake the soda and Jake fished out change from his pocket to repay the newest member of the team.

  “Thanks. I was getting thirsty but always hate using a drive-thru or stopping at 7-Eleven. Need to get straight home to papa when you’re holding product.”

  Trey was thrilled when he looked in the paper bag and saw the latest compensation in the undercover operation. “Two keys is a big score. Congratulations.”

  Jake briefed both agents as to how it went down in Yeong’s office and then looked at Brian. “With Tommy’s prior drug conviction, it’s a double-up. He’s looking at a twenty-year minimum mandatory sentence just for making the introduction. Yeong’s looking at a dime.”

  Trey handed the bag back to Jake, who grabbed an ink pen from inside his Range Rover and began initialing and dating both packages of meth and the paper bag.

  As Brian was observing the ritual, Jake said, “Chain of custody . . . Allows me to tell the twelve upstanding citizens who decided not to avoid jury duty that these are the kilos of ice I just obtained from Yeong and Tommy.”

  Brian nodded.

  “Any idea who his butt boys were in the restaurant?” asked Trey.

  Jake shook his head. “Not yet. He didn’t introduce any of them or call them by name. I’m not even sure they spoke English. I just know when Yeong raised his voice they jumped and got ready to pull on me.” Jake took a long draw of his Dr Pepper, then added, “I almost feel sorry for Tommy. He’s such a dupe. I can’t believe he took me to Yeong. Tommy’s looking at the big two-o and he never even touched the product.”

  “Mandatory ten and twenty years,” said Trey with a broad grin. “I love those federal sentencing guidelines. Makes all the paperwork worthwhile.”

  Jake feigned offense. “Paperwork? How about the possibility I could have caught bubonic plague just walking through the restaurant? That place is a C for crying out loud. Is that what you mean by ‘worthwhile’?” Then, failing to get a rise out of Trey, Jake paused, took another sip, and added, “By the way, Yeong wants an exclusive on my border-crossing contacts. It’s all on the microchip. You will note Yeong is willing to pay me a lot more for my services than the Bureau.”

  Trey refused to bite at Jake’s provocative banter in the presence of a new agent. “That’s a huge step. How do you want to handle it?”

  Jake shrugged. “I downplayed it and told him I’d have to think about it. If I were really a crook it makes sense. I’d want to limit my exposure. But Reid and this contract killing may cut everything short. We may not have much of a window in which to operate and I really want to move on to Park. When you get to the office, download the audio, weigh the stuff in this paper bag, do a field test on the contents, and let me know the results. Yeong claims it’s the highest-quality meth Asia produces, so I assume it will test positive. But let me know, especially the weight. I’ll call Tommy tonight and tell him how pleased I am with the product, and assuming the weight is good, I’ll say I want to meet with Yeong right away to discuss this new business relationship. It will at least get us one more recorded meeting and maybe give you a chance to identify his spear-carriers.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was a little past nine when Jake made it home. The wood-frame structure was old and lonely, tucked away in the Malibu hills five miles from the ocean. Two bedrooms and a bath gave him just enough room to house what few belongings he had. He didn�
�t mind the solitude; in fact, he preferred it.

  He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, turned on the TV, and quickly scrolled through the cable news shows in an effort to catch up on what was happening in the rest of the world. On every broadcast, the hot news was all about how a new nuclear nonproliferation agreement with Iran would guarantee “peace for our time.”

  Jake noted FOX News Channel was the only place where reporters and commentators questioned the wisdom of the UN-sponsored international agreement. Both Megyn Kelly and Sean Hannity pointed out that the nuclear weapons deal with the ayatollahs in Tehran was remarkably similar to the 1938 Munich appeasement deal with Adolf Hitler.

  As he prepared for a few hours of sleep, Jake picked up Katie’s Bible from the table beside the bed. It was still opened to a verse in Job: “Man’s days are determined. You have decreed the number of his months and have set limits he cannot exceed.”

  Katie always said Jake lived like he believed those words; taking risks as if God ordained his bravery, knowing no matter what he did, his final day was part of God’s plan. But there were times when he wondered whether he was taking reckless chances or actually living under the watchful eye of God.

  There was no doubt in Jake’s mind the verse brought Katie comfort, knowing her life and Jake’s were in God’s hands. A set of his best friend’s dog tags served as a bookmark for the opened page; a thin layer of dust on both . . .

  Jake stared at the words he’d read so many times and said to himself, I believe in You, Lord, but why do You let terrible things happen to those who love You and those I love?

  While brushing his teeth, Jake’s undercover cell phone rang. He activated the internal recording device and answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Jake?” said the voice.

  “Maybe. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Daniel Reid. We met earlier today.” He said it as if Jake must have so many contract killings lined up he wouldn’t remember the morning meeting at the pier.

  While rinsing his toothbrush, Jake said, “So, did you change your mind?” Always give the target a chance to back out. They seldom do, but it precludes a successful entrapment argument at trial.

  “No. I just need to meet you earlier,” said Reid.

  “Do you have the money?”

  “Yes, of course. Can we meet at noon instead of three?”

  “Sure. Is there a problem?”

  “No. I just found out I have a court appearance downtown at one thirty and there’s no way I can make it to Santa Monica by three.”

  “I’ll see you at noon, same place as this morning. Bring the money and all the four-one-one.”

  “I’ll be there with everything you need.”

  “Perfect,” said Jake with a double meaning . . . a counterfeit contract killing and an all-but-certain criminal conviction for solicitation to commit murder.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The music was loud, almost deafening. It was enough to make an audiologist cringe, but then again loud enough to make him rich when these same young people sought hearing devices in a few years.

  In the 1990s the rave parties were reserved for abandoned warehouses with word-of-mouth advertising, makeshift lighting, and boom boxes. The police fought hard to shut them down for a variety of reasons, mainly the guaranteed drug usage. Overdoses were as common as heartburn after eating at a skid-row restaurant advertising “Mom’s Home Cooking.” Now the parties were mainstreamed, with professional promoters using social media to draw more than ninety thousand fans to venues such as the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.

  Sophisticated sound systems, laser light shows, and fog machines were the norm, with some clubs featuring top-name entertainers. The day of the week didn’t matter. Weekends or weekdays saw crowds lining the streets to get in. The drugs were still common: ecstasy, crystal meth, K-water. All that and more, easy to obtain with just a nod, a smile, and the exchange of a few “Jacksons.” Oddly enough, the petit dealers at these events preferred twenties to hundred-dollar bills. Even street thugs, pimps, and hookers know “Benjamins” are the most common counterfeits.

  Jenny, H. Daniel Reid’s pregnant paramour, loved the party scene. She was a regular at big-name clubs in and around downtown Los Angeles. Tonight she was at her favorite nightspot, planning to waste just a little more of her life. The atmosphere and the drugs were intoxicating, a welcome relief from the self-loathing she felt—and the tears she occasionally shed.

  As Jenny waded into the mob, she spied Candy and waved frantically, trying to get her friend’s attention. Through the noisy crowd and the flashing lights Candy caught a glimpse of Jenny’s manufactured commotion. She and Tommy danced toward her, elbowing their way through the drug-induced throng.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DAY 4

  THURSDAY, MAY 1

  The noon sun and blue sky were testimony to another beautiful cloudless Southern California day. Jake made his way down the crowded Santa Monica Pier, continuing his mission to purge the judicial system of one more gutter-dwelling lawyer. In the morning the concrete and steel finger pointing into the Pacific was occupied by fishermen; by noon it was sightseers, lunchtime diners, and panhandlers hitting up the tourists. The sound of the 1922 carousel provided an amusement park atmosphere as vendors hawked their goods while street performers entertained the more than four million people who visited each year.

  Though Jake was convinced Reid really wanted to have his pregnant girlfriend killed, he wanted to make sure it was just that and not a law enforcement setup, a blue-on-blue situation. He sized up the crowd on the pier and no one jumped out as a plainclothes cop. As he neared the meeting spot, he spied the attorney nervously waiting for the hit man. Jake was on time and glad Reid wouldn’t keep him waiting.

  He gave another cursory look over the crowd. It seemed safe and he approached the target. Reid extended his hand and Jake grabbed it, pulling the lawyer toward him, subtly running his hands up and down the attorney’s back. As Jake released the hug, he smiled, turned toward the water, and leaned on the rail, watching the ocean waves break on the shore.

  “You still don’t trust me?” asked Reid, almost sounding hurt, joining the fictitious hit man on the rail. Both were looking north up the Malibu coast.

  “Why should I? You called me on the recommendation of someone neither of us trusts and asked me to kill your pregnant girlfriend. Not exactly the request of an honorable man worthy of respect or confidence,” said Jake, reinforcing for the audio recorder why this undercover meeting was necessary. He inched closer to Reid, ensuring his hidden digital audio/video recording device picked up the conversation without a lot of ambient noise.

  “I’d hate to go through life being that distrusting.”

  “That makes us even.”

  “How so?” asked Reid.

  “I’d hate to go through life being a bottom-feeder who lacked the stones to pull the trigger when a problem arose.”

  Reid wanted to verbally attack and rip this undereducated Neanderthal, but fear and necessity were strong motivators to couch his criticism in less caustic terms. “I don’t think that kind of personal attack is necessary. This is strictly a business relationship. I also don’t change the oil on my Aston Martin or butcher my own beef. I don’t like to get my hands greasy or bloody. I can afford to outsource those services. You provide a service I need and I’m willing to pay. Quite handsomely, I might add.”

  “Capitalism at work.”

  Reid attempted to restore his wounded ego. “Someday you might need the services of ‘a bottom-feeder,’ as you call me. When that time comes you will want the best.” He paused as if delivering a closing argument to a jury hanging on his every word, and added, “I am the best.”

  “Let’s get back to capitalism.” Jake looked around the pier, more for show than security. “Did you bring the money?”

  Jake angled his body just a few inches from Reid, who was now practically speaking into the microphone.

  Reid
pulled an envelope from inside his suit coat pocket and handed it to Jake. The business envelope had the return address of the law office in the upper left-hand corner. Harvard might be prestigious but they obviously graduate some dumb ones. Thanks for the additional piece of circumstantial evidence. Without looking at the contents, Jake stuffed the white envelope up under his shirt and into his waistband.

  “There’s twenty-five thousand in there. You get the second half when I know the job is done.”

  “That was the arrangement. You better not be short. If it is and I think you’re playing me I walk away and keep the deposit.”

  “Why would I short you on this end? I want her dead,” Reid said emphatically.

  Perfect. The attorney just kept digging the hole deeper, burying himself with his bravado.

  “When do you want this done?”

  “I’ll be in Hawaii all next week for a legal conference. That’s my alibi. Several hundred lawyers will provide all the eyewitnesses I need. In fact, I’m the keynote speaker at the Wednesday luncheon. Can you do it then?”

  “If I’m building an alibi, lawyers wouldn’t be at the top of my list for ‘must have’ witnesses.”

  Reid wanted to respond but looked away, a show of weakness. The undercover pit bull decided to continue the attack. “How come you guys never have conferences in South Central L.A.? I know a perfect little motel on Figueroa and I bet I can get you a deal. Give back a little to the community.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Why would I hang out with a bunch of gangbangers when I’ve got Polynesian beauties catering to my every whim and all tax deductible? It’s bad enough those hip-hop cretins soil my office when they seek my counsel. I sure don’t want to socialize among them. Besides, your perfect little hideaway on Figueroa isn’t next to a golf course. Apparently you don’t know very much about continuing legal education.”