“We believe they’re in New York, with a watch dealer. Our team is in the air. I’ll call if there are any developments.” Gordon stared at the handset, the call terminated.
This was going from bad to worse. From just a minor glitch in the middle of backwoods Asia, they’d gone to a million bucks of counterfeits in New York. The only good news was the bills were so good that nobody would be able to detect them as fake. But if someone did… He had everything he owned on the line in a complex series of derivative oil futures, betting on a sudden spike driven by Myanmar ’s new buying ability starting exactly one month from now. And he’d made an even more complex bet on a number of companies he’d identified as strong targets for upward price manipulation, buying call options to create gains while the common stock was purchased from offshore using bogus cash. If someone spotted the flawed bills, however unlikely that was, he was screwed.
Gordon didn’t know what to do next. He’d just have to wait until he heard back. They were ordinarily quite efficient, so he wasn’t panicked. After a moment’s consideration, he dialed his contact at the Treasury Department, the man who’d gotten rich providing Myanmar the data they needed. The Asians had introduced him to Gordon several years ago to get help in setting up an offshore account. Gordon had been happy to do it, and figured it couldn’t hurt to know all the players if he was going to risk his fortune on a play of this magnitude.
“Hello.”
“It’s Gordon. Would you keep me in the loop if you hear anything strange coming out of New York?”
A pause. “Such as?”
“Rumors, oddities, anything besides your usual routine.” Gordon didn’t want to alarm him, but he did want an early warning system.
“Uh, okay. Sure. Does this have anything to do with our deal?” The man was wary.
“No. Everything’s fine. This is something else, for one of my clients.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Chapter 6
Detective Stanford entered the dingy offices of Red Cap Courier and approached the obese woman behind the small reception window. Flipped out his badge. She regarded it suspiciously.
“I’m Detective Ron Stanford. Can I speak to your manager?”
“What’s this about?” She didn't seem like the most warm and inviting soul. He figured he’d clear up any confusion.
“Let me speak to the person running this place right now, please, without any questions from you. Okay?” He smiled, ever the diplomat.
“Well, all right. But the only people here right now are the dispatchers. I’ll get one.”
A heavy-set older man came out and introduced himself as Frank Meyer.
“Mr. Meyer, I’m looking into the death of one of your employees. Angelina Cortez. When did you last see her?”
Frank looked shocked. “Loca, dead? Sorry—everyone here has a nickname, hers was Loca. I guess the last time was three days ago, at the end of the Tuesday shift.”
“Was there anything unusual in terms of her demeanor or her attitude?”
“No…You should ask Stu. Hey Stu, didn’t you talk to Loca Tuesday?” Frank yelled into the back area.
“Who wants to know?” A voice yelled back.
“Police.”
A head popped out of the back area, then started towards them. Thirty-something geek in shorts.
“I talked to her. She was fine. That’s why we were all surprised when she didn’t show Wednesday.”
“And you are?” Ron asked.
“Oh, sorry. Stu Giblett. Dispatcher.”
“I'm afraid Angelina is dead - we suspect foul play, so I need to ask you some questions. Did she have a boyfriend? Anyone close to her romantically?” Ron inquired.
Frank shook his head.
“Not that I know of. She was kind of wild. I think she dated around, know what I mean?” Frank gave him a cheerless smirk. Stu grinned.
“I think I know what you mean. Who was she closest to here?” Ron asked. And so on. Standard questions. Blah, blah.
He asked them to keep Loca’s death confidential until he could notify her next of kin and interview the messengers. He wanted to talk to them on Monday, first thing, before they hit the streets.
No closer to a solution than when he’d arrived, Ron was frustrated. There was nobody besides Frank and Stu to talk to; everyone was gone, out on their routes.
Apparently Loca slept around. No steady, probably banging some of the other losers on the crew in addition to half of Manhattan.
What a mess.
And he had the feeling he’d be looking at more bodies like hers, sooner rather than later.
* * *
Robert opened the shop at 10:00 am and noted his apprentice hadn’t shown up yet. He was usually a few minutes late. It didn’t really irk Robert as much as he pretended, because for all his faults, Nick had an amazing eye for detail and an almost photographic memory. He was able to look at a watch he hadn’t seen for four years and recall instantly every particular of the transaction, the watch’s history, the condition the last time he’d seen it, and the like.
His security guard, Jerome, was on time as usual. Jerome had been with him eight years and had never missed a day of work. A heavy man in his forties, he had three children all finishing high school—twin girls, and a son who’d just graduated and gotten a scholarship to Purdue University. Jerome never had the opportunity to go to college, and one of his goals was to ensure each of his children got the chance. It looked good for them.
“Good morning, Mister G,” Jerome said. Same greeting every day—he’d switched from “Mister Gideon” at Robert’s request, but couldn’t bring himself to say “Robert” or “Bob.” Fair enough.
“Good morning, Jerome. How’s the brood?”
“Oh, never better, never better. How was your trip yesterday?” Jerome asked.
“Uneventful. It’s good to be home.”
Jerome took his seat by the front door, the same place he sat from 10:00 to 6:00, five days a week, year after year. He opened his latest book and settled down for another day of nothing. They’d never had an incident since the store had been open, but you had to have a security guard in New York if you were going to have serious inventory.
Hence Jerome.
Robert very much enjoyed the quiet time in his little empire. His watchmaker didn’t arrive until noon, Tuesdays and Fridays, to do repairs. Emilio was about a hundred years old, but still very skilled and appreciative of the pieces—not to mention very knowledgeable of the older Pateks.
The front door opened and Robert’s friend Stan Isaaks entered carrying two cups of coffee and a couple of bagels—a Friday morning ritual. Stan had a rare and collectible coin shop down a few blocks, now more of a retirement project than a legitimate business. Still, Stan knew a lot of people from having been on the street for forty-some years, knew everything there was to know about every type of coin, and had a reputation as one of the best.
“Well, good morning, how’s the world traveler today?” Stan asked. “Good morning, Jerome.” He nodded to the guard, who smiled and nodded back.
“Oh, please. A little trip to the airport, a few bad meals, I was back in no time.” Robert said.
“What were you up to, anyway? You said you’d tell me once you did the deal. Can we assume it’s done now?” Stan was the curious type; Robert hardly ever traveled, so he was naturally intrigued.
“I didn’t want to jinx it. But yes, it’s done.” They walked to the rear of the store and Robert gave him the blow-by-blow. Stan was concerned.
“Aren’t you afraid the money might be bogus? That’s a lot of gelt to be schlepping around.” Stan had a point. It had been an issue for Robert as well.
“I took it to a currency exchange place in the airport and they authenticated it. I’m not worried.”
“Those idiots can’t tell the difference between a bag of chips and a banknote.” Stan wasn’t impressed.
“They did the pen test, and it has the security strips. I’m c
omfortable,” Robert responded.
“Ha! The pen? That’s quackery! You know what that’ll catch? Counterfeits printed on newspaper. In this day and age? Totally useless…” Stan was getting wound up. “The strip is pretty convincing, but I’d still be worried. Let me take a few of the bills to my friend Saul to look at. He’s ex-Treasury, tops in the business.”
“I really don’t think it’s necessary…”
“Surely it can’t hurt to let him look?” Stan coaxed.
“I guess not… Look, I don’t have the money here; it’s at the bank. I’ll pull a few bills on Monday and meet you at noon, okay? Satisfied?” The two of them squabbled over many small things—a dynamic the relationship had developed over the decades.
“All right, then. So what’s on the agenda for the weekend?” Stan asked. They moved to other topics. At 10:20 the front door opened and Nick came in.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. G. Traffic. Whassup, Jerome.” Jerome glanced up from his book, nodded, and returned to reading.
Stan frowned at him. “You look like you were up all night, drinking and carrying on. You should be ashamed of yourself, you should.”
“Hey, Stan. Nice to see you too,” Nick responded and went into the back room.
The two older men regarded each other and smiled.
Kids these days. What were you going to do with them?
* * *
Tess was riding hard, anxious to get done so she could get home. She was twenty minutes ahead of schedule, with only two stops left. She hit the first one, collected her signature, and then winged her way down to Wall Street. She made a lot of deliveries there; even in the age of computers, most of the more important contracts were hand-couriered.
She hopped off her bike, locked it, and ran into the building, nearly running into the security guard.
”Delivery for Meridian Trading—Mr. Samuels,” she told him. He looked her over, nodded.
She took the elevator to the twentieth floor and stepped into the spacious, cool lobby, and approached the receptionist, a severely beautiful Asian woman who regarded her neutrally.
“Red Cap delivery for Gordon Samuels,” Tess said, handing her the sign-off tab with the bulky envelope.
“You’re early. That’s good. Have a nice weekend,” the woman told her, in a tone that said “get off our floor, now.” She handed the signed tab back to Tess, and returned her attention to the computer screen.
“Is there a restroom here I could use?” Tess asked.
“I’m afraid not. You’ll have to go down to the lobby and ask the security guard if you can use the facility there,” the woman responded frostily.
Tess turned to go, and a male voice addressed her.
“I think we can make an exception for the young lady, don’t you?” She turned, and saw a handsome man in grey suit pants and a pastel blue shirt appraising her.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Samuels, of course. I was just…” The woman was clearly flustered.
Tess looked him over. No wedding ring. Tan, tall, a playful gleam in his eyes. She took her helmet and sunglasses off, smiled at him. “Thank you. It’s really hot out there. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Not a problem. I know you’re probably baking.” he returned the smile.
She gave him a second smile, a hint of tongue ring. “Thanks again.”
Gordon pointed to an unmarked teak door. “That’s where all the magic happens.”
He picked up the package she’d just dropped off and walked back to his office, smiling to himself.
* * *
Tess made it to the apartment before Nick and hosed off again, luxuriating in the steam and water.
Nick got home at seven and they decided on Chinese for dinner. He was still beat from the night before, so he wanted to hit the sack before they went out. He went into the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and was out in two minutes.
There was a big event at the Avalon club that night—all the messengers were going to go—and it was going to run late, so he’d need his rest. She let him sleep for an hour, and then crawled in bed next to him, naked. Her head went under the covers and she slowly worked him into a rigid state, noting when he woke that he didn’t seem to resent her ministrations. She straddled and mounted him, moving slowly at first, but increasing her pace to match her own building urgency. He pinched her nipples, causing pain but also heightening her arousal. She’d been horny all day, and this was a good way to kick off the evening. They climaxed together, and she scratched his chest unconsciously—drawing blood—and then lay still on top of him, sweating, spent.
“Ow, you cut me up. How am I supposed to do my modeling shoot like this?” he teased.
“Sorry. I was fantasizing you were the newspaper guy and lost control of myself,” she responded. There was a three-hundred-pound Samoan man who sold newspapers and magazines out of a stand down the block from her place, who greeted her every time she went by.
“What’ll I tell the other girls?” he asked innocently.
“Tell them you got the scratches when you were forcing yourself on a schoolboy. They won’t have a hard time buying it.” She rolled off him. “You wanna hit the shower first, or me?”
“Let’s do it together.” He was up, walking over to the bathroom.
It was a tight fit. As the water warmed up they kissed, comfortably, their passion for the moment spent.
The Chinese place was packed and they waited half an hour for a table. Service was slow, but the beer was cold, and the Kung-Pao was hot and spicy.
It was New York on a Friday summer night—teeming with people, representatives of every fragment of humanity on parade. Tess loved the city, loved the diversity and the freedom, the sense of something always happening, and loved being a part of it.
They decided to walk to the club after dinner, and she drew appreciative glances from passing males—even in New York, home to the most beautiful women on the planet, she was a knockout. She’d selected a very short silver sequined dress held up by spaghetti straps, and what Nick called her “hooker shoes”—silver platforms with a good six inches of heel. She was almost six feet tall with them on, and enjoyed the way they set off her tanned legs and lean frame. Everyone could just fuck themselves if they didn’t like them, she thought to herself—part of her new, healthier philosophy. Judging by the stares and the occasional wolf whistle, she had nothing to worry about. She looked tough, and sexy, and all that.
The club was just getting rolling when they arrived; some of the other bike messengers were already there, lounging around the bar area. The music was so loud in the main room that the floor shook with each beat, and a wild light show pulsated in time with the robotic drone. Every conceivable outfit and hairstyle was on display, transvestites mingling with body builders hanging with junkies and musicians and models, everyone looking like they just stepped out of a music video or a fashion shoot. Another freaky Friday, and the groove was on.
It was impossible to talk or hear without yelling, so Tess and Nick just watched the crowd do their thing. The room was gradually getting packed; every now and then Tess would see one of the girls from the company and wave. They were all here—Pug and Sin City, Angel, Candy, Tab—the whole Red Cap chick crew.
Red Cap had a dozen female messengers and around fifty males—it wasn’t a huge company. Tess knew most of the girls and about a dozen of the guys pretty well, and the rest were either too new or not in her circle. She enjoyed the whole counter-culture, outlaw lifestyle. It was exciting, especially compared to going to college, majoring in computer science and becoming a programmer—there wasn’t a lot of adventure in coding a printer driver.
Pug was whacked on something, probably X, and so was Sin City. Candy was high on coke, and drinking pretty hard, but she’d had a rough week. Tess contented herself with a Seven and Seven, and Nick was drinking Red Bull and Vodka. This wasn’t his scene at all—he favored the live music crowd, and this was the urban house underground—so she gave him points for being a good spo
rt.
As the night wore on and the crowd got dense, the music created an anything-goes atmosphere. Tess was getting buzzed, and soon they were dancing in the middle of hundreds of other tranced-out partygoers. It felt good to let go, to be alive, and to feel the energy and the danger and the intoxication and the heat of the tribe, with the drums beating their primal sound into the New York night.
They danced until one, then found themselves out on the street, the bass still shaking the building as they passed an alley to look for a cab. Tess impulsively pulled Nick into the alley and started kissing him passionately, her heat stoked by the booze and the scene. She scanned the street and they went further into the space, and resumed kissing using a dumpster for cover. They were both aroused and he was becoming more urgent. She pulled down his zipper and got on her knees, taking him into her mouth as he let out a low moan. He was already stiff and she was making him crazy with her oral stroking.
She stood up and dropped her thong to her ankles, reversed herself and guided him into her from behind, hard, rough, urging him on, cursing and saying the filthiest things she could think of. He spanked her and grabbed her hair, bit her neck as they ground against each other. It was over in a few minutes—dirty and fast. It was something they shared a liking for, the danger and unexpected quality of exhibitionism heightening the sex for them both.
Finished and still glowing from her climax, Tess arranged herself, and they swayed back out of the alley, hailed a cab and returned to her pad for the night.
* * *
The killer watched the pair copulate from across the street in the shadows. His bloodlust was heightened by the coupling, and he toyed with the idea of killing them both while they were engaged. He dismissed it offhand as gratuitous, beneath him.
Fatal Exchange Page 5