What was that all about?
Was she looking for a replacement father figure? Why was she thinking of him, of all people? And why now, in the middle of all this? He was interesting in a shopworn way, but straight-laced conservative guys had never been her deal. So why had he struck some kind of chord in her? Why, in the middle of all this mayhem, did she feel a pull—an attraction?
He had come running when she was in trouble at the shop, so the least she could do was thank him; she rationalized that it wouldn’t hurt to call. She found his card and called the office number. It went to voice mail; she debated hanging up, and then decided to leave a message.
“Hi, Detective Stanford, it’s Tess Gideon. I just wanted to thank you for coming to the shop and checking things out yesterday. I know it wasn’t part of your investigation, and I guess I’m just calling to say I appreciate it.” She felt kind of dumb but pressed on. “It meant a lot to me that you were willing to drop everything and swing by.” She paused, unsure of how to wrap it up. “I hope you’re making progress with your investigation into Loca’s murder.” She paused again. “Call me if I can help you with anything.” The voice mail beeped—she was out of time.
Call me if I can help you with anything? What was she doing? She thought about it; she didn’t know what she was doing. At all. But she’d felt that calling him was the right thing to do, so she had—no big deal, what was done was done. It wouldn’t kill either of them. He probably got calls from interviewees all the time. She hadn’t offered to blow him, just said thanks, that was all.
She recognized that her emotions had been all over the map in a fifteen-minute period, and that she probably shouldn’t be calling anyone else right now. She went into her bedroom and pulled on her bike shorts and a jogging bra.
She heard her answering machine pick up while she was brushing her teeth. It was her sister, her voice sounding scared and angry. What else was new? Tess would call back later. Right now she wanted to get out and forget about everything, push herself hard and feel the burn.
Tess filled her water bottle, threw her cell into her fanny-pack along with twenty dollars, and carried her bike downstairs and out the front door. The heat slammed her in the face when she stepped outside. It was stiflingly hot and very humid; thunderheads loomed in the distance, threatening showers later in the day and ensuring the humidity would stay unbearable for the duration.
She swung her leg over the frame and pushed off, launched herself down the street, and began pedaling in earnest. She figured she’d be back in a few hours. Life could wait.
Inside her phone was ringing again, but when the answering machine picked up nobody left a message.
Chapter 16
Saul carefully documented the issues with the watermark so there could be no argument. After poring over the bill for a few more hours he’d noticed another glitch: the 1789 at the base of the small green “Department of the Treasury” seal on the right front portion of the bill, which had the number 100 in grey-green ink superimposed over it, had a slight flaw in the 8. The base of the 0 in the 100 on the genuine hit to the left of the 8, whereas on the counterfeit it hit dead center. It was a variance you saw from series to series, but not within the same run.
The watermark slip was harder to be sure of, because each series was different. If you held up ten hundred-dollar bills and compared the watermarks, there would be slight variations among all of them, right down to the facial expressions. Before starting his comparisons, Saul had made sure to find a similar series, both the genuine and the counterfeit having a reference number starting with F He kept over six thousand dollars worth of hundreds starting with different letters, for exactly this sort of comparison.
This was a fake—the best he’d ever seen.
He placed a call to his old office at Treasury in Washington, D.C., steeling himself for a tough battle ahead. He was viewed by many there as a nut and alarmist, so he’d avoided calling for seven years.
“Treasury Department, how can I help you?”
“Ken Pritchard, please.”
“One moment.” Thirty seconds went by.
“Ken Pritchard’s office,” a female voice announced.
“Hi. I need to speak to Ken, please. This is Saul Balinsky,” Saul said.
“May I ask what the call is in reference to?”
“Just tell Ken that Saul B. is on the line and needs to speak with him immediately.”
“Please hold.” Several minutes passed.
A cautious voice came on the line. “Ken Pritchard.”
“Ken, this is Saul Balinsky.”
“Yes, Saul, long time no talk. What can I do for you?”
“Ken, I have a situation. I’m looking at a hundred-dollar bill that is without a doubt the best forgery I’ve ever seen. They got the paper right, the strip perfect, the inks, the etchings. The only telltales are the watermark, and a hiccup in one of the numbers,” Saul explained.
“Saul, we’re aware of some bills out of Russia, we’ve documented and circulated bulletins on them…” Ken had been Saul’s old supervisor. He was a career bureaucrat who wouldn’t have known a forgery if it bit him.
“This is a newer bill—2006 series. It passed every test there is. No bank would be able to tell, and an airport currency exchange passed it as clean. So unless you’re telling me a bill that Wells Fargo or B of A would certify as genuine isn’t important, pay attention. You have a problem. A big one.” He stopped. “Ken, they got the paper right, even the red and blue fiber counts. This isn’t amateur. It looks like big time, maybe even a foreign government.” Saul figured that would get his attention.
“Saul, with all due respect, that’s pretty unlikely. No country would risk our wrath by counterfeiting our currency.” Ken sounded self-righteous. Saul was off on paranoia island.
“Russia did in the late twenties. What’s to stop it from happening today? Some Middle Eastern backwater, or China, or North Korea, or Russia? There are a lot of people out there who hate us, Ken.”
“Look, Saul, I don’t discount that a lot of countries despise us. But this is pretty farfetched…” Ken wasn’t budging. Saul had one trump card left.
“That’s probably what mid-level bureaucrats thought when presented with airline-related terrorist warnings before 9/11. How would you like to be the guy who ignored the suspicious activity at flight schools, stuck the info in a drawer?” Saul let that sink in. “Ignore this, and you’re him.”
Ken considered that. “All right, all right. I’ll send a couple of agents by to pick up the bills. Are you still in New York? What’s your address?” Ken still didn’t sound convinced; he was obviously just covering his ass.
Saul gave him the address. “Ken, I know we’ve had our differences, but this is Treasury’s worst nightmare. Trust me on that. The bills came through Korea. It could be China, or North Korea, or South, or one of the other countries around there, or any of the criminal syndicates in the area—but whoever, they’ve got the inks, the paper and the expertise.”
“I believe you, Saul,” Ken said, in a tone that said he didn’t.
“If there’s thousands or millions of these hitting the market, you’re screwed, Ken. Send the agents by and I’ll give them some bills. Oh, and by the way—these are from a set of a million dollars worth. So it’s not a backyard operation. Take this seriously.” Saul had done his best; now the country had to depend on a dolt like Ken.
No wonder America's adversaries weren’t worried.
“Where did you get the bills from, if you don’t mind my asking?” Ken inquired.
Saul told him the story about Robert getting them from the Korean and giving Stan the bills for verification, and then being murdered.
“Okay, Saul. I’ll get someone over there today from the New York office. Thanks for contacting us.” Ken could have been talking to his eight-year-old.
“You’re welcome.” He hung up, frustrated with the system that allowed wonks like Ken to run divisions responsible for impor
tant security issues. God help us if the Kens of the world were the only thing standing between us and the bad guys, he thought bitterly.
* * *
Ken called his subordinate and told him the story; he asked him to call the New York office and have somebody stop by and take a report from Saul. Saul’s name triggered a laugh from the second-in-command, who’d been in the same department back in the day.
“Is Saul finally wearing a tin foil hat to keep the voices from making him do bad things?” he joked.
“He seemed pretty serious about this. Just have a couple of guys stop by and shake hands, take the bills and bring them in for testing. You never know. Saul was odd, but he was also very good.” Ken had the survival skills of every good bureaucrat; he didn’t want a balls-up on his watch, even if it was a long shot.
“You got it, boss. Two agents to Crazyville, on the double.”
“Save the comedy, would you? Just do it.” Ken was annoyed by the familiarity in the response.
“Uh, yes, sir. Sorry. It was a little humor, is all. I’ll call immediately.” He hung up and called New York to explain the situation to the agent in charge and give him the address and phone number.
New York indicated they’d have someone stop off within six hours.
The subordinate logged the information, and per procedure, put out a low-level internal alert signaling a possible counterfeit had turned up in New York.
* * *
Gordon Samuels’ contact called him within half an hour.
“Samuels.”
“Gordon, remember you asked to keep you up on anything odd out of New York?”
Gordon’s blood turned to ice.
“Oh, right. I remember. What’s up?” Casual, no big deal. Nothing to worry about.
“Well, we got a report of a high-grade counterfeit from a former employee, a guy who’s well regarded in some circles. Name of Saul Balinsky. Was that what you were looking for?” The voice sounded alarmed and suspicious. “Don’t fuck with me, Gordon. Does this trace back to our thing?”
“I don’t think so. I was asked to keep another friend informed of anything odd. This may be nothing. I’ll make some calls. Do you have contact info on Mr. Balinsky?” Gordon was playing it close to the chest.
“He’s in the book. Not a hard guy to find, I should think. He’s kind of got a rep in Treasury as a kook. Conspiracy theorist.”
“Oh, one of those? Well, maybe I won’t even waste my client’s time then. Counterfeits don’t sound like what they were looking out for.” Gordon was a good bluffer. Inside he was going fuck, shit, fuck, shit.
“What were they looking out for, Gordon? Again—tell me straight.”
“Beats me. I just promised to keep an eye peeled. I’ll get back to you if this is of significance. Thanks for the heads up.” Gordon replaced the handset, concerned. Some bills were starting to surface, which was a disaster. They had to get the bills before Treasury got their hands on them. Had to. It was his good luck that the guy who’d spotted the fakes was viewed as a nutcase; that meant any follow-up would be low-priority.
This was bad, but they could still salvage things. He placed a call to Myanmar, the minister’s personal line—a home number he’d been given for emergencies.
The difference in time zones put the call in the middle of the night there. The phone rang for a long time. Eventually a groggy and annoyed voice answered. Gordon apologized for calling so late.
“Gordon? What’s wrong?” The minister sounded dead on his feet.
“Very bad news. Some of the bills surfaced with a currency specialist here in New York. Treasury will be going over any time to pick them up. We’re dead meat if they get their hands on the notes and our guy is nervous. This is as bad as it could possibly be.” Gordon wanted to make sure the minister understood the magnitude of the problem.
“That is bad news. Do you have any contact information for the man with the bills?”
“Yes.” Gordon gave him the details, having already looked up his phone number.
“I’ll see this gets taken care of immediately. Treasury will never get their hands on these bills, rest assured.” The singsong voice sounded worried for the first time.
“I have a lot of personal money at stake in this, as well as most of your holdings. We can’t afford to have this blow up. It would ruin us all,” Gordon said.
“I completely understand the gravity of the situation, Gordon. Probably better than you. I’ll get back to you once we’ve dealt with this.”
Chapter 17
Ron sat at his desk, reading the toxicology and autopsy reports for Loca and Tabitha. He could see why Amy was frustrated over not having a cause of death. She’d run every type of scan she could think of, had spent many long hours going through the results, and had come up with nothing.
He thought about the voice mail message: Tess calling to thank him. He’d been thinking about her a lot, and he wondered, why her, specifically? There were tons of beautiful women in New York he could fantasize about, so why a bike messenger? Well, for starters, there were her green eyes and flawless tanned skin, her luxuriant black hair and her gleaming smile…
He hated to admit it, but the tongue piercing and tattoos made her seem much more exotic; they hinted that there was little that she wouldn’t be interested in doing. It was trashy but effective. And then she opened her mouth, and instead of the expected vernacular, “you know, like, hey, that’s totally cool,” she spoke like an educated woman.
And of course there was her body—lean from constant riding, legs to her chin, and a walk that said she not only knew how to use it, but when, where and why. She was an enigma, and electrified him. Exotic, sexy, bright, a little reckless and dangerous, and now a girl in trouble. Potent mix. This could get out of hand quickly if he pursued it, but hitting on witnesses when they were in moments of crisis wasn’t his gig. He’d just continue to try to help, out of altruism. Then again, she’d phoned him. “Call me if I can help you with anything.” That was quite an invitation, if he wasn’t misreading it.
Wasn’t his life complicated enough right now?
He considered the Red Cap connection, and it wasn’t lost on him that she could be in danger if the killer was affiliated with the company. She was without a doubt the most beautiful female among the messengers, and as such had to have come to the killer’s attention if he was targeting the company. He glanced at his watch and wondered if there’d been another killing last night. He would have bet a hundred bucks on it; he felt like he was just waiting for the body to show up. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
Ron called the Red Cap offices and asked to speak to a dispatcher. Frank came on the line.
“Frank Meyer.”
“Hi, Frank. It’s Ron Stanford. I wanted to thank you again for putting up with my interviews yesterday,” Ron began.
“Not a problem, Detective. We all want to find out what happened with Loca.”
“Well, we’re working on it. Frank, I wanted to ask a question that may seem off-the-wall. Are all your female messengers accounted for today?” Ron tried to come across casual, but he knew he sounded on edge.
“Funny you should ask. Tess called in last night and said she’d be off for a few weeks. Apparently her dad was murdered,” Frank said.
“I know about that. Pretty awful.” Ron was relieved they weren’t missing anyone else.
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, so Tess’s out, and Candy never came in this morning. She’s been here for a while and knows the drill; she’s never pulled this before, so we’re a little worried. I was going to call you if I didn’t hear from her by this afternoon,” Frank explained.
Ron’s heart sank. He remembered Candy. Vivacious, good-looking kid from someplace in the Deep South; had the corn-pone accent and all the expressions. Damn.
“Candy, huh? Has she ever flaked on you before?” Ron figured he might as well get ready for the next series of interviews.
“No, she’s one of the good ones. Most of the
girls are dependable compared to the guys. I was hoping she’d call in, say she’d been in an accident or overslept or something.” Frank was starting to put two and two together. “I guess it’s time to start getting worried…”
“What’s her home address, Frank? I want to swing by and check on her before we get too excited.” Ron really wanted to contain the rumor before it went roaring off the tracks. Frank gave him her address, and asked if there was anything else he could do to help.
“No, I’m afraid not. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, though. Thanks, Frank.” Ron had decided Frank didn’t fit the criteria for a serial; he was far too old, and didn’t have the requisite guile or craftiness of a serial.
“And I’ll let you know if she calls in,” Frank said.
“Thanks again. I hope she does.”
Ron had been afraid one of the girls wouldn’t make it, and sure enough, no Candy. He called Amy and told her the grim news. She wasn’t surprised.
“He’s going to keep at it until he either gets caught or killed, or some significant event occurs and he disappears. I suppose I should get my kit ready…It’s just a matter of time now.” Amy sounded depressed. They both were.
“I’m waiting to get some background on the most suspicious messengers, see if there’s anything ugly in their pasts.” That was his best lead so far, because of the complete absence of any physical evidence and a dearth of witnesses.
“It’s as good a place to look as any, I suppose.” Amy sighed. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you sooner rather than later, Ron.”
“Yeah, me too, Amy. Bye.”
She hung up and remembered the favor Ron had asked. She went down the hall to Tom’s office and stuck her head in. He was sitting at his desk filling out paperwork, looking efficient and interested.
“Hi, Tom. I heard you had a crazy case yesterday. A double where one of the victims was paralyzed? What’s that all about?” Amy took the professional interest route.
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