Fatal Exchange

by Russell Blake

  “Saul Balinsky said he’d evaluated it and determined it was definitely a fake,” Ken said.

  “Saul B.? He’s the best. If he says it’s a fake then it’s a fake, all right. So far it looks kosher to me. Give me some more time to go over it. This could take a while,” Mark said.

  “Saul was tortured and murdered yesterday to prevent this from getting to us. Treat it as top secret, please,” Ken advised.

  Mark looked up at him. “Are you serious? Someone killed Saul…over this? Holy shit, Ken. I’m speechless.”

  “Yeah, it’s a tragedy. But Saul said this was the best fake he’d ever seen—said something about a small flaw in the watermark when compared to another similar series being the only giveaway. I’m taking this very seriously.”

  Mark scrutinized the watermark. Very carefully.

  “Looks fine to me, Ken. If this is a fake, we’re in trouble. If I can’t find a mistake after five minutes of careful examination, then we have a very real situation on our hands,” Mark said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mark. Just call me as soon as you have definitive results, okay?”

  “That’s unbelievable about Saul. Tortured. Poor bastard.” Mark went back to studying the bill. “I’ll ring you when I have something. Could be a while.”

  “Do that.”

  * * *

  Tess was having a full-blown anxiety attack. It was ten-fifteen and Stan hadn’t shown. She tried his home and shop phones again, twice, and nothing. She was beyond worried. Her gut told her she’d seen Stan for the last time. She looked at her phone log for dialed calls, found a number she’d called on Monday, and pressed send.

  When the beep sounded after his greeting, she left a message.

  “Detective Stanford? Ron? This is Tess. Tess Gideon, from Red Cap? I’m sorry for bugging you, but I think I have a problem with my dad’s friend, Stan. He was supposed to meet me today for breakfast and he never showed up. And…well, this may sound stupid, but he has a friend named Saul who lives uptown on the West side, and I saw there was a man named Saul murdered there yesterday, and with my Dad having just been killed…I—well, I just don’t know what to think. Would you please call me back on my cell?”

  Tess hung up feeling stupid, humiliated. The message had sounded dumb to her even as she left it, and she’d sounded weak and scared. He probably thought she was a psycho. Maybe he’d cut her some slack since her dad had just been murdered. It wasn’t like he had better things to do, like catch serial killers or anything really important.

  She consulted her watch one more time; she had to get going to make it to the shop by 10:30. She unlocked her bike and slipped the front wheel into the forks, snapped it into place and bounced it a few times out of habit to confirm it was seated properly, looked both ways, and then pushed off into the Manhattan traffic.

  * * *

  Nick carefully unstuck the crime scene tape, rolled up the metal cage, unlocked the door and disabled the alarm. It was weird being back at the shop knowing he’d never see Mr. G or Jerome again. He didn’t bother turning on the lights; there was plenty from the windows, and he didn’t want to have Tess see the bloodstain in the back room. He gingerly stepped over it and went into the filing cabinet in the rearmost recesses of the store to retrieve the customer lists and inventory sheets. He’d filed the cash receipt in the same file, so that killed two birds with one stone, he thought to himself, and then cringed inwardly.

  Poor choice of words.

  He grimaced at the stain and decided they’d have to change the carpet before they tried to market the shop. The place gave him the creeps today, and there was still a pungent metallic smell from the blood. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to arrange to meet Tess here; he should have figured there would be bad juju in the air.

  He started to call and tell her he’d meet her across the street at the café instead, but as he was dialing her number he saw a blur at the front and a bicycle rolled up. Tess opened the door, shouldered her bike and entered.

  “Hey, I was just calling you. I thought maybe we should hook up over at the coffee shop,” he said.

  Tess was visibly agitated. “Nick, Uncle Stan never showed up for breakfast. I’m really worried about him.”

  “Slow down. What do you mean he never showed up? Maybe he forgot.”

  “No, I have a bad feeling about this, Nick. I tried his house and his shop and no answer. And Nick, I saw something in the paper about a Saul getting tortured and murdered on the upper West side. Stan’s buddy was named Saul—they were working on a project together.”

  “But you don’t know if that’s even the same guy, do you? I mean, do you know how many Sauls live on the upper West side?” Nick asked.

  “I know, but after my Dad’s murder…” she involuntarily looked towards the back room, where thankfully Nick had closed the door. “It’s got me on edge, Nick.”

  “I can see that.”

  “And then with the killings at Red Cap,” she continued.

  “Whoa. What killings at Red Cap? I thought it was just Loca?” No one ever told Nick anything.

  “That’s right, you don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “The killer who butchered Loca killed another girl at work. You met her on Friday at the club. Blonde chick, big boobs, pink hot pants—Candy?”

  “You’re kidding.” He absorbed what she’d just told him. “Tess, you can’t go back. It’s way too dangerous; there’s some kind of fucking psycho running around killing the chicks that work there. You need to rethink your career.”

  “I know. That’s over.”

  “You sure you want to do this today?” Nick asked.

  “We have to get it over with, Nick. Might as well just do it.”

  “It’s your call. I’ve got the customer list, the inventory sheets for the insurance claims, cash receipts, and a bunch of other stuff we’ll need.”

  “Let’s get to work. I’ll take the insurance claim if you’ll note whichever pieces were taken,” Tess said.

  “I can do you one better. Here’s a copy of the stolen watch list I gave the cops,” Nick said, flourishing a piece of paper.

  “Perfect. Would you go over the customer list and star anyone who would be a good prospect for the shop?” Tess asked him.

  “You bet.”

  * * *

  The smaller man watched as Nick rolled the metal protective covering up and unlocked the shop. He waited, and saw that Nick hadn’t turned on the lights; he wasn’t planning to be there very long. He’d have to move quickly. He called his partner.

  “The assistant, Nick, just appeared at the shop. He’s inside, but looks ready to leave soon. How do you want to play this?”

  “You need to stay on him. We need the information and the key as quickly as possible, but we don’t want to alert him.”

  “Are you going to come here?”

  “I’m on my way, but it could take a while. Do whatever you think is appropriate if you get a chance, but be careful.”

  The smaller man hung up and stubbed out his cigarette. He wanted to make sure Nick wasn’t meeting someone there, maybe the police, so they could do some more work. That could be awkward.

  He watched as a young woman rode up on a bicycle, picked it up, and walked inside. A girlfriend? That made it unlikely any police would be coming by the shop. Maybe there was an opportunity presenting itself after all.

  The young woman was in the shop for a while and he wondered what they were doing. Maybe having sex? Enjoy it, my friend, take your time. No, that wasn’t it; he could make out movement inside. Maybe he was stealing watches? That made no sense either. Could be they were tidying up? He hated to involve more than one person, especially in broad daylight in a fairly crowded area. Seemed like a really poor idea, although the foot traffic was light due to the heat.

  They were taking forever. He scanned the street, considering his options. Given the absence of many passers-by, could he actually conduct the inquiry in the same shop? Wouldn’t that dr
ive the police nuts? It appealed to his sense of whimsy. He lit another cigarette and figured he’d give it a few more minutes before he made his decision.

  * * *

  Tess finished the forms and put them into the provided envelope. Almost two hundred thousand dollars worth of watches had been stolen, along with ninety-eight hundred dollars in cash. That would have an adjuster choking when the claim hit.

  She walked around the shop looking at all the watches and stopped in front of the case of Rolexes. There was a beautiful white gold ladies President with a deep blue lapis lazuli dial that was absolutely stunning. She’d never been much of a watch nut, and didn’t care much about that sort of thing, but this one took her breath away. It was beautiful.

  “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? The lapis President? We got it in a few weeks ago as part of a larger lot.” Nick had remembered Mr. T thinking out loud about giving it to Tess as a gift if she’d stop the messenger nonsense and figure out how she wanted to spend her life.

  “It’s breathtaking. Is it really expensive?” Tess had no idea how much a watch like that cost.

  Nick walked over and opened the back of the display case, and took the watch out as though to check the price. The truth was, he knew to the penny what they’d paid for it and what they were asking for it. He took off the tags and motioned to Tess to hold out her arm.

  “Let’s see what it looks like on you,” he said.

  “Nick…”

  “Tess. Go ahead, try on the watch. I won’t tell the owner,” he quipped. She took off her Baby G and held out her left hand, and he slipped it on, snapping the clasp shut. It was too big, way too many links, but looked amazing on her.

  “Nick, it’s…it’s beautiful.”

  “And here’s the best part, Tess. It’s yours.”

  “Wha…”

  “Your Dad wanted to give it to you as a gift. He never got the chance. I think he’d want you to have it,” Nick said.

  Tess kissed him as tears rolled down her face. Nick removed the watch and told her to wait a few seconds. He ducked into the back room and came back with a small jeweler’s screwdriver, and expertly removed four links. He set the time and slipped it back on her wrist. She wiped the tears away.

  “Thank you, Nick.”

  “Hey, you own the place. You can wear ten of them if you want.”

  “No, for telling me about my dad. It means a lot to me.” She fought back more tears.

  “It’s true.”

  “I know.” She looked at the watch again. “I’m going to go to the bank and look in the box for a will or any insurance papers. You want to come?”

  “Nah, I need to clean up, and make some calls to customers who have their watches back in repair. Let them know not to hold their breath. Just stop in when you’re done. Oh, and before I forget, stick the customer list in your fanny pack and mail the insurance papers. We’ll deal with the other stuff some other time.”

  “Okay, I shouldn’t be more than half an hour. You might want to hit the AC, it’s getting pretty hot,” Tess observed.

  “I think they turned it off up at the unit or something, maybe flipped a breaker. I tried the wall switch but it didn’t go on. I need to get a chair and try to get it working.”

  “See you in a few,” Tess said, and carried her bicycle out into the heat. She put her helmet and glasses back on, paused to admire her new watch, and then pedaled up the street, slowly, to avoid overheating.

  * * *

  Ron was finally out of his meeting, which had sucked his energy and his motivation. Much of the discussion had involved an early-morning call from the FBI; the agency wanted to “help” with the case. The NYPD was battling that, claiming jurisdiction, and pointing out they had Ron working the case. The pissing contest hadn’t been resolved yet, and Ron knew from experience that he’d soon be saddled with a multi-agency task force running around the city like a bull in a china shop. The mayor’s press conference had required bold statements of progress where none existed, and they’d spent eons creating a statement that said nothing in three thousand words.

  At least he’d dodged having to parade his mug around on the dais like a frigging trained poodle. Things could be worse, although he had no doubt that was just a killing or so away. They invariably trotted him out along with his impressive credentials whenever a really scary serial graced their fair island. Ron had put more repeat killers away than almost any cop in the U.S., including the Feds, and he’d turned down offers from the FBI at least twice a year for the last five years.

  He checked his cell phone voice mail first and listened to Tess’s message. He felt a stirring in his trousers at the sound of her voice, and made a mental effort to think from above the waist.

  Failing that, he called her back.

  It rang for a while and then she answered, out of breath, the sound of traffic roaring in the background.

  “Tess? It’s Ron Stanford.”

  “Ron. Thanks for calling. Sorry if it’s noisy. I’m on my bike; I pulled over to take your call.”

  Ron. That’s progress, he supposed, no more “Officer Stanford.”

  “What’s the deal with your friend Stan, Tess? I’m kind of swamped here, but I’ll help if I can.”

  “I know you have to be busy—I saw the article in the Post about Candy. It’s horrible. Uncle Stan was supposed to meet me for breakfast and he never made it, and then I read that a man named Saul was tortured and murdered, and Stan has a friend named Saul who he was working on a project with that involved my dad…and I just got really worried…”

  “Slow down, Tess. So your father’s friend missed breakfast with you, and he has a friend named Saul, and another guy named Saul was murdered, and that’s what’s got you upset?” Ron asked.

  God, when he put it like that, it sounded as alarming as a hangnail.

  “You make it sound so dumb—I guess it is kind of dumb. It’s probably nothing. But I tried his shop and his home, and no one answered. Ron, what can I do?” Tess asked.

  “Well, what’s his address? I’ll have a patrol car go by and make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Would you? That would make me feel so much better.” She gave him the address. “Thank you, Ron.”

  “I’ll call you if I hear anything, okay, Tess?”

  “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s not a bother at all. And if I can make a suggestion…Would you consider taking a really long vacation from the bike messenger business, at least as long as we have a crazy out there targeting them?” Ron asked.

  “I’m way ahead of you. Consider it done.”

  “That’s a relief, Tess. Be careful, watch out, and stay alert. This creep is still around, and he might be one of the Red Cap crew. I wouldn’t trust any of them until we get this cleared up.”

  “I hear you. Thanks again.”

  “Anytime, Tess.”

  Ron jotted down the address and made a note to request a car go by. It was probably nothing, but if he could make her happy then why not? He wondered if he’d have done the same thing if she’d been a fifty-year-old chain-smoking housewife. Don’t go there, Ron.

  His office voice mail had a message from Barry, returning his call. He dialed Barry’s number.

  “Childen.”

  “Barry. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going.”

  “I thought I’d let you know, there may be a connection between your watch shop investigation and the two stiffs we found today in the back of a van on the upper West side. Looks like it may be the same toxin that got your security guard,” Ron advised.

  “You mean the two guys they found up at West 76th Street?”

  “That’s probably the ones. If it’s the same toxin, you’ve got a pro hitter or team working the city. Question is what a security guard at a watch place and a couple of construction guys have in common—they either saw something or the perp needed something from them. You might want to see if their company issues uniforms, and also check on what
they were there working on—” he stopped in mid-sentence. He was staring at his notepad. “Barry, did you just say West 76th Str eet?” he asked.

  “Yeah, and I appreciate the tip on the uniforms. That hadn’t occurred to me,” Barry said.

  “Uh, Barry, I just got a call from the daughter of your watch dealer victim, who said her father’s friend missed a meeting with her this morning. He’d been working on some sort of project with a guy named Saul for her father.”

  “Like the Saul that was knocked off yesterday? I heard about that,” Barry said.

  “Yup. And Barry? He lives on West 76th Street.”

  They both stopped dead. You could practically hear the gears meshing, turning.

  “Fuck. That’s a lot of bodies in a short amount of time. What’s the address?” Barry asked. Ron read him the details.

  “I’ll go check on it right now. This stinks, Ron, really bad. Oh, and I almost forgot. I got a call from the Treasury Department about the watch dealer investigation,” Barry said.

  “Treasury? What for?”

  “Dunno; I haven’t been able to call them back yet. Low on the list today. I’ll touch base with them after I get back from checking out 76th Street.”

  “Let me know what you find out. Although I’m almost afraid to hear,” Ron said.

  “So the daughter called you? Look at you, Mr. Fancy Pants, the famous serial killer hunter. If I recall, she made Mila Kunis look plain. She just happened to call you for some recipe advice?”

  “She was worried about her father’s friend. He was like an uncle to her.”

  “Riiiight. And she called you. Man, I knew I should have switched to serial killers a few years ago. You old dog.”

  “It’s not like that, Barry.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s never too late—hope springs eternal. Remember, it’s easier to trick the young ones.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”