Fatal Exchange

by Russell Blake

The killer took his time preparing the place. He re-donned his gloves and wiped the vial, and then used the messenger’s hand to pick it up, ensuring his prints were on it. It took him half an hour to make the place look the way he wanted. He was saddened he couldn’t keep the trophies; then again, the transformation hadn’t happened, so there was no point.

  He’d have to start anew. Pity, really. He’d gotten so close.

  * * *

  The task force had struck out. All but two messengers were now back at home, and the two that weren’t were at a bar in Soho with several men they obviously knew well. Their tails were staying put, but it was looking like the girls were going home with their escorts and had done so before. No serial had put in an appearance.

  It was almost midnight, and Ron remembered Tess. He called her, and she answered on the third ring.

  “Ron. How did it go?”

  “We came up empty, Tess. I don’t understand it. This guy’s on a cycle, every three nights, but he didn’t go for any of the Red Cap girls. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Maybe he just stopped?”

  “They hardly ever just stop. There’s been a few, but it’s rare.” The San Francisco Zodiac killer of the 1960’s came to mind. He was considered the prototypical serial killer, but was atypical in that respect. He’d never been caught, and would be in his sixties by now, if the profiles were correct. That rang a bell in the back of Ron’s head, but he lost the thought.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t turn out the way you hoped, Ron. But at least everyone’s still alive.”

  “There is that. Listen, Tess, if you don’t mind a messy place, you’re welcome to come crash at my apartment for a night or two. I have to warn you, I’ve been a bachelor for a while, so you won’t find any fresh-cut flowers on the tables. But it’s clean, and the couch is comfortable.” He wasn’t crossing any ethical lines; she wasn’t a suspect or a witness, and he wasn’t on her dad’s case, so he was really just extending a friendly hand.

  “Oh, Ron, that’s nice of you. You really don’t have to. I can crash at the station until morning if you want…” she was surprised, but also happy he’d offered.

  “No bother, really. Let me give you my address and we can hook up in about half an hour. I mean it, it’s no big deal.” He was playing with fire, he knew—but he also knew life was short and you had to trust your instincts. And his instincts said inviting Tess was the right thing to do.

  “I really appreciate this, Ron. Really. I’ll see you then.” He lived on the upper West side, so she’d have to start riding now to get there. She could do it.

  * * *

  Ron answered his door and was greeted by Tess holding her bike, looking sweaty and extraordinarily sexy, but tired.

  He showed her the place, which looked like the typical pad of an orderly and clean career cop, and she asked if she could take a shower before she went to sleep. Ron didn’t have any problem with Tess naked on the other side of his flimsy bathroom door. None whatsoever. He got her a towel and made a bed on the couch. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it would do for a couple of nights.

  Tess was in and out of the bathroom in ten minutes, and looked better with wet hair than she did dry. She apologized for keeping him up, and thanked him again for the hospitality; he assured her it was nothing, and invited her to make herself at home. Both were exhausted, so after a few minutes of discussing their mutual frustration that the killer hadn’t been caught, she yawned and crawled under the sheet on the sofa, wishing Ron a good night. He reciprocated, and turned off the lights as he made his way to his bedroom. He didn’t lock the door.

  Sometimes you had to live dangerously.

  Chapter 31

  Ron’s alarm clamored for his attention at 7:30. He kept it tuned to a Mexican ranchero music station, for reasons he couldn’t articulate. It used to drive his ex-wife nuts. He supposed he did it because it was so abrasive and distinct, he had an overwhelming urge to jump into action just to make it stop.

  He sat up in bed, groggy, and remembered the previous evening’s failed operation. And then remembered Tess a few yards away in his front room.

  He slipped on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt and padded barefoot out to the kitchen, pausing to look at her still sleeping soundly on the sofa. She looked all of sixteen years old. Ron already knew he was in deep water with her; she had the exact sort of exotic and dangerous look and demeanor that was a hallmark of all the difficult females in his past.

  Apparently, even by his mid-thirties, he’d learned nothing whatsoever. He was more self-aware, he knew she was potential trouble for him—but that hadn’t stopped him from inviting her over “for a day or two.” All that self-awareness and maturity might as well have been flushed—it altered his behavior not one iota.

  The aroma of coffee filled the apartment as it brewed. Glancing in his refrigerator, he registered with dismay that all he had was some creamer, an orange juice container of questionable vintage, a six-pack of Red Hook ale, and a twelve-pack of Fresca.

  From a bag on the counter he selected one of the three bananas he’d acquired a few days ago; that was breakfast. He felt vaguely ashamed he had so little in the house. But then again, he hadn’t been expecting company…

  Ron ran the shower and hosed off quickly. His morning grooming routine concluded, he donned his office outfit: button-up short-sleeved shirt and Dockers, and a sports jacket to hide his belt holster.

  He wrote a quick note to Tess, left a spare key on top of it, and quietly exited, already late. His concern over leaving Tess in the house with a key was minimal. He wondered if he would have acted differently if she’d been a forty-year-old man whom he’d known for a total of three hours because of a homicide.

  Nope, he hadn’t learned a thing. Maybe once he was in his fifties or sixties…

  * * *

  Tess awoke at 9:00 to her cell phone ringing. She was temporarily disoriented but then placed where she was. She grabbed the phone off the coffee table and answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Tess? It’s Simon Hewett. Did I call too early?”

  “No, Simon. Sorry, it was a late night and I overslept,” she said.

  “Well, I have some extraordinarily good news for you. Hopefully it will start your day off well.”

  “Really?”

  “My friend spoke with Treasury and we worked out a deal. They will agree to buy back the counterfeit bills, if you and I are willing to sign commitments to never discuss the case or the arrangement,” Simon explained.

  “That seems fair.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part. I got you three million dollars.”

  She was dumbstruck. She swallowed, and stood up, almost knocking over the coffee table.

  “Did you say three million, Simon?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Oh, my God. That’s incredible. You’re a genius. What do I have to do, and what’s your cut?” Tess was still trying to process the number.

  “I’d say ten percent would be more than fair given the amount of effort I put into it, but I’ll defer to your generosity. Think about it. Perhaps we can discuss that fee as a discount on the watch shop.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, it’s all yours, because that cash is part of the business, and your father left the shop only to you. Between that and the sale of the store, and the insurance and the will, you are now a very wealthy young woman, Tess. Congratulations. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “So do I. When do I have to get the counterfeits, and how do we do this?”

  “It’s set up for Monday at my office, at eleven o’clock, so you’ll have more than enough time that morning to locate them.” He gave her the address and they agreed to meet on Monday at ten-forty-five. They decided to also get the will reading out of the way after Treasury was gone. He went over a few other details, and when he hung up she was left staring in shock at her phone.

  Once she looked up, Tess
noticed the note and key Ron had left. She read it, smiling. He was a good man. She looked around the place and wasn’t surprised to find that his kitchen was Spartan. At least the coffee was still hot. She sipped a cup and thought about her day. Three million dollars. She had to admit it was a nice wake-up call.

  * * *

  Ron was doing a recap of the evening’s events with his group. It couldn’t have been more boring. They spent an hour discussing essentially nothing; everyone’s alibis had checked out for the Monday night Candy was killed, although about a quarter of the interviewees hadn’t had alibis. That wasn’t unusual for single males on a Monday night. But still, it left a lot of potential killers.

  One of the receptionists stuck her head into the conference room and called Ron out.

  “Missing persons got a call this morning from another messenger company, an outfit called Arrow Courier. Called in one of their girls as missing. The woman on the call seemed agitated so MP took the info even though she’s not technically missing yet.”

  Ron’s heart sank. So the asshole had figured they’d have Red Cap covered, and had targeted another company. It had always been a possibility, but Ron thought they’d been discrete enough so no one would spot them. Could it get any worse, he wondered? A day that had started off pretty well, with Tess looking like sex in a blanket at his place, had now disintegrated into another “serial killer stumps cops again” debacle. He’d be center stage, and the Post would go crazy with this. He was reluctant to make the call but knew he had no choice.

  “Arrow Courier.”

  “Is Ms. Watkins there? This is Detective Stanford.”

  “Sure. One minute.” On-hold music piped through the handset. Glenn Miller.

  “This is Celia Watkins.”

  “Ms. Watkins, this is Detective Stanford from NYPD. You called in one of your female messengers as missing?”

  “Yes. Rosy didn’t show up this morning. She’s been here for over a year, it’s not like her. I tried her house, and no answer, and what with the papers talking about a killer hunting bike messengers and all…”

  “Rosy…?”

  “Oh, sorry—Sherry, Sherry O’Keefe. They call her Rosy because of her red hair.”

  “Do you have any information on Sherry? Home phone, address, names of close friends or associates?” Ron went down the list of requisite information, knowing he would need it later if she didn’t materialize. Ms. Watkins supplied it all.

  He thought about the red hair. Red hair, Red Cap? Was there some kind of a link? Was it a joke? They didn’t protect all the “red cap” girls? Was hair color a selection criteria? Was it all entirely random, and was he reading into it more than it warranted, grasping at straws?

  They concluded their discussion, and Ron went back into the conference room and broke the news to the team. The looks were grim. They knew what they were facing, but no one wanted to be the one to say it: barring a miracle, the killing would continue. They’d been powerless to stop it this time, and had no more to go on than a week ago.

  Ron was going to hold off on calling the Chief until they came up with a body or some hard evidence. Might as well let someone have a nice morning.

  * * *

  Meridian Trading was bustling; to the uninformed eye, all was normal. Gordon was pacing in front of his huge window, yelling into his phone over this trade or that buy. He seemed considerably tenser than usual. Unsurprising, since he’d calculated that unwinding his position would reduce his worth to less than twenty million. Still a lot of money, but no jet, no big boat. Almost two thirds of his amassed wealth, gone in the blink of an eye.

  The problem was once he started selling, the prices would drop, causing a further reduction in value. It would be a death spiral on the options he’d purchased; the stocks were relatively thinly traded, so his sells would move the market. And once he started selling the Asian position it would tunnel everything dramatically. Not to mention the hit his other clients would take as a result of following his advice. He’d be ruined.

  His cell rang. Washington. That was never good, at least in his experience.

  “Yes.”

  “Gordon, it’s me. I heard a rumor from my girl this morning that Treasury’s getting a bunch more of the suspicious bills on Monday. No details, but she said they were gearing up for it on the top floor and in the lab.”

  Christ. Could it get any worse? “I don’t see how that’s possible. I really don’t. I keep hearing that it’s all good on our end. Maybe this is a different issue entirely? Are you sure it involves hundred-dollar bills?” Gordon couldn’t believe it was possible for so much to go wrong.

  “Good point. She didn’t know what denomination. It could be a sting on some lower-grade forgeries of twenties, for all I know. I haven’t seen or heard about any bulletins, which is weird.” The agent had never seen an investigation kept so secret, excluded from internal classified communications. He was cleared up to Top Secret, which is how he got his hands on the classified manufacturing data.

  “Are you holding up okay? Don’t panic on us. There’s no way anyone knows about your involvement; the only way you could get caught is if you panic.” Gordon didn’t like the sound of the Treasury man’s voice.

  “I know that, Gordon, but if they trace the materials back, eventually they’ll come up with the Myanmar connection, and someone’s bound to start snooping around to find out how they got their information.” The Treasury man had a valid concern. “I’m the one hung out to dry on this. There’s nothing connecting you, or them. But me? I’m not so sure.”

  “Look, your tracks are covered. You’re freaking yourself out. Stop it. You’re involvement is finished. Go have a nice life.” Gordon hoped the Asians would take him out soon. He was sounding more precarious every call. “Besides, it doesn’t make any sense. Everyone connected with the leak is dead. They’re probably looking into something else.” Or not. But how could they be getting their hands on the bills—presuming they were the Myanmar bills—and from whom?

  “I can’t just leave, Gordon. They’ll be looking for anyone with clearance that left in the last few years. I have to stay put.” He thought about it some more, realized there was nothing else to say. “I’ll let you know when I hear more.” The Treasury contact ended the call.

  Gordon had a conundrum. Should he sell out of his positions—which would be the biggest mistake of his life if it turned out they were getting spooked for no reason—or hold, which would be terminal if the plan fell apart?

  There was no easy answer. Even if Treasury got their hands on the bills, it could take months for them to pull enough data together to halt trading in the current-series hundreds and announce a new bill. He doubted they’d be able to pull it off in ninety days. So at least the first part of the plan should go off without a hitch.

  Gordon decided to hold on. That’s how great fortunes were built. He’d make several hundred million—not a bad consolation prize, he supposed. There would still be supermodels and a big boat, just maybe a chartered jet. He could make sacrifices like everyone else. You had to roll with the punches.

  * * *

  “We got him.” The Secret Service agents looked at their colleague from NSA, who continued. “He just got off his cell phone with someone at a New York number discussing the bills. He’s our man. And the bank account is hard proof if the call doesn’t hang him.”

  “Let’s go reel him in. I don’t want him to have time to make any more calls or send e-mails. I want his systems locked down, a warrant issued, and his house searched. And get a gag order in place.” The lead Secret Service agent was prepared. He called the Director of the Treasury, who was predictably furious.

  The traitor had been with Treasury for seventeen years; he was a trusted mid-level agent with full security clearance. They had the call and the banking records, and there’d been some large and unaccounted-for deposits to his savings over the last few years—likely just the tip of the iceberg. They’d traced those deposits to a shell company,
and figured he probably had another account set up for the real payoff; he just needed some spending money now and then, hence the shell payments. The call sealed it—there wasn’t any doubt.

  Walter Merriman was sitting at his desk, reading his e-mail, when three agents entered his office. One of them read him his rights while another cuffed him. He pretended to be confused and outraged, and demanded an attorney immediately. The agents ignored him. They surreptitiously shepherded him into the elevator and took him to the basement, where he was locked in a room and left to sit for an hour.

  He was paralyzed with fear. He knew they knew, but he couldn’t figure out how they knew. And could they prove anything? He wasn’t going to say a word without talking to his lawyer; he’d seen enough to know only an idiot talked without his lawyer present.

  The door to the room opened after an hour and a half, and the Director entered and sat across from him looking like he wanted to kill him. When he spoke, it was with quiet intensity and barely contained anger.

  “Walter, you know who I am. You’ve been placed under arrest and will be charged with selling classified information to a foreign government. Treason, Walter. As serious as it gets. Penalty is death, or if you’re lucky you rot in prison for the rest of your natural life.”

  Walter wasn’t saying a word.

  “Now, I know you think you’ve covered your tracks, and think the bank account in the Caymans will keep you safe. Here’s a newsflash, my friend. The NSA can get any information they want, and the Caymans will cooperate on a matter involving treason, so forget all about bank security. The money will be found, and traced to whichever country paid you off. Not that it matters.” The director looked over his bifocals at him.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “Fair enough, Walter. Maybe you should listen to something first, though. Don’t talk; I’m not going to ask you any questions. Just listen.” The Director pulled out a small palm recorder and proceeded to play back Walter’s last call to Gordon. When it was over, he put the recorder back into his pocket.