“Here’s the deal, Walter. Good for one hour only. If you tell us everything, and I mean everything, then we’ll arrange for you to be pardoned after serving five years in a minimum-security prison. We’ll give you that deal in writing. You’ll never be able to say a word about any of it, or you’ll immediately go to prison for life—hard time in maximum security.” The Director looked at him like he was feces.
“If you cooperate fully and immediately, you get this deal, and everyone else gets prosecuted for treason with the government pushing for the death penalty. Someone’s going to crack. If it isn’t you, then it’ll be Gordon, who sounds pretty smart on the phone. He’ll take the deal—he’s got a lot to lose—and you’ll be swinging from the end of a rope. You have one hour to consider it, and then we’ll get your lawyer and you can take your chances against the full weight the U.S. Government.”
The Director stood up.
“One hour. Think it over.”
* * *
The internal com line of the conference room lit up and Ron’s name was called.
“For you, Ron. It’s Amy.”
He picked up the handset.
“Hi, Amy. Tell me it’s good news. I could use some good news.”
“Nope. I just got a call. Body in the alphabet streets, our guy’s M.O.”
“Shit. There’s just no getting around it. I bet I know the ID already—I got a call from another messenger company, said they were short a girl today. Sherry something or other. I have it written down.” Ron wasn’t happy about losing another one to the serial.
“Meet me down there?” She gave him the address.
“I’m on my way.”
Twenty minutes later, he was watching the crime scene van jockey for a position at the mouth of yet another ugly alley. This guy loved his alleys and dumpsters. Same deal every time, no variation.
Amy emerged from the van and gave him a pained look, which he returned. Every corpse was a testament to his failure to think ahead of the killer, to see his next move. He’d have to follow each member of the Red Cap crew on Sunday, every hour of the day. It would require a massive mobilization of manpower, but there was no other way he could think of to catch the killer. This clearly hadn’t worked.
He tried to imagine what the killer was getting out of this—why kill these women, this way, now? It was a ritual, that was clear, and most serials followed a ritual because they felt compelled to. But by what? What did he do with the trophies? Ron usually could get into the head of the psychos, but this one stumped him due to the rapid cycle. Maybe he just liked killing and wanted to be distinctive. But then why use the sublingual shot?
Ron still had more questions than answers.
Amy was involved in her work, soldiering away, and he let her do her thing. They hadn’t found a shred of evidence to suggest a suspect. This was a very careful and methodical killer. He’d avoided all the usual mistakes—no saliva or bodily fluids to trace, no stray hair or latent print, no accidental sighting in a bar or by a passerby, nothing. The guy was a ghost.
“Same shit, different pile, Ron.” Amy’s voice carried down the alley.
“Anything new or exciting?”
“Not so far.”
They were interrupted by Ron’s cell.
“Stanford.”
“Officer Stanford? This is Leticia at Red Cap, up at the front desk. The dispatchers wanted to let you know one of the messengers didn’t show up for work today.”
“You’re kidding? One of the girls?” Ron was stunned.
“Uh…no. One of the men. Turbo didn’t come in, hasn’t called, hasn’t returned any calls. Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks.”
Turbo.
He knew it. That ratfuck had cut and run, literally.
Ron had gotten a bad vibe from him from the beginning, and now one day after acting so smug in their little chat session, he misses work. He was probably halfway to Kansas by now. Goddamn it. Ron phoned his task force assistant and had him pull a warrant for a search of Turbo’s place, and was told they’d have it within two hours.
Ron told Amy about Turbo’s disappearance and decided to sit outside his apartment on the off-chance the prick was still there. He had to wait for the warrant somewhere; might as well be at his door.
* * *
Ken was in his second meeting of the day, discussing the progress on tracing the supplies sold into Hong Kong. The materials were paid for in cash by a trading company that was a cutout, and they were trying to get a shipment-by-shipment trace. Knowing the exact final destination of things like the inks would go a long way towards building a circumstantial case, and they’d require one to have any serious options.
The CIA’s network in Asia was nosing around but had made little progress. Several sites in multiple hostile countries had been identified via satellite as suspicious, but at the end of the day they all still looked like warehouse facilities. And there was no guarantee the printing hadn't been spread around to multiple locations, although everyone felt that was unlikely.
They needed proof linking a country or intelligence agency to the bill, and so far their best shot was sitting in a room downstairs with ten more minutes left to consider the deal. Plan B was to pull in Gordon and pressure him, but they didn’t have a lot to hang him with other than a phone call, which a good attorney might, just might, be able to get thrown out.
The phone on the conference room desk beeped. Ken picked up. It was the Director.
“He wants to see me,” the Director reported.
The Director took the elevator downstairs and walked into the holding room followed by a Secret Service agent with a tape recorder. He turned it on.
“This is a discussion between Walter Merriman and the Director of the Treasury, Richard Berrinson,” the agent said. He filled in the date and location and time, and asked Walter to indicate he was speaking of his own free will. Walter agreed he was. The agent spelled out the deal and asked Walter if he voluntarily accepted it and waived counsel. He did. The Director took over.
“Walter, we know you’re involved in a plot involving the counterfeiting of U.S. currency. Is that correct?” the Director asked.
“Yes.”
“What assistance have you provided, or what role did you play in this plot?”
“I was first contacted about two years ago by a friend of a friend, female, who was from Myanmar. We were intimate soon thereafter, and during our interludes she indicated she knew people who would pay a lot to understand the ins and outs of how we print our hundred-dollar bills. I was curious how much she thought was a lot, as I had some gambling debt I was struggling with. She said millions. Maybe even ten million depending how good the information was.” He stopped and took a sip of water. “I eventually got sucked in and was handed off to a specialist—one of the senior members of a network Myanmar set up in the U.S. for intelligence-gathering on this project. I understood it was horribly wrong to cooperate, but I also figured that this wasn’t Iran or North Korea or some other country that was going to use the money to buy nukes or take out buildings…I know that's pretty feeble to you, but in my mind it could have been way worse.”
The meeting went on for an hour. Walter had fallen for the honey trap and had been paid handsomely for divulging everything anyone would need to know to be able to create hundred-dollar bills. He’d been introduced to Gordon as a trusted friend of the Myanmar government who he could rely upon for financial acumen.
Payment came to a total of eight million dollars, all into an account set up for him in the Caymans by Gordon. Against Gordon’s advice, Walter had made progress payments into his domestic account to cover gambling debts, using one of Gordon’s offshore companies to funnel the money to him.
He’d gotten a feel for the plan from the questions and information they’d requested as well as from discussions with Gordon. It was never stated outright, but it was the only reason they would want to know about the security measures built into the c
urrency and the tests used to detect counterfeits.
They’d shelled out millions to learn how to do it right.
Walter gave the Director the bank info in the Caymans so the sender could be traced. He also provided all of his contacts in the U.S. connected to the scheme.
When it was over the agent got the tape copied for the CIA and the FBI so they could roll up the network, assuming it was still in place. The NSA committed to having every call from Gordon Samuels and Meridian Trading placed over the last two years, including his cell records, available within one hour; the Patriot Act would make it far easier.
They agreed to reconvene that afternoon to compare results and develop a response.
* * *
Tess had spent the morning lying around decompressing, thinking about the events of the last few days, and had inspected the sparse contents of the apartment with curiosity. Ron needed a maid and someone to shop for him. His taste in clothes was conservative and very white, and his music only got as dangerous as some old Rage Against the Machine, no doubt from his wacky years in college. Ron was just a really nice, smart, conservative man. She’d never dated one of those, had always favored the bad boys and the rebels.
Tess showered and then committed to following up on the more unpleasant aspects of her life, namely, arranging for the funeral and dealing with her sister. The funeral took up the better part of the afternoon, and she snuck in some grocery shopping to stock Ron’s place reasonably. It was the least she could do to show appreciation for his hospitality. After she’d done everything else she could think of, she finally called Chrissy.
“Hey, Chrissy.”
“Tess. How are you?” Formal, cold, distant; there was the sister she was used to. At least things were back to normal.
“I’m hanging in there.” She went on to tell her that Stan and Nick had been murdered, and that she was staying with friends. She delivered the news with no emotion, deadpan: the weather’s humid out here; we’re expecting rain.
Chrissy was shocked, and blamed the city for it. She couldn’t comprehend there was a plan to kill them all; it was New York’s fault. It was easier that way. Whatever. Okay, Chrissy, New York killed Dad, Uncle Stan and Nick. If you say so.
Tess was able to communicate that there was more going on, but found she was talking to someone who seemed preoccupied, who didn’t really register her words. Chrissy didn’t want to know about a world where danger existed and people close to you could die for suspicious reasons, and had tuned most of the message out. Not surprising. Tess wished she didn’t know either.
The conversation ultimately came to Monday’s will reading, and Tess resisted the urge to dig at Chrissy again over the funeral expenses.
Her sister advised her to “get out of that filthy town as soon as possible,” but Tess noted there was no invitation to come to California and stay a while. Not that she’d expected one. Still, she’d hoped in some small part of her that the tragedy of the last week would pull them together at least a little. So much for that.
Tess felt depressed when they hung up. She really was alone in the world. Her sister was a cold-hearted rat bastard, she had no real friends, and she didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. Atta girl, she thought, beat yourself up good and hard. Maybe you can convince yourself you should have been killed, too.
She was still trying to deal with her father’s death, and Nick’s, and Stan’s, and wasn’t even close to being ready to digest it all. And the Asians were still out there and so was the Red Cap killer. Maybe her sister was right and the best thing she could do was leave town.
It was something to consider.
* * *
The warrant for Turbo’s apartment arrived and Ron called for backup in case the shitrat was in there. He almost hoped he was, preferably with a gun, so he could have the satisfaction of watching Mr. Earl go down for good.
Assuming he was guilty, of course.
They climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. No response. Tried again, nothing. The NYPD lock expert had a tool that looked like a pistol grip with wires emanating from a narrow shaft; he slid it into the lock and worked for a minute or so.
The door opened.
They entered cautiously, guns drawn, and stopped when they came upon Turbo—obviously dead, hunched over the mirror where he’d snorted his last blast. He was naked from the waist up, full sleeve tattoos proclaiming counter-culture rebellion even as his dead eyes stared sightlessly at his reflection.
They searched the apartment carefully and found several thousand dollars in twenties and six ounces of meth in his bedroom drawer.
One of the detectives called Ron’s name from the kitchen. The detective held the freezer open. There were four sets of eyes staring at him, and a container held the breasts, also frozen solid. The freezer was full. Automatic defrost, Ron noted.
“We got him. Looks like he celebrated a little too hard over the last one and took himself out.” The detective was shaking his head.
Ron looked in the fridge, where the scalps with the hair carefully folded sat in ziplock bags, behind the milk. He radioed for the crime lab people to come up and told everyone to cease and desist. His last call was to Amy, asking her to come over and help him.
He was relieved they’d finally come to the end of the road on this one, but felt oddly unsatisfied by the scenario. It all fit, everything was there; he had no doubt they’d find the killing kit stashed somewhere. Maybe he had doubts because there was no showdown, no chase, no last minute confrontation, just a dead junkie psycho who’d killed for reasons Ron would never understand.
The Chief was on the line within half an hour, congratulating him and wanting to plan the logistics of the press conference announcing the end of another reign of terror. He went along with it, but something was bothering him and he couldn’t pin it down.
Amy showed up and went through her routine, carefully removing the residue from the mirror and scraping it into a test tube. She dropped the small dope vial into another tube and then took samples of the six ounces of meth. At some point the killing kit was found, sure enough with potassium chloride and epinephrine in small bottles. It all fit together.
So why did Ron have an uncomfortable sensation? What were they missing? He didn’t know why he felt the way he did, but couldn’t shake his misgivings. Something on the periphery wasn’t adding up. Or perhaps Ron was just unaccustomed to sudden reconciliations in cases like this. He was too close to it to know whether his doubt was legitimate, or just nervous energy with no outlet. He resolved to accept this at face value, at least for the present, since there was no hard evidence to back up his skepticism.
* * *
The CIA was in full-blown crisis mode now that they’d narrowed the focus to Myanmar based on Walter’s testimony. NSA had secured Gordon’s telephone records and found numerous inbound and outbound calls to several numbers in Myanmar, which they’d identified as belonging to a group of numbers used by the Ministry of Finance.
The satellite recon images had come up with suspicious activity at several sites, but one looked more like a paper manufacturing plant than all the others. They’d been watching it full-time, had zoomed in to the point where you could almost see the time on the guards’ watches. There was an unwarranted amount of security in place for a simple warehouse, even one housing weapons or a bio lab.
What looked like an airport x-ray and metal detection unit were set up in the entryway and no one was allowed in or out of the building without going through it. The task force could infer they were worried about their own people bringing items in, but also taking them out. That wasn’t standard procedure—something special was going on inside.
The situation team was discussing their options.
“You can see they’re running shifts; groups are coming out and being replaced by those going in. What’s weird is the body searches.” The CIA analyst was a specialist on Myanmar.
“How about the overall security? It looks like they�
��ve limited all the approaches and have a perimeter cleared. That limits any chances of hitting it from the ground without getting into a major firefight.” The speaker was the liaison for the Treasury task force.
“There’s a few problems in that regard. Myanmar is tightly controlled, so getting a team in to demo the building is going to be tough no matter what—although its position on the coast makes it vulnerable. Security’s extremely tight and the area’s controlled by the military, so I don’t see how you could get to it covertly by land.” The analyst wasn’t very optimistic about the possibility of a surgical strike.
“The Chinese are going to object strongly to anything overt. I think someone has to put out feelers to the Chinese to alert them there may be a situation, and that any action there would be strictly self-defense. I’m not sure how we’d do that without tipping our hand. We’re going to need to be creative on this.” The second analyst was more politically-oriented; the first had more of a logistical bent.
“If you could do it in the dead of night, by boat, and could hit them so quickly they never saw it coming, you could pull off a deniable strike. But everything would have to work in your favor,” said the first analyst, considering the map and the satellite images again.
The liaison officer mulled the input over. He’d have to think carefully about his recommendations to the State Department. He knew how easy it could be to botch a sensitive operation by delaying action indefinitely while they played political games.
* * *
Gordon had placed another call to Myanmar within the last few minutes and they’d logged another highly incriminating abbreviated conversation. The official had told Gordon he hadn’t heard anything from their team in New York, and they had gotten into an argument after Gordon told him about news of a million of the “test batch” reaching the task force on Monday. So the link between Walter and Gordon and the Asians was completely clear and indisputable, and the Myanmar government was receiving information real time.
Fatal Exchange Page 28