Chapter 18
Saul whistled as he approached his building. He’d found an excellent bottle of 2005 Bordeaux at his favorite wine shop, and figured he and Stan could try a glass; if it was too closed up they could go have a nice dinner and then return and give it another chance. Such problems to have. It was an extravagance, but it was a big day, so why not?
Saul had spent his entire life preparing for an adventure like this. He would go down in Treasury history, no doubt.
He slowly ascended his steps to the ancient front door, sorting through his keys. Once inside, he slammed the door hard—the damn thing didn’t close properly if he didn’t slam it.
As he laboriously climbed the stairs, huffing from the exertion of hauling his massive frame up the narrow stairwell, he could hear the phone in his apartment ringing. Dammit. He picked up the pace, reaching his third floor landing just as the phone went silent.
He unlocked his multiple deadbolts and entered the hallway, taking care to lock the door behind him. The wine needed to be chilled a little, but not too much. He considered the problem and decided placing it by his window-mounted air conditioning unit was the best way to cool it. He delicately balanced it on the window ledge; the phone rang again, startling him and causing him to jolt and knock the wine off the ledge.
He caught it a few inches before it hit the hardwood floor. Smiling to himself, he replaced the bottle and reached over to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello. Is this Saul Balinsky?”
“The one and the same. Who wants to know?”
“Mr. Balinsky, my name is Gordon Samuels, and I have a bit of a situation I need your assistance with. I have several 1922 $100 Gold Certificates I need authenticated today so I can consummate an agreement to purchase them.”
“The old twenty-two’s, huh? How many do you want me to look at?” Saul knew the market value of those was in the range of five grand apiece, which could make for a nice fee if there were enough of them.
“Ten. But I need them looked at today—the seller’s getting ready to leave town.”
“It’s really kind of late in the day for me to look them over. Can’t we do this tomorrow?” Saul figured he’d need an hour to authenticate ten notes.
“I’m afraid that’s not an option. Look, I can have a courier bring them to you within half an hour. Whatever your normal fee is, I’ll double it. I understand your time is valuable, as is mine, and I’m prepared to compensate you for rearranging your schedule.”
“Well, that’s quite an offer. I’d be hard pressed to turn that down, Mr. Samuels. I’d ordinarily charge eight hundred dollars for that sort of job, but let’s call it fifteen hundred and I’ll be happy to meet your messenger. Do you need my address?”
“Please,” Gordon answered.
“How did you hear about me, out of curiosity?” Saul asked, making small talk after giving him the address.
Gordon scrambled. What the hell could he say—Myanmar gave me your number? “Oh—the seller indicated you were one of the foremost authorities on this sort of thing. He gave me a list of several reputable people, and you were top of the list.”
“Ha. You can throw that list away, Mr. Samuels. There isn’t anyone more qualified to do the job.” Saul was feeling pretty cocky. It was a big day.
“I hoped that would be the case. Look for my man to be there within half an hour, tops. I trust cash for payment will be acceptable?”
“My favorite. I’ll look forward to meeting your courier. What’s his name?”
Gordon thought about it. “Ben.”
“Very good. I’ll look forward to seeing Ben when he gets here.”
Gordon hung up, and realized he’d sweated through his shirt even though it was a constant sixty-seven degrees in the office.
He called Myanmar and relayed the information to the minister.
“Ben, is that right? Why Gordon, I think you actually have a sense of humor.”
“Let’s just get the problem solved and move on, shall we?” Gordon was shaken by what he’d just done.
“Of course. I’ll let you know if we require anything else. Thank you for your assistance, as always.” The line went dead.
~ ~ ~
Nick was feeling crummy when he called Tess. He’d really overdone it last night, and he was paying the price. He’d also smoked a bunch of cigarettes at the party—something he only did when he was wasted, and which accentuated the hangover and made it linger, turning it into a full-day affair. Tess picked up on the third ring.
“How you doing, honey?” he asked.
“I’m feeling better. Went for a ride and just got out of the shower. You?”
“I feel like shit. They must have poisoned me last night.”
“Let me guess, cigarettes were involved?”
“Yeah, and Jagermeister. It was ugly and stupid.”
“Sounds like it. Well, I’m okay, so you can stay in bed and recover. I’m just going to hang at the house.” Tess didn’t enjoy being around Nick when he was hung. She was in no mood to play babysitter. Besides, he’d done this to himself; it wasn’t like somebody had held a gun to his head.
“I might do that. Maybe we can hook up tomorrow? I need to take you to the shop and go through the insurance claims. Why don’t I call when I get up?” Nick appeared relieved she sounded stable. Not the old Tess by a long shot, but at least she was off the mat and swinging again.
“That’s fine. I’ll be awake fairly early.”
She wanted to tell him about her sister and what a bastard her husband had been, about how Duff had called and extended his sympathies, how Stan was pitching in to be supportive—but that wasn’t his role in their relationship.
For the first time in her adult life, she felt like she wanted more. And when she thought about that want, Detective Ron’s profile was the first thing she saw. Too weird.
She hardly knew him; she was probably projecting all kinds of qualities he didn’t even possess. Plus, he was at least in his mid-thirties, and so straight-laced. The trauma of losing her father was causing her to go off the deep end. She really had to get a grip on herself.
Still…
~ ~ ~
Saul’s intercom rang.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Ben.”
Ahh, his cash cow had arrived. He pushed the buzzer. A few moments later his doorbell rang. He looked through the peephole and saw a diminutive Asian man with an envelope in his hand; he methodically unlocked the deadbolts and opened the door, speaking as he did so.
“Welcome, welcome. Your boss called and—oooofffff…” Saul was interrupted by the small man driving his foot into his considerable midsection. A second man entered and closed the door. Saul realized he’d been duped even as he struggled for breath.
“Get up,” said the taller of the two.
Saul grappled to get to his knees, laboring to breathe. His discomfort from the blow to his stomach was eclipsed by his fear from the two men’s appearance at his apartment. He crawled down the hall to his living room and used his favorite chair as support to rise to a bent-over standing position.
“Where the bills?” the shorter one demanded.
Saul looked at the man, slowly realizing what he was talking about. “What are you talking about? Why are you attacking me? What have I done to you?”
The little man approached him and delivered a strike to Saul’s groin, collapsing him into the chair. The taller man pulled a roll of duct tape out of his windbreaker, secured Saul’s feet, and then taped his hands to the arms of the chair.
“Where the bills?” he asked one more time.
“I—what are you…I don’t know…” Saul was stalling for time, the Treasury agents on their way, trying to recover from the blinding pain in his crotch.
The taller man went into Saul’s kitchen and returned with a butcher knife. He waved it in Saul’s face.
“You lie. Tell truth where bills, or I cut fingers.”
&n
bsp; Saul was a physical coward with a low pain threshold. His face went white when he saw the knife.
“No…please…I’ll tell you what you want. I swear…I’ll tell you anything…”
“Where the bills?”
“Just let me catch my breath, and I’ll tell you…” Saul said, still stalling.
The taller man moved quickly, nonchalantly. It was so fast that for a moment Saul didn’t feel anything, just watched in horror as two of his fingers dropped to the floor. He looked up in terror. Then the pain shot up his arm and exploded in his head, a white-hot supernova of agony. He screamed, and the smaller man stuffed a dishrag into his open mouth.
“You tell where bills are.” In order to make the point clear he waved the bloody blade in front of Saul's face. Saul shrieked into the dishrag and blacked out.
The smaller man cracked a smelling salt under Saul’s nose, bringing him to. They needed quick answers. Saul resumed howling and the man leaned over, whispering in his ear.
“Where bills? I take out rag, you say, okay?”
Saul was more afraid and in more pain than he’d ever been in his life. He nodded, and the man removed the towel.
“On…the…desk…near the…envelope…”
The man stuffed the rag back in Saul’s mouth. The taller man approached the desk and picked up the four hundred-dollar bills.
“Where you get?”
Saul wasn’t going to tell them that. He wasn’t going to give them Stan. No way.
“A…customer…I don’t…his name…Robert…something…”
The shorter man looked at the taller. This wasn’t going well.
In the end Saul told them all about Stan.
The last thing Saul saw was the bottle of wine he’d purchased to celebrate the best day of his life, chilling on the ledge.
The two men worked quickly and efficiently, quietly ransacking the apartment to verify there were no more bills secreted away. They took the comparison book of hundreds, just in case, as well as every other piece of U.S. currency.
Saul’s phone rang, spooking them and re-emphasizing the urgency of the situation. They silently departed, listening for any alarming sounds or indications of danger. At the front door they scanned the street and, satisfied no one was watching them, made their way to the main artery.
Chapter 19
Ron had the custodian open the door at Candy’s apartment, and went in with a uniformed officer as a witness. He’d gotten a warrant as soon as he’d heard Candy was missing.
Her bike was still in the hallway, and there was no evidence she had been in since the previous night. Two messages blinked on her answering machine, both from today. It was Pug and Tab, calling to make sure she was okay.
He started in her bathroom and found the expected odds and ends. It was always remarkable how little the victims left behind. He moved into her bedroom, and noted the pictures framed in oak: Candy, née Susan Keltridge, from Smyrna, Georgia, in her teens, standing next to an impossibly obese woman who bore a family resemblance. That would probably be Mom. Another shot of Candy as Miss Smyrna, next to the same woman and a thin, sickly-looking man sporting a large belt buckle and a baseball cap with the Caterpillar logo on it. Dad?
Next to her bed, a few more current headshots: Candy looking mysterious, Candy looking perky and fun, Candy looking like the girl next door, Candy as secretary—the whole bedroom a shrine to her image.
He went through her drawers and jewelry box and found the expected drug paraphernalia. Candy apparently liked her weed and coke, judging by the little bit left in the bags. And condoms aplenty in her nightstand. Apparently being in your early twenties in the big city meant a lot of drugs and sex. Not in your mid-thirties if you were a homicide detective. Tut tut—there’d be none of that on Ron’s watch. He didn’t know whether to be saddened or amused. He opted for neither.
Ron looked around for an itinerary with a name or a phone number circled in red for last night. You could always hope. In the real world, there was rarely such an unambiguous pointer—but he did find a note pad by the phone. He took it, figuring he might be able to get some impressions from it that could yield a clue. It was worth a shot, since right now he had nothing.
They finished and closed up the apartment. Another dead end in the career of Ron Stanford, the guy who couldn’t stop the killing. He knew that unless they had a breakthrough, in two nights another girl would be butchered.
~ ~ ~
Stan was getting ready to close up shop when his phone rang. It was his building’s superintendent.
“Stan, this is Paul. Sorry to bug you, but we’ve got a little emergency going on here. The floor above you had a pipe burst and your ceiling’s wrecked. I think you’d better get over here and move everything around to limit the damage. I’ve got the plumbers on their way and I’ve turned off the water, but it’s a mess.”
Bad news seemed to come in waves; Stan was resigned that this was one of those times when things weren’t going to go his way.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“We won’t know for sure until the plumbers get here, but part of the floor is ruined and your ceiling will need to be re-plastered. It’s just by the grace of God the lady was home and called me, or it could have been much, much worse,” Paul reported.
“I’ll get back there as quickly as I can. Thanks for the heads up.” Stan had to do some juggling. His dinner with Saul could wait one day, and he really didn’t have anything else—although he did want to see Tess and break the news about the money in person. In a perfect world that’s how he would handle it.
It hadn’t been a perfect world for some time.
He dialed Saul’s number and it just rang. Knowing Saul, he’d gone out to get some wine or a celebratory snack, or both. He wished Saul would get an answering machine, but that was one of his eccentricities: he believed he’d lived without one most of his life and gotten along fine, so why waste the money now?
Stan sighed. He’d try him again from home. It was only three-something; he had bigger fish to fry. He called Tess and was glad she picked up.
“Hey, sweetie, it’s Stan. How’re you doing today?”
“Good, Uncle Stan. Well, maybe not good…but better than yesterday,” Tess said.
He debated telling her about Saul’s discovery.
“Tess, I have some news about the hundred-dollar bills,” he started.
“Oh, right, the money. What’s up?”
“The guy I took it to, who’s one of the foremost authorities in the world, examined the bills and established them as counterfeits. They’re fake, Tess. I’m sorry,” Stan said.
“Wait—so my Dad traded a million dollars’ worth of watches for worthless paper? How could that happen? Wouldn’t he check to make sure it was real?”
“He did check. The bills are so good, they fooled the bank at the airport, and would have tricked any bank in the country. At least according to Saul.”
“So why not just spend them, if no one will be able to tell?” Tess asked, then thought about it.
The obvious ethical conundrum was that she had a million dollars of fakes and no one could tell they were fakes—but she knew they were. But a million dollars was a lot of money, and they were still out the watches. So what to do?
Stan took his time with the question. “Tess, this is where it gets hard. I suppose you could do that and claim you had no idea, if and when anyone ever caught on. I’d never tell; you would have plausible deniability. As far as the Treasury Department goes, Saul is turning the bills over to them—but all he knows is that he got them from me, and I got them from your dad. Which is technically true.” He thought about it. “I can’t tell you what to do. You’re a smart girl. This one’s up to you.”
“Can it get any worse, Uncle Stan? It seems like everything is just collapsing on me.” Tess sounded distressed. Stan should have told her in person.
“It’s not the end of the world, honey. Trust me on this. Take a few days to think thin
gs through, there’s no rush. Me, I have a burst pipe at home flooding my living room—speaking of can it get any worse—so I gotta go. Let’s get together tomorrow for breakfast—over at the little deli on West 32nd? Your dad and I used to meet there. He brought you a few times,” Stan recalled.
“I remember the place, Uncle Stan. Tomorrow at nine work for you?” she asked.
“That’s perfect, Tess. Take care, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t worry, everything will work out.”
“Okay, if you say so.” She sounded unconvinced.
Stan closed his shop, locked the door, pulled down the metal protective awning and padlocked it in place. He considered the graffiti on it that he’d never bothered to remove. The little pricks would just come back and spray it again, so what was the point? He groaned from the effort and the heat, and made his way to the subway and his apartment.
~ ~ ~
Tess was torn. The right thing to do was to turn the bills over to the Treasury Department. But a million dollars was a lot of money, and she could spend those dollars right now: buy a car, some diamonds, take a trip…And no one would be the wiser. She could fly to Vegas and launder the whole amount by buying a hundred grand worth of chips at different casinos, playing for an hour, and then cashing them in. She could think of thirty ways to wash the cash, so it wasn’t a logistical issue, it was a moral one. But as Stan had pointed out, she didn’t have to decide this evening. She’d sleep on it.
Tess decided to get the unpleasant return call out of the way. Her sister picked up on the fourth ring.
“Chrissy, it’s Tess. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay, I suppose. God, this is so horrible. Do they have any idea who killed Dad?” she asked.
“No, but I talked to the detectives and they seem really smart, on top of things.”
“It’s just so strange. Did you know I haven’t talked to him for almost six months? And now he’s gone forever…”
Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1) Page 14