Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  “Fair enough. My sources tell me the targets seem to be female bicycle messengers. Any comment on that?”

  Ron’s face could have been carved from wood.

  “I can’t comment, other than to say it’s premature to jump to any conclusions.” Ron had done this before, and knew how to give George exactly nothing.

  “Look for the write-up in tomorrow’s paper. Always nice to see you, Ron.” George was scribbling as he talked.

  “Likewise, George.”

  The day was getting better and better. A big article meant a task force, which meant the mayor’s office getting involved, statements, press conferences, the FBI fighting over jurisdiction, and a frightened city. Ron had hoped to catch the creep before all that happened.

  He thought about Tess. Maybe he’d call her, give a heads up that the whack job was targeting messengers, and she was a messenger, ergo, at risk. Not to scare her or anything. Maybe she’d feel safer spending nights at his place, where the big strong cop could protect her. He still had an old dress uniform he could put on if that was her thing—strictly to make her feel safer, mind you, nothing sick. He smiled at the thought, and Amy caught him.

  “Care to share?” she asked.

  “You’d never talk to me again if you knew what I was thinking,” he admitted. He smiled again. Maybe standing on the bed with the hat on, swirling the pants over his head with one hand while he waved a gun with the other? A whistle in his mouth?

  He was losing it.

  Crazy from the heat.

  She looked at him strangely. “You seem way too happy with yourself for your own good, young man.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

  “Sounds like it might be interesting.” She gave him an unmistakable look.

  “Maybe so. I’m headed back to the office to see if the background checks came in yet,” Ron said.

  “Me too. This looks like my Tuesday night date. I want to get to her before there’s any more degradation.”

  ~ ~ ~

  David and Larry got back to the Treasury offices at 7:30 p.m. and called Washington to leave messages that would hopefully be picked up first thing. They signed the hundred into custody and wrote a full report detailing Saul’s murder, the manner in which the bill was found, and their observations on their initial inspection of the note—it appeared completely genuine. Then again, they weren’t equipped to do an in-depth analysis. That would have to be done in Washington.

  They marked their report secret/not for general distribution, because they were treating the threat as real. Which meant secrecy was essential—secrecy meant options.

  If the bill was that high-level a counterfeit, then questions arose—where were they getting the paper? Or the inks? Where were they obtaining the security strips? Finally, in order to manufacture a bill this good, they’d have to have access to secret information from within Treasury itself, which created a new set of problems.

  If someone was duplicating the most popular denomination bill held by overseas investors, then those same investors would likely convert their bills into other currencies when the shit hit the fan, which would in turn cause a death spiral—a panic in the dollar. This was major league trouble, and had to be dealt with aggressively and immediately.

  If there were bills out that were virtually perfect, then the Fed couldn’t control the money supply, and a foreign power could run amok until new currency was issued and the old currency was recalled. That was a Band-Aid fix, though, because if the counterfeiters had the technology to do it once, they could do it again.

  David was glad they weren’t the ones who would have to figure out what to do next. It seemed like the only way to stop the danger would be to destroy the production facility, which would be pretty difficult if they couldn’t figure out where it was. It wasn’t like a reactor, where you could look for heat signatures or suspicious activity involving huge pieces of specialized machinery, and ultimately narrow down the production plant. Manufacturing bills could be done in any warehouse.

  Talk about a mess.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Asians were sitting outside Stan’s apartment watching the workers come and go. There’d obviously been some sort of commotion inside, given the trucks and the activity.

  The initial plan had been to go in and have a discussion with Stan, but that was looking like it was impractical. The good news was that they’d located the loose bills and stopped the threat for the time being. The bad news was that they were no closer to locating and taking possession of the remainder of the bills than they had been forty-eight hours ago.

  They knew what apartment Stan was in, but not what he looked like, other than the limited description Saul had provided—which narrowed it down to half the older men in New York. They also knew he had a shop downtown, but were reluctant to attempt another interrogation in broad daylight during business hours. So the question was, how to access his apartment in a building with security—in this case an ancient doorman? They’d developed a plan that seemed like their best shot, and were just waiting for implementation time.

  The two workers from the water damage company were packing up their van when the smaller man approached from one direction as the taller one approached from another, both with their pens out. Neither worker ever knew what hit them. The Asians heaved them both into the back of the van and hopped in, closing the doors. It was over in seconds. The two men stripped the overalls off the workers and donned them, then took their painter’s caps off and fitted them onto their own heads before throwing a tarp over the bodies.

  They grabbed tool chests and approached the entry to the high rise. The doorman gave them a look, but not too much of one; he’d seen workers coming and going for the last few hours. These two were from the same company as the last two, probably specialists of some sort, or a shift change.

  Chapter 21

  Ron was back at the office, fiddling with Candy’s notepad as he waited in frustration for a return call from the background-check people. NYPD ran an evening shift that was a skeleton crew in most departments, and Ron was accustomed to the delays.

  He’d removed the top page and scanned it into his computer at extremely high resolution, and was running a reconstruction algorithm that would fill in any depressions in the surface. It was hit or miss; one of his computer geek friends had created it for him using shareware. The only problem was that you had to fiddle with the sensitivity to avoid creating artifacts.

  The program was churning through the various possibilities as he absently considered Tess and the wisdom of having some sort of an encounter, much less a relationship, with her.

  Every time in his life he’d gotten into real trouble with a woman, it had been with some bombshell he’d known better than to date. He was now old enough to realize he had no idea what the hell he was doing when it came to the female of the species. It didn’t offer him much comfort. She was seven or eight years younger, and built for much different speeds: she was a racing machine, he was a dependable sedan. He wasn’t embittered they were created differently; he just recognized it to be true.

  Okay, maybe he was a little bit embittered.

  Switch to Amy, who was much more compatible, cut from the same bolt of cloth as Ron. Same same career trajectory, even the same hours. She was not unattractive, just as he was not unattractive. He idly wondered what it was like to be smoking hot like Tess. It had to be great.

  Oops, back on Tess again.

  Amy was sending out subtle signs to him, and he was receptive; it was sensible and probably sustainable. He wasn’t a monk, he had needs, but after his marriage hit the rocks and slowly sank, it just hadn’t been a tremendous priority to go out and find another mate. He’d had a few brief dalliances, more one-night stands than anything else, but nothing he’d felt interested enough in to call back the next day.

  His line trilled, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Stanford.”

  “It’s Amy. I figured out how he’s doing it,” She s
aid excitedly.

  “Are you going to tell me, or keep it to yourself?”

  “Sublingual injection. They’re already out cold, and he injects under the tongue, most likely with epinephrine and potassium chloride. It spikes their blood pressure through the roof and stops their heart.” Amy sounded deservedly proud of herself. “I requested a potassium scan—it’ll show if I’m right.”

  “And how did you arrive at this breakthrough?”

  “Candy was in good enough condition so I could go over every inch of her body. No injections, but the way these girls all died was pointing to something like a potassium chloride cocktail. So there had to be a needle stick, and assuming it wasn’t in the breasts or eyes, the question was where, if not through their skin? Had to be in an orifice, and from that point it was easy.”

  “You’re a genius. Truly.” He considered his next words. “Would you be interested in grabbing a late dinner and celebrating the first real progress in our case?” There. It was out. Ball sailed slowly over the net; he waited to see how she would volley it back.

  “Why, Ron. That almost sounds like a date.” She paused. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking Italian or Greek. There’s a great little Greek spot down on 20th…”

  “Know the place. I’m there. What time?”

  “Want to try for nine?” Ron asked.

  “Make the call. I’ll see you at nine.”

  “Congratulations again, Amy.”

  “You’re buying the first drink, big boy.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The Asians took the elevator to Stan’s apartment, number 902. The smaller one knocked on the door and heard footsteps inside. The peephole went dark, and a muffled voice spoke from the other side of the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  They’d rehearsed what to say; they had actually called Myanmar for the phonetic pronunciation.

  “Water damage repair.” It sounded like “whata damaj lepel.”

  “What, again? You guys were just here,” Stan complained.

  “Need to work more.”

  “All right, all right. Just a second.” He released the deadbolt and eased the door open.

  “I thought you were done when you left. What now? Another leak?” Stan had put up with his whole evening being commandeered by these fools, over something that wasn’t even his fault. He’d been lucky the water had only hit his carpet and not one of his expensive period-piece tables.

  “We done quick,” the shorter one advised.

  “You’d better be.” Stan sat on his sofa, arms crossed, prepared to backseat drive them to death.

  The taller one walked into the kitchen as though inspecting the ceiling. He picked up the coffee pot, steaming from Stan’s latest preparation of decaf, and carried it back toward the living room. The shorter one had opened up the tool kit and removed a towel, some wire and duct tape. Stan watched the small man with interest.

  “What the hell are you going to do with that? Wipe the plaster to death?” He started laughing but was cut short by the scalding contents of the coffee pot thrown in his face. He screamed and clawed at his eyes, and the smaller man stuffed the towel into Stan’s mouth. Stan was a scrapper, though, and he struck out at them, screaming into the towel as he kicked and swung.

  Unfortunately for him, the coffee had temporarily blinded him and he tripped over one of his beloved tables, falling abruptly and cracking his hip. He screamed again, paralyzed with pain.

  The two men taped his wrists and ankles. He moaned in agony when they pulled on his legs.

  The taller one took a seat on the couch and spoke slowly.

  “Where you get bills? Where key for box?”

  Stan barely registered the questions. Tears rolled down his face as he inhaled the fumes from the noxious rag, causing him to gag. He felt like he was dying.

  “I take out, you talk. Where you get bills? Where box key?” the smaller man pantomimed pulling the rag from Stan’s mouth, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. Poor Saul—they must have gotten him too, Stan thought. Robert, Saul, now me.

  The man removed the rag.

  “Screw you, you piece of shit. I’ll never say a word.” Stan figured if he could get them angry, they might kill him quickly.

  He was wrong.

  The smaller man replaced the rag and kicked him in the hip. Stan passed out. When he came to, the small man was playing with an ice pick he’d found in one of Stan’s drawers. The man asked him one more time. Stan lied and said it was Robert—that Robert had the key. The small man seemed to understand that Stan still wasn’t convinced.

  He approached Stan again and whispered his question, which for some reason made it far more menacing.

  “We know dollars in box. Who has key?” He waved the ice pick in Stan’s face. “Lie, I poke eye.” He looked at Stan to make sure he understood the game. Stan nodded.

  “Nick—the assistant…Nick has…the key…Nick…not my eye, please— I beg you, it was Nick…”

  It sounded convincing, but the little man had to be sure. Stan screamed into his rag again, and as he was passing out this time, he saw his dead wife, gone some six years before from breast cancer, smiling at him, as though to say it was all going to be okay.

  Twenty minutes later he came to again.

  “Who has key?”

  Out came the rag. Stan’s voice was hoarse. He managed a croak.

  “Nick…”

  God forgive me for what I’ve done, he thought. He was passing out again. The pain was unbearable.

  The taller man nodded at the smaller man, who rammed the ice pick through Stan’s ear, into his brain. Stan stiffened and convulsed, rhythmically, five, six, seven times.

  The two men regarded the body with clinical disinterest. He’d seemed to be telling the truth. It looked like Nick was going to be paid a visit sooner rather than later. Nick had to be the young man they’d seen lock up the shop. They knew where he lived; it was a matter of watch and wait. They’d gotten the loose bills, stopped anyone associated with them, and now all they needed was the safe deposit box key and the box number, and they could go home.

  It had been a long day. They’d be up early to stake out Nick’s place, and also the shop.

  They descended in the elevator and made their way out the door, hardly noticed by the doorman, who was getting ready to end his twelve-hour shift. He had a ride on the train through gun-town to look forward to, and if he was lucky, a few shots of bourbon to numb the pain before he started over again tomorrow.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ron’s computer program continued working long after he’d left for the evening. Eventually it came up with a number of impressions from the notepad. Some were partial letters, some were squiggles, a few were numbers. One number was prominent, a Manhattan phone in the lower East Village. Had Ron been there, the number wouldn’t have immediately meant anything to him, but if he cross-referenced it he would discover it was the number of one of the Red Cap crew. Nothing suspicious in and of itself, but worth following up on.

  Which he would. Tomorrow.

  ~ ~ ~

  Nick rang Tess’s bell, and she greeted him at the door.

  “You feeling any better?” Tess asked.

  “Yeah, a lot. Little hair of the dog did the trick.” He smiled crookedly at her. She was wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot, hair in a bun.

  “What do we have on the agenda for tomorrow?” she asked him.

  “We need to hit the shop and pick up some paperwork, fill out insurance forms for the watches and cash they took. We have a receipt somewhere to reconcile the dollars in the safe. It shouldn’t take long.” Nick was trying to be upbeat, but the truth was his head still ached.

  “I’m having breakfast with Stan, and I was thinking of riding my bike there. Maybe we should hook up at the shop around ten-thirty? That way you can sleep in.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Nick paused. “Tess, at some point you need to figur
e out what to do with the shop.” Nick had been wondering about what she would decide.

  “How hard would it be to sell it? The whole business, inventory and all?”

  “Pretty easy. Your dad had retired customers, rich guys, who’ve been asking to buy in for years.”

  “Could you call a few tomorrow, see whether they’re still in the market? I want to know what my options are.” Tess said.

  “Sure. I kept a list somewhere. They’re our biggest customers, so it won’t be hard to look through the receipt books and figure it out.” Nick was trying to be as supportive as possible. “You want to stay in and watch a movie or something?”

  “That’s fine, Nick. I’m not in any mood to go out,” Tess said.

  “I kind of figured.”

  Chapter 22

  Ron fumbled for an alarm clock that seemed malevolent in its stridency. He wasn’t accustomed to evenings with wine, and his system didn’t tolerate it as well as it had years ago. Yet another vice to add to the list of fun things everyone but Detective Stanford was doing. That list was crowded, what with sex, drugs, rock and roll, booze…

  He exited his apartment building, stopped by the news vendor, and picked up a copy of the Post with trepidation. The headline said it all: RED CAP KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!!! Somebody’s Killing the Bike Girls.

  He read the article with sinking spirits. It recounted the basics, the three-night schedule, the bike messenger angle, the scalping and eyes. Said NYPD had no comment and apparently no leads, but the mayor’s office had promised a press conference that morning at eleven.

  Great. A press conference. Those were always so helpful in producing meaningful results.

  Ron groaned audibly and the newspaper vendor looked at him over his bifocals.

  “Cheer up, buddy, the day’s just starting. Ya still gotcher health, right?”

  “I ain’t feeling so good,” Ron responded. It was true. He wasn’t. He dreaded going into the office, already knew what was waiting for him. He steeled himself for the beginning of the onslaught and prayed he wouldn’t have to participate in the three-ring circus that was going to be held in a few short hours.