Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  “I really appreciate this, Ron. Really. I’ll see you then.”

  ~ ~ ~

  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 of them were exhausted, and 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 jarred him awake 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. After running a comb through his hair and shaving, 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 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.”

  Tess 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—wherever they are.” He gave her the address and they agreed to meet on Monday at ten-forty-five, and 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 at her phone.

  Once she was up and around, 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. 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 pulled Ron out.

  “Missing persons was contacted 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 killer 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 discreet 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? W
as 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 was testier than usual, his patience nil. 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 recent 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, so quickly.

  “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? 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. Even if they killed it after a few months, 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; 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 a half 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 attorney; he’d seen enough to know only an idiot talked without his lawyer present. His mind raced over his options, and he’d resolved not to say a word, and let his mouthpiece handle it.

  The door to the room opened, and the Director entered and sat across from him, looking like he wanted to strangle him. When the Director 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.

  “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. Corpse 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, Ron 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 predict 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. Following only the females clearly hadn’t worked.