"There are wonderfully arcane regulations that have been in existence since this country's birth," he answered. "Romans had their Trial of the Pyx, so our forefathers set up an assay commission. Samples of the strike were submitted in locked boxes to be weighed and tested-a laborious series of examinations-and while this was being done with just a few hundred coins, all the others were kept in storage at the Mint."
"What became of the one hundred thousand?"
"In 1937, the order finally came from the Treasury-right from the president-to melt down the entire strike. As far as the government knew, not a single coin was left."
"So when did the Eagle fly out of the cage?" Mike asked.
"I'm afraid that's the first time our company came into this mix," Stark said. "Nineteen forty-four. My father had been in business about ten years, doing quite well, when a great private collection came on the market which he bought for auction. The owner was a Colonel James Flanagan."
Stark took another sip of coffee. "Papa put an advertisement in all the papers, announcing the sale. And for the final lot, the biggest prize, the ad read, 'The Excessively Rare 1933 Double Eagle.' He was quite thrilled about his coup."
"I guess that let the cat out of the bag," Mike said.
"Needless to say, that wording caught the attention of a few giants in the numismatic field who were interested in bidding, one of whom took it upon himself to call the Mint and quite simply ask what made it so rare. How many coins had the government actually legalized and released was what he wanted to know."
"The answer was none?"
"Exactly. From there on, the feds moved in pretty quickly. The Mint brought in the Secret Service-"
I interrupted Stark and looked at Mike and Mercer. "I know the Secret Service is the law enforcement branch of the Treasury, but I can't for the life of me remember why. I just think of them as the presidential protection force."
Mike helped me with the history. "The Secret Service was created in 1865 especially to investigate and prevent the counterfeiting of U.S. currency, and enforce all laws related to coins and securities of the government. That's all that they were about at first. They didn't get into the protection business until President McKinley was assassinated."
Stark continued. "So there was my father in 1944, sitting at his desk during the second day of the actual auction. In burst a couple of agents who announce to him that the Flanagan coin had been stolen from the Mint, that it had absolutely no value, and that they were going to seize it from him before it went on the block."
Mike wanted the facts. "So whom had Flanagan bought the illegal Double Eagle from?"
"Precisely what the Secret Service wanted to know," he said, seeming a bit chagrined. "They also questioned my father about where he got the information in the catalog entry that said at least ten of the pieces had gotten into private hands."
"Did he have the answers?"
"Most certainly. He and my uncle were extremely cooperative," Stark said, starting to smile again. "After all, they had paid the enormous sum of sixteen hundred dollars for the coin. They had all the bills of sale, and took the agents directly to the jeweler, who was holding it in his safe."
"So the feds got that one back for sure," Mike said.
"I can promise you that, Detective. It was one of the first lessons I learned from my father. And then this lead agent spent the next few months tracking down the other Double Eagles my father told them about. He was like a bloodhound-Philadelphia, Baltimore, Memphis, London."
"How many were stolen from the Mint and avoided destruction?" I asked.
"Ten. That's what they figured when they went back to examine the assay samples I mentioned to you, which was the only group of coins that hadn't been melted when the orders first came down."
"And how many of them did the feds track down in 1944?"
"Nine. They got nine of them back. All except the one that went to King Farouk."
"Did they ever figure out who committed the theft from the Mint?"
"Seems to be nothing those investigators didn't figure out. There was a crook at the Mint-a man called George McCairn-who was in charge of the Weight Transfer Department the year the Double Eagles disappeared. After 1937, between the time of their theft and the date of the auction, McCairn was arrested for stealing some other valuable pieces from the Mint."
"So he was locked up?" Mike asked.
"For taking these later items. Never charged for the Eagles, because he never admitted being the thief. But the feds thought the method was the same. When the coins came in for assay-and mind you, he had sole control of the keys to the samples-he simply took ten of them out of the bag and replaced them with coins of the same weight and size, but no value."
"The old bait and switch," Mike said.
"Exactly. No one ever looked in the bags," Stark said. "Once it was realized the Double Eagles were not going to be declared legitimate legal tender-never monetized-they were just left to sit out their fate until the moment of meltdown. McCairn had exclusive access to the samples, and had helped himself to ten of the beautiful birds."
"How did they arrive at ten as the exact number?" Mercer asked.
Stark paused. "By the weight of what was recorded in the assay process. That's the best they could figure."
"That Secret Service agent worked damn fast," Mike said, making notes of the people and dates that Bernard Stark had mentioned. "What did you say his name was?"
"The man who tracked down the Double Eagles? It was Strait. Harry Strait."
28
"Did I say something wrong?" Stark asked, scanning our faces.
The three of us must have reacted to Strait's name with the same degree of surprise.
Mike made his notes and picked up the conversation. "No, no. Now this Double Eagle that made its way to Egypt, what can you tell us about how it got there?"
Stark pursed his lips. "Not very much. I think you'll have to get that story from the Secret Service."
He reached for his Rolodex and wrote down the name of the supervisor he'd dealt with when he auctioned the great coin for seven million dollars. "Harry Strait is dead," he said, "but I think you'll find this fellow most helpful."
"But the one you sold in 2002 was legal?"
"Oh, yes. We weren't about to walk into that mess again. I can't account for the half century that the coin was in Egypt, but a well-known British dealer brought it back into the States in 1996. What do you call those, um, shall we say 'rats'?"
"Confidential informants?"
"Yes. One of them tipped off the Secret Service, who did some wiretaps and all that, and intercepted the poor bird on his way home. Lawsuits and depositions and lots of haggling, but finally the government admitted a great mistake had been made."
"Worse than McCairn's theft?"
"A good deal so. When Farouk bought his Double Eagle, FDR's Treasury secretary-I can't recall his name-"
"Morgenthau," I said. "Henry Morgenthau."
"Yes, of course. Morgenthau actually issued an export license to the royal legation of Egypt, making that one lonely coin legitimate."
"Why?"
"No one is quite sure. To avoid government embarrassment, probably. He knew it was going out of the country to a king we were trying to keep as an ally, and there wouldn't be much harm in letting the twenty dollars that had been promised to Farouk before the error was caught go to the royal collection."
"So when the Double Eagle was finally sold, you and your firm got the seven million big ones, Mr. Stark?" Mike asked.
"In a very agreeable split with Uncle Sam, Detective. Perfectly reasonable."
"Play with me for a minute, sir. What if I were to turn up another stolen coin? Say everybody guessed wrong back in the forties, say McCairn reached in the bag and pulled out a dozen Eagles instead of ten," Mike said. "Tomorrow I walk in your door with one more plastic evidence bag, Liberty holding her torch aloft, 1933 and all that?"
"Without the certificate that monetizes her-an
d Morgenthau very likely didn't sign two of them-it's just one more lovely piece of gold. Carry it in your pocket for good luck or melt it down and turn it into a ring for your sweetheart."
"So it's the piece of paper that makes the coin worth its weight in gold?"
"Now you've got it."
"But how did this Englishman get the coin-the one you sold-from Farouk?" Mercer wanted to know.
"The depositions are all sealed. Perhaps you can convince the agents to tell you. And then, Ms. Cooper," Stark said, standing to usher us out of his office, "maybe when you bring me some of Ms. Ransome's coins to inventory, you all can let me in on the full story that you get from the feds. I've been curious for years myself."
We thanked him for his help and waited for the assorted security devices to let us make our way back to the reception area and downstairs to the lobby.
My cell phone was vibrating. As we stepped out of the elevator, I took it out of my pocket. "You call the Secret Service and make an appointment for noon tomorrow," I said to Mike. "Let me get this."
"Alex?"
"Yes."
"Christine Kiernan. Your trap-and-trace with the cell phone came through with the goods."
"You got the rapist?" I turned to Mercer and gave him a thumbs-up. "Where?"
"Just like you said, he was standing on the corner of One Hundred and Second and Madison, talking to his grandmother down in the Dominican Republic."
"Reach out and touch someone. Works every time. Fit the 'scrip?"
"As much as she could give, including a surgical scar on his groin area. Had the doc's cell phone and two of her ID cards."
"Track marks?"
"Yeah, he's a junkie. Stone-cold."
"Priors?"
"Depends which name you run him under." She laughed. "Once the fingerprints tell us what his real name is, we'll know more. But he's been through the system before. He's greeting everyone in the station house like he's a regular."
"Want me to come up and help with a statement?"
"He's not talking. Ponied up for a lawyer right away. Found the phone on the street, found the doc's ID in a garbage pail. That's all he gave us and now he's not saying a word. I'll do a court order to get a saliva swab for his DNA, and I'll draft a complaint. I don't think I'll need to bother you till tomorrow."
"Good job, Christine."
"Thanks. See you in the morning."
I snapped the lid of the phone closed.
"Where do you get a drink around here?" Mike asked.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was six-thirty. "Let's try Michael's, over on Fifty-fifth Street. We can sit quietly and figure out where we are in this maze."
"Has the rain let up?" he said, opening the door to look outside. "Where's your car?"
Mercer pointed up the street to where we had parked. Mike's was closer by, so we crossed Fifty-seventh Street in the light drizzle and squared the block on Fifth Avenue to get to West Fifty-fifth Street.
We had almost made it through dinner when Mercer's beeper went off. He left the table to return the call.
"You still going to the country tomorrow?" Mike asked.
"Absolutely. Any chance you and Val can join me? I'd love the company."
He ran his finger around the rim of the glass, which he'd almost emptied of his first vodka. "Val's having a bad time of it, Alex."
Mike had met Valerie Jacobsen after she had undergone a mastectomy. She had completed an intensive course of chemotherapy, but the doctors warned her that it was such a virulent strain of cancer that she had to be watched for every minor health change.
"Want to tell me?"
"Maybe it's nothing. I just know how it frightens her, even when she doesn't want to worry me about it. Mostly she's run-down, exhausted, listless. They're working up a whole slew of tests this week. Maybe you could give her a call, cheer her up."
"I'm mortified that you have to ask me to do it. I haven't spoken to her in a couple of weeks, between my vacation and the trial. Of course I'll call her. Don't you think a few days on the Vineyard would-"
"She can't do it right now, Alex."
"Look at me, Mike," I said, lifting his chin to make his eyes meet mine. "Trust me, will you? You've got to talk to me about these things. I can't read your mind."
Mercer stood behind me, resting his hand on my sore shoulder. "Finish your cocktails, folks. Have to make a stop at the ER."
I assumed that meant a sexual assault victim had been admitted and Mercer was tagged for the interview. "A rape?"
"Nope. Our friend Andrew Tripping is being treated for multiple stab wounds."
"Is he-?"
"He's going to live. Out of danger, just a few holes in his back."
"Bellevue?"
"Nope. New York Hospital."
York Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. My neighborhood, not Tripping's.
We each threw some bills on the table to cover the drinks and dinner. The rain had stopped but the wet pavement still glistened against the headlights of the oncoming traffic as we weaved our way north and east to the hospital entrance.
The triage nurse was surprised to see us, particularly once we displayed our identification shields to her. She tipped her head in the direction of a small cubicle that was separated from her station by a green curtain. "He's been sedated. Let me check. I'm not sure it's a good idea to try to talk to him now."
She walked away and I whispered to Mercer, "I'm not sure it's a good idea for us to talk to him at all. He's represented by counsel and he's supposed to show up in Moffett's part tomorrow morning to take a plea."
"I can ask him about the stabbing, can't I? This time, he's in as a victim."
"Check with the nurse. Wouldn't you think he's already been interviewed? I assume he came in here by ambulance after a 911 call."
I walked out to the waiting area while Mike and Mercer entered the cubicle. They were with the patient almost fifteen minutes before they came back to me.
Mike was shaking his head. "I don't know what to make of him. He's a nutcase to begin with, isn't he?"
"Diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic."
"So people are always after him, right?"
"Most of the time."
"In case you didn't have enough to worry about, Mr. Tripping was on his way to try to find where you live, Coop."
"But, why?"
"Guess he just couldn't wait until tomorrow morning. I didn't throw him any questions about your case, I just asked what happened this evening."
"What'd he say?"
"He's a little incoherent. I don't know if that's him or the drugs. Mumbling all kinds of conspiracy theories. The lawyers are out to get him, there are terrorists after him, the CIA wants him dead, and he's never gonna see his kid again. Now which of those make sense?" Mike asked.
"Don't I wish I knew. Why me?" I said. "That's the only thing I'm concentrating on at the moment."
"He's telling us he wants you to put him in jail. That's why he's looking for you."
"Happy to help," I said. "But all he needs to do is show up in court to get that done. I don't like this one bit. And who's following him while he's looking for me? Who does he say attacked him?"
Mercer waved his hand in a circle. "Wasn't sure, couldn't see, can't describe-"
"Well, that's ridiculous. He claims he used to be a CIA agent, for chrissakes."
"You didn't do any better last night with your attacker," Mike said.
I flapped around for an answer but had none. "What does the doctor say? How serious is it?"
"Not very," said Mercer. "In fact, the resident's got the chart all marked up for psych observation. He won't rule out that the stab wounds may be self-inflicted."
"Why?"
"There are a lot of small jabs in the upper back. Nothing life-threatening, nothing terribly lethal, and all are high enough that you could reach them yourself with a knife."
"Great. This is a surefire way for him to buy a little more time before he bites the bullet and
takes the guilty plea. There must be a reason he wants to stay out of jail."
"That's not what he's saying tonight, Alex. He's telling us that jail is the only place he thinks his life is safe."
29
"How did it get to be ten-thirty?" I asked Mike and Mercer, as they followed me into my apartment after we left the hospital. "Somebody fix me a drink while I check my messages."
They went to the kitchen while I went to the bedroom to put on jeans and check the answering machine. There were a few personal calls, Jake among them, and a rather cool voice mail from Peter Robelon.
"It's Peter, Alex. Just had a call from the emergency department at New York Hospital. Andrew Tripping was assaulted tonight. They're going to treat and release him, but I don't think he's going to be in any shape for court tomorrow. I'm going to ask for an adjournment," he said, explaining the reasons why. "And Alex, keep your cops away from Andrew. This has nothing to do with your case, okay?"
By the time I got to the den, the guys had poured the drinks, made themselves comfortable, and turned on the Yankees game-which was only in the fifth inning because of an initial rain delay. I had lost my partners to the pennant race, so I stretched out on the sofa and enjoyed my scotch.
When I put the two of them out the door at midnight, Mercer arranged to pick me up and take me to the office, and to be there for the plea proceedings.
We walked into Judge Moffett's courtroom together at nine-thirty sharp. The lawyers for the child welfare agency and the foundling hospital had beaten us to the part, but everyone else was late. I didn't appreciate all my adversary's conversations with Moffett that had been conducted out of my presence, so I decided not to tell the judge about the stabbing incident ex parte.
Fifteen minutes later, the court officer held open the door and Peter Robelon walked in, pushing Andrew Tripping in a wheelchair. Graham Hoyt was a step or two behind, carrying Robelon's trial folders.
I rolled my eyes at Mercer and waited for the clerk to call the case into the calendar.
"What have we here, Mr. Robelon? A little accident?"
The Kills Page 23