by Chuck Dixon
Old money, especially old money that is clearly uncirculated, makes Fed Reserve officers put down their coffee mugs, sit up, and take notice. The Fed runs a tight ship. An even tighter ship after millions in bills vanished from the reserve bank in Philadelphia back in the 1970s. Used, torn, soiled or simply filthy currency winds up at the Fed for disposal. Before the thefts, the bills were counted and then incinerated. The systems had holes. Lots of holes. And it didn’t take a mastermind to hold a few bills back from the fire and slip them into a pocket. It was an inside job that went on for years; a slow-motion looting of old currency slated to be destroyed; a conspiracy of otherwise honest bean counters who couldn’t resist the temptation of slipping away with a few dirty old bills that no one would miss. A few dirty old bills turned into wads and wads of dirty old bills adding up to millions.
The thefts were discovered and the Fed was turned upside down and backwards. Officials were fired. Employees went to jail. A few committed suicide. An embarrassment and a tragedy.
The Fed's entire security protocol was then altered to account for every single bill entering the system. Bills to be destroyed are stamped through by a die upon arrival at the bank. The shape of the die identifies which of the twelve reserve banks has taken in each bill. The money is scanned, counted, re-counted, shredded, bleached and spun to a consistency of cotton candy after which it is bagged, tagged and stored in the depths of each Fed branch. At every step of the way, there are more cameras on all involved than at a celebrity wedding.
Long story short, every bill is important to the Fed. And when a pair of fifties, twenty plus years old, and so mint that the ink still stands raised on the rag stock, the Fed gets curious about where those Grants have been all this time and where they came from.
FBI special agent Bill Marquez thought he knew.
3
Bill needed a decent meal, a long hot shower and twelve hours sleep. He wasn’t going to get any of it.
He was attached to an ongoing investigation into a home invasion in the woods of Maine. It was part of a string of violent invasions that occurred over the past month or so ranging from Costa Rica to Thailand to Fiji. The crew involved was on the hunt for a big boodle of cash stolen years before by billionaire conman Corey Blanco. They tortured and murdered Blanco and his wife and kids. Then the same crew went on to systematically burglarize other Blanco properties around the world. They left corpses behind everywhere they went.
The latest happened a little more than twenty-four hours before in a flyspeck town in Maine. There were dead victims scattered everywhere around a lake community. There were terrorized survivors, including a kid in a Bangor hospital getting some fingers sewn back on.
Most of the invasion crew were dead. Six, possibly seven, of the actors died at the hand of someone unknown. Shot, stabbed, and in one case, beaten to death. Witnesses gave up nothing on how any of it went down. They pleaded ignorance or refused to cooperate. Early theories were put forth that the gang turned on each other. They found what they were looking for then went blood simple and began taking one another out until they were all dead. An ouroboros serpent of greed.
Based upon the evidence on the ground around Lake Bellevue, Bill Marquez had another idea.
This gang had never left witnesses at their other break-ins. Up in Maine they killed three innocents but left a woman, her daughter and her son alive. On the prior robberies, millions in cash and valuables were left behind. The operating theory was that these guys were pros searching for a particular item. They were so slick they left behind any loot that might later lead to them. This time there were signs that cash and jewels were taken.
And there was the last man standing. Or, more precisely, driving.
Someone survived the slaughter and made it through the woods to take off in one of two getaway cars stashed on a fire road miles from the primary crime scene.
And then there were the three lake residents unaccounted for. Two were a man and his daughter with identities that proved to be bogus. The man left his truck behind but he and the little girl were nowhere to be found. The cabin they shared showed signs of a break-in but no signs of violence. Then there was a woman, also using a phony name, illegally squatting in a mansion directly opposite the Blanco home. The owners of the house were contacted at their winter residence in the Bahamas. They never heard of their uninvited house guest and had not given anyone permission to stay there. The mystery woman’s Mercedes G was gone as well.
Now Bill was sitting in the cramped and stuffy manager’s office in the back of an Xtra Mart in New Haven. He was reviewing surveillance video on a pair of monitors. One showed the gas pump island. The other offered a view of the store’s counter. The manager was a nervous Egyptian guy eager to help. He leaned over Bill’s shoulder, breathing garlic in his ear.
"Your sign says you don't take bills larger than a twenty," Bill said as he moved the mouse to race backward through the footage showing the customers at the counter.
“My cousin Yuri is an idiot. He took the money. I tell him and tell him,” the manager groused.
“Why did he take it?”
“I told you. He is an idiot.”
“Maybe the guy let him keep the change,” Bill offered.
The manager huffed a fresh gust of garlic.
On the monitor, Bill watched the high-speed reverse pantomime of Lyle James Bandeaux holding a gun on the counter man and fleeing the store, a plastic bag containing the contents of the till in hand.
“It would be just before that.” The manager waggled a finger at the screen.
“How can you know? You watch this?” Bill said without turning from the whirl of customers gliding up and away from the counter in fast-backwards time.
“We do safe drops every hour. The two bills you are looking for were still in the register.”
Bill shrugged.
“There!” The manager stabbed at the screen.
Bill froze the image.
A big guy, broad shoulders, stood at the counter. Ball cap with a hoodie worn under a heavier winter coat. The hood was up over the ball cap. The man’s face, even the shape of his head was concealed. Facial recognition programs were going to be useless. His nose, upper lip and chin were visible. He had a week’s growth of facial hair. He was a white guy. Despite a clear HD image that’s all the video revealed.
Bill wound back and watched the exchange play out from the start in real time. The guy entered to take a place in line behind a pair of young black teens buying sodas. Once they left, he stepped to the counter. He handed over two bills in a gloved hand. There was an exchange between the man and Yuri, the manager's idiot cousin. The cousin gestured with open hands, head shaking. The customer remained unmoving, hand held out with the two bills stiff between his fingers. Yuri gave in at last and took the bills. The guy turned for the door and left.
“Wait.” The manager placed a hand atop Bill’s hand working the mouse.
Together they watched Yuri ring up the sale, place the two bills beneath the register drawer. Before closing the drawer, he slipped a couple of bills from the tray and pocketed them.
“Son of a bitch!” the manager hissed, releasing Bill’s hand.
Bill checked the time stamp on the video. Less than nine hours ago. He switched to the outside footage and moved back to the same time. He watched the hooded man walk to a Mercedes SUV parked by the gas pump island. The same model as the Mercedes that was missing from Lake Bellevue. The man stood pumping gas. There was someone seated inside the SUV in the passenger seat.
“Does this have a zoom feature?” Bill asked.
The manager pointed to a magnifying glass symbol in a drop-down toolbox atop the screen. Bill moved the cursor to the face visible through the windshield and dialed in. A female face. Shoulder length hair. The image was blurred but Bill could see it was a young girl. The mystery man’s daughter, if she was his daughter. The angle didn’t allow him to see if there was anyone in the back seat.
He watched the man pump the
gas, re-hook the nozzle, re-enter the SUV and drive off frame. Then he wound it back and zoomed in on the license plate. Massachusetts plate. He copied the plate numbers on a slip of paper.
Bill asked the manager to make a disc copy of the footage for him. While he waited for the disc to burn he called the FBI office in Boston. He didn’t know anyone there. He’d been assigned to the LA office for the past few years. He put on his “take no shit” voice until he got through to an assistant director of that division.
The manager handed off the disc, still warm from the burner. Bill’s cell rang back.
“Marquez.”
“We ran that plate. The Mercedes is registered to a Kiera Anne Reeves. Listed residence in Boston.”
“Can you get someone over there to lock her down? She’s a person of interest in this Lake Bellevue mess.”
“We won’t have to. Cops in Waltham, Mass have her in custody.”
Bill peppered the Boston AD with questions as he ran from the store to his car, the disc in hand.
4
“I’m the victim here. Can we try to remember that?” Kiera Anne said.
“What were you doing in that motel room?” Bill Marquez said. His eyes felt like they were filled with sand. The drive back up to Boston hadn’t helped.
"I was on vacation," Kiera Anne said, eyes level across the table in the interrogation room. She lowered her head to speak directly to Bill's smartphone set to record the interview. He noticed a bruise on her chin that she'd tried to cover with makeup. In the harsh overhead light, it took on a yellowish hue.
“The room was registered to a Noah Murray of Galveston, Texas.”
“Good old Tex,” she sighed.
“In addition to playing rough, good old Tex doesn’t exist. Why are you protecting someone who left you duct-taped on the bed for the maid to find?”
“I met a guy in a bar. He took me to his motel. Is that a crime?”
“Motel 6 seems kind of down market for you.”
“I like an adventure now and then,” she said, covering the Patek Phillipe watch on her left wrist with her right hand. She shook her head to free a strand of blonde hair from over her eye and regarded him with a flat expression.
“Let me tell you what we have, okay? Lay my cards on the table and see if you can explain my hand,” Bill said, voice as flat as her gaze.
She shrugged and sat back in her chair, eyes closed and mouth downturned.
“We found you trussed like a Christmas present on a bed in a motel room paid for in suspect cash and registered in the name of a man who never was. We also found a Suburban with Canadian plates parked on the lot. It was rented in Toronto under the same stolen name and account as another Suburban found at the scene of a mass murder up in Maine. And your car, a Mercedes G class, was caught on video at a convenience store down in New Haven driven by an unidentified man in the company of a female minor.”
“I told the police here it was stolen,” she said. There was a pack of cigarettes on the table. She reached for it and peeled away the cellophane.
He glanced at the sign on the wall that read, This Is A Non-Smoking Facility.
“Do you mind?” she said, eyebrow arched.
Bill shrugged and hit the switch by the door, turning on a room vent. He lit the cigarette for her. She released a blue cloud to the ceiling. She cleared her throat and stifled a cough. Not a regular smoker. She was looking for a distraction for herself. For him.
Her hands were steady, he gave her that. But there was a dew of sweat on her upper lip. Her eyes caught him studying her.
“I saw the report on your car. But that’s Waltham P.D.’s problem. The bureau doesn’t do auto theft. Would you like to tell me what you were doing in Maine?” he said, retaking his seat across from her.
“Who said I was in Maine?” She flicked ash onto the floor, elbow cupped in her hand, acting casual as hell.
“Because that’s what fits. You were married to Courtland Ray Blanco for five years. Divorced fourteen years ago. We have witnesses placing you in Bellevue, Maine for the past month.” That was a lie. The three witnesses they had were giving them squat for now. “Your ex-husband was the target of a gang of international thieves who were working their way around the world burglarizing homes owned by him through holding companies and shell accounts. You just happened to be trespassing in a home with a view of Blanco’s house on Lake Bellevue at the same time as that home was invaded.”
“And you have proof of that,” she said.
“Fingerprints. DNA. Everything you see on TV.” Another lie. A white one. He expected a report from the crime scene techs confirming her presence in the house. He suspected she cleaned up after herself but, after weeks in that house, she was bound to have missed something.
“You’re arresting me for staying in a house that isn’t mine?”
“Criminal trespass is a local cop thing. I’m holding you as a material witness to a federal crime. I also have reason to believe your life might be in danger.”
Both eyebrows went up at that. She blinked through a stream of rising smoke. Bill kept his face frozen in the solid, unmovable mask of federal authority. It was easy for him since he decided that he did not like this woman.
“You can do that? That will hold up with a lawyer and all that?”
“If you’d rather, we can make the case that you were an accomplice in the home invasions. Not hard to convince a judge to let us charge you. Judges don’t like coincidences. And you picking a house with a view of a potential murder scene belonging to your ex is a lot to take on faith.”
She sat up and smeared the half-smoked cigarette on the table top. The charade was over.
“What do you want?” She sighed.
“You can start by telling us all you know about Tex,” Bill said.
5
He left the former Mrs. Blanco for a detailed follow-up with a pair of Boston bureau agents. They assured him they’d have a computer composite drawing in a few hours. It would be based on Kiera Reese’s description and checked against what they had from the Xtra Mart video.
The bureau booked him into a Holiday Inn Express. He took a long stinging shower then lay on the bed, willing his mind to rest. He gave up after only a few minutes.
Nancy Valdez answered on the third ring after he got through to her extension past the information tree at Treasury. She didn’t recognize his voice at first.
“You sound ragged,” she said. It was good to hear her voice again.
“I’m not even sure what day it is,” he said.
“Well, it’s only two in the afternoon and you don’t sound drunk, so I assume this is business,” she said.
“I feel hungover and I haven’t had a sip.” He laughed, punchy, then filled her in on the case so far.
“What is this?” she said.
“I was hoping you’d tell me, Nance.” He was punchy. He’d never called her Nance before.
“It sounds like someone interrupted the crew in flagrante. An unexpected party crasher.”
“You think someone cowboyed them? Robbed from the thieves?”
“One guy? With a crew this experienced? And with a kid in tow?”
“So, what is it? Karma?” He pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger to release the tightening knot there. It didn’t work.
“Shit, Bill. I hate to say what it looks like,” she said.
"What do you see that I'm not?"
“A vigilante.”
“This guy Tex is Batman?” he said, sitting up.
“And Robin. Don’t forget the little girl,” Nancy said.
His phone buzzed, waking him. He could swear he’d only just closed his eyes. The clock on the nightstand read three hours after he’d last looked at it.
“Marquez,” he croaked.
“A message from special agent Brompton, sir,” a chirpy voice said.
“Go ahead.” The sky he could see through the blinds was deep indigo.
“He’s se
nding a car for you. He says it’s wheels up in sixty at Minute Man Air Field.”
“Okay, okay.” He groaned and broke the connection.
The bureau had assigned them a plane. Someone in DC recognized this case was white hot. Recovering a billion or so in funds bilked from private investors would mean headlines. And a few hundred million for the IRS would make whoever recovered it a hero. Bill wondered who’d end up taking the credit once it all cleared.
Bill hobbled to the shower, an old man at thirty-seven.
The young female agent who greeted him in the lobby introduced herself as Mandy. She was fresh out of Quantico and had blood in her eye for promotion. Was he ever that eager? Tired as he was, he admired her calves under the hem of the regulation length skirt as she led him to the car waiting at the turnaround.
She had hot Starbucks and an icy cold orange juice in the cup holders for him. He would have given to her half his kingdom at that point. He sipped the coffee and held the frosty OJ to his forehead. They took off for the airfield.
“We’ll need to punch it to make it to Minute Man by the time Agent Brompton’s touched down, sir.” She expertly shifted lanes to get them onto the right on-ramp for Stow.
Bill balanced the cup to keep the scalding liquid from sloshing from the sip hole onto his pant leg.
“Where’s he coming from?” Bill said, eying the inch wide gap between their right fender and the back of a JB Hunt truck they were passing at seventy.
“Bangor. Things have come to a boil. The bureau authorized a Gulfstream. Ever been?” She beamed at the thought, eyes, thank God, locked on the road ahead.
“I haven’t.”
“Some of them are unbelievable. Seized through zero tolerance. I was on one last year that belonged to a Sinaloa cartel member. It had a hot tub. A hot tub!”
“There’s been a development then?” The coffee was restarting his heart and mind.
“They found the Mercedes. The one taken from the motel in Waltham.”