Date: 2011-06-06 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Thriller; Mystery; Fiction; Action; Mystery Thriller; Suspense
Description: Tess Gideon, a female Manhattan bike messenger with an appetite for the wild side, becomes embroiled in a rogue nation's Byzantine scheme to destabilize the U.S. financial system. From the sweltering streets of Seoul to the sex-and-drug-driven underbelly of Greenwich Village, attempts at silencing a leak in an international counterfeiting operation leave a trail of butchery that leads inevitably to Wall Street, pitting a counter-culture heroine against a ruthless state-sponsored assassination team that will stop at nothing to achieve its lethal ends. As the body count climbs, Tess is assisted
Publisher: Reprobatio Ltd.

Fatal Exchange

Russell Blake

2nd impression. Copyright 2011 – 2016 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:

Books@RussellBlake.com

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Contents

Books by Russell Blake

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Excerpt from  Fatal Deception

Books by Russell Blake

Co-authored with Clive Cussler

THE EYE OF HEAVEN

THE SOLOMON CURSE

Thrillers

FATAL EXCHANGE

THE GERONIMO BREACH

ZERO SUM

THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

THE VOYNICH CYPHER

SILVER JUSTICE

UPON A PALE HORSE

DEADLY CALM

RAMSEY’S GOLD

EMERALD BUDDHA

The Assassin Series

KING OF SWORDS

NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN

The JET Series

JET

JET II – BETRAYAL

JET III – VENGEANCE

JET IV – RECKONING

JET V – LEGACY

JET VI – JUSTICE

JET VII – SANCTUARY

JET VIII – SURVIVAL

JET IX – ESCAPE

JET X – INCARCERATION

JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

The BLACK Series

BLACK

BLACK IS BACK

BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

BLACK TO REALITY

BLACK IN THE BOX

Non Fiction

AN ANGEL WITH FUR

HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

(while drunk, high or incarcerated)

About the Author

Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin
The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, JET X – Incarceration, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is The New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, and Emerald Buddha.

Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.

Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:

RussellBlake.com

To get your free copy,
just join my readers’ group here:

http://bit.ly/rb-jet

Chapter 1

A shriek ripped through the bunker, and then slowly tapered off to a moan, punctuated by congested gasps and feeble gurgling. At first it was hard to tell the gender of the screamer by the timbre of the emanation, but the moan gave it away.

It was a man.

The noise was coming from a room at the end of a dimly lit hallway, concrete construction, everything painted a sickly olive-green and reeking of disrepair. Behind the chamber’s steel door stood two men in brown uniforms of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. A third man wearing a short-sleeved pleated dress shirt sat at a metal table upon which rested an old wooden box with a hand crank, and what looked like a weathered carpentry kit, with all the usual tools present. There were other, more arcane instruments strewn over a small rolling stand, and a tray containing rubber gloves, an apron, and a Dremel.

The floor sloped gradually to meet the drainage grid in the far corner, where an old faucet intermittently dripped water. Illumination was dim on the periphery but brighter in the middle of the space, where a large lamp hung from the ceiling, housing a bank of hundred-watt incandescent bulbs.

The air was putrid and ventilation was poor, the interrogation facility improvised on relatively short notice. The building had originally been a holding cell for prisoners offloaded from returning naval ships—powerful climate-control and air-moving machinery had never been deemed necessary.

All three men focused their attention on a naked Asian man in his late thirties, strapped to a metal chair directly below the lights. His head rested on his chest, where a thin thread of saliva and blood slowly trickled down his concave ribcage. The screaming had stopped, replaced by sobbing and whimpering, high pitched and eerily reminiscent of a cat in heat.

The smaller of the uniformed men approached the seated figure. He leaned in close and spoke softly in Burmese.

“Where is it?”

The man in the chair groaned. The uniformed man tried again, reasonably.

“Where is it? We know you took it.”

The subject didn’t register the words. Annoying. The officer had so many more pleasurable things he could be doing. Right now he was running late for a rendezvous with one of the young ladies he favored with his charms, as well as the odd food voucher or handful of coins.

He pressed onward. “We don’t wish to make this last any longer than it has to. It would be a shame to have to bring your family into it, but you’re leaving me no choice. How old are your two daughters? Eight and ten, I believe? Think of them. Answer the question. For them.”

The man slowly raised his head and regarded the officer with his remaining eye. The other had been ruined earlier in the discussion. The pain had to be excruciating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear.” The words ran together in a hoarse mumble.

The officer shook his head and sighed. His tryst would have to be delayed; this was going nowhere. Shrugging his shoulders, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of white foam earplugs, and then turned to the man in the short shirtsleeves and nodded.

The man cranked the handle on the old wooden box. The victim shrieked again, an otherworldly sound that bespoke unimaginable horrors. A pair of worn blackened wires ran from the old hand generator to the seated man's naked form. The smell of burning hair and flesh mingled with the other noxious odors.

“Where is it? What did you do with it?”

More gurgling.

The taller officer removed his round wire-rimmed glasses, carefully cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief, and addressed the man in the shirtsleeves.

“Use the drill.”

The shirtsleeved man nodded and removed from his bag a device that resembled a dog muzzle, with straps on the back terminating in metal hooks. His fingers clawed into the victim’s scalp, and he forced the man’s face into the contraption. The front section had a hinged mechanism controlling two short metal rods, now plunged inside the victim’s mouth. The rods were grooved, worn down by the many previous sets of teeth which had ground them.

He secured the metal hooks to the chair back and tightened the straps so the victim couldn’t move his head. Then, with a practiced twist, he turned the lever on the side of the mechanism, forcing the subject’s mouth open, allowing access to his dental plate.

Pausing for a moment, the shirtsleeved man considered his shoes, now soiled with the accumulated expulsions. Aggravating, but there was nothing to be done about it. He hoped they’d wash clean.

Turning, he donned a plastic apron with emblazoned with an incongruous faded image of a dancing crab, and selected the Dremel, a tiny high-speed jeweler’s drill used for polishing and grinding work. He inserted the bit—a small tapered cone with serrated edges running from the tip to the base that was useful for boring holes in stone or metal—and tightened the shaft.

The victim’s eye went wide as the screech of the high-pitched motor filled the space.

“So, my friend, is there anything you want to tell me before we start?”

~ ~ ~

Overhead loudspeakers blared flight arrival and departure information in Korean, as well as in Japanese, Chinese, and English. The terminal was congested, even though its ultra-modern interior was designed specifically to accommodate heavy traffic, and the din of conversations battling with ceaseless announcements created a kind of low-grade pandemonium. Seoul was a major hub for travel into China and the Far East, and on any business day there were a lot of busy people with important places to go, most of whom apparently had to do so while having animated discussions on their cell phones.

Seung waited restlessly in the ticketing area, half an hour early for his meeting. Thin, with a fashionably mod haircut and a studied air of disinterest affecting every mannerism, he was dressed in jeans and leather jacket in defiance of the brooding heat outside the airport’s doors.

He hated crowds. Airports were the worst. The noise and bustle were grating on his already raw nerves.

Fidgeting with his black briefcase, he scouted his surroundings and spotted a restroom icon. He studied the crowd, quickly glanced at his watch, and then moved toward the facilities. Of course there was a line. Forced to wait a few minutes for a toilet to free up, he passed the time imagining he was boarding one of the big 747s on the tarmac and flying to Fiji or Bora Bora. Maybe one day. One day soon.

The end stall vacated and he entered and locked the little compartment door, exhaling a sigh of relief to be out of the throng. After confirming the latch was secure and there was no visibility through the door joints, he pulled a small zippered wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and carefully opened it, using his briefcase as an ad hoc table.

He painstakingly emptied half the contents of a tiny plastic bag into an old metal spoon, and then extracted a small bottle of water and added a few drops. He inspected the mixture and, with a trembling hand clutching his cigarette lighter, he melted the powder in the spoon bowl. Very slowly, he returned the lighter to his jacket pocket and removed a disposable syringe from the wallet. Gripping the orange plastic cap with his teeth, he freed the little needle and sucked the liquid into the syringe.

The tricky part concluded, he replaced the cap and held the syringe in his mouth while he repacked the kit, taking care to reseal the bag’s tiny zip-lock top.

Seung rolled up his left jean leg, exposing a network of bruised discolorations. He removed a length of surgical tubing, tied off just below his calf, and slapped at the vein. That one looked good for another week, and then it would collapse like the ones in his right leg.

Oh well. He’d have to still be alive next week to care. There were no guarantees.

He popped the cap off the needle again and slid the metal into his ruined vessel, drawing blood into the syringe and mixing the amber fluid with the viscous crimson from his vein. Satisfied, he depressed the plunger, emptying the contents into his bloodstream. This was only half a hit, really just a maintenance dose—he didn’t want to nod off on the job. He released the tubing and felt a warm rush through his entire system, running up his leg to his heart, and then into his throat and up to his head.

It was heaven.

Even half a hit made life bearable, at least for now, and he could focus better if he wasn’t jittery and jonesing. His eyes began to close and it was only with tremendous effort he kept them open. He drifted, his lids getting heavier, heavier.

The neighboring stall door slammed and abruptly jolted him back to full consciousness.

Think. Put your kit away, stand up, and get busy.

He looked at his oversized steel watch; his meeting was in five minutes. Shit. He fumbled, stuffing the kit and syringe into his breast pocket, and then blotted the blood on his ankle with some toilet paper and slapped himself in the face several times.

He flushed the toilet, grabbed his briefcase, and exited the stall, flipping on a pair of sunglasses to lessen the impact of the lights on his dilated pupils as he approached the ticketing area.

Ah. There was his target, a fifty-something man with a suit bag draped over his shoulder, carrying an identical briefcase.

Seung caught his eye, set the briefcase down on the floor next to his right foot, and pretended to play with his cell phone. The older man walked over and asked if he had the correct time, which Seung made a display of providing. He admired the younger man’s phone and put his bag and briefcase down next to the other briefcase, asking to see it. Seung showed him the most compelling features—it really was unbelievable what they could do these days with technology.

Smiling, the older man retrieved his suit bag and the younger man’s briefcase, and thanked him for the demonstration.

Seung sauntered to the terminal exit while the older man quickly made his way through customs, his diplomatic passport ensuring he was waved through security.

He was right on time for his flight: Korean Air to San Francisco. Settling himself comfortably in the first class seat, he placed the briefcase in the small dais at the base of his pod, which reclined into a bed for the long trip over the Pacific.

As was his custom, he got some water from the stewardess before take-off and took a small white pill—Xanax, to ease his nerves during the flight—and closed his eyes. The hard part, getting his hands on the briefcase, was over. Now he just had to keep his meeting and he’d be golden, three hundred thousand dollars richer. Not a bad day’s work.

The stewardess made her final passage through the cabin, checking to ensure everything was secure, and within minutes they were hurtling down the worn tarmac and up into the cold gray sky.

Chapter 2

Traffic sucked. It was getting late, and rush hour started at about three-thirty in downtown New York.

Tess dodged a cab pulling out of a space on her right and swerved around a bus offloading its passengers. She was pedaling hard; she had ten minutes tops to get to her last stop of the day. Horns honking were just part of the incessant background music of the city streets. She’d learned to tune it out to keep her mind on the immediate objective: getting from point A to point B in as little time as possible without getting flattened.

Right now, her goal was a building on West 22nd off Avenue of the Americas , sixth floor, and she’d just gotten out of the Village—which meant making it by the time the company had guaranteed delivery was going to be a stretch.

The last drop had been to a jerk-off who’d wanted to chat her up. It happened more often than not with single-partner attorney firms: a powerful, successful, relatively young guy would see her walk through the door with his deposition draft, and what should have been a one-minute stop would often turn into five or six minutes of trying to extricate herself. And those minutes were her edge on making the next stop on time.

She really hated the single-partner law firms.

Tess had been at work since seven that morning. She always deliberately kept her appearance low-key. No makeup, loose knee-length cargo shorts, and spandex tank tops beneath baggy t-shirts seemed to minimize undesired attention from horny men in suits. She wasn’t looking for a dating service when she was on the job. She had packages to deliver; that was the gig, and all that she wanted to focus on.

And she was way behind schedule.

She cut across Union Square Park and up Broadway, figuring she would cruise down West 23rd to Sixth Avenue—usually an easier run than battling all the way up Sixth—and with luck she’d be no more than five minutes late. She’d found she could wiggle about five minutes of leeway out of customers if she explained it was a traffic issue. If the recipient was female, she’d tell the truth: the asshole at the last office had drug out the signing process to flirt, setting her timeline back.

More than five minutes late and customers didn’t care what the excuse was. They weren’t paying top dollar for a messenger so things could be late. Her issues weren’t their problem.

She almost got taken out by a double-parked van on Broadway that backed up just as she was swinging around it, and then narrowly missed a roller-blader shooting out a side street—a bald sixty-year-old man wearing silver spandex bike shorts and suspenders, bopping along to something blasting in his headphones.

What a city.

Steam blew out manholes, road crews worked in the middle of intersections, jaywalkers fearlessly stared down rocketing vehicles, and yellow and red lights were more suggestions than imperatives.

She never felt more alive than when she was on the job.

As she rolled onto the sidewalk, panting from the sprint, she glanced at her watch. One minute to spare. Damn, she was good. She locked her bike, adjusted the messenger bag on her shoulder, and ran for the closing elevator door. A hand shot out and held it. She laughed when she saw who it was: Paco, another one of the Red Cap crew.

“Whatchu doing here, girl?” Paco asked.

“606, deposition. One minute to spare. You?” Tess replied.

“905, drawings. Better late than never. I got held up by a cop, nabbed me running a red. He let me off, but that ate ten minutes. Prick.” Paco was clearly annoyed.

“No biggie. What are you doing after work?” Tess genuinely liked Paco, an impossibly handsome, somewhat effeminate twenty-two-year-old Puerto Rican man built like Adonis.

“I’ll probably stop at the Corral for a beer, then go find myself Mr. Right-Now in the Village. You going tonight?” The Corral was a dive bar near the messenger depot on Spring Street.

“Yeah, why not? I’ll probably catch you there.” The elevator opened at the sixth floor. “Be good, Paco.”

Paco pursed his lips and gave her a “yeah, right” look.

Tess approached the reception desk with the package and sign-off sheet. Two men in their late twenties were having a discussion by one of the offices. They stopped when they saw her.

“Delivery from Red Cap. On time for four o’clock. Please sign on the blue line,” she announced to the girl behind the desk, who dutifully scribbled on the release and dropped the package into a wire basket. “Is there any way I can get a glass of water?” Tess asked. “I’m dying here.”

“Sure, just go back by the kitchen area.”

Tess moved to the water chiller at the rear of the small suite and filled a small paper cup. She drained it quickly. Again. And again.

She removed her helmet and shook out her hair, enjoying the respite from the blistering summer heat. After blotting her face with a paper towel, she lifted her long black mane to reveal a tattooed sun at the base of her hairline and a well sculpted, tanned bicep. She closed her eyes and relished the air conditioning on her skin. Flashing a smile at the two workers, she offered a glimpse of white teeth and a silver tongue piercing.

Re-hydrated and refreshed, Tess returned to the front desk and thanked the receptionist before exiting the office. She was parched at the end of another brutal day on the streets, and it was a nice gesture to let her cool off before she went back into the swelter. Not everyone was so accommodating to messengers.

The two men exchanged a look and shook their heads. The younger, an intellectual property attorney, let out a low whistle.

“Don’t even think about it. She’d chew you up and spit you out before you knew what hit you,” the taller man, a litigator, advised.

“Yeah, but what a way to go.”

~ ~ ~

Across town a figure stared at the output of his computer printer, tracking the movements of eight different currencies, looking for trends. At 46, Gordon Samuels was at the top of the heap of currency speculators and commodity traders. Well, almost at the top. He wasn’t George Soros, but he was wealthy by virtually any standards, closing in on a net worth of over sixty million dollars. His firm, Meridian Trading, specialized in currency arbitrage and commodities brokering for high-net-worth accounts, and he controlled many billions of dollars for his clients. He had two royal families, an ex-president, and seven governments as trusted investors, not to mention three of the Forbes top-ten list.

His phone rang.

“Gordon, there’s been a wrinkle. We lost control of a test batch—almost perfect, but still with a few microscopic imperfections. We’re working on location and containment as we speak.” The caller spoke in a singsong Asian-accented English, with an almost feminine tone to it.

“Why are you telling me this? How does this affect our plan?” Gordon didn’t like surprises.

“We want you apprised. No other reason. We’re not worried; we believe we are only hours away from solving the problem.”

“You know what’ll happen if anything hits the market with a flaw? Especially before we’re ready? Game over.” Gordon sounded menacing, which was intentional. He’d put his entire fortune on the line for this play. It had better go off without a hitch—he was already counting himself among the planet’s billionaires, and he was not, repeat not, going to let anything stand in his way.

“Of course. Which is why we’re handling this with the utmost seriousness. Again, this is a courtesy call. Nothing more.” Everyone had a lot at stake here.

“Keep me posted and let me know if you need anything. I’ve already started positioning the oil futures for next month. Let’s not blow this.” Gordon disconnected, deep in thought.

His ingenious and hugely risky venture involved oil, the integrity of the U.S. economy, and most importantly, his personal fortune multiplying exponentially. One play, three or four months tops, and he’d net over a billion dollars, while his clients amassed many more billions. He’d have to stay on top of this; those idiot peasants couldn’t be trusted not to screw up the simplest things. Christ. How hard could it be?

~ ~ ~

Robert Gideon wheeled down the arrivals ramp at San Francisco International Airport. Back on terra firma, he made his way to the first class lounge, which was appropriately outfitted for airport meetings. Airport wheelchairs were terrible but at least they got the job done. He’d brought no luggage but a carry-on bag, holding it in his lap as he sat in the lounge lobby area waiting for his customer.

This was a big sale—one of the largest in his life.

The client had contacted him over the Internet, through his store, and expressed interest in several extremely expensive pieces: four Patek Philippe wristwatches from the 1950s and 1960s, complicated moon phase models that were hot on the auction market. The whole deal had come to $1.1 million dollars; after haggling they’d agreed on a purchase price of one million for all four watches, and to meet in San Francisco. The customer, a collector with an appreciation for fine timepieces, was flying in from Korea for the transaction.

Gideon Watch Gallery was one of five premiere previously-owned watch shops in New York, and one of very few in the country with multiple pieces of that rarity and price range. He’d been surprised when the collector had agreed to take all four watches, but not that surprised—in the good old days of the early eighties, when the Japanese yen had been king, he’d routinely had customers buy two- and three-hundred-thousand-dollar watches while on vacation. Lately Korea was a hot spot for fine timepieces, as was China. He’d been in the business long enough so that very little surprised him anymore.

Robert sat patiently awaiting the arrival of Mr. Kiu, a member of the diplomatic team from South Korea. Kiu’s credentials had checked out and he’d indicated he’d bring cash.

That had caused Robert a bit of pause.

Dealing in cash used to be routine, but ever since the Clinton administration had commenced the steady criminalization of using it in the U.S. in any quantity, he had dealt mostly in wire transfers. The Chinese loved their cash, though, as did the Russians, and he supposed a million dollars was beer money to a wealthy industrialist from Korea.

An older Asian gentleman walked into the lounge and looked around before his eyes finally settled on Robert. Evidently Mr. Kiu, Robert thought, as the newcomer approached and introduced himself.

“Mr. Gideon?”

“Mr. Kiu, I presume.”

“Yes. I apologize for running late, but the flight experienced some head winds and we were delayed. Shall we find someplace private?” Mr. Kiu hadn’t batted an eye over Robert’s wheelchair. Then again, he was a politician, or at least a diplomat, so he probably had a good poker face.

“I reserved a meeting room. I trust you’re ready to consummate?” Robert wanted to make sure the deal was closed.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

They entered one of the smaller rooms and closed the door. Robert pulled four dark wooden boxes from his carry-on bag and placed them on the table.

“You’ll note they’re in mint condition, with full paperwork and histories. One million is a very good price—I can’t imagine any other collector having this combination.” Robert liked to reassure customers of the astuteness of their selection. No one ever minded being complimented on their acumen.

“Yes, yes, I’m pleased to have been fortunate enough to find them.” Mr. Kiu opened each box and inspected the watches for a few minutes. He nodded, and then placed his briefcase on the table. “They appear most satisfactory, Mr. Gideon.” Kiu opened the locks and raised the lid, turned the case so Robert could see the contents. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly arranged in rows.

“Well, congratulations. Let’s begin the counting, shall we? I presume you won’t have any objection if I verify the authenticity of a few bills at random?” Robert planned on stopping at one of the currency exchange booths to have the bills checked.

“Not at all. Be my guest.” Mr. Kiu was smiling amenably.

Robert extracted a portable currency counter, plugged it in, and loaded the first stack. All he had brought with him was a bottle of water, some pills, a small fabric valise for the watches, and the currency counter.

He was scheduled to return to New York in two hours. The counting took less than ten minutes. One million dollars. All there.

“Would you be kind enough to accompany me to the currency exchange?” Robert asked, and replaced the four watch boxes in the small fabric satchel and returned it to his bag. He handed the cash-filled briefcase back to Mr. Kiu, while holding several bills in his hand.

Robert wheeled himself to a window several hundred yards from the entrance of the club, accompanied by the Korean. He’d felt comfortable doing the transaction at the airport because of all the protection; there were police everywhere. It was safer than a bank, and no one made it to the club area unless they carried a ticket and cleared security.

Robert handed the currency exchange clerk four crisp hundred-dollar bills, and asked for euros. The agent behind the counter scrutinized the cash, ran an iodine pen across each, held them up to the light, and compared them to others in his drawer. He extracted the appropriate sum in euros, and passed them through the slot at the bottom of the bullet-proof glass window.

“Here you go. Anything else I can help you with?” The clerk was bored.

“Nope, I think we’re done. Thanks a million.” Robert couldn’t resist.

They returned to the lounge area, where Robert extracted the fabric bag and swapped it for Kiu’s briefcase. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries—nice meeting you, etc.

“I must return to my delegation, Mr. Gideon. The watches are beautiful; I shall treasure them. Thank you again.”

Robert wheeled himself back to his departure gate and bought himself a vodka tonic. He’d just made almost two hundred and forty thousand dollars on one deal; he figured a little celebration was in order. He had the time, and heck, he had the money.

But something about the transaction nagged at him. Kiu hadn’t examined the watches the way an aficionado would have, and his eyes hadn’t lit up like a covetous collector’s. He was probably buying them for investment. Not a bad one, either, Robert mused.

Oh well.

A deal was a deal.

Chapter 3

A row of police cars blocked the alley on East 123rd Street, the forensics van active as the crew prepped for duty. The NYPD had pretty much seen it all, but this was a strange one even by Manhattan standards. Female, mid-twenties, Hispanic, cause of death unknown, stuffed into a dumpster in back of a Cuban Restaurant. She’d been there at least one night, possibly two. It wasn’t pretty—the rats had gotten to her.

They’d run prints and were waiting for a preliminary ID, but who knew how long that could take? Her eyes had been cut out, she’d been scalped, and her breasts were gone—cut off, crudely but efficiently. Sex crime? No indication of rape. Trying to make a routine murder look weird? Anything was possible.

The forensics team was carefully swabbing her fingers, going over the scene, as the detective in charge spoke with the forensics director, Amy Silva.

“What do you make of it? Psycho? Boyfriend trying to fake a crazy? Or a girlfriend?” Detective Ron Stanford had been with homicide for nine years, and in that time had seen enough death for a whole career. He enjoyed catching the bad guys, but hated the bodies.

Especially the girls. And really, really especially in summer, when it got hot and decomposition was almost instantaneous.

“Don’t know what to think. We need to determine the cause of death. I’ll tell you one thing, she was in remarkable shape. Almost solid muscle, like a gymnast or a dancer or something.” Amy had a world-weary air to her. So many bodies. So much tragedy. So much violence.

They approached the corpse again. Amy knelt down and peered at the chest area.

“I’d go with psycho for now. Everything’s been removed very carefully. Definitely a very sharp instrument. Maybe surgical. Our boy’s been practicing and sharpening, thinking about this for a long time.” She stood up. “I think he’s collecting, taking trophies. Eyes, breasts, scalps. Question is why, and has he done this before, and will he do it again…”

“What do you think?” Ron hated to even ask.

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say if it’s a psycho he’ll do it again. Like I said, he knew what he wanted and what he didn’t. I’d say he’s a collector.” She considered the mutilated corpse. “I hope I’m wrong.”

Ron glanced at the body, rubbed his face, and sighed.

“I hope so too.”

~ ~ ~

The flight was on time, and Robert had a car service drive him into the city. It was too late to stop by his shop, so he went to his apartment on the Upper West Side. He’d left his wheelchair with the doorman, who obligingly came out with it when he arrived.

Robert had lost the use of his legs thirteen years ago when he’d been run down while crossing the street to his shop. A shard of bone had severed an important bundle of nerves, leaving him wheelchair-bound for life. He was philosophical about the resultant change—he was still alive, which was better than many who’d been hit by a car.

His wife had died one year after his accident, at forty-four years old, from complications arising from recently developed multiple sclerosis. She’d had a seizure and struck her head in the bathroom, and then drowned on her own vomit while he was at the shop. No rhyme or reason to it. She’d never harmed a fly, always wished everyone the best—and was now gone from this earth. Those were the breaks, sometimes. Lousy, but what could you do?

Robert carefully placed the cash into a brown paper bag, and then locked it in his bookshelf safe. He’d put it into the safe deposit box tomorrow, keep it safely squirreled away until he needed to buy more inventory.

After reviewing his messages and preparing for bed he clicked on the late night news, feeling every one of his fifty-eight years weighing heavily. Having clocked almost six thousand air miles in the last fourteen hours, his last thought as he drifted off to sleep was that he was too old for this shit.

~ ~ ~

The Corral had been full earlier that evening, with all the bike messengers stopping in after work to dull their pain and socialize. By eleven it had pretty well cleared out. Some had gone clubbing, others to score, and some had gone home to work on books or art or sculpture. It was an eclectic mix, the messenger crew, and you never knew what the next biker’s story was.

Tess had been a computer programmer, gifted, working for one of the Silicon Alley firms. One afternoon she’d gotten up from her workstation in the middle of a line of code, glanced around, and had a meltdown—started crying, and hadn’t been able to stop. She’d walked out and spent the next three weeks in bed, despondent; it was a major depressive episode that ended with a bungled suicide attempt.

She’d felt like she’d been trying so hard to live up to everyone else’s expectations, she’d constructed a life she hated, and was stuck. A fistful of pills had seemed like a pretty good idea at the time.

After a trip to the ER where she got her stomach pumped, she was admitted to a mental facility for observation for a week, where she was put on a cocktail of anti-psychotic meds and forced her to “share” her feelings with a parade of casualties. Upon release, she was directed to a therapist and wished the best of luck.

She had spent the next month trying to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. No answers had been forthcoming, so she’d decided to take a year off from computers and do something mindless, where she could keep in shape while she got her act together. On a lark she’d applied for a job at Red Cap Courier. That was two years ago.

She was still working on figuring things out.

The depression was always lingering at the periphery, but she had successfully held it at bay by adopting a new, less demanding lifestyle, and focusing on self-actualization rather than impressing people.

One of the hot topics at the Corral had been that Loca hadn’t shown up for work the last two days. Not a rare occurrence in the messenger world, but not expected from her—she’d never missed a day in her year with the company. Policy was that after one unexplained absence you were history, no exceptions. Red Cap accepted orders based on available staff, and if you were down for a shift and flaked, the company was materially harmed. You only got one chance.

Loca, real name Angelina, was well-liked by the crew and she’d been in good spirits the night before last. She was one of the dependable ones, didn’t have a drug or alcohol problem, and was relatively stable. An aspiring comic, she was just into the bike gig to pay the bills until she hit it—which nobody doubted she eventually would. Tess was concerned. She’d called Loca’s house last night but had gotten the machine.

Weird. They were friends, and she always called back.

Tess hoped she was okay—the city could be a rough place to live.

~ ~ ~

Seung had scored earlier and was feeling good about the night’s prospects. He’d been at his favorite club, partying with a few buddies, until he got tired and decided to call it a night. He didn’t have a job; a small-time trust-fund kid from his father’s side, he saw just enough payout every month to keep his condo and his bad habits.

He dealt a little here and there to supplement his income, and that hobby had turned into enslavement over time. Smoking heroin had turned into skin plinking on weekends, which had turned into shooting up twice a day… He now considered himself fortunate his dealing covered his nut. Although pretty soon, his cut of the watch sales would put a hundred grand in his pocket.

He was high from the alcohol and anxious to slam, so he was clumsy as he fumbled for his door key, failing to register the men on either side of him until everything went black. When he came to, he was tied to his dining room chair, naked and shivering, already starting to hurt.

He tried to focus, shook his head. That’s when he saw the two figures sitting on the other side of the room and realized he was in serious trouble.

One of them spoke, conversationally, slowly.

“Our friend Seung likes the needle. Look at the track marks. Tsk, tsk. He should know better. Drugs kill.” The man spoke in Korean, but had an accent Seung couldn't place.

“Yes. And I bet he’ll start to go into withdrawals soon. That’s no fun at all. He’s already shaking.” The taller man had the same distinctive accent, which Seung now recognized—Burmese. Like his cousin.

The smaller man looked at Seung, sitting naked, vulnerable. “I was going to cut off your toes, one by one, and then fingers, then your ears, then your nose, until you tell us what you did with our property. I still may, but only after you’ve gone cold turkey for a while. I hear that’s hell on earth.”

His companion smiled and held up a syringe. “Or you can tell us what we need to know, and you can go painlessly. Your choice. You’ll still be dead, either way. Like your cousin. And his two little girls. The second little girl was pretty far gone by the time he told us about you. God rest their souls.”

This was bad. Very bad. They’d gotten his name from his cousin, so they knew. Everything.

Maybe he could lie, get the overdose.

“Give me the needle and I’ll tell you.” He struggled to concoct a story, head fuzzy from the blow and lack of heroin. “I gave the briefcase to my supplier—he’s going to convert it into diamonds. His name is Jung, runs the Poodle club. I’m supposed to meet him in the next few days and get the stones.”

The man appeared to consider it. “I think you’re a lying dope fiend. Gave the goods to your dealer, huh? Let’s try this in eight hours. In the meantime, here’s something to think about.” He walked over and placed a strip of tape across Seung’s mouth, and then pulled a test tube of clear liquid from his pocket and sprinkled the contents onto the young man’s torso. The skin started to smoke and crackle.

“A little acid does a world of good for the memory. See you in a few hours. Next time you lie to me you get more acid, and believe me, the second time’s worse than the first. And the needle option will be gone if there’s a lie number two.” The man smiled at him, just a little fun between friends, as Seung lost consciousness from the pain.

Six hours later he told them everything.

They lied about the needle.

The taller man had emptied the syringe onto the floor in front of him as Seung watched in horror.

It took him another four hours to die from blood loss, the withdrawals and last of the acid ensuring every moment of the remainder of his life was agonizing.

Chapter 4

The warehouse was already heavily guarded, but ever since the incident, every person entering or leaving was also subjected to a methodical search. Vehicles were kept away from the vicinity by a barbed wire enclosure, and workers had to go through an entryway equipped with an airport metal detector and x-ray system—about ten years out of date, but still effective.

Hong patiently moved through the elaborate system, noting the additional security at the entrance. He was always amazed at the stark contrast between the surrounding countryside and the world within the walls of the compound. It was like being transported through time into the distant future, a future of technological possibility and endless abundance.

In a country where much of the population was starving to death, a country that had been devastated by political turmoil and natural disasters, where the total GDP was thirty-three billion dollars, the government had spent over a billion dollars to build a production facility and create a sterile environment, sparing no expense on sophisticated machinery and systems. Hong’s steps thudded on the polished concrete floors, and he wondered to himself how much just one of the large lighting grids suspended overhead cost. No doubt enough to keep many families alive for years. It seemed wasteful, but who was he to question the wisdom of the master planners who had envisioned this plant? Better to keep to one’s responsibilities and leave the big thinking to others.

Questioning superiors was culturally forbidden and a sure ticket to a radically shortened life expectancy, and Hong wasn’t ready to join his ancestors quite yet. Still, he wondered how much of the hardware had been necessity, and how much had been someone padding their procurement budget.

Climate control kept the building at a constant 68 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was lit up like a football stadium twenty-four hours a day. Diesel backup generators ensured fail-safe power availability in a region known for constant blackouts. If the facility was left unprotected, power fluctuations could damage sensitive devices and play havoc with the computers and lasers. That would be unacceptable; he understood the prudence in the cumbersome engines.

Still more money had to be spent for the necessary raw materials, the appropriate laser technology, a supply of the correct inks, fibers, and coded strips, etc. Out of the entire expenditure, a relatively small chunk had gone for technological espionage, to obtain information on classified aspects of the process.

Hong was a member of the “design team,” one of the trusted experts—at least until recently, when trust had been replaced with suspicion and paranoia.

He reflected on the last year’s efforts, the endless stumbling blocks and obstacles his team had overcome. Sixty-hour work weeks had been the norm; the high pressure was a constant reminder of the importance of the project and the significance of the risk.

Getting the paper right had been hardest—the composition, thickness, finish, feel, watermarks and security thread had to be perfect. You couldn’t buy this paper anywhere. Hence the conversion of one of the military facilities to paper manufacturing.

After they got the twenty-five percent linen and seventy-five percent cotton base correct, they spent months on the various red and blue synthetic fibers; the variations in the lengths and thickness required precise matching, as well as counts per square centimeter. The color-shifting inks and the background color matching had also been problematic and time consuming to replicate. Once they finally pegged them, they adopted a multi-stage printing process.

The final hurdle to cross, creating the engraved plates for the intaglio printing, had been relatively trivial—advances in high-resolution scanning made replicating the detail on the actual artwork only a minor challenge, whereas years ago it had been the biggest problem. Technology was a marvelous thing.

Hong moved through the facility to the clean room, where the technologists on shift wore white jumpsuits and face masks they discarded when they exited, stripping down to their underwear before donning street clothing. The security procedures hadn’t been as complex before the incident, but as soon as the new procedures were implemented, even the most minor infractions or breaches became capital offenses.

Inside, a team of three lab workers was setting up the first “real” run, having ironed out the bugs from the last test batch. While those bugs were imperceptible except to a trained eye with a microscope, they were still evidence of something amiss, and couldn’t be tolerated.

The head of the team glanced around distractedly at his colleagues as Hong moved to his position by the bank of switches, then gave a nod. The elaborate machines were engaged, and the complex meshing of technology began.

A type of paper harder to create than a nuclear bomb was fed into one end, and less than a minute later a sheet came out the other end. Robotic arms on tracks moved it to a drying bin that resembled a catering tray holder, where the newly-minted sheet of bills waited for the next run through another press.

Each set of bills required multiple runs for the different inks. It was complicated. Time consuming. Involved. It was why they’d had to acquire so many presses to generate adequate volume.

The finished product was an official-looking building surrounded by trees on one side, and an austere man’s portrait in the center of the opposite side looking out into eternity with an expression of what might have been impatience, lips slightly pursed, with a delicate twinkle of amused irritation.

Benjamin Franklin, at your service.

They were perfect U.S. $100 bills, brought to you by the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. Now indistinguishable from the genuine article.

A virtually limitless supply of hard currency to support an economy on the brink of collapse. It was a new lease on life for Myanmar , and an opportunity to slowly subvert the U.S. financial system and savage the hated opposition of the Myanmar government, using economic means rather than military.

It was perfect.

Almost.

Somehow, some way, a week before, a million dollars of the final test run had disappeared. That batch had several small imperfections—almost undetectable, but still, imperfections that could cause the whole plan to collapse.

If the U.S. discovered its highest common denomination bill was being counterfeited this accurately, they’d know it was only possible using the economic resources of a government. The sophistication required to counterfeit perfectly required a huge investment, and if the Treasury Department really started looking, tracing ink and press and laser purchases, it was only a matter of time until the U.S. came knocking on Myanmar ’s door.

To combat the problem in the short term, the U.S. could always freeze cash transactions involving late-generation hundreds and simply issue a new currency and require verification of each serial number for an exchange. Inconvenient, but doable, and a definite possibility once the scope was fully appreciated. The U.S. government had been trying to discourage the use of cash for years, so it might secretly relish an exchange program.

Myanmar had to find out who took the million and where it went, quickly. Even one bill in the wrong hands could render the whole program a failure. The new batch had the imperfections corrected, so only the test batch was a problem.

But it was a huge problem—one that had to be resolved at any cost.

~ ~ ~

Tess rose early, nudged her boyfriend Nick awake, and jumped into the shower. She lived in a small loft apartment in Soho, which had transformed over the last decade from a dangerous fringe neighborhood into a gentrified area filled with yuppies.

She waited for the water to heat and inspected her body with approval.

Just turned twenty-eight; not bad, not bad at all. Lean and rock hard from bicycling six to seven hours per day, solid muscle in peak condition. She could kick some serious ass, that was for sure, and was in better shape now than in her teens.

She touched the tattoo on her arm. Kanji script, the symbols for fire and water. Her hair was naturally straight and very dark, almost black—the black Irish in her, her Mom used to say. High cheekbones, full lips, eyes with a slight Asian cast to them, very dark with a lot of green. Pierced tongue, pierced navel; she’d thought about piercing her nose but had never gotten around to it.

Tess enjoyed the rush of the warm water on her breasts; it felt tingly, and she became a little aroused. It must be that time of my cycle, she thought absently as she shut off the water and grabbed her towel.

She stepped out of the shower and studied her torso in the mirror. A six-pack, medium-sized breasts, five foot five and one hundred thirteen pounds soaking wet. It was actually a struggle to keep ingesting enough calories to maintain that weight—she figured she was burning four thousand or more per day from the riding.

Too bad the pay sucked, though not too bad if you were fast.

She watched as Nick stumbled into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and hung over; he’d stayed out late at rehearsal and was considerably worse for wear. He liked his booze and blow a little more than most—not too unexpected for a musician. Nick had a typical New York, Gen X slacker band-dude look and was going nowhere. But then again, she was a bike messenger, so whatever.

It made them both happy for now.

She thought he was cute and they got along well, plus they had an important characteristic in common: they both favored rough, raunchy sex in dangerous places. That’s all she wanted out of the relationship, and all he delivered. Fine by her.

Keep it simple.

She’d had enough drama in her life, was still in a state of flux. She had no interest in trying to hold anything more serious together when she felt like she couldn’t hold herself together most of the time. At least the relationship was low stress—a feature she prized.

Tess gave Nick a big smack on the lips, grabbing his crotch through his boxers and giving the goods a gentle tug.

“Come home early tonight, huh? A girl gets lonely in the big city,” Tess intoned.

Nick looked interested and made some affirmative grunts, but he was still out of it and she was running late.

“Shit, we have that thing at the club tonight. Don’t forget.” She scooped up her helmet. “Call me,” she said, waving her cell phone as she moved out the door.

She shouldered her bike down the stairs and out onto the street. It was humid, and the garbage men were on strike. She wondered if they deliberately waited for summer, or if it just worked out that way.

She pedaled the half-mile to the depot and ran inside, signed in. The whole crew was there, drinking coffee, powering down donuts, getting ready for the day’s work.

Duff, a six-foot-five dreadlocked black man, gave her a high five as she walked by, and continued his discussion with Angel, a Puerto Rican girl who’d been there for six months. Duff was gang-related but gone straight, trying to do the right thing by his girlfriend and daughter. A row of bullet scars across his back paid testament to his earlier life and affiliations, yet he spoke very softly, gently. He seemed menacing if you didn’t know him, but Tess did—he was a good guy, and they were close friends.

Paco, Tiny—an obese Jamaican—Turbo and Luis were hanging out smoking, Turbo showing off his latest tattoo in his full-sleeve project. Skid and Dirter, who played in a punk band together, were trying to get Pug, a blond street chick, and Sin City, her almost constant female partner, to go to their show the next night. Probably wouldn’t happen unless a guest-list could get them in free.

There were maybe two dozen other bike messengers lounging around, waiting for the sheets to get issued. Candy, a voluptuous blonde, came over and sat down on the long bench next to Tess.

“Have you heard from Loca?”

“No. I called her last night a couple of times, and the night before, and no answer. Strange, huh? Maybe she had to leave town on an emergency or something,” said Tess, again concerned.

“I don’t think so. She likes the job; I think she woulda called one of the dispatchers.” Candy was an actress in training, a starving artist from Atlanta.

“Speak of the devil,” Tess muttered.

Two men walked out of the dispatch area with the morning’s assignment sheets and started calling names. The taller, older, huskier one, Frank Meyer, was in his mid-sixties and had been there since the beginning of time. He chain-smoked Pall Mall non-filters like they contained the elixir of life, and always smelled like nicotine. So did Stu Giblett, the smaller wiry dispatcher, who’d started about eight months ago and had a pencil-neck nerdy thing going. He had skin so white it was translucent, and the demeanor and voice of a librarian.

Tess considered them. Neither was going to win any personality or looks contests, but then again, the two night shift guys, Henry Rocklen and Vance Reynolds, were also oddballs. Nobody wound up in this business if they had something better, so almost all the employees were damaged goods—usually substance abuse or criminal records or a train wreck of a life.

Except Tess. She was just there temporarily, only passing through.

“Hey, you all going to hit the Avalon crazy crazy tonight?” Pug called out to no one in particular. A chorus of “yeah baby”s and “uh huh”s sounded as the crew prepared to scramble and hit the streets. It was Friday, and Friday was payday, and that meant full wallets. You bet your ass everyone would be out tonight. Friday night meant get the party started for the weekend, the earlier the better.

~ ~ ~

Detective Ron Stanford walked up the concrete stairs from the subway and down the block to the precinct house. Amid about forty thousand police officers and detectives in the NYPD, he had remarkable freedom as a homicide specialist—a floater, specializing in the most violent murders the city offered up. If it was a domestic incident or a robbery or a gang death or a routine homicide, somebody else got the call. When it looked like a serial killer he was first draft. It kept life interesting.

He threw his lunch bag on his desk and rifled through a stack of message slips. There was one from the forensics lab. He figured he should start his day with some good news; maybe they’d figured out what had killed their Jane Doe. He dialed.

“Forensics, Amy Silva.”

“Hi Amy, it’s Ron. I saw you called. What have you got?”

“Well, it’s strange. The cause of death is indeterminate. We can’t figure out what killed her. It looks like natural causes but we both know that’s impossible. We’ve run a complete panel, concluded the autopsy, and so far, it looks like she shouldn’t be dead.” Amy stopped.

“Great. Of course the sawed-off breasts and scalp kind of make me doubt the natural causes thing—not to mention the eyes…” Ron was feeling playful today.

“That’s the other unusual thing. She was already dead—her heart had stopped for some time before she was butchered. And I was right about the implement, it was razor sharp, very efficient. She had a lot of alcohol in her system and some trace elements of Klonapin, but not nearly enough to kill her—and it could be she had a prescription for that.” Amy said.

“When did she die?” Ron asked.

“Tuesday night. Late.”

“Okay, so where does that leave us?” asked Ron.

“A healthy Hispanic female in her mid-twenties, who shouldn’t be dead according to all our tests. Sorry. Wish I had better news.” Amy did sound sorry. “But my hunch is we’ll see more like her—this isn’t a boyfriend faking it. However she was killed, it was done carefully, and it was obviously premeditated. She died in that alley; she wasn’t moved. He did the cutting right there, brought the tools and something to carry the trophies away in, and he was strong enough to throw her into the dumpster. Although she only weighed ninety-six pounds.” Amy was finished.

“So the perp knew what he was going to do and came prepared. Nice. And killed her mysteriously. Thanks. You just officially made my day terrible, and it just got started.”

“Sorry, Ron. I’ll call you if the toxicology report gets any hits.” She disconnected.

Great. He had a nut job with a scalping mania roaming the streets, able to kill without leaving a trace. Ron flipped over the case file and saw a note stuck to the inside with some writing. Name: Angelina Cortez, age twenty-four, last known employer Red Cap Courier.

At least he had somewhere to start.

Chapter 5

Robert Gideon wheeled out of the apartment building to the waiting automobile. One of the few luxuries he indulged in was a car to and from his office, to spare him the indignity of dealing with public transportation with his wheelchair. He didn’t spend money frivolously, and he could more than afford it. He wasn’t rich, but he was certainly comfortable enough to splurge when he felt like it. The car, the weekly fine dining experience, and the occasional rare wine—all within his means.

“Good morning, Mr. Gideon,” the driver said as he assisted him into the back seat of the Town Car.

“Good morning, Inder,” Robert responded. Inder was a very fit Indian gentleman who’d been driving him for the last six years. His vehicle had a lift on the back for Robert’s power chair.

“Let’s stop at the bank on the way to the shop, okay?” Robert requested.

“Very good.”

They parked outside the Exxon building on Avenue of the Americas, and Inder helped Robert get into his chair, clutching his paper bag. He told Inder he’d be only a moment, then rolled into the branch, informing the manager that he needed to get into his safe deposit box. The manager escorted him to the back, where he held his hand up to the scanner that approved him for entry; once inside the vault he eased down the ramp to the rows of hinged compartments. He slid his key into the slot and turned it, then removed and opened the box, and dropped the bag next to his important papers and several ultra-expensive watches. All told, a three-minute, million-dollar moment.

Back at the car, Inder got him secured and they proceeded to his shop on West 47th Street. Gideon Watch Gallery was his livelihood and his passion, one of the few things that brought him pleasure. He’d had the business for twenty-five years, and he still looked forward to going to work every day.

He specialized in only the rarest and most sought-after timepieces, and had several customers who’d been coming to him since he first opened. He was now at the point where he was buying back watches he’d sold two decades earlier, from the estates of clients who’d passed away. One thing that never changed was the demand for Patek Philippe and other extremely rare watches.

~ ~ ~

Mr. Kiu touched down in Seoul, having concluded his transaction in San Francisco and boarded a return flight the same day. There’d been no delegation; he’d made the trip of his own accord, using vacation time.

He was exhausted from all the hours in the air—but given that his slice of the profits would be three hundred grand, he was willing to put up with a little discomfort. Exiting the arrival terminal, he hailed one of the ubiquitous taxis standing sentry-like in a queue. He gave the driver his address and dropped into the back seat gratefully, happy to be on land.

Now that he had the watches he could sell them in Seoul or Japan. He already had two interested parties in Tokyo, well-to-do acquaintances from the diplomatic corps. A quarter million bucks per watch, wired to his offshore account, would do nicely.

He’d hold the funds for his brother’s friend, still in Myanmar, and once he was able to arrange for his family to be smuggled out the friend would have a nice nest egg waiting: five hundred thousand dollars. His brother would take a hundred, the Seung fellow would take his hundred, Kiu would keep three hundred, and life for all of them would be good.

He’d been advised to swap the cash for commodities that could be re-converted into different currencies, and the watches were the perfect vehicles. There was no hurry to sell them—they appreciated every day, so he could just keep them in his safe and they were as good as gold.

Summer in Korea was a hot and wet affair, the air heavy with the smells of exhaust, fish, and industry. The taxi pulled up to Kiu’s Hanok house, a renovated old-style Korean home on the outskirts of Seoul, and he paid the driver from a wad of won. He was glad to finally be home, and was looking forward to seeing his wife. They’d had an interesting life together; their children were grown and his career as a mid-level member of the diplomatic corps had provided a comfortable lifestyle.

He considered what he would do once he retired in a few more years, maybe six or seven. Seoul had its good points, but he couldn’t help looking forward to moving away from the city. An hour or two away, in the countryside, where peace and tranquility prevailed—maybe in one of the little fishing villages they would open a bed and breakfast to keep occupied. The watch money would make their retirement significantly more secure.

It was still muggy out in the early evening, and he was sweating after being in air conditioning for the last twenty-four hours. The flight to the U.S. had taken just over ten hours, and the return trip about twelve, and he’d been on the ground all of three hours.

He was out of it from all the Xanax, jet lag, and sleeplessness—he could never get a minute’s rest on an airplane, and was looking forward to a long night's sleep.

What a whirlwind.

He climbed the steps and opened his door, and stopped at an unfamiliar odor in the air. Cigarette smoke. That was strange. He wondered who had visited his wife Hea and smoked in their house.

“Honey? I’m home. Do we have company?” he called into the hall from the entryway.

Nothing.

Very odd.

“Honey?” He walked into the empty living room; she must have been in the bedroom. He noted the ashtrays on the table—they had definitely had company in his absence.

“Honey?” He entered the bedroom and froze. Two men were sitting on the small couch, and his wife was tied spread-eagle to the bed, naked, bound and gagged. She looked terrified. One of the men was smoking; the other held a small pistol. The man with the cigarette stood up slowly and stretched. It had been a long day for everyone.

“Where is it?” he hissed.

Kiu’s heart sank. So they knew, and had sent a team. It was over. He’d read enough intelligence briefings to know he and his wife were dead.

“I love you, honey. Please forgive me. I’ve always loved you, I swear,” he whispered to her. It was true. He’d married her as soon as she’d turned eighteen, and had never been with, nor desired, another woman. And now he’d killed them both, just as surely as if he’d held the gun himself. He turned to the men. “I have no idea what you’re doing here. I’m a diplomat of the Republic of Korea, and any robbery or violence will carry with it the swiftest and most severe of consequences.”

The two men exchanged a glance and started laughing. The one holding the cigarette picked up an old ball-peen hammer that Kiu kept in the shed and casually swung it down on Hea’s shin. She writhed, her scream stifled by the gag. He spoke as he regarded her agonized thrashing.

“I see. You are a very important man. But you don’t seem to understand. We know everything, and we need our property back.” He paused, took a step, and struck her other leg. “She’ll never walk again, thanks to your lies. But she’s at least alive, yes? So let’s try again. Where is it?”

Kiu threw his bag at the man with the cigarette and lunged at the gunman. They would torture them both regardless of whether he told them anything, he knew, so he might as well do some damage.

They wrestled, and the gun went off just as the second man swung the hammer at Kiu’s neck. Kiu sank to the floor, shot in the chest, blood staining his shirt in a crimson blossom.

The smoker leaned over and probed Kiu’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He picked up the bags Kiu had been carrying and systematically dismantled them. His partner walked over to Hea, put a pillow over her face, placed the barrel of his pistol against it, and pulled the trigger.

“I think we have something here. No cash, but look at this,” his partner exclaimed.

He was holding the airline tickets and the bag with the four watches in it, complete with a receipt from Gideon Watch Gallery, New York, NY.

He pulled out a newly-acquired cell phone and pressed speed dial.

“We have a serious problem. Our boy’s been busy.”

~ ~ ~

The stifling Manhattan streets were suffocated by the exhaust from the nonstop procession of cars. Tess was zigzagging in and out of traffic, slicing her way from stop to stop with almost mechanized efficiency. Summer was hard, but not as bad as winter, when the pavement was slick with ice and the wind chill could easily drop the temperature below zero.

In the messenger world time was literally money. It was simple—the more packages you delivered, the more money you earned; the system rewarded efficiency and speed. She liked that aspect of the job, the challenge of always pushing herself, demanding more from her body, constantly trying for an edge against the clock.

After her breakdown, she’d thought a lot about what was really important to her, and being active and physically fit ranked high. She’d realized she hated working in a rigid, controlled environment—while she enjoyed the intellectual challenge of writing code, the lifestyle had sucked away her will to live.

Her therapist had prescribed Zoloft, and then Lexipro, in an attempt to manage her mood so she wouldn’t step in front of a bus. Tess had weaned herself off and stopped seeing the shrink once she’d gotten out of programming, and so far, so good—two years and counting.

She supposed that like half the city, she was screwed up and neurotic. But no one had ever promised her that life would meet her every expectation, and at the end of the day, she couldn’t complain. She knew a lot of others had it harder, and she’d come a long way from being the depressed girl who’d wanted to end it all because life had disappointed her. She’d sucked it up and gotten tougher, and the challenges of the job had helped her develop a new, confident self-sufficiency.

So Tess raced down the battered and sweltering thoroughfares of the lower East side, contented and exhilarated by the ride, driving herself to the limits of her endurance as she raced from her demons.

~ ~ ~

Gordon Samuels was perched on the edge of his desk, contemplating a currency hedge against a rise in the Australian dollar, when his private line rang. Few had that number. He lifted the handset.

“Yes?”

“We have a situation.” Gordon recognized the Asian singsong lilt.

“A situation? What happened?”

“It seems that a million of the test batch found its way into the U.S. We have a good idea who is in possession, and are taking steps to rectify this.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought you had it all under control. Now you tell me we’ve got flawed bills here? Where?” Gordon was fuming. The whole scheme was endangered, but he’d be damned if he’d put up with a mistake at this stage. He was too committed on the oil futures to extricate himself now, and they were losing value even as he spoke.

“We believe they’re in New York, with a watch dealer. Our team is in the air. I’ll call if there are any developments.” Gordon stared at the phone, the call terminated.

This was going from bad to worse. From just a minor glitch in the middle of backwoods Asia, the situation had deteriorated to a million bucks of counterfeits in New York. The only good news was the bills were so good that nobody would be able to detect them as fake. But if someone did… He had everything he owned on the line in a complex series of oil derivatives, betting on a sudden spike driven by Myanmar ’s new buying ability starting exactly one month from now. And he’d made an even more complex bet on a number of companies he’d identified as strong targets for upward price manipulation, buying call options to create gains while the common stock was purchased from offshore using bogus cash. If someone spotted the flawed bills, however unlikely that was, he was screwed.

Gordon didn’t know what to do next. He’d have to wait until he heard back. They were ordinarily quite efficient, so he wasn’t panicked. After a moment’s consideration, he dialed his contact at the Treasury Department, the man who’d gotten rich providing Myanmar the data they’d needed. The Asians had introduced him to Gordon several years ago to get help in setting up an offshore account. Gordon had been happy to do it, and figured it couldn’t hurt to know all the players if he was going to risk his fortune on a gambit of this magnitude.

“Hello.”

“It’s Gordon. Would you keep me in the loop if you hear anything strange coming out of New York?”

A pause. “Such as?”

“Rumors, oddities, anything besides your usual routine.” Gordon didn’t want to alarm him, but he needed an early warning system.

“Uh, okay. Sure. Does this have anything to do with our deal?” The man was wary.

“No. Everything’s fine. This is something else, for one of my clients.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Chapter 6

Detective Stanford entered the dingy offices of Red Cap Courier and approached a porcine woman behind the small reception window. Flipped out his badge. She regarded it suspiciously.

“I’m Detective Ron Stanford. Can I speak to your manager?”

“What’s this about?” She didn't seem like the most warm and inviting soul. He figured he’d clear up any confusion on her part.

“Let me speak to the person running this place right now, please, without any questions from you. Okay?” He smiled, ever the diplomat.

“Well, all right. But the only people here right now are the dispatchers. I’ll get one.”

A heavy-set older man came out and introduced himself as Frank Meyer.

“Mr. Meyer, I’m looking into the death of one of your employees. Angelina Cortez. When did you last see her?”

Frank looked shocked. “Loca, dead? Sorry—everyone here has a nickname. Hers was Loca. I guess the last time was three days ago, at the end of the Tuesday shift.”

“Was there anything unusual in terms of her demeanor or her attitude?”

“No…You should ask Stu. Hey Stu, didn’t you talk to Loca on Tuesday?” Frank yelled into the back area.

“Who wants to know?” A voice answered.

“Police.”

A head popped out of the rear office, and then a thirty-something geek in shorts approached them.

“I talked to her. She was fine. That’s why we were all surprised when she didn’t show Wednesday.”

“And you are?” Ron asked.

“Oh, sorry. Stu Giblett. Dispatcher.”

“I'm afraid Angelina is dead—we suspect foul play, and I need to ask you some questions. Did she have a boyfriend? Anyone close to her?” Ron inquired.

Frank shook his head.

“Not that I heard. She was kind of wild. I think she dated around, know what I mean?” Frank gave him a cheerless smirk.

“I think I know what you mean. Who was she closest to here?” Ron asked. And so on. Standard questions.

Ron asked them to keep Loca’s death confidential until he could notify her next of kin and interview the messengers. He wanted to talk to them on Monday, first thing, before they hit the streets.

No closer to a solution than when he’d arrived, Ron was frustrated. There was nobody besides Frank and Stu to talk to; everyone was out on their routes.

Apparently Loca slept around. No steady, probably banging some of the other losers on the crew, in addition to half of Manhattan.

What a mess.

He had the feeling he’d be looking at more bodies like hers, sooner rather than later.

~ ~ ~

Robert opened the shop at 10:00 a.m. and noted his apprentice hadn’t shown up yet. He was usually a few minutes late. It didn’t really irk Robert as much as he pretended, because for all his faults, Nick had an amazing eye for detail and an almost photographic memory. He was able to look at a watch he hadn’t seen for four years and recall instantly every particular of the transaction, the watch’s history, and the condition the last time he’d seen it.

His security guard, Jerome, was on time as usual. Jerome had been with him eight years and had never missed a day of work. A heavyset man in his forties, he had three children all finishing high school—twin girls, and a son who’d just graduated and gotten a scholarship to Purdue University. Jerome never had the opportunity to go to college, and one of his goals was to ensure each of his children got the chance. It looked good for them.

“Good morning, Mister G,” Jerome said. Same greeting every day—he’d switched from “Mister Gideon” at Robert’s request, but couldn’t bring himself to say “Robert” or “Bob.”

“Good morning, Jerome. How’s the brood?”

“Oh, never better, never better. How was your trip yesterday?” Jerome asked.

“Uneventful. It’s good to be home.”

Jerome took his seat by the front door, the same place he sat from 10:00 to 6:00, five days a week, year after year. He opened his latest book and settled down for another day of nothing. They’d never had an incident since the store had been open, but you had to have a security guard in New York if you were going to have serious inventory.

Hence Jerome.

Robert very much enjoyed the quiet time in his little empire. His watchmaker didn’t arrive until noon, Tuesdays and Fridays, to do repairs. Emilio was about a hundred years old, but still very skilled and appreciative of the pieces—not to mention knowledgeable of the older Pateks.

The front door opened and Robert’s friend Stan Isaaks entered carrying two cups of coffee and a couple of bagels—a Friday morning ritual. Stan had a rare and collectible coin shop down a few blocks, now more of a retirement project than a legitimate business. Still, Stan knew a lot of people from having been on the street for forty-some years, knew everything there was to know about every type of coin, and had a reputation as one of the best.

“Well, good morning—how’s the world traveler today?” Stan asked. “Good morning, Jerome.” He nodded to the guard, who smiled and nodded back.

“Oh, please. A little trip to the airport, a few bad meals. I was back in no time.” Robert waved off the greeting.

“What were you up to, anyway? You said you’d tell me once you did the deal. Can we assume it’s done now?” Stan was the curious type; Robert hardly ever traveled, so he was naturally intrigued.

“I didn’t want to jinx it. But yes, it’s done.” They walked to the rear of the store and Robert gave him the blow-by-blow. When he finished, Stan appeared concerned.

“Aren’t you afraid the money might be bogus? That’s a lot of gelt to be schlepping around.” Stan had a point.

“I took it to a currency exchange place in the airport and they authenticated it. I’m not worried.”

“Those idiots can’t tell the difference between a bag of chips and a banknote.”

“They did the pen test, and it has the security strips. I’m comfortable,” Robert responded.

“Ha! The pen? That’s quackery! You know what that’ll catch? Counterfeits printed on newspaper. In this day and age? Totally useless…” Stan was getting wound up. “The strip is convincing, but I’d still be worried. Let me take a few of the bills to my friend Saul to look at. He’s ex-Treasury, tops in the business.”

“I really don’t think it’s necessary…”

“Surely it can’t hurt to let him look?” Stan coaxed.

“I guess not… Look, I don’t have the money here; it’s at the bank. I’ll pull a few bills on Monday and meet you at noon, okay?” The two of them squabbled over many small things—a dynamic the relationship had developed over the decades.

“All right, then. So what’s on the agenda for the weekend?” Stan asked. They moved to other topics. At 10:20 the front door opened and Nick ambled in.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. G. Traffic. Whassup, Jerome.” Jerome glanced up from his book, nodded, and returned to reading.

Stan frowned. “You look like you were up all night, drinking and carrying on. You should be ashamed of yourself, you should.”

“Hey, Stan. Nice to see you, too,” Nick responded and strolled into the back room.

The two older men regarded each other and smiled.

Kids these days. What were you going to do with them?

~ ~ ~

Tess rode hard, anxious to get done so she could get home. She was twenty minutes ahead of schedule, with only two stops left. She hit the first one, collected her signature, and then winged her way down to Wall Street. She made a lot of deliveries there; even in the age of computers, most of the more important contracts were hand-couriered.

She hopped off her bike, locked it, and ran into a building, nearly slamming into the security guard as she burst into the lobby.

”Delivery for Meridian Trading—Mr. Samuels,” she told him. He looked her over and nodded.

Tess rode the elevator to the twentieth floor and stepped into the spacious, cool lobby, and approached the receptionist, a severely-beautiful Asian woman who regarded her neutrally.

“Red Cap delivery for Gordon Samuels,” Tess said, handing her the sign-off tab with the bulky envelope.

“You’re early. That’s good. Have a nice weekend,” the woman said, in a frigid tone. She handed the signed tab back to Tess and returned her attention to the computer screen.

“Is there a restroom here I could use?” Tess asked.

“I’m afraid not. You’ll have to go down to the lobby and ask the security guard if you can use the facilities there,” the woman responded frostily.

Tess turned to go, and a male voice addressed her.

“I think we can make an exception for the young lady, don’t you?” She turned to where a handsome man in gray suit pants and a pastel blue shirt appraised her.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Samuels, of course. I was just…” The receptionist was clearly flustered.

Tess looked him over. No wedding ring. Tan, tall, a playful gleam in his eyes. She took her helmet and sunglasses off, and smiled at him. “Thank you. It’s really hot out there. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Not a problem. I know you’re probably baking.” He returned the smile.

She gave him a second smile, a hint of tongue ring. “Thanks again.”

Gordon pointed to an unmarked teak door. “That’s where all the magic happens.”

He picked up the package she’d dropped off and walked back to his office, grinning to himself.

~ ~ ~

Tess made it to the apartment before Nick and showered, luxuriating in the steam and water.

Nick got home at seven and they decided on Chinese for dinner. He was still beat from the night before, and wanted to hit the sack before they went out. He stumbled into the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and was out in two minutes.

There was a big event at the Avalon club that night—all the messengers were going to go—and it was supposed to run late, so he’d need his rest. She let him sleep for an hour, and then crawled in bed next to him, naked. Her head went under the covers and she slowly worked him into a rigid state, noting when he woke that he didn’t seem to resent her ministrations. She straddled and mounted him, moving slowly at first, but increasing her pace to match her own building urgency. He pinched her nipples, causing her to cry out, but also heightening her arousal. She’d been horny all day, and this was a good way to kick off the evening. They climaxed together, and she scratched his chest unconsciously—drawing blood—and then lay still on top of him, sweating, spent.

“Ow. You cut me up. How am I supposed to do my modeling shoot like this?” he teased.

“Sorry. I was fantasizing you were the newspaper guy and lost control of myself,” she responded. There was a three-hundred-pound Samoan man who sold newspapers and magazines out of a stand down the block, who greeted her every time she went by.

“What’ll I tell the other girls?” he asked innocently.

“Tell them you got the scratches when you were forcing yourself on a schoolboy. They won’t have a hard time buying it.” She rolled off him. “You wanna shower first, or me?”

“Let’s do it together.” He was up, walking over to the bathroom.

It was a tight fit. As the water warmed they kissed, comfortably, their passion for the moment spent.

The Chinese restaurant was packed and they waited half an hour for a table. Service was slow, but the beer was cold, and the Kung-Pao was hot and spicy.

It was New York on a Friday summer night—teeming with people, representatives of every fragment of humanity on parade. Tess loved the city, loved the diversity and the freedom, the sense of something always happening, and relished being a part of it.

They decided to walk to the club after dinner, and she drew appreciative glances from passing males—even in New York, home to the most beautiful women on the planet, she was a knockout. She’d selected a very short silver sequined dress held up by spaghetti straps, and her “hooker shoes”—silver platforms with a good five inches of heel. She was almost six feet tall with them on, and enjoyed the way they set off her tanned legs and lean frame.

The club was just getting rolling when they arrived; some of the other bike messengers were already there, lounging around the bar area. The music was so loud in the main room that the floor shook with each beat, and a wild light show pulsated in time with the robotic drone. Every conceivable outfit and hairstyle was on display, transvestites mingling with body builders hanging with junkies and musicians and models, everyone looking like they just stepped out of a music video or a fashion shoot.

It was impossible to talk or hear without yelling, so Tess and Nick just watched the crowd. The room gradually grew packed; every now and then Tess would see one of the girls from the company and wave. They were all there—Pug and Sin City, Angel, Candy, Tab—the whole Red Cap chick crew.

The company boasted a dozen female messengers and around fifty males. Tess knew most of the girls and about a dozen of the guys pretty well, and the rest were either too new or not in her circle. She enjoyed the whole counter-culture, outlaw lifestyle of the messengers. It was exciting, especially compared to going to college, majoring in computer science and becoming a programmer—there wasn’t a lot of adventure in coding a printer driver.

Pug was whacked on something, probably X, and so was Sin City. Candy was high on coke, and drinking pretty hard. Tess contented herself with a Seven and Seven, and Nick was drinking Red Bull and Vodka. This wasn’t his scene at all—he favored live music, and this was urban house underground—so she gave him points for being a good sport.

As the night wore on and the crowd got dense, the music created an anything-goes atmosphere. Tess was getting buzzed, and soon they were dancing in the middle of hundreds of other tranced-out partygoers. It felt good to let go, to be alive, and to feel the energy and the intoxication and the heat of the tribe, with the drums beating their primal sound into the night.

They danced until one, then found themselves on the street, the bass shaking the building as they passed an alley to look for a cab. Tess impulsively pulled Nick into the narrow passage and kissed him passionately, her heat stoked by the booze and the throng. After a long moment she scanned the street and they inched further into the space, and resumed kissing using a dumpster for cover. They were both aroused and he grew more urgent. She pulled down his zipper and got on her knees, taking him into her mouth as he let out a low moan. He was already stiff, and her oral stroking quickly made him shiver with anticipation.

She stood up and dropped her thong to her ankles, reversed herself, and guided him into her from behind, hard, rough, urging him on, moaning the filthiest things she could think of. He spanked her and grabbed her hair, bit her neck as they ground against each other. It was over in a few minutes—dirty and fast, the danger and unexpected quality of exhibitionism heightening the sex for them both.

Finished and still glowing from her climax, Tess arranged herself, and they swayed back out of the alley, hailed a cab, and returned to her pad for the night.

~ ~ ~

The killer watched the pair copulate from across the street in the shadows. His bloodlust was heightened by the coupling, and he toyed with the idea of killing them both while they were engaged. He dismissed it offhand as gratuitous, beneath him.

But in spite of his affected detachment he was burning with fury at the unfairness, that everyone else had the life they wanted and he didn’t. He knew what he had to do, the only way to make it right: he needed to find a little slut that wanted it and work his magic on her. He had discovered after the first one that he was approaching a heightened state, a transcendence—what he required was more. And there were hundreds of pretties inside the club, no doubt drunk and high, so his job would be easy.

He crossed the street and placed his small workbag behind the dumpster, and prepared to go in. He looked completely different than on the job, so he didn’t have to worry about being recognized unless he wanted to be. Glasses, hair slicked back—he was euro-trash out for fun. And tonight was his night.

He prowled the floor looking for the right one. Entering the bar area, he did a quick scan, saw a girl who was clearly high, leaning against the wall—not beautiful, but great hair. That would do. He ordered a beer and watched her for a few minutes, confirming she was alone.

She was.

He approached her and began the process: find a girl, chat her up, buy a drink, slip something into it, and then get out while it was starting to hit her. It would usually take less than half an hour. Tonight, because she was already impaired, it only took twenty minutes before she was in real trouble. He solicitously offered to help her to a cab. There were a lot of people leaving the club as it neared two o’clock, so one more pair of drunken revelers staggering out didn’t raise even a flicker of interest.

Later, at his apartment, music emanated from his little bookshelf stereo system, the volume moderated so as not to disturb the neighbors.

It was an old song by the Human League, on repeat. “Don’t You Want Me,” played again and again as he danced around his darkened living room in his garb, barefoot, exaggerated makeup on his face. Candles flickered in strategic locations around the room; he’d set them on aluminum foil to maximize their reflections, and their unsteady flames made for an eerie glow. The air was heavy with sandalwood incense, and he was feeling the first effects of the ecstasy he’d taken upon arriving home, chemical euphoria flooding his senses.

He was wearing a dress and was moving in front of a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Eyes closed, head back, swaying to the song. He stood in the center of a pentagram made of tiny black river rocks, the latest girl’s hair on his head, the scalp carefully rinsed in the kitchen, and then blow-dried. In his brassiere were her breasts, carefully packaged in ziplock bags so as not to stain the outfit.

He hummed along to the song, singing the chorus each time it came around in a quiet falsetto, vaguely off-pitch. He was spinning now, round and round, his arms raised above his head, palms outstretched. He was getting closer and closer to being whole; it was imminent, he could feel it. He vaguely wondered how many more it would take.

From the little dining room table, two pairs of eyes sat on a tray, watching him dance and spin.

Chapter 7

Stan Isaaks was having a good Saturday, looking over some Civil War-era Coronet Head twenty-dollar Double Eagle gold coins one of his contacts had sent his way. They were in flawless condition and he suspected they were part of the stash from the Republic salvage operation. The Republic was a 210-foot steamer that had sunk in 1865 in a hurricane a hundred miles off Savannah, as it was shipping funds to New Orleans from New York for post-Civil War reconstruction.

He’d seen too few of these, and fewer still in this condition—at least MS-65. Six coins, mint condition, 1865 date, a capital D instead of the word “dollar” on the back. Truly breathtaking. To see six in the same place was a treat. His contact needed them authenticated before they went to auction; wanted documentation of legitimacy, as well as condition, by the best in the business, and Stan was the best.

He wondered what it would take to get one for his private collection, then dismissed the idea. He had roomfuls of rare coins, and while he could appreciate the beauty and the value of these pieces, they weren’t really what got his juices flowing; he favored older Greek and Roman examples.

His line rang and he reluctantly put the coin down and reached for it.

“Stan Isaaks.”

“Stan, you old horse thief! How are you this fine Saturday?” The voice was unmistakable: Saul Balinsky, his longtime friend and esteemed paper currency expert.

“Can’t complain, can’t complain a bit. And you?” Stan asked solicitously.

“Ack, you know, you get older, things start to fall apart, then they fall off. By the grace of God I’m still here.” Saul was in perfect health, if obese, and would undoubtedly live to be a hundred.

“I know only too well. Listen, Saul, your ears must have been ringing—I was going to call you this weekend. I have a favor to ask. A friend’s come into a large number of hundred-dollar bills, and I’m suspicious about their legitimacy. They originated in the Far East and my gut’s saying something’s off. I promised I’d look into it,” Stan explained.

“Far East, huh? I’ve never heard of any problems coming from there, other than some low-grade forgeries that would be caught in seconds. Have you seen the bills?” Saul was intrigued. It was his passion to suspect everything; he’d been forced out of the Treasury Department into retirement and labeled “eccentric” because of his paranoia.

“No, I haven’t… They passed an airport currency exchange booth, for whatever that’s worth. There’s probably nothing wrong with them—I’m just trying to look out for an old friend, is all,” Stan said.

“Currency booth? Ha! Chimps. They couldn’t tell the difference between a good counterfeit and the real thing if you painted the fake red. Although it’s pretty hard to dupe the newer bills.” He thought about it. “You could take them to a bank, but even they could be fooled depending on who’s working and the quality of the fake. Any high-grade counterfeiter would know most of the standardized tests… we actually saw some out of Russia in 1995 that were pretty good, passed all the field exams, and some Iranian ones that were exact—there have been rumors circulating for years that the CIA gave the Shah a set of genuine plates in the early seventies that got abandoned when he abdicated. That’s one of the reasons we came out with new tests a few years back, and with new bills in 1996.” Stan heard Saul eating something, the crinkle of a wrapper and some chomping, swallowing. “There’s a lot of detail in the newer bills, and quite a few hidden gotchas that only Treasury knows about.” Saul paused. “And of course that I know about. I’ve been out of the loop for seven years but I still remember a trick or two.”

“I’m going to pick them up Monday, at noon. Why don’t I bring them by and we can have lunch? Say one-ish? My treat?” Stan knew the mention of food, and free food at that, would be too much for Saul to resist. Not that he would have turned Stan down anyway; they’d been friends for too long. Still, he would appreciate getting a bite out of it.

“You’re singing my song. Although I have to watch what I eat—my doctor put me on a diet. Sometimes I wonder why I even try; he looks worse than I do.” There hadn’t been a day in the last twenty years Saul hadn’t been on a diet. And he broke his diets a lot.

A lot.

Stan smiled. “Then it’s a date. Your place around one, one-thirty, you pick the restaurant. Have a nice weekend.”

“And you as well. See you Monday.”

~ ~ ~

Sunday morning, Ron Stanford’s cell phone went off as he was reading the paper over cereal. Since his divorce a couple of years back he’d largely enjoyed his time alone; he could do whatever he liked, whenever he felt like it, without having to consider anyone else. The job had been the end of the marriage, the usual story: his wife had felt increasingly estranged over the years as he put in weeks or months of eighteen-hour days catching bad guys.

She’d been game for it at first, but had seemed preoccupied for the last three years they’d been together. One day he’d come home and she’d announced that she’d fallen in love with another man and wanted out of the relationship. It shouldn’t have surprised him; all the signs had been there, but he’d been too busy to care. The divorce had gone through amicably, everything very civilized and adult. He’d gotten his solitude, and she’d gotten her CPA, and presumably free tax returns for life.

He looked at the number and sighed. Sundays were often busy days, as the fallout from the weekend was discovered and the bodies floated to the surface. He pressed redial.

“What is it this time? Better be good,” Ron said.

“Sorry to bug you, Detective, but we have a 187 that looks like something you should be in on. This is Sergeant O’Keefe, sixth precinct. It’s the same as Harlem a few days ago.”

Damn. He’d been hoping for some kind of a lunar cycle, more time between bodies to fit the puzzle pieces together. “Same M.O.?”

“You got it.”

“Where?” Ron grabbed a pen.

“Avalon club, around the back. West 20th.”

“I’ve seen the place. Be there in half an hour.” He was thinking about the geography. The first killing had occurred uptown in the 23rd precinct, Spanish Harlem. This one was on the opposite end of the island. Two very different scenes.

The timing was disturbing. Why two killings here and now, so suddenly, and why so close together? Usually serials following a ritual did so in some cyclical manner, gradually accelerating as they became more brazen or craved more stimulation. This wasn’t a cycle at all, at least that he could tell.

He wondered if the killer was a recent transplant to the city, some new crazy who’d decided to make the Big Apple his hunting ground. Or perhaps it was some high-pressure guy in a suit who just had a traumatic event and couldn’t make the voices in his head stop commanding him to kill. Who knew? He’d seen it all. Truly had. Every ugly sort of malfeasance and viciousness that could be imagined, he’d savored, up close and personal.

He caught a cab downtown from his apartment on West 71st. Traffic was mild by NY standards and the cabbie knew the club. When he arrived, Ron approached the team and saw Amy had been called in on this one, too.

“Hey, Amy. Round two, huh?” he asked.

“Good morning, Ron. Yup, this is our boy again.”

“Tell me what we’ve got.”

“Caucasian female, twenty-something, in the dumpster. Looks like she’s been there for at least thirty-six hours, so this is a Friday night case, not Saturday.” Amy grimaced. “It’s ugly, Ron, worse than the last one. The heat’s not our friend.”

“Thanks for the ray of optimism, Amy. What else?”

“Same deal. Eyes, hair and breasts gone. You wanna take a look?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Let’s see the damage.” Ron hated this part. He steeled himself for what he knew was under the tarp in the dumpster. They hadn’t moved the victim yet, as they were still prepping the crime scene, dusting for prints—a long shot, with God knows how many janitors and others having touched the stinking receptacle.

He donned a surgical mask doused with menthol, climbed up the stepladder to look at the remains, and lifted the tarp.

In spite of the years on the job, he retched. It was bad. She’d swollen from the heat and was grossly distended, her skin split in multiple spots. Ants had invaded the cavities where her eyes had been, as well as the top of her head and her chest. The stink was unbelievable, even through the mask. Ron didn’t envy Amy her gig one bit. The girl’s dress had been sliced up the center to allow access to her chest. He noted that her panties were still on, and that there was no evidence of any stabbing or other violence—save for the obvious.

He stepped down, pulled off the mask, and staggered to the mouth of the alley, gulping fresh air. Amy came up beside him.

“You never get used to it, do you?”

“I don’t know how anyone ever does, Amy. Good Christ, that’s vile. How do you do it?” he asked her.

She considered her answer. “Somebody has to do the ugly parts; that’s us. And somebody has to figure out why he’s doing this, how he’s selecting them and killing them. That’s you.” She turned and looked back at the dumpster. “He’s not going to stop, Ron. This is just the beginning. He’s picking them out for a reason, and my bet is he’s done this before—or done some pretty horrible things before.”

“I get the same feeling.”

“He’s careful about how he cuts them, and yet he’s doing it in alleys. Reckless. Calculated risk, maybe part of the thrill?”

“Dunno. I’m going in to the office to run this through the computers, see if anything comes up out-of-state. I’m wondering, why now? Why here, all of a sudden?” Ron’s Sunday was ruined, but rather than sitting in some bar trying to drink away the stain on his psyche, he’d try to discover something about the animal loose in his city.

“I’ll get in touch once I know more. Wanna bet cause of death was indeterminate?” Amy had already moved on to how he was killing them.

“Not today, thanks. You see if you can figure out how he’s doing it, I’ll work on the why and who.”

“It’s a deal. Have a nice Sunday, Ron.”

“You too, Amy.”

He walked toward the subway, considering the implications of the second killing. Two bodies, three nights apart. A pattern? Did that mean some other girl was going to wind up butchered on Monday? And why do it in alleys, if he was taking trophies and being so careful with the cutting?

He could already tell it was going to be a long day. Whenever he got on a case like this, it became a fascination, something almost personal, and he clicked into obsessive-compulsive mode. That’s what made him impossible to live with, but good at what he did. He hated the bodies, hated the grotesque violence, was disgusted by the whole thing—and that was what motivated him to find the perp and make it stop.

His mind bounced to Amy. She was in her mid-thirties, and he knew through the grapevine that she’d also had a marriage blow up within the last few years. She was attractive in a mousy way, but he’d never gone for her type in the past, instead favoring the vivacious type.

How’s that working for ya, Ron?

Touché, he thought.

For now, though, eye on the ball. Time to catch a monster.

Chapter 8

The flight from LAX arrived at JFK on time and its passengers emptied into the terminal. The two Asian men collecting their luggage at baggage claim were unremarkable, dressed conservatively, likely engineers or technical workers.

They walked out to the curb and the shorter one placed a call on his cell. He spoke rapidly into the small handset, and five minutes later a dark gray American sedan rolled up. The trunk popped and another Asian man jumped out of the driver’s side and ran around the front, greeting them and bowing.

Once on their way, the taller of the pair gave the driver the name of their hotel and requested they swing by an address in midtown first. His partner lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke greedily. It had been a long flight. The American cigarettes tasted good and he made a mental note to pick up a carton on his way back to Myanmar .

An hour later they reached 47th Street, and the two men surveyed the target’s shop. They instructed the driver to drive down the block and turn the corner; he complied, and they got out and circled back around, pretending to look into windows. They arrived at the address and peered through the metal grate that protected the small storefront. Not much to it. A few blocks off the beaten path, and deserted on Sunday.

They moved around the corner looking for an alley or rear entrance. Nothing, just more buildings, more stores. They’d have to enter through the front. Much more dangerous, but who’d be watching? And more importantly, who’d remember a couple of nondescript Asian men? They all looked alike to the round eyes, wasn’t that common wisdom?

They returned to the car and got dropped at a hotel off Times Square. The driver told them to call if they required anything—money, weapons, women. They thanked him for his courtesy and assured him they’d be in touch.

~ ~ ~

Gordon Samuels was running hard on the treadmill, contemplating his next move. He’d already bought into his position on the oil futures over the last twenty trading days; there was no way to call it off at this point without losing a fortune.

He’d weighed the likelihood of the test batch of bills being caught in time to ruin his plans, and concluded it was unlikely.

Then again, it had been equally unlikely that the bills would materialize in New York in under a week. They were in an unknown location with some watch dealer, who right now could be spending them, leaking them into the financial system, where at some point they might be flagged by someone at a clearing bank and sent to Treasury.

That was a lot of things that had to go wrong in a very short period of time. The odds were inestimably small.

On the positive side, Myanmar was scheduled to begin their oil futures purchases within three weeks, and was already printing the first runs of the production bills. They were planning to start with smaller buys and spread it around, to avoid suspicion of where all the newfound wealth was coming from. What would inevitably happen is that the spot market cost would increase as new demand indicated by the futures outstripped supply— Myanmar would actually want delivery of the oil, not just the profit resulting from the increase in value of the futures contracts.

They weren’t especially price-sensitive, given they could literally print money at will, so the price would run up quickly once the sellers realized they needed to deliver the oil instead of creating more contracts in infinite quantities. He’d taken massive futures positions ahead of the trading, positions where just a five-dollar move would double his investment. Once the oil play was done, he would buy massive options positions in several companies that were going to be acquired like mad by a group of hedge funds working on behalf of Myanmar 's government, driving the stock prices through the roof and making Gordon and the Asians rich in the process.

Again, leverage was key. He could turn two hundred million into almost a billion on the right three companies.

He’d already begun those options purchases as well, accumulating quietly. Once he accomplished his objective and made the upside, he’d sell call options and buy puts in those same companies. He’d short them to crater the stock, making money as the price fell, too.

It was all about moving cash through the system, turning a few billion into tens of billions. They could then rinse and repeat on another half-dozen companies, chosen almost at random.

By the time anyone became suspicious of all the new dollars floating around, they’d have converted their holdings into Swiss francs, locking in their gains, and he’d be obscenely rich for his role in orchestrating it. He had chosen the companies, had recommended the futures, and was instrumental in the success of the venture. He’d earned every penny of what he would make.

The plan was to keep pumping money into the system for years, using the U.S.’s markets to build wealth for the Myanmar state and satisfy their requirements for oil and other commodities.

Given that Myanmar ’s gross national product was in the thirty-billion range, the addition of five to ten billion per year was a huge increase—and one that was required for the regime’s survival. While Myanmar hoped it would be damaging for America to have the currency supply diluted, the truth was that ten more billion per year wouldn’t even move the needle.

Either way, he’d be a billionaire before it was over, and holding it in francs and yen and gold, not dollars.

The only hitch was the test run leaking out.

He stepped off the treadmill and walked toward the steam room of the ultra-exclusive club, thinking that perhaps a massage would work some of the kinks out. It was, after all, a day of rest.

And he’d been a hard worker all week long. He deserved a little pampering. A massage was just the thing.

Chapter 9

Tess was up at 6:15 a.m., coffee maker dripping away while she brushed her teeth and prepared for her day. Nick was still out cold, which wasn’t unusual, as he didn’t have to be at work until much later.

It was Monday, and she needed to take off a few hours to visit her father, check in to see how he was holding up. She always had mixed feelings about their visits; she loved him tremendously, but got irritated when he inevitably started in about her life. He could go on for hours about her needing to become responsible, stop what he referred to as “this bike idiocy,” and go back to a real career—in short, to behave “like an adult.” And don’t even get him started on her relationship choices and biological clock and the like.

Right now she wasn’t interested in complications; she liked the simplicity of living in the moment and not having to think about the future. Her life was distilled down to food, sleep, work, sex, fun. That was more than enough. She wasn’t in a hurry to grow up, especially after experiencing the joy of ten-hour days sitting in a cubicle. That wasn’t for her, and she had the emotional scars to prove it.

She acquired her first tattoo when she was nineteen and attending college, on a dare—the little yin-yang on her back. She’d gotten the tongue piercing two years later, during her experimental phase, when she’d burned through a dozen boyfriends in six months. The last two years of college she’d done the whole drinking, drug thing, and discovered she liked her sex dirty and rough, but that she also was comfortably monogamous by nature.

As she was giving the middle finger to the planet in her personal life, she’d gravitated to computer science for her major. There was something about getting a string of code right that she really enjoyed—the concentration required, the focus, and the satisfaction of creation, the independence. It was all her own work, no one else involved, and that was gratifying.

She supposed a good therapist could have had a field day with it all. Hers had.

The truth was Tess really didn’t have a lot of reasons to be pissed at the world. Bad things happened to everyone else, but not her, not really—other than her depressive episode, which you could easily argue was self-inflicted (the big bad world hadn’t delivered on her every expectation, boo hoo). Daddy hadn’t touched her in the bad place, Mommy hadn’t been an alcoholic or beaten her, and life hadn’t been especially traumatic growing up. True, she hadn’t seen her sister in California for almost half a decade, and didn’t really like her much, but that hardly qualified as an emotional disaster. Tess had just never gotten along with her, and over the years, as the family calamities had piled up, she’d become more distant. They simply didn’t have much in common.

Tess snuck into the bedroom and kissed Nick on the forehead, then carried her bike down to the street. It was 6:45, and the day was looking like another scorcher.

She hit the front door of the depot at 6:59 and clocked in. It would be a short morning shift for her, off by 9:45, and then back on from 12:00 to 5:00.

Frank waved her over. He was talking to some guy in a sports jacket—mid-thirties, brown hair, maybe six one. She approached and Frank introduced him as Detective Stanford, who wanted to have a word with her about Loca.

Her heart dropped and she blanched. Why would the police want to talk to her about Loca unless something had happened?

She followed him into the little lunchroom now serving as a mini-interview room, fearful of what she suspected would be the topic of discussion.

“Is Loca okay? What’s this all about?” Tess asked.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning? Let me ask a few questions?” Ron looked her over. She was a beautiful woman. No makeup, but a stunning face and a rock-hard body—she hadn’t put her T-shirt on yet, and the tank top and shorts left little to the imagination. What the hell was she doing working as a bike messenger?

“Okay. But answer mine about Loca. Is she hurt? Dead?” Tess demanded.

“Why would you think she was dead?”

“Gee, I don’t know. A detective is here before seven, when most cops are still asleep, setting up to interview the messengers about Loca.” Tess looked straight at him with emerald eyes, slightly slanted, flecks of gold in the irises. “This isn’t about a stolen bike or a few joints. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can answer any questions you have? She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Loca—Angelina—was found dead last week. I’m sorry.” Ron watched her reaction: her eyes filled with tears like a valve had ruptured. Why did he have an overwhelming desire to hug her, tell her it was all going to be all right?

“How did it happen? Did she get hit by a car?” Tess was trying to process. Loca dead. So young, so funny, so much ahead of her.

“Look, I’m sorry about your friend, but I really have to ask you some questions. I told you what you wanted to know. How about helping me out here?” Ron appealed.

“All right. Shoot.” Tess blotted her eyes.

“Did she have anyone she was afraid of? Anyone who’d threatened her?” Ron asked.

“Loca? No way. Everyone loved her. She was funny, and she’d be the first one to help if you were in a jam. She never mentioned anyone she was afraid of,” Tess responded.

“What about boyfriends? Was she seeing anyone in particular?”

“Loca didn’t really talk about that kind of thing. She wasn’t seeing anyone seriously, I know that. She was young, having fun in the city, you know? Didn’t want a steady.”

“Was she seeing anyone from here?”

“I think she had dated a few of the guys, but I’m not really clear about that. Again, she didn’t talk about it.”

The questions went on, predictably: about Loca’s apartment, who she knew, what her interests were, why she might have been in Spanish Harlem late on a Tuesday night. After twenty minutes, Ron wasn’t getting anything unexpected, so decided to wrap things up. Tess was still visibly upset. He could probably have spent all day talking to her—but that wasn’t part of the job. He’d already said more than he should have.

“How did she die, Detective?” Tess asked, her voice quiet.

“Let’s just say painlessly, but she was mutilated afterwards. We saw another like her on Friday, at a club near the Village. You might have seen a blurb in the paper this morning.” Ron explained.

“What club?”

“Avalon. It’s down on—” Ron started.

“I know where it is,” Tess blurted. “We were all down there Friday night. Practically everyone was there.”

Holy shit. Now wasn’t that a cute coincidence? All the messengers at the same club as the new killing, on the same night. There was a link. Had to be.

“Who else do you remember seeing there? Exactly?” Ron asked.

Tess’ brow furrowed. “Let’s see. I know Pug was there with Sin City, Candy, Tab, Skid and Dirter, Paco, Tiny, Duff, Turbo, Snake, Angel, Luis… I think. That’s all I remember. There were probably a lot more, but I don’t really know most of the newbies.”

“Will all of these nicknames mean something to the dispatchers?” Ron had written them down, but they were gibberish to him.

“Yeah, ask for real names.”

“Any of the Red Cap group seem suspicious or dangerous?”

“Ha. That’s a good one. Half the crew’s high, or living day-to-day. In case you didn’t notice, the messenger gig doesn’t attract the highest-end cross-section of humanity. I’d say most are dangerous at some level.” She looked at him again, eyes still moist. “That’s one of the things I like about it.”

He let that go.

“What about you? Why are you here? You seem smart, capable… Why the messenger thing?” He was genuinely curious.

“It’s a long story. I got tired of software engineering and wanted a change, something physically challenging. This is where I wound up. It’s temporary,” Tess explained, sounding a little unconvinced herself.

“Says on your file you’ve been here over two years. That’s a lot of temporary.”

“I got burned out. This is fun most of the time. I can always write code. I’m working on figuring out my next move.” Tess looked at him. “What does this have to do with Loca?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering,” Ron answered.

Tess was overwhelmed by the news of Loca’s death, but also a little interested in the good Detective. He was one of the only men who’d ever asked her in a forthright manner what she was doing, and why. She felt a buzz of excitement, which was strange; maybe her hormones were going haywire from the shock. Still, for the first time since she’d been with Nick, she found herself wondering what another man might be like.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Ron questioned Tess some more, but there wasn’t much she could add. He sensed something strange about their interview, and wondered if he was reading it wrong—he could have sworn she was sizing him up as a man, not as a cop. Wishful thinking, he was sure.

The questions finished, he gave her his card, told her to call if she thought of anything more.

“I will, Detective.”

“Ron. You can call me Ron. What’s your nickname, anyway, for the record?”

“Mega. As in mega-fast. I get around town faster than anyone else, usually deliver more packages. I got it my first month here.” She was still obviously shaken but managed a wan smile.

“Thanks for helping out. Sorry about your friend.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

~ ~ ~

Tess told Frank she was going to take the day off after her morning runs. She had from 9:45 until 12:00 blocked out to see her father, and she was upset about Loca and didn’t feel motivated to bike all over the city. Frank was understanding, although he was already inconvenienced because of the detective’s requirement to question all the messengers. Monday would be a money loser for Red Cap, thanks to the NYPD.

Stu handed her the morning’s delivery schedule, and she did a quick scan. Six packages for the a.m. already in, and possibly more en route if she hustled. She wasn’t in a hustling mood. She saw Turbo approaching, talking to Duff; Duff seemed agitated.

Which was weird.

Duff was never disturbed by anything. If you’d taken six nine-millimeter rounds in the back and were walking around to tell the story, you developed a different perspective. She was still amazed whenever she caught a glimpse of his torso when he changed his shirt.

She waved at them and they nonchalantly waved back.

It was going to be blazing out again. Tess strode into the restroom, rinsed her face, and stared at herself in the cracked mirror. Loca was dead. Mutilated. A mystery as to who did it. Another girl killed at the Avalon, on the same night they’d all been there. She knew what the cop was wondering: what’s the connection? Good question. Did he think it was one of the messengers?

She considered all the misfits working there and tried to imagine any of them being killers. Paco? No way. Duff? Impossible. Luis? He was a little weird, always talking to himself in Spanish… maybe schizophrenic? Turbo? He was redneck white trash, liked his methamphetamines, and the rumor was that he dealt on the side—but a killer? And Tiny, the pseudo-Jamaican big boy? He never seemed angry, but he did have a strange look in his eyes. Probably all the ganja. Or something else?

So many messengers were transitory, there was a never-ending supply of dangerous, drugged, misfit loners and street kids coming and going at Red Cap. It was a flake’s job, and her circle was just the more dependable of the flakes. They were all outlaws who played by their own rules—at least that’s how many of them saw themselves.

Could one of them have crossed some line in his head and started thrill-killing? None of it made sense. She couldn’t make the picture work.

Tess slung her bag over her shoulder with the first two deliveries in it and dropped her shades into place, and then secured her helmet and double-checked to confirm her water bottle was snug. She’d calculated she could be at her first target in seven minutes. She swung her leg over her bike, a Trek hybrid that was light and fast, and propelled herself down the street.

The killer watched her go and decided she’d have to be one of his pretties, eventually. Or maybe not; he already had a brunette. But two couldn’t hurt.

Something to consider.

~ ~ ~

The taller Asian munched on an English muffin while they discussed the day’s agenda. It was pleasantly cool in the hotel lobby restaurant, and the pair took their time strategizing. They were in a hostile country where they barely spoke the language, and had no idea what to expect once other businesses opened this morning by the watch shop. They agreed caution was the best approach.

The smaller one called their driver. He picked up on the second ring.

“How long will it take to get us?”

“At least an hour. Traffic into the city is heavy during rush hour.”

“That’s all right. The shop doesn’t open until ten and we want to spend some time looking around before we go in. Call me when you’re downstairs.” He switched off the little phone.

“How about taking a quick walk to Times Square? It’s only a few blocks up. I want to buy a camera.”

~ ~ ~

Tess finished her last delivery, soaked with perspiration. She stopped at a corner store and bought a large bottle of Gatorade, chugged a third of it, and refilled her bike container with the remainder.

She was still deeply troubled, reflecting on how Loca had gone from the funny, sexy, vivacious, tough chick comic to a corpse on a slab; what set of circumstances had led to it? It seemed surreal. Just a week ago they’d been exchanging jokes and mocking their fellow city-dwellers over drinks. Loca had been happy; she’d been asked back after an open mic event, and told that if the crowd reacted well she’d get paid next time.

That was last Monday, and Tuesday night she’d been murdered. Was that how it really happened? One day you’re here, and the next you’re gone, no fanfare, no one noticing? It just seemed like there should have been more of a stop to everything—that her departure from the planet should have caused more of a reaction. Apparently not. No one cared. Life went on.

Her watch reminded her she was late for her meeting with her dad, and that got her anxious about what the next few hours would be like. Hopefully he’d lay off on anything critical of her lifestyle; she didn’t need her father throwing her choices in her face, demanding accountability.

She swallowed the last drops from the bottle and threw it away, and then pulled on her helmet and prepared to enter the stream of traffic. The roads were hellish, in terrible condition, and treacherous for bicycles. Manhole covers, potholes the size of televisions, poorly-spaced metal plates covering construction ruts, pools of oil and grease from collisions and spills—you named it, New York had it, usually all within a few blocks. It was like doing an obstacle course every day, where the hazards were real and usually moving at unsafe speeds in unexpected ways.

It was exhilarating. This was her town, her turf, and she was confident and strong, ready for anything.

It was time to see Daddy.

~ ~ ~

Gordon Samuels gazed out his window and considered the shimmering heat rising off the adjacent building. He should be in the Hamptons, not his office slaving away at a terminal.

He smiled to himself, recalling last night’s adventure with his latest play-pal, a very kinky Victoria’s Secret model from Ecuador he’d been seeing on and off for a month. She was twenty-three, half his age. That just made it better. Their unspoken arrangement was straightforward: she let him violate her in every way he wanted, and he paid for everything. If only all his life was that simple.

Gordon returned his attention to the screen. He was acquiring the last round of options in the first three companies, and was jockeying the stock a bit to see if he could move the option price down. He’d shorted a million dollars’ worth of stock on an otherwise slow morning, instantly causing his target to drop a few points. There was a latency to the options pricing, so he probably wouldn’t get his lowball bids hit immediately, but he had all day. The overall market was in the toilet and heading lower, and the irony was that he’d likely not only get his options, but would make fifty thousand or so when he covered his short. Dumb luck. He could use more of that just now.

He was still worried about Myanmar and their faux pas, but hopefully the situation would resolve itself this week. His early warning system was in place at Treasury, so he’d immediately hear if the shit hit the fan. That meant the Asians would have a head start, giving them maneuvering room.

Gordon put his feet up on his desk and stretched his arms over his head, cracked his neck. It was going to be another dog day in the city. He was glad he was inside.

Chapter 10

Inder assisted Robert out of the car and into his wheelchair. He helped him raise the metal grid protecting the storefront, and then watched as Robert opened the shop door. Once Robert had wheeled himself safely inside, Inder drove off.

Robert flipped the master switch light flooded the long narrow space, twinkling off the faces of the less expensive watches he kept in the cases. He busied himself with wiping down the glass tops till he heard the bell sound from the front. He spun his chair to face the entrance.

“Why, good morning, Jerome. Is it hot enough for you?” he asked.

“It sure is, Mr. G. I can’t recall a summer this warm.” Jerome was dabbing at beads of sweat sprouting on his forehead from the exertion of walking from the subway.

“Thank God the AC’s working. How was the weekend?”

“All good, Mr. G, all good. The boy is really getting excited about college this year. I’m awfully proud of him,” Jerome said.

“You should be, Jerome, you should be.” Robert returned his attention to the cases. He was interrupted by the phone.

“Gideon Watch Gallery,” Robert answered.

“Robert, it’s Stan. How hangs it, my friend?”

“Good, Stan, can’t complain. And you?”

“Ach… wouldn’t do any good to kvetch. Who’d listen?” Stan observed.

“Too true, Stan. What’s up?”

“I talked to Saul, and he agreed to look at the bills for you. You can never be too careful, that’s what he thought. Are we still on for noon?” Stan asked.

Damn. He’d forgotten all about it. He’d have to get down to the bank. “Absolutely, Stan. Noon’s perfect.”

“I’ll see you then.” Stan hung up.

Inder had already left, and the bank was about four blocks away—and of course Nick wasn’t in yet. Then again, he wouldn’t send Nick anyway, not with that kind of money in the box. He trusted him completely, but not that completely. He supposed he’d have to wait for Nick, and then schlep himself the four blocks. What a pain in the ass.

As he mulled over the logistics, the bell sounded again. He turned his chair and smiled—he’d completely forgotten.

“Hi, Daddy,” Tess said, beaming at him as she removed her helmet and glasses. “Hi, Jerome. Have you lost weight?”

Jerome blushed and returned the smile.

“Hello, honey. I forgot it was our day. Has it already been a week?” Robert rolled toward her with his arms out. She looked so grown up, it surprised him every time he saw her.

“I don’t know if you want to hug me; I’m kind of icky from the heat,” she warned.

“Nonsense. Gimme some sugar,” Robert said.

Tess was always conflicted when she saw her father. She remembered him before the accident, in her teens, when they’d gone for runs through Central Park, and to the beach at Fire Island—done all the things people with working legs took for granted.

“You’re looking great, sweetie. You get more beautiful every time I see you.” Robert meant it. He got a lump in his throat whenever she came by; she looked so much like her mother it was eerie, but with an untamed attitude. Stubborn as a mule, too, just like Mom.

“Stop already. So what do you have planned for today—what’s the entertainment agenda for your poor deprived child?” she teased.

The door buzzer sounded again. Nick made his entrance.

“Good morning, Mr. G. Hi, honey. Peace, Jerome.”

“Morning, Nick.” Robert turned back to Tess. “I have a favor to ask you, Tess. Could you run to the bank for me and pull something out of the safe deposit box? I have a friend coming by at noon to pick it up.”

“No sweat, Dad. It’s 10:15, so I’ve got plenty of time. What is it?” She didn’t tell him about taking the rest of the day off; she’d surprise him and take him to lunch.

“I need you to go into a paper bag you’ll find in the box, and pull four or five bills out. There’s a lot of money in the bag, big transaction, and I need to verify the cash is real.” She looked at him oddly. “It is, it is, but my friend’s driving me crazy to authenticate it, so I’m humoring him. You remember Stan?” Robert asked.

“Of course. Uncle Stan. I haven’t seen him in a year or two. How is he?”

“Same as ever. Here, take the key. It’s box 3970, remember? You’re on the hand scanner.” He removed the key from around his neck, where he kept it on a chain.

“I remember. How could I forget that whole deal? Very secure, Daddy, like Fort Knox.”

They chatted for a few minutes, staying away from any loaded topics. She congratulated Jerome on his son, Robert wanted to know how her loft was coming along, she asked how long until she’d get a dinner invitation from him. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

“I gotta get to the bank, Dad,” she announced.

“You want company?” Nick asked from behind the counter. They both looked at Robert.

“Go on, get out of here. Hurry up. Maybe bring me back a cup of coffee?” Robert requested.

“Vente, two sweeteners, nonfat milk. Got it, Mr. G.” Nick called out as they walked through the door.

“Bye, Daddy,” Tess waved over her shoulder.

“Bye, sweetheart,” he called out behind her.

Too late; the door had closed.

~ ~ ~

Detective Stanford was sick of bike messengers. He’d seen every possible piercing and tattoo, and had been sneered at and glared at by most, if not all, of the fine Red Cap crew. Half probably had sheets as long as their arms.

The big one, Duff, looked ganged up; the last one, Turbo, was jittery and high on something, probably meth.

None of the men seemed to want to spend time getting to know Ron on a personal basis, which bothered him not one iota. The women were, to a person, upset when he told them the news. One of their own had been claimed by the city’s dark side, and suddenly the “we’re the invincible samurais of the streets” shtick didn’t wear as well. The girls looked shocked and scared, but not much information was forthcoming. Apparently Loca kept to herself.

The men fell into three broad categories: dope-fiend losers who were quite possibly crazy and violent, poorly-educated survivors with no options, and starving artists working as messengers because of the flexible hours. The latter two groups made up forty percent, leaving sixty percent possible bad guys. He got weird vibes from a few of them and took notes for follow-up: his pad had six names with stars next to them, signifying background checks were in order. Potentially promising, presuming they didn’t bolt in the interim.

He thought about Tess again. What the hell was she doing hanging out with this bunch? Obviously had some authority issues she was working through, and the rebellious attitude of the crew resonated with her, but she was one of the few who didn’t need the job. She was here because she liked it.

He didn’t get it.

He still had a few more of the merry band to visit with, so he rubbed his eyes, poured more vile coffee, banished thoughts of Tess from his fragile psyche, and called into the hallway to the next candidate for killer of the year.

“Stinger? Is there a Stinger out here?”

Where did they get these names?

Chapter 11

The two Asian men had been watching the street for an hour, window shopping, stopping in at the café in the middle of the block and drinking tea. The shorter one finished his sixth cigarette of the day, stamped it out on the pavement, and nodded to his partner. They strolled across the street toward Robert’s shop, glancing in both directions to avoid traffic as well as to make a final sweep before going in.

Robert looked up as the door buzzer sounded and greeted the two men as they entered the store.

“Welcome to Gideon Watch Gallery. Feel free to look around, or is there something specific I can help you find?”

The taller man bowed from the waist and replied in heavily-accented English.

“Sank you. You Mistuh Gideon?”

“Yes, the one and only. What can I do for you?”

“Ehhh, you expert on watch, Patek Philippe, yes?”

“Yes, I am, depending on the vintage. I specialize in the more complicated and rare Pateks. What can I help you with?”

“You help me, look this?” The man approached and removed his watch. From a distance it looked like an older moon phase Patek, worth well over a hundred grand, depending upon the model and complications. The man placed it carefully on the glass display case.

“That’s a beauty. A 3448,” Robert said. “From the early sixties by the look of it. It’s an extremely rare and valuable piece—I just sold one for a quarter million dollars.”

The smaller man stood at the case by Jerome, looking at the Rolexes. He stared at one, and then pulled a business card and pen out of his pocket—a Mont Blanc, by the look of it. He held the pen up and shook it, apparently attempting to tell whether it was out of ink, then turned to Jerome and twisted the end cap. It made a muffled spitting sound, like a small CO_2-powered BB gun going off.

A tiny dart lodged squarely in Jerome’s meaty neck.

Developed for clandestine wet work, the dart was coated with a deadly toxin that induced immediate neuro-muscular paralysis and reliably shut down respiratory function within seconds.

Jerome dropped his book, but other than that appeared fine, even as he suffocated in silence. Completely aware, but dying nonetheless.

Robert was examining the watch with considerable concentration; he glanced over at Jerome at the sound of the paperback hitting the floor, but returned to the watch when he saw that Jerome had just dropped his book.

The little man was still studying the Rolexes with interest.

“A most unusual piece indeed; almost exactly like the one I sold,” Robert said. “What an extraordinary coincidence. It’s in beautiful shape. You’re very brave to wear it on the street, it’s worth a fortune…” Robert noticed a small imperfection, a faint scratch near where the leather band joined the watch. He looked up at the man.

“This…this is the same watch.”

“Where is it?” The man asked softly.

“Where’s what? I don’t understand the question.” Robert was puzzled by the man’s interrogative. Where is it? What’s “it?”

The taller man nodded at his partner, who walked to the front door and turned the deadbolt.

“Where money?”

“What money? What are you talking about?” Robert was alarmed. Was this a robbery? He looked over at Jerome, who was sitting motionless, allowing these thugs to rob the shop.

“Money Kiu give you. For watches. Need money back.” The man walked around the counter and grabbed Robert’s wheelchair handles. Robert was too far away from the panic button that would bring the police; he couldn’t understand Jerome’s inaction. What was happening?

“The money? It’s already at the bank. You think I keep it in the shop?” Robert was terrified but also furious at his helplessness. The Asian was pushing him toward the back room.

“We look in safe, we talk, you tell truth, yes?”

“No. Let me go at once. Stop this. The money’s at the bank.” They were now in his back room by the safe. The Asian grabbed a pair of pliers lying on the workbench, and casually swung them and hit Robert in the face, opening a gash on his cheekbone.

“You quiet. Shut up! Open safe. Now.”

Robert was in agony, blood freely streaming down his cheek, his head on fire. He was shaking as he leaned over and turned the dial, fumbled with the lever, opened the safe. The Asian pushed him aside, causing him to fall out of the chair, and stared at the watches and cash. Twenties, hundreds, all well used.

He turned to Robert on the floor, kicked him in the head, and screamed at him.

“Where money?” Kicked him a third time.

“It’s…it’s…there’s a…safe deposit box…at my bank…”

“Where bank?”

“…Chase…fiftieth…” Robert was hurting.

“How you get in?” Another kick.

“They…my hand…they scan…” Robert held up his hand.

“Where key?”

Robert grimaced. “Not here.” The man retrieved the pliers from where he’d dropped them.

“Where key?” He waived them menacingly in Robert’s face.

“It’s not here. At my apartment,” Robert gasped. The Asian considered him; he was a professional, and knew when he was being lied to, even in a foreign language.

He stuck the pliers up Robert’s nose and ripped. A lance of white-hot pain shot through Robert’s skull, while a different throbbing pain began in his chest and shot down his arm and along his jaw. He fought for breath but couldn’t seem to catch it. Blood filled his nasal cavity, and then the pain receded as his vision blurred and dimmed.

The last things Robert saw were his treasured Patek Philippes, lined up in his safe, gleaming, like little soldiers waiting for battle.

The smaller man entered and knelt next to Robert; he looked up at his partner and said something terse in Burmese. The partner swore. He scanned the room, grabbed the cash and watches out of the safe, and handed them to the shorter man before systematically dismantling the back office looking for either a key or the cash. It took him five minutes to find neither.

The smaller man walked over to the ancient VCR that housed the security tape and hit the eject button; he’d seen the camera when they’d entered. He slipped the cassette into his I Love New York windbreaker, newly purchased in Times Square.

They cautiously approached the front door, and the smaller man pulled the tiny dart out of Jerome’s neck, dropped it into his wallet, and flipped the deadbolt open. They exited onto the sidewalk and the taller man waved into the store, bowing slightly.

“Sank you. Sank you very much.”

~ ~ ~

Tess and Nick walked to the Exxon building on Seventh, the temperature already close to a hundred degrees. Once inside the bank, Nick waited for her in the lobby while she entered the vault. She slid the safe deposit box from its slot, carried it to a small adjacent room with a steel table, and pulled the requested bills out of the bag, enjoying the air-conditioned respite from the street.

Tess was surprised by the amount of cash in the sack, but her dad had been in the business for a long time and knew what he was doing. She also noticed a few watch boxes, some insurance papers, a folder with some documentation in it, and a small black velvet box wedged in the far corner. She reached in and opened it.

Her mother’s engagement ring.

Beautiful, a flawless one-and-a-half-carat emerald cut in a Tiffany platinum setting. A lump formed in her throat. It was so unfair her Mom had died so young. She still remembered when she had been told Mom had a serious illness; she’d been in her snotty teen years, when a broken nail was a week’s worth of drama. Reality hadn’t registered until the physical degradation had progressed.

Then her dad had been hit by the car. A drunk driver, wasted by 10:00 a.m., had blown through a red light and put him in a wheelchair for life—the driver’s third drunk-driving offense in five years. He was a security guard who decided he wasn’t hurting anyone by driving after a few eye openers. Live and let live.

Guess again.

It was absolutely no consolation to her that he’d committed suicide while serving a prison sentence. If he’d made that wise choice the day before knocking back half a bottle of JD and going for a morning joy ride, her father would still be ambulatory.

Tess closed the ring case and returned the safe deposit box into its cavity, locking it. She exited the secure area and met up with Nick, and together they braved the steamy streets again.

~ ~ ~

Detective Stanford got a call from Amy about the nightclub corpse. He was about done at Red Cap, and was packing up to leave.

He’d just finished with Frank and Stu, both of whom seemed out of their minds, but in very different ways. Frank was old and a little slow, and seemed inured to the dis-functionality of the employees he interacted with. He was probably in denial just to make it through the day—which Ron couldn’t blame him for; hell, he’d be the same way if he’d had to work there.

Stu was intelligent but quirky in a nerdy way, and seemed like he probably had a drinking or drug problem. He seemed a tad absent during the interview, like he was thinking about something else.

So far the most suspicious of the group were Luis, Turbo, Snake, Dirter, Rock and Tiny. All of them seemed like hardcore substance abusers, all were very nervous throughout the interrogation, and all were the right age for a serial. Turbo bugged him—seemed very skittish, couldn’t seem to control his gaze, and had the stink of fear about him. Ron also liked Tiny for it; he didn’t know why, just something wrong there.

His pocket vibrated. He fished out his phone, looked at the screen, and answered.

“Hey, Amy.”

“Hi, Ron. We got something on the nightclub girl. Name’s Tabitha Kittridge, age 27, single, secretary, lived in Soho, alone. Blood alcohol was .17 and there was ecstasy in her system, as well as Klonopin. Unfortunately none of that killed her. Tox screen again came back with no chemical cause of death,” Amy notified him.

“Well, that’s great. What did she die of?”

“As far as we can tell, her heart just stopped. It’s hard to tell due to the condition of the corpse, but her BP might have spiked before she went down for good. I’m checking on agents that could cause that. Problem is nothing’s showing up, so it’s all theoretical at this point.” Amy was very good at what she did, and Ron could tell it frustrated her that she wasn’t getting a handle on how the victims were meeting their end.

“Any evidence of an injection? A puncture in the arm or neck?”

“Negative, Ron. We looked over what was left of her with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing jumped out.”

“Okay then. I’m done with the freak show at Red Cap. What a collection. Any of them could be good for it.”

“Ron, if he’s on a cycle, tonight’s the third night.”

“I know, Amy. But maybe he’s staggering them, or has some different pattern we don’t know about yet. I guess we’ll find out in the next few days.”

He hated that they didn’t know more. What was the connection? Why was the killer doing this, why cutting them in this specific way; what were the trophies all about, how did he go about selecting them? Was it random? What was he trying to accomplish? This didn’t seem like a thrill serial to him. There was method here, ritual, planning—but also risk-taking, foolhardiness. He needed more time to digest it.

But for some young lady tonight, it was likely too late.

Chapter 12

Tess and Nick approached the shop, discussing the events surrounding the murder at the nightclub and the possibility of a murderer at Red Cap. They pushed the door open and Tess immediately sensed something was wrong. Nick almost ran her down when she stopped dead in her tracks a few feet into the store, the stark and complete silence spooking her.

“Dad?” she called out. In the periphery of her vision she registered Jerome silent in his usual spot behind the entryway. She spun and screamed. Nick dropped the coffee they’d bought, spilling scalding liquid across the floor.

Jerome sat atop his perch, eyes unblinking, cyanosis coloring his lips and lending a bluish cast to his skin. Tess screamed again.

“Dad!!! Dad?” She yelled at the back of the store.

Nick grabbed the baton out of Jerome’s belt and put his finger to his lips, warning Tess to silence and motioning for her to stay by the front door. He approached the back room, walking as though on live snakes. Tensing, Nick threw the door open. He dropped the baton, catching his weight against his knees with his hands, and vomited. He staggered back a few steps and bumped one of the cases, then leaned against it, catching his breath.

“Call 911,” he managed.

“Why, Nick? What’s back there? What happened? Where’s Dad?”

“Just call the police, Tess. Now. Quick,” he snarled. Nick had never snarled at her in his life.

She handed him her cell with a trembling hand.

“911, what is your emergency?” the operator answered.

“I need to report two murders on West 47th street. Gideon Watch Gallery.” Nick gave her the address.

“Who’s on the line?”

“Nick Bigley. I work at the store. Get someone here quick.” Nick’s voice was shaky. Tess was making her way to the back of the shop. “Tess, stay here. Please. Don’t go back there.”

“Sir? Sir? Stay on the line. I’m dispatching a unit to your location right now.”

Nick locked the deadbolt on the front door; he knew from looking in the back that they were alone.

Tess screamed from the rear office. He ran to her and grabbed her by the shoulders, and forced her, struggling, to the front of the shop.

“I…I told you not to go back there. God, I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry…” He rocked her, both of them sitting on the ground; hugging her from behind. She was crying, and shrieking whenever she could get enough breath. The police operator was still on the phone.

“Sir? Uh, Nick? Keep this line active, and don’t touch anything, understand? Don’t touch anything.”

~ ~ ~

The police arrived within six minutes, and Nick unlocked the door for two uniformed officers. One examined Jerome while the other walked into the back room. He came out, shaking his head and talking into his radio, requesting backup and a forensics team. The first officer asked Nick a series of questions establishing who he was, who Tess was, and when they’d discovered the bodies.

Tess sat on the floor leaning against one of the cases, crying and shaking, saying “no, no, no,” over and over. It wasn’t fair—why did somebody do this, why did it have to be her father—he’d never hurt anyone—what kind of animal would kill a poor old crippled man?

First Loca, now Jerome and her father dead. She’d seen him with his face ruined, lying in a pool of blood and vomit; it was just too much. She couldn’t handle it, couldn’t deal with it.

She loved him so powerfully, and someone had torn the life out of him, destroying any chance they would ever spend time with each other again, have a meal together, talk with each other. He’d never see a grandchild, never watch her get married, never be there to celebrate her triumphs or share her sorrow. It wasn’t fair. First her mother, and now her father.

Nick was stunned, and his gaze kept drifting over to where Jerome still sat, motionless, eyes staring. He answered more of the cop’s questions as he gazed blankly around the shop. Eventually his gaze landed on the watch still on the counter. He walked away from the officer in mid-sentence, staring at the watch while the cop followed him.

“What? What is it? Don’t touch anything—it’s all evidence. This is a crime scene,” the officer, a sergeant, advised.

Nick shook his head. “This could be important. Do you have any gloves?”

The officer didn’t. “Forensics will when they get here. Why? What’s up?”

Nick had his nose about three inches from the watch, peering at it from all sides. “I can’t be sure, but I think this might be a watch Robert sold last week to a collector in San Francisco.” He thought for a few moments. “I wonder what it’s doing here out on the counter? It’s worth a quarter mil if it’s the same watch—worth as much as all the watches in the safe combined…” He drifted off. What was going on?

“Step away from it; let’s wait for the detectives and crime scene people to get here, okay?” The cop had no idea what Nick was going on about, but he did understand a quarter million dollars, and didn’t want anything disappearing.

At the mention of detectives Tess came out of her trance. She fumbled in her pocket, pulled out a card, picked her phone up from where Nick had left it, and dialed a number.

“Detective Stanford.”

“He…Hello, Detective? It’s Tess, from Red Cap? Hello?”

Ron’s mental gears shifted as he heard her voice. She sounded hurt, or panicked, or scared. Had the killer tried to get her?

“Yes, Tess. I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“They—I think you need to come here…Somebody killed my father…” Her voice cracked on the last word and she started crying again.

Killed her father? What was she talking about?

“Tess? Hello? Where are you? Right now? What’s the address? Are the police there?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, detective. I loved him so much…”

“I understand, Tess. Where are you? Is there someone else I can talk to? A policeman?” he asked.

She stared at the phone, dazed. Held it out to the closest cop.

He held it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hi. This is Detective Ron Stanford, Homicide. Who am I speaking with?” Ron asked.

“Sergeant Wallace, Midtown North,” the officer responded.

“Sergeant Wallace, what’s your situation?”

“I’m not sure. Two 187’s. One’s pretty messed up, and the other looks like he was stuffed. We’re at a watch shop on 47th. Seemed like a robbery at first, but I don’t know…the kid who works here says one of the watches lying out is worth 250 G’s.”

“What’s the address? The girl is a potential witness in two of my cases,” Ron said. But technically that wasn’t true, now was it? Why are you getting involved there, Ron, old boy? Anything to do with green eyes?

The officer gave him the address and Ron signed off. The cop handed Tess her phone. “No more calls for now, okay?”

She absently nodded, sobbing in silence.

~ ~ ~

Ron flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address. He couldn’t really do anything—he hadn’t been put on the case…but it wouldn’t kill him to swing by and check it out, would it? He had to head back up that way anyway. His main office was Midtown South, and this was only a few short blocks away.

Well, actually about twelve blocks.

It couldn’t hurt to poke his nose in. The sergeant had sounded troubled by the robbery scenario, so maybe there was more to this than met the eye. Who knew, maybe he would ultimately be called in anyway…

The taxi arrived at the shop; he handed the cabbie some bills and jumped out. Crime scene tape draped the door, three police cars and a crime scene van sat in front, and two unmarked cars idled onto the curb.

He flashed his badge and went inside. The lead homicide detective was Barry Childen, an investigator he’d worked with back in the day. Barry’s partner Darren was nosing around in the small workroom.

“Hey, Barry. Hey, Darren,” Ron said.

“Ron, what brings you to see us? This is a little off the ‘psycho patrol’ path,” Barry said.

“The girl’s part of an ongoing investigation. What happened here?”

“First glance, it’s a robbery, but I dunno. The security tape’s missing, there’s a watch on the counter worth a fortune, and the guard is deader than a wooden Indian, but no sign of what killed him. This stinks, is what I think,” Barry said.

“Who’s working forensics?” Ron asked.

“Tom O’Connelly.” That wasn’t such a lucky break. Tom was a prick, really anal-retentive, and held a grudge. Ron and he had butted heads before.

“Great.” Ron walked over to Tess, who was holding a tissue, crying. He felt something move in his chest.

“How are you holding up?” he asked her.

“I—Thanks for coming. I’m okay…no, I’m really not okay…not okay at all…” He could see she was in shock. He smiled at her, or rather grimaced, and moved toward the back room; he stuck his head in and took in the corpse, the wheelchair. He walked back and talked to Barry.

“Are you going to get them out of here after you take their statements?” Protocol was to clear civilians from a crime scene as soon as possible, so as not to contaminate it more than necessary.

“Yeah, but it’s so frigging hot out I thought I’d give them a break for now. They were already in here, so their prints are already all over everything. Hey—check out the guard, tell me what you think,” Barry said.

Barry led Ron over to where a man in a lab coat was studying Jerome quizzically.

“Hello, Tom,” Ron said.

Tom greeted him with thinly veiled animosity. “Well hello, Detective Stanford. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“I was in the neighborhood. What’s the story on our friend here?”

“Weird one. I can’t wait to see the tox report. He appears to have been instantaneously paralyzed. Cause of death is unknown, but my guess based on the cyanosis is suffocation—his lungs stopped working.” Tom scratched his head. “Never seen anything like it.”

Ron peered closely at Jerome’s face, and then studied his neck. “Here’s your method of administration, I’ll bet,” he said.

Tom moved closer. “What? What did you find?”

“Puncture, right next to the Adam’s apple. Hard to make out, but that’s definitely a needle stick.” Barry and the two officers approached to see what Ron had found.

Tom took out a magnifying glass to examine the area. “Hmmm…well what do you know? You may be right.” He looked at Ron. “How did you spot that?”

“I learned it in the Girl Scouts.” The officers laughed.

Ron had seen enough. This wasn’t his kind of deal, although it did appear someone had tortured Tess’s dad. That was extreme for a robbery, as did the paralyzing agent used on the guard. He was glad it wasn’t his case.

Ron’s attention drifted to Nick, who was arguing with one of the uniforms. Ron interrupted.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“I need a pair of gloves so I can look at that watch. It may be important,” Nick said.

Ron pulled his latex gloves from his pocket. “Be my guest.”

Nick slipped them on and picked up the Patek to study it. He stopped, angled it toward the light. “Yup. Thought so. It’s the same one; you can see a hairline scratch it had when we bought it.” He set it back on the counter. “Mr. Gideon sold this to a collector in San Francisco last week, along with three other rare pieces. Maybe you can figure out what it’s doing here.”

Nick pulled the gloves off and handed them back to Ron.

Ron approached Tess—who was no longer crying, but was still dazed—and spoke to her, softly.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Tess. This is horrible, you should have never had to see it. No one should. But these guys are the best. They’ll figure out what happened and get whoever did this. Hold on to my number, and call me if you need anything.”

Tess nodded absently. “Thanks for coming, Detective.” She looked like she was going to start crying again any second.

“Sorry I can’t do more,” he said, and then walked outside with Barry.

“You’ve got a problem, Barry. This is like a black ops hit. I’d run the dad’s background, see if there’s any government in his past. This feels covert or military, you know?” Ron said.

“I was thinking the same thing. He or they were after more than whatever got taken from the safe. Information. And the surveillance video’s gone. The only sloppy part is leaving the watch, and we don’t even know if it’s connected.” Barry shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this, Ron. Spooky. Not the usual stabbing over a dime bag.”

“Thanks for letting me butt in. Call me if you need someone to bounce ideas off,” Ron said.

“Roger that.”

Chapter 13

The police eventually herded Tess and Nick to the sidewalk while the police worked inside. They were standing in an area cordoned off with yellow tape, and a small group of curious pedestrians was gathered around, rubbernecking. A bald head popped out of the crowd, and a voice called Tess’ name. She looked up, and there was Stan. She ran over and hugged him and started crying again.

“Daddy—he’s…he’s dead, Uncle Stan. Somebody murdered him. And Jerome.” Her voice sounded flat, dull.

“What? A robbery? At this time of day?”

“I don’t know. I heard the police talking, and they don’t think so.”

“Then what? I don’t get it. Who’s in charge in there?” Stan was feisty and wanted to get involved.

“I don’t know. I…Stan, it’s so bad. They tore his face up. There’s so much blood.” She stopped, unable to continue.

“Oh, honey. Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say.” Reality was beginning to register on Stan. Robert was dead; killed, in cold blood. Maybe fifty feet from where they were standing. And Tess had found him.

They talked for a few minutes and his watch beeped. The money. Saul. Their meeting. Hell, did it even matter now? Stan decided it did—he’d promised his friend he’d check on the cash; now the money was Tess’s, so his obligation still held.

“Tess, I hate to ask you, but did your dad say anything about some hundred-dollar bills?”

She stared at him blankly, and then pulled a small wad of cash out of her fanny pack and thrust it into his hand. “I know he wanted you to have these. There’s five hundred dollars there. I was getting them at the bank with Nick when…” A look of realization came across her face. “Maybe if we’d been here, none of this would have happened.”

“Or maybe you and Nick would be dead now, too. It can go both ways, Tess. Judging by what you described, you were lucky you weren’t.” Stan kissed her cheek and held her for a few moments. “Are you going to be okay? I’ve gotta run to a meeting, but you call me or I’ll call you. What’s your cell number?”

She told him.

Stan hugged her close for another long moment, and then stepped back, fumbling with his phone as he entered her number.

“I’ll call as soon as I know anything. You can stay at my place if you need to. Anything I have is yours, do you understand? Don’t you dare even hesitate to ask.” Stan clearly felt terrible, leaving her to fend for herself, but she would be there with the police for a long time, and he couldn’t do anything to help her at the moment. He reluctantly moved back through the crowd. “I’ll call.”

His words sounded hollow to him even as he spoke them, and his last image of Tess was her standing, a cop next to her, tears cascading down her face.

~ ~ ~

Stan caught the subway up to West 96th Street, where Saul had been living for over forty years in a pre-war brownstone: no elevator, air-conditioning an afterthought, floors creaky and windows soiled with decades of accumulated soot.

Saul’s business was largely conducted over the Internet these days; his reputation preceded him, so he never had any shortage of work. He’d never bothered hanging out a shingle or opening a storefront. He was regarded as one of the foremost currency authorities in the country, and being one of the top guys in a tiny field, his agenda was full with auction companies and traders requiring his expertise.

The door buzzed and Stan mounted the stairs to the third floor apartment, dazed from the scene at the shop. He was turning the situation over again and again in his mind; it all seemed so surreal. Robert and Jerome murdered for reasons unknown. It made no sense.

He climbed the final flight of stairs, pushed the decrepit doorbell, and heard lumbering footsteps inside. Three deadbolts unlocked with dull clanks, and the door opened inward to reveal the hallway blocked by a mammoth of a man, easily three hundred and fifty pounds.

“Stan, good to see you. Running a little late, I see? I’m getting hungry—you had me worried.”

“Saul, you have no idea what’s happened. Let me tell you, this is a dark day, my friend. A dark day indeed.” Stan entered the apartment, following Saul down the hall.

“What happened?” Saul had never seen Stan so visibly troubled.

Stan described the situation at the shop: the police, Tess, the bodies, the questionable circumstances surrounding the killings, the watch exchange. Saul, who was naturally paranoid, was already in full roar with possible theories as to what had happened. Stan cut him off. He knew his friend well, and knew that if left unchecked, he could become a perpetual-motion machine of speculation.

“I brought the bills for you. Five of them. Don’t spend them all in one place,” Stan said.

Saul was immediately sidetracked. Stan put them on his desk, and noticed an old hundred-dollar bill—a Federal Reserve note from the early part of the twentieth century.

“What’s the story with the old bank note? Surely that’s beneath your level of expertise? They’re hardly even collectible.” Stan enjoyed ribbing him. A little torment was good for the soul.

“That one is very collectible. It’s a counterfeit from the late 1920’s, almost perfect. Came through a Berlin bank, printed by our good friends the Soviet Union under Stalin,” Saul explained.

“You’re kidding. Stalin counterfeited U.S. hundreds? We weren’t at war in the twenties. What’s the story with that?”

Saul explained that in 1928, counterfeit hundred-dollar Federal Reserve notes began appearing in casinos and banks in Europe. The bills were so well done, no one caught them. After four years, the Treasury Department finally got wise because of some of small flaws: the lettering on the reverse side of the bills was cruder than the real thing.

It issued a written warning advising all banks to closely inspect the backs of the 1914-series Federal Reserve notes, and within two months a new set of counterfeit bills started circulating. They had the original flaw corrected, but left another flaw that hadn’t been described in the bulletin: the thumb of the woman holding an olive branch didn’t fully encircle the branch in the fakes, whereas in the genuine article, it did.

Treasury traced the bills to Berlin when the bank passing them failed during the Depression, and eventually the issue went away after the currency was changed to a smaller format. In 1940, a Russian defector confirmed that Stalin had been behind it, counterfeiting from 1928 to 1932, creating roughly ten million dollars’ worth of 1914-series bills. The defector died in a suspicious suicide in his hotel room in 1941, taking the full story to his grave. Every now and then one of the bills surfaced, and this was only the fourth one Saul had ever seen.

“Why haven’t I ever heard that story?” Stan asked.

“The U.S. Government wanted it to go away; they felt that due to the geopolitical situation, it wasn’t in our best interests to call the Russians on it—especially once World War II was underway,” Saul explained. “One of the biggest mysteries to this day is how they got the paper. It was perfect, and obviously from the same source the Fed used. All kinds of conspiracy theories circulated at the time, but nobody ever found out for sure.”

“That’s incredible. So the Russians were screwing us back when we were at peace with them, too.”

“Yeah, that was the period when Russia was industrializing, and they were short on hard currency to buy the machinery they needed.” Saul turned his attention to the new bills. “Let’s see what we have here…”

He felt them with practiced fingers, compared them to genuine bills, examined them front and back with a loupe, held them up to the light, and put one on a digital scale and weighed it. Finished, he sat back with a groan.

“At first glance I’d have to say they’re real. I don’t see anything obvious. The paper looks right, has the strip, and the inks match. Leave them here, I’ll do a more thorough exam later. I’m famished. You feel like a deli sandwich?”

“Deli works for me. Lead the way, my friend.” Stan wasn’t hungry after the morning’s cataclysm, but a deal was a deal.

~ ~ ~

The Asians were also eating, down the street from the murder scene, sitting at a picture window watching the commotion. They really had nowhere to go from there; they needed to figure out a way into the bank and into the safe deposit vault, and identify which box was Gideon’s.

It was just bad luck that years of sedentary living had clogged the watch dealer’s arteries to the point where a little torture could induce a heart attack. They’d figured him to be way too young for that when they’d discussed their options in the store.

The smaller man fished out his phone and placed an international call. The line picked up on the second ring.

“Yes.”

“We located the primary target, however there was a complication and we were unable to secure the package,” the smaller man said in Burmese.

“Where is the package now?”

“As far as we know, in a safe deposit box. But we weren’t able to locate the key. We think one of the assistants may have it, so we’re staying in place until we can identify who works there. Then we’ll be able to finish the assignment,” he said.

“At least it isn’t going into circulation. Is there evidence that any bills made their way into the world?” the voice asked.

“We can’t tell, but I would say doubtful. There was about ten thousand dollars cash in the safe, so any short-term requirements would have probably been met that way.”

“Very well. Let me know if you need anything.”

The men exchanged a glance. They had to find the key, and to do that they needed the crime scene to be vacated by the police and things returned to normal. That could take all day—maybe even a few days. In the meantime they were dead in the water.

The taller man ordered a soda and settled in for the duration, watching the crowd watch the police watch the forensics group.

~ ~ ~

Ron went by the dead girl’s apartment with a crime scene team, looking for anything that might give them a clue on the identity or motivation of the killer.

She’d been renting a small studio in a run-down building, no doubt all she could afford. Posters on the wall celebrated various films noirs and techno-music releases. The décor was urban hippie; lots of trinkets and inexpensive Asian paraphernalia and decorations. Incense holders sat beside ashtrays, the butts of menthol cigarettes stubbed out haphazardly.

A small jewelry chest concealed a stash of marijuana and a few other chemical fortifiers: two hits of ecstasy, some Vicodin, and a bottle of prescription Klonopin from a pharmacy on the Upper West Side. That might have explained the Klonopin in her system. Or maybe not. Klonopin was a ubiquitous anti-anxiety medication, however, mixed with alcohol it was also a popular college knockout cocktail for guys who didn’t have the patience to wait for the green light from dates.

They spent several hours going through her things, and the impression Ron got was that she was a party girl having a good time, living la vida loca. Some birth control pills and condoms were ferreted away in the bathroom, so she was probably dating new men on a fairly regular basis.

She worked for a small import/export company on the West Side. There could be a link there, Ron thought—maybe one of her co-workers knew both Loca and her? There were a million potential threads, all possible, but unlikely. In Ron’s mind it circled back to Red Cap; that was the connection. He dutifully made a note of her employer’s address and booked a reminder to talk to the staff there. No doubt it would be another colossal waste of energy.

There wasn’t a lot to go on, nothing that stood out, and after spending the better part of the afternoon digging through the victim’s belongings, they were no closer to a breakthrough.

~ ~ ~

The killer thought about the interview that morning. It was inconvenient the murders had already been linked to the company, although in retrospect that was inevitable as he collected more trophies. He didn’t completely understand his compulsion for bike messengers; maybe it was simply his proximity to them, or maybe it was that they were all in such amazing physical shape. The girl at the club had been very satisfying, but not nearly as much as Loca. Something about messengers got his juices flowing.

The detective was bad news. He emanated danger to the killer and made him very uncomfortable; the man’s questions suggested he knew more than he was letting on, although he figured they were intended to create that impression. He wasn’t worried—he’d covered his tracks—but it was disturbing to have eyes prying into his work. He was finally getting somewhere, progressing in his highly-personal quest. He didn’t know how many more pretties it would take, but he was confident he was closer than ever.

Tonight was hunting night. He’d selected his next target carefully, had been eyeing her for some time. She was a lying whore, just like all of them. But two could play that game. She did have great hair and nice boobs, which in the end was more important than her character.

The cop was a concern, though, and not one to be treated lightly.

The killer hummed in the bathroom as he washed his hands, which he did at least thirty times a day; enough that he had to use moisturizer to keep his skin from cracking. The world was a filthy place, full of nasty, dirty people, and one couldn’t be too careful. Let the rest of the peons contract e. coli poisoning or infectious diseases too horrible to imagine. Not him. That was probably why he’d always had a hard time with sex—it was so squalid, so sloppy and gross, just teeming with filth and nastiness ready to infect an unsuspecting victim.

His mother had drilled that through his head again and again; as a devout Christian woman and a strict disciplinarian, she would wax distressed for hours on the perils of the flesh and the risks people encountered when they “got up to no good.” He’d been hearing that ever since he was a small child, and had no doubt it was true. All one had to do was open the newspaper to read about the evils running rampant through the population: AIDS, syphilis, herpes, gonorrhea, hepatitis C, parasites, warts, even flesh-eating bacteria.

No sir, he wasn’t interested in any of that.

He could still remember her vividly describing how men’s flesh would rot off their faces, and huge open sores would appear, pain beyond anyone’s imaginings afflicting the nerve endings. She’d impressed upon him that you could never tell by looking at a girl whether she was a cesspool of corruption and depravity—just to assume they all were.

When AIDS had surfaced, she’d seen confirmation of the righteousness of her beliefs, and had reveled in clipping newspaper accounts of the host of horrors afflicting the sinning masses—all because they were so vile, so profane and lascivious.

He kept humming as he exited the bathroom, with clean hands and a clean heart. To all appearances, a man with not a care in the world.

“Don’t you want me, baby…”

~ ~ ~

Tess was waiting for the officers to give her a ride home. They’d insisted on extending that courtesy, probably because they didn’t want her trying to navigate the city streets in shock. Nick was answering the fourth or fifth round of questions from the detectives, becoming more irritated each go-around. The forensics team was still doing their crime scene cleanup, which could last many more hours.

Nick broke away and approached her.

“Tess, I need to be here for awhile. Why don’t you go home, and I’ll meet you later?”

“Okay, Nick. I’ll do that,” she said, her mind a million miles away.

He checked his watch and smacked himself in the forehead.

“Shit.” He’d forgotten his gig that night. “I’ll be really late. I’ve got a show, and we can’t cancel. Will you be all right alone?”

“Sure, Nick. I’ll be fine. I’m not planning on going anywhere. You go do what you have to do…”

“I’ll call when I get done here,” he said.

“Fine, Nick.”

The officer waved her over. She unlocked her bike and disconnected the front tire from the frame. They managed to fit it into his trunk. The last image Tess saw before they pulled away was a gurney with a dark green body bag being wheeled toward a waiting ambulance.

~ ~ ~

Amy scratched her head as she read the toxicology report on the second victim. There just wasn’t anything that could have killed her. She’d personally gone over every square inch of both Loca and the second girl’s bodies, and there were no punctures or injections. Stomach contents were normal. There was nothing to suggest suffocation, or drowning, or electrical shock, or anything else that would explain her passage to the next world.

There was no evidence of sexual abuse—at least according to the conventional definition—either pre- or post-death, so that motive was as dead as they were. Amy had no doubt that serials like this one were driven by sex at some level. Sex and anger. The overwhelming majority of serials were males in their late twenties to early forties—it took a while for all that anger and frustration to build to a head.

Her phone rang.

“Amy Silva.”

“Hi Amy, it’s Ron. Listen, can I ask you to do me a big favor?”

“That all depends on what you have in mind, Ron.”

Ron hesitated. Was she flirting with him?

“Your colleague Tom O. is working a double homicide from this morning over on West 47th,” Ron explained.

“I’m listening.”

“One of the two corpses was a security guard with pronounced cyanosis, and I found a small puncture in his neck. He didn’t move, so I’m betting whatever the agent that killed him was, it paralyzed him first, probably instantly. I’d really like to know the results of the toxicology scan,” Ron said.

“What were you doing at a double murder in mid-town? Is it related to our serial?”

“Peripherally. Or at least maybe,” Ron countered.

“Tom can be tight-fisted with his info, Ron, but for you I’ll do my best.”

“I appreciate it. Any updates on our two girls?” Ron asked.

“It’s strange. We know he’s killing them somehow, but I can’t find any indication as to how.”

“Could it be an aerosol? Something they inhale?”

“I thought about that, but the lungs aren’t giving up any evidence, and neither are the nasal membranes. And nothing’s showing up on the tox screens. So that’s a dead end.”

“Well he’s doing it somehow. I have a bad feeling we’ll get another shot at trying to figure out how.” He paused thoughtfully. “What about the blood? Where’s the blood? There should be at least some.”

“We found a bloody garbage bag in each of the dumpsters so far. We think he puts their heads on the bags before he scalps them. The blood pools to their backs once they’re dead, so there’s virtually none from the breast cuts.”

“He really tries to think of everything, doesn’t he? I just wish we knew why he was doing it; then we could predict with some sort of accuracy.”

“We’ll figure it out. It’s just going to take time.” Amy was trying to be upbeat.

“That’s running out, unfortunately. Thanks, Amy.”

~ ~ ~

Ron reviewed the stack of messages that had backed up while he was out interviewing, scanning them for any feedback from the national databases. One of the calls was from the FBI’s data center; the branch responsible for the agency’s cross-matching and profiling. He dialed the number.

“Jim Corell, FBI.”

“Hi Jim, Ron Stanford from NYPD. I was running a search for a serial who’s taking trophies and doing some very specific mutilation, and I got a message you called…”

“Hello, Ron. I saw your query and I tried for more obscure match-ups—files that didn’t necessarily have a one-hundred-percent match, but that were still interesting. There were two young women killed over a year ago in Ohio who’d been scalped, but there wasn’t anything resembling the eyes and the breasts. Not recently, at any rate.”

“What do you mean, not recently?” Ron asked.

“Well, about four and a half years ago, there were several punk rock-related murders in Pittsburgh, where someone took the eyes and the breasts, but no scalps. So close. But not that close,” said Jim.

“Could you e-mail the files on both of those, please, let me look them over? I think I vaguely remember reading about the Pennsylvania cases,” Ron recalled.

“Sure. And keep us posted if more of these come up. We try to stay current on the latest fashions in Crazy Town.”

“You bet.”

~ ~ ~

A late lunch with wine had made Gordon sleepy, and he’d decided to call it an early day and take a nap. The market had closed down; he’d made his money and bought his options, and walked away up for the day except for his oil futures, which were tanking. Not to worry, pretty soon there’d be a bigger demand for oil than anyone could have predicted.

He’d found the Burmese several banking contacts in Japan and Europe who would accept large cash deposits—they could confidently say the money wasn’t drug-related when it came from a government, even if one so closely associated with the heroin trade and Chinese criminal syndicates. So the conduit and distribution system for the first wave was in place.

Gordon Samuels didn’t consider what he was doing to be criminal or treasonous. His perspective was that he was simply leveraging a risky business opportunity. He had no particular dislike for, or allegiance to, the United States, or for that matter, Myanmar; he considered himself a pragmatic citizen of the world whose soon-to-be-billionaire status would enable him to be a nation unto himself.

Gordon rationalized that the U.S. was just as guilty of reprehensible behavior as any other nation, and shouldn’t be immune from the repercussions when smaller, less fortunate, countries tried to get a piece of the action. It wasn’t like he was aiding in genocide or shipping nuclear secrets to terrorists. He was just participating in a money-making opportunity that would ultimately only cost the American taxpayers an inconsequential percentage of their worth. Hardly noticeable—a sliver, a rounding error compared to the trillions confiscated by the banks in the financial crisis.

His cell phone vibrated.

“Samuels.”

“Ah, we seem to have a situation. We may need to ask for some local help in the near future.” The voice was unmistakable.

“Whatever I can do, I will,” he said. That was the only acceptable response, but he didn’t want to get into too much detail on a cell phone.

“It is possible we will call you again on a landline over the weekend and ask you to help our friends. They are making progress, but may have hit a stumbling block. It is too early to know for sure.”

“I’ll remain available at all times,” Gordon said, wondering what they wanted.

“Your understanding is appreciated. Perhaps it will be unnecessary. We will not call unless it is unavoidable.”

“Whatever you need, if it’s feasible, I’ll deliver.” Gordon had a good network of friends in high places. He figured they wanted him to call in a favor or two and get them some information. No big deal. It wasn’t like they were going to ask him to transport a dead body in his trunk or play trigger man.

“Have a good weekend,” the singsong voice said.

“You too.” Gordon stabbed the off button, calculating. He really couldn’t wait to get home and take that nap.

~ ~ ~

The police finally finished at the shop at five-thirty. The crime scene tape stayed across the door, and two officers watched carefully as Nick locked it, set the alarm, and pulled down the metal grid to protect the glass storefront. He gave them his contact numbers in case they needed to get into the shop again—they’d ordered him to leave it closed and taped for a week.

Nick had no problem doing so—technically Tess now owned the store and the inventory. He’d made a list for the police of the stuff her dad had kept in the safe, for placement on the “hot” list, and left a copy in the store so Tess and he could file insurance claims once she was back to normal.

Normal.

He wondered how long it took to get back to normal when you’d found your crippled dad tortured and killed.

Nick liked Tess, but it wasn’t love, and he didn’t pretend it was. He thought she was a cool chick, but he was in a band and wasn’t interested in getting tied down. He’d met her when she’d came into the shop to visit her dad, and they hadn’t started dating until almost two years after they’d first laid eyes on each other. One afternoon he’d invited her to a show, she’d accepted, they’d hung out, gotten drunk after, and fucked like minks all weekend.

They were enjoying the physical stuff and the companionship, but not thinking about anything more. That was fine by him. He had the band, which was priority number one, and the gig with the watches. He’d learned about them from his dad, who collected rare timepieces—fifty-two at last count. Nick had been raised around expensive wristwatches, had learned their nuances while growing up, and knew them cold.

When Robert had advertised for an assistant, Nick had figured he’d might as well apply. He’d correctly identified the first three watches Robert showed him, surprising the older man and landing Nick the job. That was four years ago, and now he knew as much about Pateks, Rolexes, and Breguets as Robert did.

As Robert had.

Nick lived in a little apartment by New York University, but spent most nights with Tess. He’d graduated from NYU with a degree in philosophy, which was useless in the real world but had interested him greatly while in school. He’d dragged the student experience out as long as possible, but after six years he’d exhausted his academic excuses and his parents’ budget.

So he got the watch job and played with his band, which was enough for now. His dad threw him cash here and there so his life was comfortable, and he knew someday the family fortune would come his way, split with his sister. There’d be plenty to go around, so he wasn’t stressed over the future.

Nick checked the time, calculated he had a few hours before load-in at the club, and decided to return to his pad—take a shower and get ready for the show.

The Asians regarded each other as he ambled down the street, and proceeded to follow him from a safe distance.

Chapter 14

Tess lay on her couch, having slept for several hours after crying herself to sleep. She surfed aimlessly through the channels on the TV, hardly registering the programs, not caring. It was just something to do.

She reflected on the day, her dad’s killing, Loca’s murder, and felt dead inside. If she’d been the drugs or heavy booze type she would have been blotto right now. But that wasn’t her thing.

She’d ignored life for a long time, stayed in denial, lived in her own reality, and everything had been fine. Now she couldn’t do it anymore—life intruded into her world, and she’d been forever changed.

Tess had first pulled into her shell after her dad’s accident. When her mom had died, she’d thrown her back into learning programming, creating her own little safe technology cocoon where nothing could hurt her. After she’d snapped and started her wild period, she’d started using sex as a refuge from reality, and that had also distracted her for a time.

Tattoos and piercings and running with the hard crowd had enabled her to re-invent herself as a tough, street-wise urban warrior woman, and she liked that creation; it beat the hell out of being a vulnerable, scared, weak little girl in the big city. But she’d just been dealt a body blow, and a wave of suppressed feelings had overwhelmed her, uninvited and unwelcome.

Now make-believe wouldn’t work anymore. She had to deal with the real responsibilities of burying her dad and dealing with the shop, and figuring out what to do next besides just waking up and delivering packages.

Tess hurt inside like her guts were going to come out her eyes, and she’d cried so hard and so long her abdomen felt like she’d been mule-kicked. She wanted to curl up in a ball and die, give up, make it stop.

But anger was slowly replacing her self-pity and anguish. The first glimmerings of outrage and fury were emerging at the forefront of her brutalized emotions. Somebody had walked in and slaughtered two innocent men in broad daylight, and done so with impunity. She tried to imagine what kind of human being would torture and kill a defenseless handicapped man whose only interest was in small baubles of infinite delicacy. It had to be a sociopath, someone for whom life was meaningless. And then there was Loca and the nameless girl at the club. Some monster was killing helpless women whose only sin was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What kind of world had she wound up living in, where she could barely count on her hand the number of friends and family killed in one week?

~ ~ ~

The Asians tailed Nick and watched him board a subway running downtown. They got on the next car and stood by the connecting door window, keeping him in sight. The subway was packed with the tail end of rush hour and the beginning of the dinner crowd. Nick was oblivious to his surroundings; they could have been playing trumpets and he wouldn’t have noticed. He stood up after ten minutes and exited the car, and they followed him out along with a third of the remaining passengers.

Nick slowly ascended the stairs to the street and they shadowed him unobtrusively. The area was buzzing with activity, the streets teeming with college-aged kids and the flotsam that frequented school perimeters: the rastas, the haris, the burnouts, and the perennially stoned. He entered an apartment complex, and they took up a position across the street at a small restaurant. It was a beautiful evening and they had nowhere else to be.

~ ~ ~

Stan called Tess at 7:30, checking in on her. He offered to bring her dinner; she politely declined. She did want to talk about her father’s last days, though. She’d been churning in her head, mulling over the circumstances surrounding his death and the police mutterings about it not seeming like a robbery, and she felt like she was missing some critical pieces.

Tess asked about the hundred dollar bills—how her dad had wound up with so much cash, and for the details of his last adventure; she figured that was a good place to start.

Stan recounted the whole story. He left nothing out and also resisted his natural urge to embellish.

“So that’s why you were questioning the bills,” she observed.

“That’s right. Although my buddy Saul said they look genuine on a cursory pass, so what do I know? We may be trying to read too much into it,” he reasoned.

“And this Korean diplomat bought the watches with a million bucks, cash? Is that common in Dad’s business?”

“You mean in your business? …Sorry, I was just thinking out loud. But it is your business now. You can sell it and get a good premium; there are a lot of folks who’d love to have the customers and the location.” Stan paused. “Anyway, no, to answer your question, a cash transaction that size is rare.”

“Nick said the watch on the counter was one of the ones Dad sold the Korean. What was it doing back at the shop?”

“That, my dear, is a genuine mystery. There aren’t a lot of people who would leave a quarter-million-dollar watch behind, even if they were in a pretty big hurry. And no one interested in robbery could have afforded that watch in the first place, much less would leave it. None of it makes any sense, especially since your dad got the impression the Korean was buying the watches as an investment.” Stan sounded equally puzzled.

“My head hurts the more I think about it. I’m going to take a sleeping pill and hit the sack, Uncle Stan. I’ll call tomorrow, okay?” Tess was fading fast, and realized she wasn’t processing much Stan was telling her.

“All right, beautiful. Why don’t you call the bike place and tell them you’re going to take a week or two off? You’ll need time to deal with things. I’ll be happy to help as much as I can.” He paused. “Your father had a good amount of money, Tess. I think you’ll be surprised, between the life insurance, the shop, and the savings. You don’t have to worry, that’s for sure.”

“Thanks, Stan. That’s a small comfort, anyway. I completely forgot about Red Cap. I’ll call. And I appreciate the offer to help—I have a feeling I’m going to need it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night, Teresa.”

She got one of the night dispatchers at Red Cap, and explained about her dad’s murder. Next she called Nick’s cell and heard guitars blaring in the background. They had a halting discussion; she told him she was going to crash, so he should spend the night at his place—she wasn’t going to wait up. He didn’t have a key to her loft, so he understood.

Finished with her chores, she went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth, swallowed two sleeping pills, and then folded back the sheets on her bed and was asleep within ten minutes, her racing mind finally stilled, if only for a while.

~ ~ ~

Saul was whistling to the radio, munching potato chips. He was aware that he was dangerously obese, and also knew it imperiled his health, but he found it extremely hard to really give a shit.

It wasn’t that he was a stupid or reckless man; he just didn’t have a lot that interested him outside of currency and food. His wife had left him when he was drummed out of Treasury, claimed she couldn’t take his constant paranoia, the obsessive compulsive behavior, yadda yadda yadda. He’d been heartbroken but unsurprised. He was hard to live with; he knew that. And he was too old to change. He didn’t really want to, anyway.

So he’d been left to his own devices, and those devices included mastication and minutiae. Over the years Saul got progressively larger, and spent fourteen hours a day on his passion and vocation—which fortunately didn’t involve a lot of movement, so everything worked out nicely.

His current object of interest was one of the bills Stan had dropped off. He’d just about given up and decided they were real, but something was niggling at him, so he kept at it. His eyes told him it was the genuine article, but his gut said it wasn’t. Eventually his eyes won. He was too tired to stay interested, and had gone over every detail of the bills without finding anything, so he decided to call it a night and watch some TV instead. You could only spend so much time staring at the same thing before you had to take a break, allow your mind to mull over its unconscious observations, so you could start again with a new perspective.

~ ~ ~

Candy was looking good. She knew it. A transplant from Georgia, she was the new Southern belle, self-possessed and full of piss and vinegar. She’d been in the city for three years, working on getting her acting career off the ground. She liked the bike messenger thing, because it kept her in shape, and the hours were flexible enough that she could take off with a little notice for auditions whenever she needed.

Her aspiration was to be a stage actress, and she spent much of her extra cash attending Broadway shows and studying the techniques of the successful. She’d had a few minor roles in some off-off-Broadway runs, but nothing close to the big time. Her story was all too familiar in New York: A promising young talent from Nowhere, USA, hit town loaded with dreams of success and visions of grandeur—usually based on some limited success in some local or regional theatre/dance/talent show—and then got a rude awakening when confronted by the real game, discovering that everybody is equally as talented as them, if not more so, all competing for a limited number of slots.

Candy had kept her nose to the grindstone, but unfortunately she liked to fortify that nose with a little blow and oxycodone now and again, as well as numb some of life’s disappointments with alcohol. She was still young enough at twenty-three to look unspoiled, but the hint of things to come was already peeking through the veneer: hailing from a proud line of trailer-trash on the outskirts of Atlanta, she looked destined to follow in her alcoholic mother’s footsteps.

For now, she was alone in the big city, hardened from the constant humiliations and letdowns it delivered with regularity. She’d accepted tonight’s rendezvous more out of interest in scoring free coke as from any intention of getting busy with the guy. Besides, she didn’t want everyone at work talking about her private life, so any dating within the company she kept discrete.

She was seated at the bar in a large restaurant on the lower East Side, nursing a Cosmopolitan, waiting for him. It was her second, and she was enjoying the buzz. The place was packed, even on a Monday night, and rowdies occasionally jostled her, trying to place drink orders, squeezing in next to her to shout at the bartenders.

She saw her date enter and noted he looked different than on the job. She was pleasantly surprised, and thought if he played his cards right she might be into showing him a good time. She’d see how the evening played—and whether he had any blow.

“Hey, sorry I’m late—I got hung up. What are you drinking?” he asked.

“No problem. You look good tonight; I like your glasses. I’m having a Cosmo. They’re pretty tasty.”

“Oh, thanks. I usually wear contacts. Let’s get you another one.” He gestured to the bartender, pointed to her drink, and held up two fingers.

They made small talk and chatted about work, the people on the crew, summer in the city. She’d had the day off so hadn’t heard about Loca. He didn’t mention it. Instead, he told a joke, and she laughed a little too loudly.

“Do you want to eat here, or someplace else?” he asked, having to shout over the rising noise.

“Why don’t we hit this Brazilian place I know up by Times Square? It’s great.”

The bartender brought their drinks. She took a satisfied sip.

“Sounds super,” he said. “I think I know the place. Twenty kinds of meat?”

“That’s the one. Hey, now that you’re here, save my seat; I have to hit the restroom and freshen up.” She smiled at him.

“It’s safe with me.” He smiled back.

When she returned from the facilities they engaged in more small talk as she finished her Cosmo. He was almost halfway done with his and pushed it over to her. She shook her finger at him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get a helpless girl drunk,” she said.

“Is it that obvious?” He smiled again. Candy had the reputation of being able to drink half the crew under the table. Not tonight. He had to hurry and get her out of here. “Down the hatch!”

She polished his drink in two swigs.

After what seemed like forever, he was able to snag the bartender and pay. Candy felt the room spin when she got off the barstool, almost going down on the way out the front door. He laughed with her and supported her arm as they pushed past the crowd trying to get in.

They made it out the door. Candy was already fading by the time they lurched down the block. He paused at the mouth of a small alley.

“I—I…think I…I mighta drunk a li’l too much…”

“What you need is a line. Sober you right up. I happen to have something right here—but we can’t do it on the street.” He stopped, appearing to think. She was probably seeing two of him. “Hey, let’s duck in here and get fixed up.”

He guided her into the alley, past the inevitable dumpsters. She was wobbling, knees going. “Why don’t you just lean against the wall, huh? You’ll feel better, Candy. Trust me.” He grinned and placed her back against the wall. She stayed there for a few seconds, and then slowly slid down and collapsed in a heap.

He donned a pair of latex gloves, and then retrieved his bag from under the dumpster and extracted a syringe. He knelt beside her, squeezed her mouth open, and carefully injected one of the veins under her tongue. It was a fine needle, so he had to be careful not to break it off. She stiffened as her blood pressure rocketed, and then her heart stopped. The whole process took three minutes.

The killer peered down the alley to satisfy himself he was still alone. He was really getting good at this, and wouldn’t need more than a few moments to complete his important work. He pulled the garbage bag out of his kit and placed it under Candy’s head; it wouldn’t do to have blood all over the street—wouldn’t be neat.

~ ~ ~

After his set, Nick stuck around to watch the closing band play. He’d been middle bill, which on a week night was the best slot, as many had to go to work in the morning and didn’t want to stay out till all hours.

The crowd was enthusiastic in a drunken, distant sort of way, which was par for the course. The band mirrored them, uninterested and aloof as they played—which was also typical, as bands in the city went. Everyone got what they wanted.

He’d had a few more beers than he normally would on a weeknight, but then again, after what he’d been through, why not? It wasn’t like he had a job to be at in the morning.

Nick’s drummer was trying to convince him to go uptown to a party they’d been invited to. Normally he wouldn’t have been interested, but he had a what-the-hell attitude after his fifth beer, so he agreed.

Oblivious to the scene out on the sidewalk, they piled into the drummer’s van and were off to the party, tearing up the street in a drunken roar of testosterone. Nobody noticed the two Asian men fifty yards from the club, one of whom was smoking up a storm.

The pair frantically tried to hail a cab but there weren’t many around the district after midnight. By the time they got one the van was long gone. After a hurried discussion where they agreed there was no chance of finding the van, they decided to call it a day and catch up with Nick in the morning. The smaller man asked the driver in halting English to take them to the hotel. The driver glanced at them in the rear view mirror and flipped the meter.

He took the long way.

~ ~ ~

Saul bolted upright in his bed.

Of course.

The watermark. Something about the watermark was funny. Something in Ben’s hair.

He flicked on the living room lights, sat at his desk, and carefully slid a bill under his largest microscope to examine the watermark. He pulled another microscope close, mounted a genuine hundred into the slide area, and looked through the lens. It took him a while to be sure, but there it was. The tips of Ben Franklin’s hair were angled just a tiny bit differently in the Asian bill.

Just a little.

It was a detail, nothing more. Amazing. It was such a small difference that most experts would never notice it. Not in a million years.

Not even at Treasury.

Which was dynamite; he had to make a call in the morning. Saul immediately understood it had profound implications for the integrity of the money supply—the most common denomination internationally was the hundred-dollar bill. Serious questions about the authenticity of the globe’s reserve currency would create a crisis of confidence, and could trigger a minor run on the dollar.

But Saul was sure, and he could prove it.

Somebody was minting almost-perfect hundred-dollar bills.

Almost.

Chapter 15

The technicians in the clean room carefully stacked the sheets of freshly-printed currency, waiting for the cutting. They’d found that allowing more drying time on the specially designed racks produced the best results. Experiments had shown accelerating the cure time by exposing the sheets to heat or blow-drying caused the inks to subtly change color, which was unacceptable.

A shredder sat in the corner and surveillance cameras monitored the workers’ activity. Today was the beginning of mass production, and the target was to process twenty million dollars’ worth of bills per day. They planned to work around the clock, and had factored in downtime for repairs on the multiple presses and allowances for drying and cutting.

Each sheet was twenty notes wide by thirty long, and running sixteen presses they could easily achieve their objective. Ultimately, they’d make many times more from stock manipulation and oil futures than they would ever print. The counterfeiting program was just a means to an end.

A delegation of officials from the Defense Ministry and the Finance Ministry were touring the small factory, and to a man, were impressed. All had top security clearances, so there was no concern over information leaks. As they watched the paper being loaded onto wheeled carts in preparation for the first stage, the Defense Minister pulled his counterpart in Finance aside.

“My men are attempting to close the loop on the situation in New York. They feel they’ll be able to handle the matter within the next twenty-four hours,” the Defense Minister whispered.

“I’ve spoken with our contact there and warned him we might have to use his resources. He was amenable to assisting.” The Finance Minister’s voice had the same singsong inflection in person as on the telephone.

“We may require him to open a safe deposit account at the bank where the watch seller had his box. Once we have the key and the number, he can simply go into the vault and remove the currency from the box. The camera operators are unlikely to be watching to check which one he’s opening, as long it’s discrete.” The Defense Minister had talked with his agents and decided that a trusted local entering the vault was infinitely more desirable than one of their agents doing it—especially since they required a handprint for ID at the bank.

“Glad to hear your men are making such good progress.”

“They said twenty-four hours, and they’ve never failed me yet.”

The two men moved back toward the main group. The Finance Minister had his whole career on the line; it had been his idea to counterfeit banknotes and use them to purchase oil. The idea of leveraging their ability to impact stocks in the U.S. markets, and make tens of billions from options, had been Gordon’s; he’d convinced them that printing fifteen billion was nothing compared to making a hundred billion in one year by playing the markets correctly.

The minister knew full well that Gordon would also make a fortune, but he was fine with him doing so as long as they achieved their objective. There’d be more than enough money to go around over the next couple of years—they actually needed forklifts to cart the new hundreds from the printing and drying areas to the packaging areas.

This had been a bold initiative; he’d been able to sell it to their leader and commandeer considerable resources in order to create the necessary infrastructure. He knew full well that if there were any errors, if anything happened to disrupt the plan at this point, his career would be over.

Gordon had set up a personal account for the minister using a million-dollar advance from Gordon’s trading account, so the minister would wind up with around fifty million earmarked for his personal use as well. It was a nice hedge should he ever tire of the Myanmar countryside.

He returned his attention to the tour. There could be no more mistakes or oversights. They all had a lot riding on a successful outcome.

~ ~ ~

Tess glanced at the clock as she entered the bathroom, and was surprised it was already nine in the morning. She’d slept for twelve hours, unusual given that she was usually up at six on weekdays. The sleeping pills had been effective, although they’d left her groggy and vaguely anxious.

That anxiety increased as she showered and ate, and then made the call to her sister she’d been avoiding. They were three hours behind on the West Coast, she remembered, but Tess figured her sister would be up by seven to get the kids ready. A female voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Chrissy? It’s Teresa,” Tess started.

“Tess? Wha…What’s going on? Is everything okay?” Her sister didn’t get social calls from her sibling.

“No, Chrissy, it isn’t. Are you sitting down?”

“What is it? Are you pregnant? Is Dad all right? What’s up?” Chrissy demanded. She already sounded agitated.

“Chrissy, something terrible has happened. Yesterday, somebody went into Dad’s shop and robbed it…At least that’s what the police think…” Tess began.

Chrissy interrupted her. “Oh, my God. Is he all right?”

“No, Chris…No, he isn’t. They killed him, Chrissy. Dad’s dead…” Tess couldn’t go on, started choking up. She heard the phone drop on the other end of the line. Heard her sister start screaming, crying; heard her husband come rushing in, asking what had happened. The phone got picked up. It was Steve, Chrissy’s spouse, whom Tess had always thought was an asshole.

“Teresa, this is Steve. What happened?”

“I was trying to tell Chrissy…someone robbed Dad’s store yesterday…he was killed…it just happened…” She manged through her sobs.

“What do you mean? He died, and you just found out today? Or have you known about this since yesterday?”

“Steve, put my sister on the phone, okay? Please?” Tess asked.

“Why don’t you answer my questions first, and then I’ll put her on the line if I can.”

“Steve, it’s been a rough twenty-four hours. Either put my sister on the line, or I’m hanging up. Get it? I’m not going to subject myself to your bullshit. My dad’s dead, and I need to talk to my sister, not you.” Tess was starting to feel stronger, and was annoyed at Steve’s arrogance. He was an attorney; it came naturally.

“I’m sorry about your dad, but I’m a member of this family too,” Steve started again. “I think I have a right to—”

Tess cut him off. “No, you don’t. You have no rights. You aren’t a member of this family, you just bang my sister. Now put her on.” This was going well, she thought.

“How dare you—” As soon as Steve launched in, Tess depressed the off button.

Screw him. Their father had been murdered, and Mr. Sensitive wanted to prove a point and play power struggle? She wasn’t interested, and had other more pressing things to do with her time. Steve wasn’t always so abrasive, but he had an annoying quality of sneering superiority that had always rubbed her the wrong way. Normally he kept it in check, but what she had just heard on the phone didn’t surprise her one iota.

Tess took a few deep breaths, then dialed Stan’s home number. She got his machine but didn’t leave a message. He was probably en route to his shop; she’d give him a half hour and try again.

She padded into her kitchen for another cup of coffee, unnerved by her interaction with her sister, and still upset from the previous day’s horrific events. As she poured, images of her father laying dead rushed unbidden into her thoughts, causing her to break into tears again. Tess cried for fifteen minutes, until she was emotionally exhausted. She knew her reaction was typical, but also knew she needed to get past the grief so she could deal with the next few days. She wasn’t any use to anyone, including herself, as a basket case. Slowly, she talked herself into a stronger mental space: she was alive, and she would survive; she was independent and smart, tough and fit, and could tackle anything.

Shifting her mental attitude worked and she gradually felt better. She resolved to focus on prevailing in the midst of this tragedy, taking a cue from her father, who had persevered and thrived even after being run down and paralyzed. If he’d been able to do it, she could; she was her father’s daughter and wouldn’t succumb to self-pity.

As she sat staring at her door, blotting her eyes and ruminating about the last twenty-four hours, a hazy image of Detective Ron’s face floated toward the forefront of her consciousness.

What was that all about?

Was she looking for a replacement father figure? Why was she thinking of him, of all people? And why now, in the middle of all this? He was interesting in a shopworn way, but straight-laced conservative guys had never been her deal. So why had he struck some kind of chord in her? Why, in the middle of all this mayhem, did she feel a pull—an attraction?

He had come running when she was in trouble at the shop, so the least she could do was thank him; she rationalized that it wouldn’t hurt to call. She found his card and dialed the office number. It went to voicemail; she debated hanging up, and then decided to leave a message.

“Hi, Detective Stanford, it’s Tess Gideon. I just wanted to thank you for coming to the shop and checking things out yesterday. I know it wasn’t part of your investigation, and I guess I’m just calling to say…I appreciate it.” She felt dumb, but pressed on. “It meant a lot to me that you were willing to drop everything and swing by.” She paused, unsure of how to wrap it up. “I hope you’re making progress with your investigation into Loca’s murder.” She paused again. “Call me if I can help you with anything.” The voicemail beeped—she was out of time.

Call me if I can help you with anything? What was she doing? Tess thought about it; she didn’t know. But she’d felt that calling him was the right thing to do, so she had—no big deal, what was done was done. It wouldn’t kill either of them. He probably got calls from interviewees all the time. She hadn’t offered to sleep with him, just said thanks, that was all.

She recognized that her emotions had been all over the map in a fifteen-minute period, and that she probably shouldn’t be calling anyone else right now. She went into her bedroom and pulled on her bike shorts and a jogging bra.

She heard her answering machine pick up while she was brushing her teeth. It was her sister, her voice sounding scared and angry. What else was new? Tess would call back later. Right now she wanted to get out and forget about everything, push herself hard and feel the burn.

Tess filled her water bottle, threw her cell into her fanny-pack along with twenty dollars, and carried her bike downstairs and out the front door. When she stepped outside, the heat slammed her in the face. It was stiflingly hot and very humid; thunderheads loomed in the distance, threatening showers later in the day and ensuring the humidity would stay unbearable for the duration.

She swung her leg over the saddle and pushed off, launched herself down the street, and began pedaling in earnest. She figured she’d be back in a few hours. Life could wait.

Inside her phone was ringing again, but when the answering machine picked up nobody left a message.

Chapter 16

Saul carefully documented the issues with the watermark so there could be no argument. After poring over the bill for a few more hours he’d noticed another glitch: the 1789 at the base of the small green “Department of the Treasury” seal on the right front portion of the bill, which had the number 100 in gray-green ink superimposed over it, had a slight flaw in the 8. The base of the 0 in the 100 on the genuine hit to the left of the 8, whereas on the counterfeit it hit dead center. It was a variance that appeared from series to series, but not within the same run.

The watermark slip was harder to be sure of, because each series was different. If ten hundred-dollar bills’ watermarks were compared, there would be slight variations among all of them, right down to the facial expressions. Before starting his comparisons, Saul had made sure to find a similar series, both the genuine and the counterfeit having a reference number starting with F. He kept over six thousand dollars’ worth of hundreds starting with different letters, for exactly this sort of comparison.

This was a fake—the best he’d ever seen.

He placed a call to his old office at Treasury in Washington, D.C., steeling himself for a battle ahead. He was viewed by many there as a nut and alarmist, so he’d avoided calling for seven years.

“Treasury Department, how can I help you?”

“Ken Pritchard, please.”

“One moment.” Thirty seconds went by.

“Ken Pritchard’s office,” a female voice announced.

“Hi. I need to speak to Ken, please. This is Saul Balinsky,” Saul said.

“May I ask what the call is in reference to?”

“Just tell Ken that Saul B is on the line and needs to speak with him immediately.”

“Please hold.” Several minutes passed.

A cautious voice came on the line. “Ken Pritchard.”

“Ken, this is Saul Balinsky.”

“Yes, Saul, long time no talk. What can I do for you?”

“Ken, I have a situation. I’m looking at a hundred-dollar bill that is without a doubt the best forgery I’ve ever seen. The paper’s right, the strip perfect, the inks, the etchings. The only telltales are the watermark, and a hiccup in one of the numbers,” Saul explained.

“Saul, we’re aware of some bills out of Russia, we’ve documented and circulated bulletins on them…” Ken had been Saul’s old supervisor. He was a career bureaucrat who wouldn’t have known a forgery if it bit him.

“This is a newer bill—2006 series. It passed every test there is. No bank would be able to tell, and an airport currency exchange passed it as clean. So unless you’re telling me a bill that Wells Fargo or B of A would certify as genuine isn’t important, pay attention. You have a problem. A big one.” He stopped. “Ken, they got the paper right, even the red and blue fiber counts. This isn’t amateur. It looks like big time, maybe even a foreign government.”

“Saul, with all due respect, that’s pretty unlikely. No country would risk our wrath by counterfeiting our currency.”

“Russia did in the late twenties. What’s to stop it from happening today? Some Middle Eastern backwater, or China, or North Korea, or Russia? There are a lot of people out there who hate us, Ken.”

“Look, Saul, I don’t discount that a lot of countries despise us. But this is pretty farfetched…” Ken wasn’t budging.

Saul had one trump card left. “That’s probably what mid-level bureaucrats thought when presented with airline-related terrorist warnings before 9/11. How would you like to be the guy who ignored the suspicious activity at flight schools?” Saul let that sink in. “Ignore this, and you’re him.”

Ken considered that. “All right, all right. I’ll send a couple of agents by to pick up the bills. Are you still in New York?” Ken still didn’t sound convinced; he was obviously just covering his ass.

Saul gave him the address. “Ken, I know we’ve had our differences, but this is Treasury’s worst nightmare. Trust me on that. The bills came through Korea. It could be China, or North Korea, or South, or one of the other countries around there, or any of the criminal syndicates in the area—but whoever, they’ve got the inks, the paper…and the expertise.”

“I believe you, Saul,” Ken said, in a tone that screamed he didn’t.

“If there’s thousands or millions of these hitting the market, you’re screwed, Ken. Send the agents by and I’ll give them some bills. Oh, and by the way—these are from a set of a million dollars’ worth. It’s not a backyard operation. Take this seriously.” Saul had done his best; now the country had to depend on a dolt like Ken.

No wonder America's adversaries weren’t worried.

“Where did you get the bills from, if you don’t mind my asking?” Ken inquired.

Saul told him the story about Robert getting them from the Korean and giving Stan the bills for verification, and then being murdered.

“Okay, Saul. I’ll get someone over there today from the New York office. Thanks for contacting us.” Ken could have been talking to an eight-year-old.

“You’re welcome.” Saul hung up, frustrated with the system that allowed wonks like Ken to run divisions responsible for important security issues. God help us if the Kens of the world were the only thing standing between us and the bad guys, Saul thought bitterly.

~ ~ ~

Ken called his subordinate and told him the story; he asked him to call the New York office and have somebody stop by and take a report from Saul. Saul’s name triggered a laugh from the second-in-command, who’d been in the same department back in the day.

“Is Saul finally wearing a tin foil hat to keep the voices away?” he joked.

“He seemed pretty serious about this. Just have a couple of guys stop by and shake hands, take the bills and bring them in for testing. You never know. Saul was eccentric, but he was also very good.” Ken had the survival skills of every good bureaucrat; he didn’t want a balls-up on his watch.

“You got it, boss. Two agents to Crazyville, on the double.”

“Save the comedy, would you? Just do it,” Ken snapped, annoyed by the familiarity in the response.

“Uh, yes, sir. Sorry. It was a little humor, is all. I’ll call immediately.” He hung up and called New York to explain the situation to the agent in charge and give him the address and phone number.

New York indicated they’d have someone stop by within six hours.

The subordinate logged the information, and per procedure, put out a low-level internal alert signaling a possible counterfeit had turned up in New York.

~ ~ ~

Gordon Samuels’ Treasury contact called him within half an hour.

“Samuels.”

“Gordon, remember you asked to keep you up on anything unusual out of New York?”

Gordon’s blood turned to ice.

“Oh, right. I remember. What’s up?” Gordon asked, his tone casual.

“We got a report of a high-grade counterfeit from a former employee, a guy who’s well regarded in some circles. Name of Saul Balinsky. Was that what you were looking for?” The contact sounded alarmed and suspicious. “Don’t lie to me, Gordon. Does this trace back to our thing?”

“I don’t think so. I was asked to keep another friend informed of anything unusual. This may be nothing. I’ll make some calls. Do you have contact info on Mr. Balinsky?”

“He’s in the book. Not a hard guy to find, I should think. He’s kind of got a rep in Treasury as a kook. Conspiracy theorist.”

“Oh, one of those? Well, maybe I won’t even waste my client’s time then. Counterfeits don’t sound like what they were looking out for.” Gordon was a good bluffer. Inside he was in turmoil, but his voice sounded bored.

“What were they looking out for, Gordon? Again—tell me straight.”

“Beats me. I just promised to keep an eye peeled. I’ll get back to you if this is of significance. Thanks for the heads up.” Gordon replaced the handset with a frown. Bills surfacing were a disaster. They had to retrieve them before Treasury got their hands on the notes. Had to. It was his good luck that the guy who’d spotted the fakes was viewed as a nutcase; that meant any follow-up would be low-priority.

This was bad, but they could still salvage things. He placed a call to Myanmar, the minister’s personal line—a home number he’d been given for emergencies.

The difference in time zones put the call in the middle of the night there. The phone rang for a long time. Eventually a groggy and annoyed voice answered. Gordon apologized for calling so late.

“Gordon? What’s wrong?” The minister sounded dead on his feet.

“Very bad news. Some of the bills surfaced with a currency specialist here in New York. Treasury will be going over any time to pick them up. We’re dead meat if they get their hands on the notes, and our contact is nervous. This is as bad as it could possibly be.” Gordon wanted to make sure the minister understood the magnitude of the problem.

“That is bad news. Do you have any contact information for this currency specialist?”

“Yes.” Gordon gave him the details, having already looked up Saul’s info.

“I’ll see this gets taken care of immediately. Treasury will never get their hands on these bills, rest assured.” The singsong voice sounded worried for the first time.

“I have a lot of personal money at stake in this, as well as most of your holdings. We can’t afford to have this blow up. It would ruin us all,” Gordon said.

“I completely understand the gravity of the situation, Gordon. Probably better than you. I’ll get back to you once we’ve dealt with this.”

Chapter 17

Ron sat at his desk, reading the toxicology and autopsy reports for Loca and Tabitha. He could see why Amy was frustrated over not having a cause of death. She’d run every type of scan she could think of, had spent many long hours going through the results, and had come up with nothing.

He thought about the voicemail message he’d gotten: Tess calling to thank him. He’d been thinking about her a lot, and he wondered, why her, specifically? There were tons of beautiful women in New York he could fantasize about, so why a bike messenger? Well, for starters, there were her green eyes and flawless tanned skin, her luxuriant black hair and her gleaming smile…

He hated to admit it, but the tongue piercing and tattoos made her seem much more exotic; they hinted that there was little that she wouldn’t be interested in doing. And then she opened her mouth, and instead of the expected vernacular, “you know, like, hey, that’s totally cool,” she spoke like an educated woman.

And of course there was her body—lean from constant riding, legs to her chin, and a walk that said she not only knew how to use it, but when, where, and why. Sexy, bright, a little reckless and dangerous, and now a girl in trouble. Potent mix. This could get out of hand quickly if he pursued it, but hitting on witnesses when they were in crisis wasn’t his style. He’d just continue to try to help, out of altruism. Then again, she’d phoned him. “Call me if I can help you with anything.” That was quite an invitation, if he wasn’t misreading it.

Wasn’t his life complicated enough?

He considered the Red Cap connection, and it wasn’t lost on him that she could be in danger if the killer was affiliated with the company. She was without a doubt the most beautiful female among the messengers, and as such had to have come to the killer’s attention if he was targeting the company. He glanced at his watch and wondered if there’d been another killing last night. He would have bet a hundred bucks on it; he felt like he was just waiting for the body to show up. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

Ron called the Red Cap offices and asked to speak to a dispatcher. Frank came on the line.

“Frank Meyer.”

“Hi, Frank. It’s Detective Ron Stanford. I wanted to thank you again for helping with my interviews yesterday,” Ron began.

“Not a problem, Detective. We all want to find out what happened with Loca.”

“Well, we’re working on it. Frank, I wanted to ask a question that may seem off-the-wall. Are all your female messengers accounted for today?” Ron tried to come across casual, but he knew he sounded on edge.

“Funny you should ask. Tess called in last night and said she’d be off for a few weeks. Her dad was murdered,” Frank said.

“I know about that. Pretty awful.” Ron was relieved they weren’t missing anyone else.

“Yeah, I know. Anyway, so Tess’s out, and Candy never came in this morning. She’s been here for a while and knows the drill; she’s never pulled this before, so we’re a little worried. I was going to call you if I didn’t hear from her by this afternoon,” Frank explained.

Ron’s heart sank. He remembered Candy. Vivacious, good-looking kid from someplace in the Deep South; had the corn-pone accent and all the expressions.

“Candy, huh? Has she ever flaked on you before?”

“No, she’s one of the good ones. Most of the girls are dependable compared to the guys. I was hoping she’d call in, say she’d been in an accident or overslept or something.”

“What’s her home address, Frank? I want to swing by and check on her before we get too excited.” Ron really wanted to contain the rumor before it went roaring off the tracks. Frank gave him her address, and asked if there was anything else he could do to help.

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, though. Thanks, Frank.” Ron had decided Frank didn’t fit the criteria for a serial; he was far too old, and didn’t have the requisite guile or craftiness of a serial.

“And I’ll let you know if she calls in,” Frank said.

“I hope she does.”

Ron had been afraid one of the girls wouldn’t make it, and sure enough, no Candy. He called Amy and told her the grim news. She wasn’t surprised.

“He’s going to keep at it until he either gets caught or killed, or some significant event occurs and he disappears. I suppose I should get my kit ready…It’s just a matter of time now.” Amy sounded depressed.

“I’m waiting to get some background on the most suspicious messengers, see if there’s anything ugly in their pasts.” That was his best lead so far due to the complete absence of any physical evidence and a dearth of witnesses.

“It’s as good a place to look as any, I suppose.” Amy sighed. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you sooner rather than later, Ron.”

“Yeah, me too, Amy. Bye.”

Amy hung up and stared at the handset, remembering the favor Ron had asked. She marched down the hall to Tom’s office and stuck her head in. He was sitting at his desk filling out paperwork, looking efficient and interested.

“Hi, Tom. I heard you had a crazy case yesterday. A double where one of the victims was paralyzed? What’s that all about?” Amy took the professional interest route.

“It beats me how this stuff gets on the streets of New York. I first thought it might be some sort of phytotoxin, like they use for blowgun darts in the Brazilian rainforests.”

“You mean curare? That would produce the results you saw—it blocks the acetylcholine receptor sites and paralyzes instantly.” Amy was up on her obscure poisons.

“But the tox screen says otherwise. Makes me think this isn’t a robbery.”

“Doesn’t sound like your usual smash and grab, that’s for sure,” Amy agreed. “What did it turn out to be?”

“Good old tetrodoxin, but synthesized to increase the potency and absorption. When was the last time you saw that in a robbery?” Tom liked showing off.

Amy’s eyes widened. “Wow. Like in fugu? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it being used.” Fugu was a Japanese puffer fish that contained a deadly tropane alkaloid, tetrodoxin, in some of its organs. Every year, several Japanese died from eating torafugu; the amount required to kill a man was only about two milligrams, which would fit on the head of a pin.

Amy knew about it from reading the literature, and it had stuck in her memory because she couldn’t imagine people eating the fish knowing they could die if it was prepared incorrectly. But the question was, why would anyone synthesize it? How much deadlier could you make it…and why would you want to?

“Yup. They had it purified down to where just a pinprick’s worth would drop an elephant. I’ve never seen anything like it—I sent the findings off to Washington for a second opinion.”

“Just when I think I’ve seen every possible type of ugliness, a new one surfaces.” She smiled at Tom, who’d had the hots for her for years. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Well, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the info, Tom.” She smiled again. No harm in turning on the charm.

“Yeah, see you around,” Tom said as the door closed.

Amy returned to her office and called Ron to tell him what she’d just learned.

They were both at a loss as to what it meant. Whatever the explanation, they were sure it didn’t bode well for the investigation Barry was running. Obscure killing agents, tortured watch merchants, abandoned quarter-million-dollar wristwatches—this was not the stuff of which easy and painless investigations were made.

~ ~ ~

Tess returned from her ride soaked with sweat. She’d torn around the island at racing speed, then crisscrossed through Central Park to get some additional miles in. Riding calmed her and acted as a salve on her spirits. She supposed a lot of it was the serotonin spike caused by the exercise—the famous “runner’s high”—as well as the sense of self-sufficiency and freedom of being outdoors, moving under her own power.

She carried her bike up the stairs and positioned it in the usual space in her foyer, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade out of her refrigerator, and plopped down on the couch.

Her answering machine was blinking. She reluctantly rose, approached it, and hit the playback button. Three new messages. The first was from her sister, apologizing for her husband’s behavior and asking her to please call back ASAP.

Whatever. She’d get to it later.

The second message was from Duff. He had heard what happened from Frank, and called to tell her he was there for her if she needed anything. She smiled to herself. Duff used to be a gang member who would kill you for looking at him, but after his daughter was born and he took a bunch of slugs in the back, he had an epiphany and decided to go straight.

One night at the Corral he’d told her about it, and she had been fascinated by the brutality and casual violence of the lifestyle. The money was insane, and he was often tempted to go back to it, until he looked into his daughter’s eyes. That always stopped him cold, and every day he swam upstream and did the right thing, instead of the easy thing—went to work delivering packages containing documents, instead of packages of crack.

That was the sort of story that kept her biking instead of going back to programming: it was a different world on the street—the stakes were life and death. It was hard to live in an insulated pseudo-reality after being immersed in that environment. Tess thought she had an inkling of what returning soldiers felt like, when they left hand-to-hand combat to return to a life where their biggest danger was mowing the lawn. Maybe she was just an action junkie, hooked on the pulse of a counter-culture few ever saw or heard about. Add that to her list of faults, she thought.

She listened to the last message. It was Stan checking in, telling her he was at the shop all afternoon. She made a note to call all three back, and then hit the shower for the second time that day.

~ ~ ~

The two Asian men had been sitting at the café across the street from Nick’s apartment since eight o’clock that morning, on and off. After the first few hours, they’d moved down the street to a Starbucks and hung out there, before returning to the café for lunch. They were wondering if he’d even returned home last night when the smaller man’s phone buzzed. He thumbed it on.

“Hello.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re staking out the watch shop assistant’s house, waiting for him to surface.”

“That’ll have to wait. A currency dealer in New York called the Treasury Department and reported he has in his possession a number of bills that look like ours. Treasury is sending someone over to pick them up.” The voice on the phone spoke with deliberation. “That can’t be allowed to happen.”

“I understand. What do you have on him?” The smaller man scribbled furiously as the voice relayed the details.

“Time is not on our side. Get this handled immediately,” the voice ordered.

“You can depend on us.”

The smaller man explained the situation to his partner; they needed to get into the currency dealer’s place, and needed a pretext to do so.

He pressed redial. The phone answered on the second ring.

“Can you have your local man in New York contact this currency dealer and arrange a cover story for us to meet him? Maybe we have some old currency that needs to be authenticated?”

“Perhaps we can. But that could take some time. Why don’t you see if you can find a way in without involving our man? Discretion is less important than speed at the moment. If it’s an impossibility, then call me back and I’ll see about making an arrangement.”

“We’re on our way.”

They rose to leave. As they flagged down a cab, they saw Nick stumble out of his front door looking like he’d been beaten with a board. They regarded exchanged a glance.

“That’ll be a project for later.” They gave the cabbie an address close to Saul’s building and were on their way.

~ ~ ~

Saul had also tried Stan earlier, and also had gotten the machine. He tried again, having decided his news was way too juicy to impart by leaving a message, and was rewarded when Stan answered.

“Stan Issaks.”

“Stan, it’s Saul. How goes the war?”

“So-so, my friend, so-so. I’m not doing well. Yesterday really got me down, you know?” Stan had spent a restless night troubled by images of Robert lying on the floor, bloodied.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I know he was a good friend. It’s a shame, a tragedy,” Saul said.

“That it is.”

“Well, I have interesting news for you. Your instinct there was something fishy going on with the watch transaction? You were right. Those bills are bogus. They’re the best fakes I’ve ever seen, but still fake.”

“Really. What was the giveaway?” Stan stammered.

“The watermark was the big one. The hair didn’t look right, and then I noticed the facial expression was a little off from a similar series bill,” Saul said.

“Aren’t all the watermarks the same?” Stan wasn’t on the paper currency side of the fence—his specialty was coins. Both men were snobs, secretly finding the other’s fascination with paper or metal beneath their own interests.

“No, they’re actually quite different.” Saul explained about comparing notes within a series.

“That’s quite a catch, Saul. What do you think? Who has the expertise to produce that level of fake?” Stan was beginning to get an idea in his head, and he didn’t like it.

“To be honest? It seems too sophisticated not to be state-sponsored, Stan. I’ve seen plenty of fakes over the years, and these are almost as good as the real thing,” Saul explained.

“Robert said the collector was from Korea. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Why not? Either them or Iran, or Syria, or any of a couple of dozen other countries. Ten years ago I would have said maybe the Chinese, but why counterfeit when they basically own everything now? Ha! I still wouldn’t rule them out completely, though…” Saul mused.

“What can I say? You’re a genius. Congratulations.”

“Why don’t you swing up and we can celebrate my discovery over a nice bottle of wine? You available this evening?” Saul was feeling festive, and feeling festive alone sucked.

“Why not? I can be up there before rush hour hits. I was thinking about closing down early anyway; my heart’s not in it today,” Stan said.

“So maybe five-ish?” Saul asked.

“Even a little before that. You want I should bring anything?”

“No, tonight’s on me. I’ll get some decent red and we can have dinner after we toast. See you then.”

~ ~ ~

The Asians ambled up the street, stopping at the building next to Saul’s. Three stories, stone façade, bars on the windows of the ground floor. Saul’s looked like half the rest of the buildings in that area of the city. There didn’t look to be any easy way up, at least not from the front. The smaller man made a call.

“You need to get your friend to set us up to go in. I don’t see any simple way into the building.” They could pick the lock, but in daylight on a reasonably well-traveled street it was too dangerous.

“Give me half an hour,” the voice said, then hung up.

~ ~ ~

Gordon’s private line rang. He was hesitant to answer, but had little choice at this stage of the game.

“Samuels.”

“We require some assistance, quickly. Treasury is sending agents over to pick up the bills. My men are in the neighborhood but can’t get into the building.”

“And? What would you like me to do?” Gordon was getting a queasy feeling. He was good on the phone or with a computer monitor, but wasn’t prepared to get physically involved.

“I need you to call this Saul Balinsky and make up some reason for my men to see him. Perhaps you have some older banknotes that require authentication? He is apparently an authority on the topic.”

“That I can do. Give me a few moments and I’ll place the call. I still have his contact information.”

“Time is of the essence.”

“Consider it done. I’ll call back in a few minutes to confirm.”

Gordon went online and did a search for antique U.S. currency, and found thirty pages of every imaginable variation. He scratched out some notes, and then took a deep breath and dialed Saul’s number.

And got nothing but ringing.

Time was running out on them. He dialed again. Ring, ring, ring. No answer. Maybe the guy was in the bathroom. He’d give it five minutes, try again.

Gordon paced in front of his picture window. It was two o’clock. Treasury would probably get there before five, so in the very best case they had just a few hours to find all the notes and deal with Saul.

That stopped him. Deal with Saul. What precisely did that mean? How were they planning to “deal with Saul” so the whole affair went away? The enormity of what he’d become involved in hit home. He was going to participate in the murder of an innocent man, a man whose only crime was being unlucky enough to take possession of the bills.

Buck up, Gordon. Think about the billions at stake, not to mention that you’ll lose your fortune if this goes south on you. Sometimes extraordinary measures were required to achieve extraordinary results; that was a cost of doing business.

Besides, he had no direct knowledge that the Asians would kill Saul. They just wanted to get the notes back.

He tried the number again. No answer.

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.”

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 things 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…”

“I know, it’s weird. The world just seems so empty.” Tess couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I…did you get my message?” Chrissy inquired.

“Yeah, although I didn’t really listen to it; I was running through the house while it played.” Tess wasn’t going to let Chrissy’s dickweed husband off the hook so fast.

“I’m…well, you know Steve’s just as upset as you or me…” Chrissy tried again.

“You could have fooled me. He sounded way more interested in attacking me than in offering condolences,” Tess said.

“I’m not going to defend the way he handled that. I just wanted you to know, we’re both sorry it happened that way.”

“Let’s just let it go, okay, Chrissy? We have a lot of things to work through. There’s a funeral to plan, I have to fill out insurance papers, we have to find out if there’s a will. A lot of stuff, and Steve’s not even on my radar right now.” Tess had a mental list of the problems at hand; she declined mentioning the counterfeit bills. Why complicate things further?

“I don’t know if I can get over to the East Coast on short notice for a funeral. Let me know when it will be so I can see about flights and baby-sitters. Steve’s in a big trial and can’t leave town this month at all, and can’t really take care of the kids, and they’ve got summer school…”

Chrissy, in typical fashion, was thinking about what would be easiest for Chrissy. Tess would bet she’d be on the next flight out if travel was a requirement for her to see money out of the will—presuming there was one. Tess always felt disgusted when she dealt with her sister, and was being reminded why she never called her.

“Yeah, everyone sounds really busy. Don’t worry, Chrissy, I was planning to handle everything from this end. You can send flowers or something. No need to disrupt your or Steve’s schedule.” Tess tried to sound neutral, but she knew it sounded snippy.

“You have no idea how hard it is managing a family and taking care of a husband, Tess. Your life is different than mine…”

“Spare me. You have the life you chose. And mine is more complicated than you know.” Tess didn’t have any patience for her sister’s pity act.

“I don’t want to get into this with you. Let’s just agree to talk once you have details on the funeral.” A pause. “And the will.”

Aha. There it was. How much am I collecting? She knew it—pure self-interest driving Chrissy, as always.

“Okay, fair enough.” Tess felt like getting in a dig at her sister. “I might need to ask you for some cash to help pay for Dad’s funeral, Chrissy. I’m a bike messenger, so money’s tight.” Now Tess could watch the squirming start.

“I’ll have to talk to Steve. I know that with the remodel and the kid’s braces, we’re pretty strapped too. I’ll have to see what we can scrape up…” Chrissy hadn’t expected to have to give—the purpose of her call was to get. “I’ve got to go, Tess, the kids are up to no good. I’m sure you’ll manage. Call me when you hear something.” She couldn’t disconnect fast enough.

So Chrissy, who hadn’t worked a day in the last decade, and whose husband made six figures, was going to pawn off the entire expense of a funeral on her bike messenger sister. Did it get any lower? Not that Tess was surprised. It was completely in character.

Tess figured that the insurance would cover the costs, anyway. She’d just mentioned it to get another opportunity to watch her sis in action. The pit viper, as Tess had nicknamed her in high school. Which was actually was pejorative to snakes everywhere.

~ ~ ~

A black American sedan with government plates pulled up in front of Saul’s brownstone and two men got out, wearing sports jackets in spite of the heat, and ascended the stairs to the front stoop. They checked the little glass-paned directory, which only listed three names, and pushed number three. Waited. No response. Pushed it again, held the button longer. Nothing. The first one shrugged and started back down the stairs; the second one tried the door, more out of habit than for any other reason. It opened. He looked down at his partner.

“Larry? It’s open.”

Larry re-mounted the steps as he looked around the neighborhood. “That’s a little strange, don’t you think?”

“Takes all kinds,” his partner David said.

They climbed the stairs to the apartment and rang Saul’s buzzer. Listened for footsteps. Nothing.

“This is a big waste. This guy was always regarded as a freak when he was in Washington; that’s what my buddy told me. Paranoid. He’s probably gone off the deep end, started imagining things.” David had broken a sweat coming up the stairs and it was stifling in the hallway. “Damn, it’s hot.”

Larry tried the doorknob and it turned. They looked at each other.

“Hello? Treasury. Mr. Balinsky? You there?” Larry called down the hall after opening the door. At least it was cool inside.

“Hello?” Larry entered first, followed closely by David. They stopped when they got to the living room.

“Holy mother of God…” David said.

Saul had lost a lot of blood, and it had coagulated around his chair. The mutilation he’d suffered was obvious.

Both men had seen combat before joining Treasury, so they weren’t unaccustomed to death. Still, this was so vicious and so unexpected, even they were shocked. David dialed emergency on his cell and reported the murder, identifying himself and providing the address. The operator told him someone would be there within ten minutes and not to touch anything. David agreed, even as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves he’d brought with him for handling the bills.

Larry slipped on his own pair and they went through the flat. There was plenty of foreign currency and old U.S. banknotes, but no hundred dollar bills. Given the torture and slaying of the currency dealer, they were now taking the counterfeiting charge with deadly seriousness. They opened every drawer, looked on every shelf, in every cranny, even flipping through the pages of the books in the bookcase.

Nothing.

They heard the first squad car pull up, and Larry pulled his gloves off, returning them to his pocket. David was staring at the equipment standing in the far corner of the room. He approached the copy machine and lifted the cover. Nothing on the glass. His partner called out as he lowered it.

“David. On the cover.”

David stopped. There, stuck to the dirty lid, was a new hundred-dollar bill. He would have missed it if Larry hadn’t been staring at him as he fiddled with the machine.

“I’ll be damned.”

He carefully peeled the bill off and dropped it into a baggie, then slid it into his inside jacket pocket and removed his gloves, returning to where his partner was standing as footsteps approached.

“Police. Freeze.”

“Officers, I’m David Kim and this is Larry Torn. We’re with Treasury. We called you.”

“Let’s see some ID. Slowly, use two fingers.” The officers had guns trained on both of them, and seemed jumpy. David did as instructed and showed them his badge. They relaxed.

“What have we got here?”

“In the other room you have a mutilated corpse. Had his fingers chopped off as well as his...well, you’ll see. There’s a ton of blood, and the place looks to have been ransacked.” No point in getting the currency involved yet.

“What are you two doing here?” the cop asked.

David gestured toward the living room. “His name’s Saul Balinsky. He was ex-Treasury. We stopped by to chat, and found him like this. It’s ugly.” The story was technically true; as always, the devil was in what wasn’t said.

The two officers moved past David and Larry into the living room.

“Jesus. You weren’t kidding.” The first cop hit his transmit button, confirmed the 187, and requested backup and a crime lab van. He returned his attention to the two agents.

“Did you guys touch anything? Move anything around? We have to make sure the scene wasn’t contaminated.”

“I walked over to the window to see if there was anything suspicious out on the street.” Larry said.

“And I went into his bedroom to confirm we were alone. Other than that it’s pristine,” David said. They’d established themselves as walking through the area, but left out the search and the discovery of the bill. That was off the table until Treasury and Secret Service figured out how to handle things—assuming the bill was actually a counterfeit, which the corpse made a compelling argument for. You didn’t see torture and murder over nothing, and if this had been a robbery the perps would have taken everything. They hadn’t.

“I wish you hadn’t walked around,” the first cop reproached them.

“Yeah. We thought about standing at the doorway, hoping the killer wasn’t still in here or making his way down the fire escape, but it seemed like a bad idea at the time…” said Larry in an “aw, shucks” voice.

The second cop stepped in. “What’s done is done. I need you to go out in the hall while we secure the scene, and wait for the detectives to get here.”

David nodded. “We know the drill.”

He was hoping it wouldn’t take long, because he really needed to talk to his supervisor and brief him, and get the bill to headquarters for analysis. They hadn’t had time to examine it yet, but if Saul’s expertise lived up to his reputation, they were holding the currency equivalent of nitroglycerine.

Unfortunately, by the time they got done with the interrogation and made it to where they could safely make a phone call without eavesdropping ears picking up the details, the offices were closed, so it would have to wait until tomorrow.

Chapter 20

Ron’s Blackberry went off while he was in the john. Not one call for the last three hours, but the second he’d taken some time to himself, the alarms sounded. What a job.

He made it back to his desk within a few minutes and called the number back.

“This is Officer Jacobs,” a deep male voice answered.

“Jacobs, this is Ron Stanford from homicide. You called me?”

“I think we have another one for you.”

“Where?”

“Down by Houston’s on Park, between 26th and 27th, in the alley around the back.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Ron cursed under his breath. He’d known it was just a matter of time. At least they found this one within a few hours, instead of several days later. That meant the decomposition would be minimal—at least compared to what they’d had to deal with on the other corpses.

He supposed there was always that to be thankful for. Maybe they could get better evidence from what he was sure were Candy’s remains.

~ ~ ~

Tess tried Duff at his home number, which he’d left on the machine. He picked up and she heard a child crying in the background.

“Hey, Duff.”

“Tess?”

“Yeah. Thanks for calling yesterday. It was rough,” Tess said.

“I figured. I heard about it from Frank. That’s messed up,” Duff said.

“It is. He was a gentle and good man. He didn’t deserve to go like that. It should have been from old age at ninety-six.” Tess swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d mostly been able to keep her mind occupied, but every time she thought about the situation she wanted to cry, throw up, and kill someone.

“I hear you. It’s the good ones that get taken from us. Any clues on who did it?”

“No. They don’t think it was a robbery. Which means it was something else.” She thought about telling Duff about the counterfeit bills. Not now. Not until she’d decided what to do about them. “They don’t know what, though.”

“You need anything, you call me. I still got my connections in the ’hood, so you think anything mean is coming your way, call. For real. My boys are bad-asses. The cops are useless.” Duff paused. “You hear about Candy?”

She shivered. “Hear what?”

“She didn’t show for her shift today.”

“Oh, my God…” Tess couldn’t finish out loud.

“There’s some bad shit happening, that’s all I know.”

“And no one’s heard from her?” Tess asked.

“Pug called and left a message. Nobody I know talked to her. I got a bad vibe about this—she’d never miss a shift without calling. First Loca, now Candy. Maybe it’s a good thing you aren’t here right now.” Duff was right, it was a good thing. There weren’t that many female bike messengers; two of them disappearing meant they were being targeted.

“Maybe so. Thanks for the offer, I may take you up on it.” Tess thought about Candy, how young she was, right off the farm. “I hope I don’t have to.”

“Me too. You be good. I gotta deal with my little girl. She’s upset about something,” Duff said, and Tess could hear increasingly strident crying.

“Don’t worry, they grow out of it by the time they hit thirty,” Tess joked.

“That’s a good one. Catch you later.”

“Yeah. You too.”

~ ~ ~

Ron arrived before Amy, which was surprising, as she usually got the call first. The scene was depressingly familiar: yellow crime scene tape strung across the mouth of the alley, police cars blocking the street, a small crowd gathering to see what the fuss was about. Ron flipped out his badge and ducked under the tape, approaching the uniform in charge.

“How did they find the body?” Ron asked.

“The guys from the restaurant were hauling out the trash and smelled something funny. One of them is from Nicaragua and remembers what the bodies smelled like when the guerrillas came through. He’s the one that called the police.”

“Good nose. How’d you like to have that as your memory of home?”

“I thought the same thing,” the officer said.

“Where’s the crime van?”

“Probably stuck in traffic. Rush hour.”

“That’s right.” Just as Ron said it, the van came around the corner. Amy was in the passenger seat, her assistant driving. She rolled to a stop at the alley mouth and got out.

“Hey, Amy.”

“Ron. You look at the goods yet?” she asked.

“Nah. Figured that’s your deal, don’t want to screw up the scene. I have a feeling I know what we’ll find.”

“Candy is dandy,” Amy said, rolling her equipment cart to the dumpster.

Ron gave her twenty minutes to do her preliminary assessment, and spent the time talking to the janitor from the restaurant. He was a nice enough fellow, but had absolutely nothing to add.

Ron returned and spoke with the officers. One of them had seen the body, and it was scalped, with the eyes and breasts removed. Now Ron was sure it was connected to Red Cap—one of the employees or an ex-employee stalking the women. The second girl had probably been an opportunity target, too easy to pass up.

He was angry the interstate background checks took so long. Forty-eight to seventy-two hours was forever when you had a serial going at it with this kind of momentum. And any and all of the winners at Red Cap were flight risks; Ron couldn’t very well hold anyone with no evidence, much less an entire company. He felt in his bones that he’d interviewed the killer, and the killer had known that Ron knew it was one of them, and had still pulled off the meeting. None of the crew had bolted, so obviously the killer wasn’t worried about getting caught. It was disheartening.

Amy waved him over. She smiled, but the circumstances were such that it didn’t hold.

“It’s her, far as we can tell. Same exact deal on the cutting and the trophies, nothing new there. But the body’s in better condition, so maybe we’ll figure out how he’s killing them.”

“I suppose that would be progress,” Ron said.

“I actually have a hunch I know what he’s using. I was reading up on the toxin used on that watch store security guard, and it occurred to me there were similar classes of poisons that wouldn’t show up on a tox screen. The problem I have now is how he’s administering it. It would have to be intravenous, but there are no punctures.”

“You don’t think there’s a chance they’re related, do you? Ron asked.

She looked at him strangely. “No, I just said the guard’s death gave me the idea. Are you okay? Getting enough sleep? You don’t seem to be processing.”

“Sorry. I’m just trying to figure out which of the Red Cap crew is the perp. My mind is elsewhere. Nothing personal,” Ron explained.

“Didn’t take it that way,” Amy countered.

“How long until you know if your theory’s correct?” he asked.

“I need to find out how he’s getting it into their systems… this time I’m going to ask for some specialized scans for giveaway trace elements in the screening. The compound I’m thinking of dissipates quickly, leaving little trace, but if you know what to look for there’s always a footprint.” She looked at him. “Always.”

“Well, we have two more nights until our busy boy goes to work again.”

Ron was distracted by a commotion at the periphery of the crowd. He recognized one of the faces: George Solomon, a reporter for the Post. It was just a matter of time until the press got involved. Ron approached him.

“George, how’s it going?” he asked warily.

“Great. I guess your presence confirms we have a serial working the city? I’ve seen some carefully buried stories over the last week about some women being killed. Wouldn’t happen to be related, would they?” George was a sharp, irritatingly persistent pro with the instincts of a vulture.

“I don’t read the papers, so I wouldn’t know.”

“A little bird told me we have a new psycho scalping young ladies. Care to comment?”

Just what he needed. A leak in the department, which wasn’t a shock. Actually, it was surprising it had taken this long to get out.

“All I can tell you is there’s an ongoing investigation into the murders of several women. The M.O. appears to be the same.” Ron spoke in a lower voice. “Off the record, I’m not going to release all the details of the killings, or we’ll be dealing with copycats trying to get famous.”

“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 said 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 figure 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.

~ ~ ~

The skyline was hazy, the air muggy again as the relentless summer heat seared the streets. Gordon was in his climate-controlled office sipping a cup of coffee his assistant made for him by the pot every morning, a blend from Hawaii used in Roy’s famous chain of restaurants, which he had delivered via air courier. Life was too short to drink swill, he mused. Especially given that he was about to become the city’s newest billionaire.

He’d given serious thought to buying a new Gulfstream, maybe a G650—something that could hop over to Europe and back without refueling, or hit Australia from Los Angeles non-stop. Who needed those pissy little Citations or Hawkers; why not go for the gusto? Figure close to sixty-five million for the plane, another four million or so for the interior, a couple of million a year to keep it maintained. Peanuts in the long run. What was the point of being a billionaire if you couldn’t live the high life?

His private line chimed, and he set the china cup down and picked up the handset.

“Samuels.”

“Good morning. Thank you for helping us out yesterday; everything was attended to satisfactorily.” The singsong voice sounded much more relaxed than eighteen hours before.

“Always glad to assist in any way I can,” Gordon said.

“I’m glad to hear that. I was wondering if I could request that you do us one more small favor. Really not much of an imposition at all, I would think.”

Gordon tensed. He’d learned to be wary when he was told that something would be easy.

“What can I do for you?”

“There is a bank, on Avenue of the Americas, at West 50th, I believe?” the voice said, obviously reading the unfamiliar information.

“I think I know the one you’re talking about.”

“It might make things convenient for all of us if you were to secure a safe deposit box there. Apparently the package we have been looking for is there, and we will require access to the vault to retrieve it.”

“I see.” Gordon thought about it. Was there any risk to him in opening a safe deposit box account? None he could see. “I could do it later today. Shouldn’t be a problem,” Gordon said.

“Call us whenever you’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

Gordon was relieved that he hadn’t asked for much.

“I will. Can I trust our problem has gone away, been resolved now?” Gordon wanted to be reassured they were back in control of the play. He needed a Gulfstream, dammit.

“You may indeed. We were successful, and just need to tie up a few loose ends. The plan is moving forward.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll call later today.”

“Very good.”

Gordon went back to looking out over the city, switching his attention to contemplating yachts. He wondered how much of a difference there was in interior space between 150 and 175 feet. And buy an existing boat, or have one custom built? He supposed either way, a vessel in that size range would be able to accommodate a helicopter—he’d need the ’copter to get from the plane to the boat, after all. Time was money.

~ ~ ~

The killer read the paper with interest. “The Red Cap Killer.” Very nice. He supposed with all the attention he’d have to look elsewhere for his next pretty; the courier company would be too hot. He knew a lot of bars where messengers hung out, including crews from the other groups. Spreading his wings wouldn’t be a problem.

That would throw everyone for a loop—he would take out another one right under their noses, but from another crew. He needed a redhead, maybe a curly-haired redhead. That would be perfect. He was sure he could find something suitable. Red Cap didn’t have any, so he would have been stuck going outside the company for his next one anyway.

He thought about it. Maybe Tab after that? A little chocolate loving for Daddy? She had an attitude—sassy, just asking for it. Tab would definitely be on the menu. But for the time being, he’d have to scout for a redhead. He’d hit some bars tonight and line something up for tomorrow’s little show.

He had a special treat in mind for his dark brunette slot. Loca had mahogany hair, highlighted in the front. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes, and kept her scalp in a ziplock bag just to preserve the sweet, sweet smell of Loca’s essence. But for the black hair, there could only be one choice.

Tess.

She had an attitude too, thought she was better than everybody else. He knew she’d be the best. He’d been watching her for a long while, but it wasn’t the right time. He needed to be closer. He wasn’t there yet. Getting there, but not there.

He whistled as he prepared for the day, and nodded at one of the other Red Cap employees. It was going to be a hot one, yessiree.

~ ~ ~

The NYPD was having a busy morning. They’d cited a van on the Upper West Side for illegally parking in a loading zone all night, and when an inquisitive officer had checked it on his third or fourth pass around the neighborhood, he’d found the back doors open.

The smell inside the van had told him all he needed to know, and when he’d pulled back the tarp lying across the rear cargo area he’d been unsurprised to find someone dead. What had surprised him was the presence of two bodies, both of which had started to swell from the heat, with no immediately-evident cause of death. And both with looks of surprise on their faces, eyes frozen open.

He’d radioed it in, and the coroner had come and picked up the bodies once forensics was done. On the slab in midtown it quickly became obvious that the two had met the same fate as the security guard in the watch-shop murders. A synthesized variant of tetrodoxin.

~ ~ ~

Tess rode hard, enjoying the way her muscles felt as they warmed up and got into the rhythm of the ride. She dodged in and out of traffic, on her turf, in her element. She made it to the little breakfast place with about five minutes to spare, selected a lamppost, and locked her bike and front wheel before going inside. Stan hadn’t gotten there yet.

She ordered a cup of coffee and settled in at the counter, eavesdropping on the conversations at the nearby tables. Stories of drama and betrayal, petty grievances, and relatives in trouble. That got old after ten minutes, so she scooped up a paper from the pile on a table in the corner. The Post. Tess scanned the front headline and almost fainted. She re-approached her seat and ordered some orange juice—she was shaking, the article confirming her worst fears about Candy, and making her feel unsafe, vulnerable.

She wished Stan would get there.

The juice’s fructose steadied her, albeit only slightly. She read the article again and saw the paragraph about the three-day cycle; she’d missed that the first time. So tomorrow night, someone would die again, unless the police—no, unless Ron—could do something and catch him. The hair on her arms stood up.

She thought about her co-workers—or ex-co-workers, she supposed—and tried to imagine which one could be the murderer. It was strange trying to picture any of them killing. It definitely wasn’t Duff. Paco? Not likely; he was a gentle man more interested in discos than anything else.

The rest of them she became less and less sure about.

Luis and Turbo both had drug problems, with Luis liking crack while Turbo favored meth. Tiny was a question mark. He acted like he was gang-related, and had a nutty streak in him—not funny nutty, but the-moon-talks-to-me nutty, no doubt exacerbated by his affinity for psychedelics. He was always talking about the mushrooms he’d scored, or the new types of acid on the street. Skid and Dirter were into anything they could get their hands on: pills, heroin, ice, X, you name it. They were living the punk rock ethic, which was ironically more than forty-five years old. It amused her to think of all the youthful rebellion built around a lifestyle that originated in 1976, before any of the current fans were born.

She glanced at the ancient clock on the wall of the restaurant. Weird; Stan was usually punctual. She wondered if something had happened, if his apartment was still having problems from the pipe or whatever it was.

Tess fished her cell phone from her fanny-pack and dialed his number. The machine picked up and she left a message. He was probably on his way, stuck on one of the subway trains down in the tunnels.

She returned to the paper and breezed through the news section with only minor interest. On page four an article caught her eye, and she stopped, poring over it carefully. A homicide had been discovered on the Upper West Side, a Saul Balinsky, sixty-six years old. Apparent robbery gone badly wrong; the victim was tortured, no doubt to extract information about his cash and jewelry.

Didn’t Stan say the currency dealer was named Saul? She figured there were probably a quarter million or so Sauls in the city, but Saul Balinsky had a very familiar ring to it. With all the action of the last forty-eight hours, she just couldn’t be sure; a lot of it was a jumble, but with Stan running late she was getting increasingly agitated, and now seeing familiar-sounding names below homicide headlines…

Her dad had been killed, cut up and probably tortured, presumably to force him to open the safe. If, and it was a long shot, but if this Saul was the same one Stan had taken the currency to, then he’d also been murdered and tortured, presumably to get him to disclose the hiding places of his valuables.

That was too coincidental. The only thing her father and Saul had in common were the fake bills.

The restaurant jumped at a sudden noise. Tess had dropped her almost-empty coffee cup on the floor, shattering it.

One of the watches had been at the shop when her dad had been murdered. Someone had come a long way to bring it back, and wanted to exchange it for their property—the counterfeits. It all came together in a blinding flash.

Tess was mortified at the mess she’d created with the coffee, but was only partially in the moment, distracted by her reasoning. She threw some cash onto the counter and walked outside, her brain playing out the scenarios to their inevitable conclusion.

If the Saul in the article was the same Saul, then someone was coming for the bills—and the connection between Saul and her dad was Stan, who was now half an hour late for their breakfast.

She paced the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, glancing compulsively at her watch, getting increasingly worried by the second. Her gut was tightening into a ball of acid. Something was wrong. She knew it. Just knew it.

~ ~ ~

At Ron’s office, pandemonium reigned. The press conference and meetings and task-force creation were now the priority, versus tracking and hunting the killer. Ron hated the system’s penchant for wanting to appear to be taking action over favoring results. He had a job to do, had very little time left to save a life, and the last thing he needed was to spend most of his day in meetings, doing information downloads, talking about divisions of labor and wrestling over jurisdiction.

He moved his mouse and his screensaver popped up, and then the program screen from the note pad scan appeared, displaying a phone number. Ron entered it into the reverse directory, a system the department used to skip trace and quickly identify addresses and numbers. Several seconds later a name and address popped up. James Earl, 191 Avenue B. He went back through his notes and looked at the nicknames. Bingo.

It wasn’t as incriminating as he’d have liked. They did work together, so Candy having his phone number wasn’t in and of itself proof of anything, much less a smoking gun. Still, it needed looking into.

Ron’s line rang. His department head wanted to have a meeting in fifteen minutes to get an update on the case and a summary of any promising leads. He swore silently. It was starting already: his day would be filled up talking to people rather than tracking a killer.

He jotted down the name that corresponded to the phone number, and next to it wrote the nickname. He really needed those background checks. He called the department that ran them, and asked when he could get results on his priority case that was now front-page news. They refused to commit, but allowed it would probably be a little later that day.

Ron was out of time. He needed to get ready for the meeting, organize his notes into a comprehensible format, and prepare his position. It was just a matter of hours before the Feds would want to butt in and take control of the investigation—which wasn’t a bad thing per se, but usually added a few more days of transition inefficiency as their team came up to speed. He’d worked on task forces with them more than once, and whenever there’d been a breakthrough it was inevitably because an individual, usually him, had figured something out or had an epiphany.

His line rang. It was Amy.

“Hey, thanks again for the dinner last night,” she said.

“My pleasure. Thanks for the company. It was nice. Though my head’s a little fuzzy from the wine,” Ron complained.

“I was dragging a little too this morning. Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call.”

“Really? It’s not my magnetic personality compelling you to reach out?” Ron teased.

“Well, that, and some interesting information about your buddy Barry’s case—the guard, the one killed with the nerve toxin? Well, two more stiffs showed up today with the same toxin.”

“So, what, you think we’ve got a team working the city? That has to be professional. Who are the new victims? Any link to the watch dealer?” Ron’s brain was processing furiously, trying to make sense of it.

“These were construction workers, doing water damage repair.”

“Where were they found?”

“In the back of their van, double-parked outside an apartment complex on the Upper West Side.”

“Off the top of my head? Either they saw something, or somebody needed something from them. Beats me.” Ron paused. “Were they wearing uniforms?”

“I don’t know. You think they may have been killed just for their outfits?” Amy asked.

“Let me call Barry. If it was my case, I’d be checking to find out what, if anything, the water damage repair guys were working on nearby. Hey, I have to jump into a meeting in about seven minutes, so I need to let you go. I did really enjoy dinner last night, Amy.”

“Me too. Maybe we should do it more often,” she said.

“Let’s plan on it. Gotta go.”

“See ya.”

Ron dialed Barry’s number but got voicemail. He left his cell number and suggested Barry call him when he had a few minutes to chat about the two new bodies Amy had told him about, and the ramifications of a pro hit team working the city.

He saw his boss waving at him. Meeting time. He despised these group grope sessions, but there wasn’t a lot to be done about it, so he picked up his files and moved toward the conference room. On his desk sat the notepad he’d scribbled his findings on. James Earl, 191 Avenue B.

Turbo.

Speed freak, sketchy, wired during interview.

Chapter 23

The taller Asian had been waiting at the café across from Nick’s apartment complex since six that morning. It was just a matter of time until the young man made an appearance. Nick was the last piece in the puzzle, the last one that needed to be dealt with; then they could recover the cash out of the safe deposit box and hop on a plane home.

He’d have to check and find out if they could count and shred the bills in the U.S., or if the minister wanted the cash brought back. Bringing the bills out could present a problem, because transporting wads of hundreds would raise eyebrows at the x-ray security points, and they weren’t traveling on diplomatic passports. They could always put the money into the diplomatic pouch—but then there would be some risk it might not all make it back, and their problems would start all over again.

He sipped his tea and munched on his second croissant of the day. He was going to miss croissants; they didn’t have them in Myanmar. Maybe when he retired he would open a bakery and introduce them into the country. He could call them victory rolls. Hopefully by then prosperity would have taken hold, and such things could be afforded by the populace.

He called his partner, who was staking out the watch store.

“Anyone there?” he inquired.

“Nothing. All quiet.”

“Same here. I wonder if he’s even up in the apartment,” said the taller man.

“Probably still asleep. These Americans are lazy—most don’t have jobs. They sleep till noon and eat cakes. Look at how fat everyone is,” the little man observed.

The taller man took another bite of his croissant and agreed. “Call me if anyone shows up there, and I’ll do the same.”

“You got it.”

He wondered how hard it would be to bake croissants. If this took much longer, he’d have to try one of the chocolate-filled variety. Strictly in the interest of scientific discovery.

~ ~ ~

Treasury was bustling. A courier had picked up the bill in New York early that morning and was on his way to D.C.; he would be arriving within the hour. Ken was reading the report that David and Larry had generated the evening before, a coil of anxiety tightening in his gut as he finished it. Someone butchered Saul to keep them from getting their hands on the bill. Saul had indicated it had originally came from a watch dealer, who’d also been murdered. Ken had taken notes while talking to Saul, and he dug them out. There it was: Robert Gideon, killed on Monday, got bills from a Korean, no name. One million dollars’ worth. Watermark flaw. State-sponsored? That’s all he’d written.

Ken might have been a bureaucrat, and a lazy one at that, but he was organized and had developed powerful instincts for self-preservation. He ran the name Robert Gideon through the government computers and saw an NYPD investigation was underway. He did a global search, and confirmed that on Thursday Robert had flown roundtrip to San Francisco, returning the same day. So far the story was consistent. He did a little more checking and saw the NYPD investigation was being headed by Detective Barry Childen. He looked up Childen’s number on the NYPD directory, and placed a call. Voicemail.

“Detective Childen, this is Ken Pritchard over at the Treasury Department in Washington, D.C. I understand you’re working a double homicide involving Robert Gideon. Could you give me a call at your earliest convenience to discuss the matter? I’d really appreciate it.” Ken left his number and signed off.

His next step was to notify Secret Service there was a potential issue involving state-sponsored counterfeiting. He thought about the Department of Homeland Security, but decided this really didn’t count as a terrorist threat. Now all he needed was for the bill to show up so they could see what all the fuss was about.

The courier arrived half an hour later and dropped the pouch on his desk. Ken picked up his phone to call a lab technician to come and get it, but then reconsidered and took it to the Treasury Department’s state-of-the-art laboratory facility himself. The head of the department met him when he entered and greeted him warily.

“Ken. Nice to see you. We don’t get you down here too often…”

“Mark, I have a project for you. I need to know if this bill is a counterfeit, and if so, I’ll also require an assessment of the technology used to generate it. Can you make this your top priority?”

“Well, let’s see what we have here,” Mark said, opening the pouch and dumping out the baggie containing the bill. He donned latex gloves and grabbed a set of forceps, then gingerly pulled the bill out and placed it on a backlit work table that featured a large magnifying glass mounted on an elaborate swiveling system. “Hmm. The paper’s right, the security strip is right, the inks look right…hmmmmm.”

“Saul Balinsky said he’d evaluated it and determined it was definitely a fake,” Ken said.

“Saul B.? He’s the best. If he says it’s a fake then it’s a fake, all right. So far it looks kosher to me. Give me some more time to go over it. This could take a while,” Mark said.

“Saul was tortured and murdered yesterday to prevent this from getting to us. Treat it as top secret, please,” Ken advised.

Mark looked up at him. “Are you serious? Someone killed Saul…over this? Holy shit, Ken. I’m speechless.”

“Yeah, it’s a tragedy. But Saul said this was the best forgery he’d ever seen—said something about a small flaw in the watermark when compared to another similar series being the only giveaway. I’m taking this very seriously.”

Mark scrutinized the watermark. Very carefully.

“Looks fine to me, Ken. If this is a fake, we’re in trouble. If I can’t find a mistake after five minutes of careful examination, then we have a very real situation on our hands,” Mark said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Just call me as soon as you have definitive results, okay?”

“That’s unbelievable about Saul. Tortured. Poor bastard.” Mark went back to studying the bill. “I’ll ring you when I have something.”

“Do that.”

~ ~ ~

Tess was having a full-blown anxiety attack. It was ten-fifteen and Stan hadn’t shown. She tried his home and shop phones again, twice, and nothing. She was beyond worried. Her gut told her she’d seen Stan for the last time. She looked at her phone log for dialed calls, found a number she’d called on Monday, and pressed send.

When the beep sounded after the voicemail greeting, she left a message.

“Detective Stanford? Ron? This is Tess. Tess Gideon, from Red Cap? I’m sorry for bugging you, but I think I have a problem with my dad’s friend, Stan. He was supposed to meet me today for breakfast and he never showed up. And…well, this may sound stupid, but he has a friend named Saul who lives uptown on the West Side, and I saw there was a man named Saul murdered there yesterday, and with my Dad having just been killed…I—well, I just don’t know what to think. Would you please call me back on my cell?”

Tess hung up feeling stupid, humiliated. The message had seemed dumb even as she’d left it, and she’d sounded weak and scared. He probably thought she was a psycho. Maybe he’d cut her some slack since her dad had just been murdered. It wasn’t like he had better things to do, like catch serial killers or anything really important.

She consulted her watch one more time; she had to get going to make it to the shop by 10:30. She unlocked her bike and slipped the front wheel into the forks, snapped it into place and bounced it a few times out of habit to confirm it was seated properly, looked both ways, and then pushed off into the Manhattan traffic.

~ ~ ~

Nick carefully unstuck the crime scene tape from the storefront, rolled up the metal cage, unlocked the door and disabled the alarm. It was weird being back at the shop knowing he’d never see Mr. G or Jerome again. He didn’t bother turning on the lights; there was plenty from the windows, and he didn’t want to have Tess see the bloodstain in the back room. He gingerly stepped over it and went into the filing cabinet in the rearmost recesses of the store to retrieve the customer lists and inventory sheets. He’d stashed the cash receipt in the same file, so that killed two birds with one stone, he thought to himself, and then cringed inwardly.

Poor choice of words.

He grimaced at the stain and decided they’d have to change the carpet before they tried to market the shop. The place gave him the creeps today, and there was still a pungent metallic smell from the blood. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to arrange to meet Tess here; he should have figured there would be bad juju in the air.

He started to call and tell her he’d meet her across the street at the café instead, but as he was dialing her number he saw a blur at the front and a bicycle rolled up. Tess opened the door, shouldered her bike, and entered.

“Hey, I was just calling you. I thought maybe we should hook up over at the coffee shop,” he said.

Tess was visibly agitated. “Nick, Uncle Stan never showed up for breakfast. I’m really worried about him.”

“Slow down. What do you mean he never showed up? Maybe he forgot.”

“No, I have a bad feeling about this, Nick. I tried his house and his shop and no answer. And Nick, I saw something in the paper about a Saul getting tortured and murdered on the Upper West Side. Stan’s buddy was named Saul—they were working on a project together.”

“But you don’t know if that’s even the same guy, do you? I mean, do you know how many Sauls live on the Upper West Side?” Nick asked.

“I know, but after my Dad’s murder…” she involuntarily looked toward the back room, where thankfully Nick had closed the door. “It’s got me on edge, Nick.”

“I can see that.”

“And then with the killings at Red Cap,” she continued.

“Whoa. What killings at Red Cap? I thought it was just Loca?” No one ever told Nick anything.

“That’s right, you don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “The killer who butchered Loca killed another girl at work. You met her on Friday at the club. Blonde chick, big boobs, pink hot pants—Candy?”

“You’re kidding.” He absorbed what she’d just told him. “Tess, you can’t go back. It’s way too dangerous. You need to rethink your career.”

“I know. That’s finished.”

He studied her face. “You sure you want to do this today?”

“We have to get it over with, Nick. Might as well just do it.”

“It’s your call. I’ve got the customer list, the inventory sheets for the insurance claims, cash receipts, and a bunch of other stuff we’ll need.”

“Let’s get to work. I’ll take the insurance claim if you’ll note whichever pieces were taken,” Tess said.

“I can do you one better. Here’s a copy of the stolen watch list I gave the cops,” Nick said, flourishing a piece of paper.

“Perfect. Would you go over the customer list and star anyone who would be a good prospect for the shop?”

“You bet.”

~ ~ ~

The smaller man watched as Nick rolled the metal shutter up and unlocked the shop. He waited, saw that Nick hadn’t turned on the lights, and concluded he wasn’t planning to be there very long. He called his partner.

“The assistant just appeared at the shop. He’s inside, but looks ready to leave soon. How do you want to play this?”

“You need to stay on him. We need the information and the key as quickly as possible, but we don’t want to alert him.”

“Are you going to come here?”

“I’m on my way, but it could take a while. Do whatever you think is appropriate if you get a chance, but be careful.”

The smaller man hung up and stubbed out his cigarette. He wanted to make sure Nick wasn’t meeting someone there, maybe the police, so they could do some more work processing the scene. That could be awkward.

He watched as a young woman rode up on a bicycle, picked it up, and walked inside. A girlfriend? That made it unlikely any police would be coming by. Maybe there was an opportunity presenting itself after all.

The young woman was in the shop for a while and he wondered what they were doing. Maybe having sex? No, that wasn’t it; he could make out movement inside. Maybe he was stealing watches? That made no sense either. Could be they were tidying up? He hated to involve more than one person, especially in broad daylight in a fairly crowded area.

They were taking forever. He scanned the street, considering his options. Given the absence of many passers-by, could he actually conduct the inquiry in the same shop? Wouldn’t that drive the police nuts? It appealed to his sense of whimsy. He lit another cigarette and figured he’d give it a few more minutes before he made his decision.

~ ~ ~

Tess finished the forms and put them into an envelope. Almost two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of watches had been stolen, along with ninety-eight hundred dollars in cash. That would have an insurance adjuster choking when the claim hit.

She walked around the shop looking at all the watches and stopped in front of the case of Rolexes. There was a beautiful white gold ladies President with a deep blue lapis lazuli dial that was absolutely stunning. She’d never been much of a watch nut, and didn’t care much about that sort of thing, but this one took her breath away. It was beautiful.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? The lapis President? We got it in a few weeks ago as part of a larger lot.” Nick had remembered Mr. G thinking out loud about giving it to Tess as a gift if she’d stop the messenger nonsense and figure out how she wanted to spend her life.

“It’s breathtaking. Is it really expensive?” Tess had no idea how much a watch like that cost.

Nick walked over and opened the back of the display case, and removed the watch as though to check the price. He took off the tags and motioned to Tess to hold out her arm.

“Let’s see what it looks like on you,” he said.

“Nick…”

“Tess. Go ahead, try on the watch. I won’t tell the owner.”

She took off her Baby G and held out her left hand. He slipped it on, snapping the clasp shut. It was too big, way too many links, but looked amazing against her tanned skin.

“Nick, it’s…it’s beautiful.”

“And here’s the best part, Tess. It’s yours.”

“Wha…”

“Your Dad wanted to give it to you as a gift. He never got the chance, but he’d want you to have it,” Nick said.

Tess kissed him as tears rolled down her face. Nick removed the watch and told her to wait a few seconds. He ducked into the back room and came back with a small jeweler’s screwdriver, and expertly removed four links. He set the time and slipped it back on her wrist. She wiped the tears away.

“Thank you, Nick.”

“Hey, you own the place. You can wear ten of them if you want.”

“No, for telling me about my dad. It means a lot to me.” She fought back more tears.

“It’s true.”

“I know.” She looked at the watch again. “I’m going to go to the bank and look in the box for a will or any insurance papers. You want to come?”

“Nah, I need to clean up, and make some calls to customers who have their watches back in repair. Let them know not to hold their breath. Just stop in when you’re done. Oh, and before I forget, stick the customer list in your fanny pack and mail the insurance papers. We’ll deal with the other stuff some other time.”

“Okay, I shouldn’t be more than half an hour. You might want to hit the AC, it’s getting pretty hot,” Tess observed.

“I think they turned it off up at the unit or something, maybe flipped a breaker. I tried the wall switch but it didn’t go on. I need to get a chair and try to get it working.”

“See you in a few,” Tess said, and carried her bicycle out into the heat. She slipped her helmet and glasses back on, paused to admire her new watch, and then pedaled up the street, slowly, to avoid overheating.

~ ~ ~

Ron was finally out of his meeting, which had sucked his energy and motivation. Much of the discussion had involved an early-morning call from the FBI; the agency wanted to “help” with the case. The NYPD was battling that, claiming jurisdiction, and pointing out they had Ron working the case. The pissing contest hadn’t been resolved yet, and Ron knew from experience that he’d soon be saddled with a multi-agency task force. The mayor’s press conference had required bold statements of progress where none existed, and they’d spent eons creating a statement that said nothing in three thousand words.

At least he’d dodged having to parade around on the dais like a frigging trained poodle. Things could be worse, although he had no doubt that was just a killing or so away. They invariably trotted him out along with his impressive credentials whenever a really scary serial graced their fair island. Ron had put more repeat killers away than almost any cop in the U.S., including the Feds, and he’d turned down offers from the FBI at least twice a year for the last five years.

He checked his cell phone voicemail first and listened to Tess’s message. He felt a stirring in his trousers at the sound of her voice, and made a mental effort to think from above the waist.

Failing that, he called her back.

It rang for a while and then she answered, out of breath, the sound of traffic roaring in the background.

“Tess? It’s Ron Stanford.”

“Ron. Thanks for calling. Sorry if it’s noisy. I’m on my bike; I pulled over to take your call.”

Ron. That’s progress, he supposed, no more “Officer Stanford.”

“What’s the deal with your friend Stan, Tess? I’m kind of swamped here, but I’ll help if I can.”

“I know you have to be busy—I saw the article in the Post about Candy. It’s horrible. Uncle Stan was supposed to meet me for breakfast and he never made it, and then I read that a man named Saul was tortured and murdered, and Stan has a friend named Saul who he was working on a project that involved my dad…and I just got really worried…”

“Slow down, Tess. So your father’s friend missed breakfast with you, and he has a friend named Saul, and another guy named Saul was murdered, and that’s what’s got you upset?” Ron asked.

When he put it like that, it sounded as alarming as a hangnail.

“You make it sound so dumb—I guess it is kind of dumb. It’s probably nothing. But I tried his shop and his home, and no one answered. Ron, what can I do?”

“What’s his address? I’ll have a patrol car go by and make sure everything’s okay.”

“Would you? That would make me feel so much better.” She gave him the address. “Thank you, Ron.”

“I’ll call you if I hear anything, okay, Tess?”

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother at all. And if I can make a suggestion…Would you consider taking a really long vacation from the bike messenger business, at least as long as we have a crazy out there targeting them?” Ron asked.

“I’m way ahead of you. Consider it done.”

“That’s a relief. Be careful, watch out, and stay alert. This creep is still around, and he might be one of the Red Cap crew. I wouldn’t trust any of them until we get this cleared up.”

“I hear you. Thanks again.”

“Anytime, Tess.”

Ron jotted down the address and made a note to request a car go by. It was probably nothing, but if he could make her happy, then why not? He wondered if he’d have done the same thing if she’d been a fifty-year-old chain-smoking housewife.

His office voicemail had a message from Barry, returning his call. He dialed Barry’s number.

“Childen.”

“Barry. How’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

“I thought I’d let you know, there may be a connection between your watch shop investigation and the two stiffs we found today in the back of a van on the Upper West Side. Looks like it may be the same toxin that got your security guard,” Ron advised.

“You mean the two guys they found up at West 76th Street?”

“That’s probably the ones. If it’s the same toxin, you’ve got a pro hitter or team working the city. Question is what a security guard at a watch place and a couple of construction guys have in common—they either saw something or the perp needed something from them. You might want to see if their company issues uniforms, and also check on what they were there working on—” he stopped in mid-sentence. He was staring at his notepad. “Barry, did you just say West 76th Street?” he asked.

“Yeah, and I appreciate the tip on the uniforms. That hadn’t occurred to me,” Barry said.

“Uh, Barry, I just got a call from the daughter of your watch dealer victim, who said her father’s friend missed a meeting with her this morning. He’d been working on some sort of project with a guy named Saul for her father.”

“Like the Saul that was knocked off yesterday? I heard about that,” Barry said.

“Yup. And Barry? He lives on West 76th Street.”

A long pause ensued.

“Shit. That’s a lot of bodies in a short amount of time. What’s the address?” Barry asked. Ron read him the details.

“I’ll go check on it right now. This stinks, Ron, really bad. Oh, and I almost forgot. I got a call from the Treasury Department about the watch dealer investigation,” Barry said.

“Treasury? What for?”

“Dunno; I haven’t been able to call them back yet. Low on the list today. I’ll touch base with them after I get back from checking out 76th Street.”

“Let me know what you find out. Although I’m almost afraid to hear,” Ron said.

“So the daughter called you? Look at you, Mr. Fancy Pants, the famous serial killer hunter. If I recall, she made Mila Kunis look plain. She just happened to call you for some recipe advice?”

“She was worried about her father’s friend. He was like an uncle to her.”

“Riiiight. And she called you. Man, I knew I should have switched to serial killers a few years ago. You old dog.”

“It’s not like that, Barry.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s never too late—hope springs eternal. Remember, it’s easier to trick the young ones.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Take your heart medicine,” Barry cackled, and disconnected.

Great, so now he’d have to listen to Barry rib him for robbing the cradle or being a lecher every time they talked. He supposed there were worse things.

He hoped he was wrong about the uncle.

Chapter 24

Tess entered the bank and checked with the manager, telling the woman she needed to get into a safe deposit box. The manager was cordial, and walked her over to the hand scanner. Tess placed her palm flat on the piece of glass, and a light ray moved up and down her hand three times. A small light turned green and the vault door unlocked, enabling the manager to pull it open. Tess thanked her and the door closed behind her. There was another hand scanner on the inside—her way out.

Using the key on the chain around her neck, Tess unlocked the numbered safe deposit compartment and pulled out the lidded tray. She opened the box and lifted out the paper bag with the money, searching for the manila envelope of documentation resting atop the watch boxes.

Browsing through the paperwork, she spotted a few official-looking documents. The first, a life insurance policy, had a face value of $1.5 million. Wow. So Tess and her sister would be seeing $750 thousand apiece from the insurance, never mind the sale of the watch store and the contents of the will. That was a decent chunk of change.

Next, she found the corporate papers for the watch shop. That was of limited interest to her. There was a fire insurance policy on the store, a copy of the lease and various other insurance coverage forms, and at the bottom, an envelope with a few pages of typewritten text. The last will and testament of Robert Gideon, copy for file purposes only. An attorney’s name and contact information featured prominently on the envelope; she opened it and quickly scanned the contents.

Her dad had a retirement account with about eight hundred grand in it which he was leaving to both Tess and Chrissy, split equally. Ditto for the life insurance. A deed for the apartment, also to be split. Everything split fifty-fifty between the two sisters except for the watch shop. That, and the inventory, he’d left to Tess.

Chrissy was going to be furious. But not that furious, she supposed, seeing as she was getting over a million dollars cash for her share, not counting the apartment. Screw her, anyway—she hadn’t even wanted to help cover the funeral expenses.

Tess entered the phone number of the attorney into her cell phone and jotted down his name and address. Finished, she perused the remaining items in the box; there were five watches—looked like four Patek Philippes and a Breguet. She opened the boxes, and after inspecting each one wrote down the model numbers from the tags. The first had a sticker price of $160K on it, the second $110K, the third $190K, and the fourth $350K. She looked at that one for a long time. Three hundred fifty grand for an old wristwatch. She didn’t understand it. The last watch, the Breguet, was priced at $500K and was marked as a model from the fifties. The world was crazy. Half a million bucks for that?

Carefully returning everything into the box, she slid it back into place and locked it. She approached the hand scanner and opened the door, and moved back out into the main area of the branch, preoccupied with how she was going to deal with the bogus bills. Tess hoped the attorney who’d drafted the will could help her; she was in over her head and knew it.

~ ~ ~

The Treasury lab was devoting all its time to studying the Asian bill. Mark was discussing their examination with his top technologist; so far the bill had frustrated any attempts to prove it a fake.

“The microprinting’s correct, the fine-line printing pattern checks out, it’s the right weight, it’s got the correct color-shifting ink, the check letters and faceplate numbers are right…I don’t see how Saul called this a fake. It looks good to me,” Mark said.

“You can see the inscribed security thread matches, and the check letter and quadrant number’s correct as well. I don’t get it either.” The technician shook his head. He’d been staring at the damn thing for hours and hadn’t spotted anything suspicious.

“What about the watermark? Ken said Saul spotted something off about the watermark.”

“Maybe he garbled that. The watermark looks fine to me. There’s variance from series to series, but when you put this up against a bill with all the same numbers you see nothing strange,” the technician advised.

“What about under a microscope?” Mark asked.

“Do you realize how unlikely it is that this is bogus if all the other items have vetted? What, one in fifty million?”

“Just do it under 5X and then 10X. Saul was killed because of that note. He wasn’t an idiot.” Mark was giving Saul the benefit of the doubt. He’d called it as a fake. That was good enough for Mark even if his eyes hadn’t spotted the problem yet.

~ ~ ~

Tess dialed the number she’d programmed into her phone for her father’s attorney. A receptionist answered on the second ring.

“Rosenthal, Hewett and Kellog.”

“I’d like to speak to Simon Hewett, please.”

“Let me see if he’s available. May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Tess Gideon, Robert Gideon’s daughter, calling about his will,” Tess said.

“One moment, please.”

On-hold music came on the line. Classical piano. And then a deep male voice.

“This is Simon Hewett.”

“Hello, Mr. Hewett. This is Tess Gideon, Robert’s daughter. I don’t know if you heard, but… he was murdered on Monday,” she said.

“Good Lord. No, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. How…how did it happen?”

She gave him the details, choking up on the last words. She cleared her throat and forced herself to continue. “There was a copy of his will with your name on it. That’s how I got your number,” Tess explained.

“Ahhh. So you have an idea of the contents, then. We should still go through with a reading for your sister’s sake—if memory serves me correctly, you have a sibling, right? I know he wanted you to have the shop and everything associated with it; the policy and the savings are an even split. He also had made allowances for a funeral fund. Your father was extremely thoughtful. He loved you very much, Tess.”

She struggled to maintain her composure. “I know he did. Thank you.”

“If you like, I can contact your sister and arrange the reading, either telephonic or in person. It’s an important formality, and we should be thinking of doing it sooner rather than later,” Simon said.

“Please. She and I don’t get along particularly well. If you could handle that, I’d really appreciate it. Oh, and—I’ll need an attorney to handle the sale of the watch shop, and the evaluation of a fair price. Is that something you could do?” If he was good enough for her dad, he was good enough for her.

“Absolutely. Although I should tell you, I’ll probably be an interested buyer myself. I was always after your father to sell me the shop whenever he retired. I have a collection of eighteen Pateks; it’s a lifelong passion of mine.” Simon sounded older, and had probably had enough of the attorney game; he wanted to handle and buy and sell his toys all day. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. If only she could find something she really wanted to do, like her dad had, or like Simon. Must be nice.

“I don’t have a problem with that. There must be business appraisers out there who can give us an estimate of the value of the shop, and we can tally up the inventory and fixtures and all and come up with a number. If you don’t mind having to compete with other buyers, why not?” Tess knew enough about business to know you wanted multiple offers when you were selling, and an appraisal when you weren’t sure what something was worth.

“Sounds good. I’d advise you to select your own appraiser to keep me honest; there are many in the book. I’d call a few and find one you’re comfortable with.”

“Okay. And…I know this might be a stupid question, but how do we collect on the life insurance policy?” Tess had no idea how that worked.

“I’ll notify the company as to the circumstances of your father’s passing and get a death certificate from the state. They’ll send the check to me, and I’ll hold the funds in escrow.”

That about covered it in terms of questions. They talked for a few more minutes about the logistics of the will and probate, and then she gave him her number and signed off.

~ ~ ~

Nick had been getting hotter since Tess left for the bank. He had to get the stupid air conditioner going—how hard could it be? He pulled a chair from out of the rear office and placed it under the unit, stood on it, and started fiddling with the ancient controls. He heard the doorbell chime and spotted a diminutive Asian man entering the shop. Damn. He should’ve locked the door.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” he called out, intent on the unit’s control panel.

“Oh, so solly,” the little man said, smiling and bowing to Nick.

“No problem. We should be opening back up in about a wee—” Nick was interrupted by a blinding pain in his leg. He lost his balance and fell to the floor. God, his leg hurt, like nothing he’d ever felt before. He was stunned and had the wind knocked out of him, but he was able to register the small man walking casually over to the door and locking it, as Nick should have.

The man then approached Nick and unceremoniously stomped on one of his hands, causing him to scream. He kicked Nick in the head, and Nick blacked out.

Pulling Nick under one arm and grabbing a handful of hair, he dragged him into the back room. Nick’s leg trailed blood from where his Achilles tendon had been slashed with a straight razor.

The Asian carefully closed the door behind him and felt around until he found the light switch. Once illumination had been taken care of, he considered the raw materials he had to work with. Ahh, some wire—very good, that would take care of the wrists and the feet. He went about his binding carefully, ensuring Nick would be unable to get free once he regained consciousness. He had a sense of urgency, and didn’t want to be in the shop for very long, but also wanted maximum fear instilled in Nick so he’d get the truth sooner rather than later.

His partner would be there in a few minutes, but they couldn’t hang around in the store; there was no way to escape if the police appeared for some reason, and capture was unacceptable.

When Nick came to, he was aware of searing pain in his lower leg, his lower back where he’d hit the floor, his mangled hand, and his whole face. He’d never felt as much pain simultaneously in his life and was in danger of passing out again.

The little Asian man had moved to the repair area and was stirring a small pot used for melting wax, heating something over the little burner on the workbench, engrossed in the process. Nick’s vision blurred in and out, and he couldn’t make out what the man was doing. He tried to move his arms but they were bound behind him; thankfully, the crushed hand was going numb.

The Asian moved toward Nick, holding the small pot carefully by its handle, avoiding spilling the contents. He’d gone through the key ring Nick had left on one of the display cases and hadn’t seen anything that looked like a safe deposit box key. There were only four keys on it: what looked like an apartment key, a deadbolt key presumably for the same door, a small key for a padlock, and the key to the shop. There was also a small flashlight on the ring, as well as a penknife. Nothing else.

“Where key? For safe box? What number is box?”

Box? What the hell was he jabbering about? What box?

“I…don’t understand.” His mouth was ruined, making it sound like, “ah don unnathan.”

“Safe box. What is number, where key?”

Safe box? His head was whirring; he felt vertigo, and his vision dimmed again. The little man slapped his face, sending pain shooting across his nervous system. Box? Safe deposit box.

“I…don’t know…the number. I—don’t…have the key.”

“You lie.”

The little man stuffed a filthy rag into Nick’s mouth and poured some of the contents of the pot onto Nick’s neck. His eyes bugged out of his head as his face turned red and he screamed and screamed and screamed, the cloth muffling it. He was choking, couldn’t get air, but it didn’t matter; he wanted to die.

“Boiling oil. Next, face. Safe box. What number? Where key?”

Nick was turning purple from lack of oxygen. The little man sighed, set the pan down on the workbench and pulled the rag out of his mouth. Nick gasped and screamed weakly on the exhales, a high-pitched, defeated shrieking. The man stuffed the rag back into his mouth, disgusted. This wasn’t going anywhere. He leaned over, asked the question again.

Ultimately, young Nick told him everything he wanted to know; that he didn’t have the key, and that the girl did—the watch dealer’s daughter.

~ ~ ~

Tess pulled up to the shop and tried the door. It was locked. She pounded on the glass and yelled Nick’s name. She didn’t have a key. What the hell was he doing? She peered into the gloomy interior, but didn’t see him, so she unzipped her fanny-pack and dialed his cell. It just went to voicemail.

She started getting the panicky feeling in her stomach, and then saw the workroom door at the rear of the shop open and an unfamiliar Asian face peer out. She didn’t know what was going on, but she knew that Nick would have never let anyone into the shop, so the Asian had to be an intruder. She bolted—had to get out of there and call the police.

Tess spun and two hands grabbed her arms with an iron grip. She found herself face to face with another Asian man, tall, who was fixated on the keychain around her neck. She could smell halitosis and an ammonia-like sweat. Tess kneed him in the balls and head butted his chin with the top of her helmeted head as hard as she could. She felt his jaw snap shut and his grip weaken. She tore away, screaming to attract attention, and grabbed her bike; she was already on it and riding by the time he’d staggered a few steps in her direction. He pulled what looked like a pen out of his pocket, but she was halfway down the block, and he stumbled slowly toward the next street and turned the corner, fumbling for his cell phone as he went.

He tasted blood—had bit through his tongue when she’d clobbered him with her head, an unexpected move. He’d swiveled his thigh to absorb the knee, seeing that coming, but he’d never thought about her head as a danger. The smaller man picked up.

“Leave now. Hurry. Call me when you’re clear and we’ll meet. And call the driver, tell him to get over here, and that we need a doctor and a dentist.” He sounded like he was talking with mush in his mouth. The end of his tongue was bitten almost clean through, blood was gushing from it, and he’d cracked three of his lower teeth.

“Will you make it?”

“Yes. Hurts to talk. Call them, then me.” He was aware he had blood running down his chin onto his shirt because two pedestrians he passed looked horrified and averted their gazes.

The tongue was trouble, but he knew that with medical attention he’d live. He, more than most, had an appreciation for how much abuse the human body could take before it shut down. He also knew he needed to find an alley where he could sit and conserve his energy until they could get him a doctor.

He couldn’t believe the girl had inflicted major damage. The smaller man had called him once he’d found out from Nick that she had the key and the box number. It had been blind luck he’d been approaching the shop just when she rode up. Or maybe bad luck, depending upon perspective.

At least they knew for sure who had the key. Finding out where she lived and worked would be easy. They knew her name, but she was now on alert and would be harder to get. That’s what kept life interesting, he thought, as he noticed a narrow alley on his right. He looked up at the street signs, made a mental note of the nearest building number, and then ducked into the alley to wait for the car.

Chapter 25

Ron was sitting at his desk filling out paperwork when the data came through on the messenger suspects. Duff, real name Lamar Calvin, had a long sheet dating back to when he was a juvenile: every conceivable petty crime, and then larger gaps and more serious charges. No convictions, but assault, robbery, and drug-dealing charges abounded. Then he’d been shot—had taken six bullets in the back. And he was still walking around. That was four years ago and he was now twenty-seven. No charges since the shooting. Born in Queens, grew up in Harlem. Suspected member of the Bloods, but apparently gone straight.

Six bullets could do that for you.

Dirter, real name Henry Perth, twenty-five, had two arrests for brawling-related assaults, one dropped, one pled down. He had a DUI from Chicago, where he’d been born and raised, and had moved to New York three years ago, from what Ron could tell. Had a possession of marijuana charge that had been dropped, had been cited for drunkenness in public, had one assault complaint, later dropped. His nickname fit.

Skid, real name Thomas Franzone, twenty-six, born in Detroit, had a charge for vandalism when he was nineteen and that was it. A few speeding tickets back in Detroit, a traffic ticket from two years ago. Not exactly Jack the Ripper, but then again, who knew?

Luis, born German Luis Allecante, thirty-two, from Havana, Cuba. Parents had come over as refugees. He’d grown up in Miami, had a battery charge that never went anywhere and an auto theft charge that landed him in county, two years served in 2011. No more trouble since then, although Ron remembered from the interview he’d been distracted and nervous. Maybe he just hated cops? Or maybe he had a roomful of scalps?

Tiny, real name Curtis Young, twenty-eight, born and raised in Washington, D.C., had turned up in New York two years ago. He’d had multiple drug possession charges in D.C., two that stuck, and served a few months each time. No history of violence, but had been placed under observation while incarcerated for possible schizophrenia.

Turbo, real name James Earl, from Vernon, Texas, twenty-nine. Four years in the Army out of high school, honorable discharge. Had several bar brawl charges in his early twenties, and then several drug busts, one for possession of methamphetamines, the other for possession with intent to sell meth and PCP. He’d pled the dealing charge and served six months; the possession had been dropped. That had been when he was twenty-four. Ron had gotten a really bad, skittish vibe from Turbo, and the meth thing made sense. Meth was ugly shit, made you crazy, as did PCP. Turbo had appeared in New York almost two years ago, but had been unaccounted for since release at twenty-five—leaving three years in between where he was off the radar. Drifter?

Ron liked all of them for it, but especially Turbo, Tiny, Luis and Dirter. Duff he got a reformed feeling from, but that could be an act. Some of the most evil of the serials had otherwise been models of good behavior, so he knew better than to trust it. Skid he just didn’t have much to go on, one way or another. He didn’t seem like a really bad guy, but he looked like a doper and a boozer and seemed pretty dull, almost medicated. Could be a crazy.

Tiny seemed out of it, and Ron had instantly gotten a weird feeling from him. He’d been slow and vague in many of his answers. All of them had been at the club the night of the killing, however nobody could vouch for any the entire night. They also all had alibis for the Tuesday Loca had been killed, but most were pretty flimsy. And he hadn’t been back to drill them about Monday night yet, so that was a question mark. Luis was sullen and hostile and seemed skittish. Turbo was amped and jittery throughout the interview and came off as deranged, what with full sleeve tattoos and a nose piercing and a distracted look in his eyes. Dirter was also a favorite, definitely no stranger to drugs, also covered with tattoos, also with a stink of fear, and something else, in the interview—barely concealed rage? He’d seemed hostile, but then again so had half of them.

There were another dozen that could just as easily be killers. It was a full playing field.

The dispatchers had all seemed nuts, just not necessarily serial-killer nuts. Frank was out to lunch, but too old to fit the profile. Stu was twitchy, geeky, an oddball. Henry from the night shift was clearly augmenting his work experience with chemicals, and Vance had seemed like a creep, with greasy hair, a few tattoos, and a nicotine stink that declared, “I do not shower regularly.” Both had very odd attitudes; Henry seemed a little scared and Vance seemed hair-trigger easy to enrage.

So you had a company where a good third of all the male employees fit the profile for a serial: late twenties to forty, single, chemical issues, unusual behavior, fringe lifestyles.

What a mess.

His cell rang. It was Tess, completely panicked and out of breath.

“Ron, you need to get someone down to the shop, my dad’s shop, immediately. I think someone’s in there and may have hurt Nick. A man tried to grab me, but I got away. They may be my dad’s killers.” She was talking so fast it was hard to make sense of it all.

“Slow down. What do you mean a man tried to grab you?”

“An Asian man, maybe six feet tall, grabbed me right outside the door to the shop. I was looking in for Nick, who was inside when I left there earlier, and I saw another Asian inside the shop in the back room. Ron, Nick would never have locked the door. You have to do something, I’m really scared. Nick could be hurt, or…”

“Stay on the line; I’ll call a car to check it out. Do I have your permission to break in if the door’s locked?” Ron wanted that on the record.

“Absolutely. I’m scared, Ron.”

“I know. Hold on.” He switched to his landline, called it in, and then left a message for Barry. He got back on with Tess.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m really shaken up. I think I hurt the tall guy—I headbutted him with my helmet to get away.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on my bike. I don’t want to go home or to the shop until I know what happened to Stan and make sure Nick’s okay. Nothing feels safe right now.” Tess was still hyperventilating and talking rapidly.

“Keep your phone on, and lay low until we find out what’s going on at the shop, okay, Tess? You’re welcome to come here if you don’t feel safe anywhere else. There’d be about a million cops around you.”

“I may do that. I hope Nick’s okay. Call me when you hear something, please? I’m going to ride for a while and burn off some adrenaline.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call.”

He disconnected, worried. Would the men who’d killed her dad really have the balls to go back to a crime scene and kill someone else? He’d never heard of anyone doing that—not while the tape was still up. If it was the same guys, and they’d also taken out the two construction workers in the van, then he didn’t like Nick’s chances.

Ron called down to the desk, and dispatch told him there’d be a car at the shop within five minutes. He advised the dispatcher that the intruders were to be considered armed and extremely dangerous.

~ ~ ~

Barry flipped out his shield and waved it at the truculent doorman, who looked like he drank a bottle of vodka just to get out of bed every day. Barry supposed he’d be knocking back a few as well, if the rest of his life consisted of wearing a bellboy uniform and saluting geriatrics.

“I’m looking for the tenant in 902, Stan Isaaks. Has he been around today?” Barry asked.

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Did you have workers in here yesterday, maybe some water damage guys, construction guys?” Barry inquired.

“Yeah, a pipe burst. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. I’m going up to see if there’s anything wrong with Mr. Isaaks. Do you have someone with a pass key?”

“Yeah, Lavon in maintenance. You want me to have him meet you up there?”

“That’d be great.” Barry slipped him a five and walked to the elevator with his partner Darren.

So the construction workers had been in this building. He had a hunch Uncle Stan wasn’t doing so good.

They got off the elevator and looked both ways down the hall, then approached the door with the number 902 on it. Knocked. No answer. Rang the bell. Nada.

The elevator’s return to the floor was announced with a pinging sound, and a forty-something man with coal black skin got off and walked over to them.

“Gentlemen.”

“Think you could help us out here, open Mr. Isaaks’ door? I think we might have heard him calling for help.” Barry handed Lavon a ten.

“Was that what I heard? We best get on in there then, if Mister Isaaks needs help.” Lavon had a southern drawl, no doubt from the Deep South.

Barry and Darren slipped on latex gloves and Barry pulled his pistol out of his shoulder holster.

Lavon selected a key from an enormous ring and opened the door, only needing to unlock the knob lock, as none of the deadbolts were engaged.

Barry slowly walked into the hallway of the apartment, stepping carefully, moving sideways so as to present as small a target as possible. It was freezing inside; the AC was cranked. He entered the living room after briefly glancing around the kitchen, and made a low noise; he then moved cautiously toward the bedroom, inspected it, and then the bathroom, the closet. Darren stayed in the hallway, gun now drawn as well once he saw his partner move toward the bedroom. Barry emerged, holstering his weapon.

“Call for a crime lab. It’s a bad one.”

How many old men did Barry have to find tortured in one week? Ron was right, this had to be professional, in town for a deadly purpose. He or they were killing like it was nothing, not trying to be subtle or hide the bodies.

Barry added up the tally.

The watch dealer, security guard, undoubtedly the two construction men, now Stan. And more than likely the killing on the Upper West Side, another torture. It was one thing to see this kind of body count in a gang war, another altogether to see ordinary citizens being butchered—and horribly so, judging by Stan’s face.

He called Ron.

“Stan’s a goner, Ron. Tortured and snuffed. Face looks burned with a liquid, both eyes punctured, bound and gagged. Someone wants information or is looking for something, or really wants revenge in the ugliest way possible.” Barry didn’t know what to think at this point.

“Damn. This girl loses her father on Monday, and now a guy that was like her uncle on Wednesday? And you’re going to love this. She just called. She was assaulted over at the watch shop by an Asian—got away, but said there was another unsub in the shop with her boyfriend Nick.”

“Did you call a car?”

“Yeah, I should hear something in the next few minutes. That’s your crime scene, not mine. How do you want to handle it if something’s happened?”

“Darren can do the paperwork here. Have dispatch call me if they find anything at the watch place.”

“You got it. Jesus. This sucks.”

“Just call me. It could get a lot worse in the next couple of minutes.”

Ron was puzzled. Why would a pro hit squad be killing an old watch dealer’s network? And why Nick, who was just a kid? Ron took it for granted he’d hear something terrible from the shop now he’d confirmed Stan was dead. There had to be a connection, something in common with them all.

He realized he was getting sucked in. This was a distraction from his real job. It wasn’t his case. He had a serial loose and a chief who wanted results yesterday. He couldn’t get more involved. Just couldn’t. Tomorrow night, another girl would turn into a pumpkin unless he could catch a break.

Ron glanced at the time. There was a task force meeting at two o’clock, to hand out action items and get more bodies working the case. More bodies working meant slower communication and an increased likelihood of somebody missing something important, but it also meant better coverage and follow-up.

That was welcome. He really should have been checking on messenger alibis and interviewing his rogue’s gallery again to see what everyone had been doing on Monday night, but hadn’t had a chance because of the press conference, then the background checks, and the Tess issue. At least now he could delegate some of that, although he really wanted to do the second interviews on a few of them himself.

His six starred candidates were going to get his special treatment, up close and personal.

~ ~ ~

Amy was filing her paperwork, catching up on some office housekeeping from the recent spate of bodies while it was slow. Her computer beeped, signaling she’d gotten official mail. She checked her inbox; it was the toxicology report for Candy. She perused it, muttered to herself, and then called Ron.

“Stanford.”

“It’s Amy. I was right. He’s injecting them with epinephrine and potassium chloride. That’s what’s driving their BP through the roof and stopping their hearts. It disperses so quickly there’s almost nothing left by the time we get the bodies, but I picked up a marker on Candy’s tox screen.”

“So now we know the how. The Klonopin is the knockout punch in their drinks, and then once they’re out he shoots them sublingually with his cocktail.”

“Yeah. A real sweetheart. That takes a lot of planning, and on a three-day schedule he doesn’t have a lot of time.”

“Now if only we knew the why and the who, we’d be golden.”

“That’s your job, my friend.” Amy seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe another dinner invite? He was way too busy right now. The moment passed.

“Amy, my other line’s ringing. Gotta go.”

~ ~ ~

The chief tech, who was peering into a microscope, called Mark over to where he was working on the bill and had him look through the lenses.

“See the watermark? The hair’s a little wrong. Not much, but it’s there. Unbelievable. Saul must have been a stone genius. I was about ready to pack it in.”

“Yeah, I see it. It looks like we have a bona fide fake here. See what else you can find, anything that would be a more obvious glitch. Keep on it. Put in overtime; I don’t care. Saul told Ken he’d found two discrepancies. We need to find the other one,” Mark said.

Treasury’s worst fears had been realized: a near-perfect bill, created and printed somewhere else. There were any number of issues now.

To begin with, whoever was printing them had to have classified information from someone at Treasury. There were several top-secret markers that weren’t known to anyone but a chosen few, and this bill had them. Everything else was perfect. This had to be someone with virtually limitless resources, who could manufacture the paper, somehow get into classified information, and execute flawlessly.

They had a leak; someone had sold them down the river—maybe multiple people for all he knew. And now a black hat was in the dollar printing business.

Mark walked out of the lab and took the elevator up. He got off on Ken’s floor, walked down the hall and into Ken’s office, and closed the door.

“Houston, we have a problem.”

Chapter 26

The squad car double-parked in front of the watch shop, lights flashing, and both officers got out with guns drawn. One of the cops pointed at the large drops of drying blood glistening in the heat on the sidewalk by the doorway. The second nodded. This was trouble.

They approached the darkened storefront cautiously, and one stood to the side of the door while the other tried the lever. It was open. The crime scene tape was hanging off the top and the sides of the frame, lending a discordantly festive appearance to the entry—a bit of color. The first officer swung the door wide and the second entered the shop in a crouch. They peered around the cases. Nothing.

The stouter of the two men gestured at the drying blood leading into the back room.

It was hotter than hell inside, making the surroundings seem even more oppressive. They crept toward the door at the back. The same man who’d opened the front door stood to the side and cautiously turned the knob, softly, softly, and then threw it open.

The second officer, gripping his pistol in one hand and the flashlight in the other, moved into the doorway in a crouch, his head at waist level. He scanned the room, and then reached in and hit the lights. The only sound in the store was the buzzing of a few flies that had found their way into the back room.

Big ones.

Nick looked like he’d been through a meat grinder. The second cop ran for the entrance and vomited in the gutter; the first, the older of the two, shook his head and gingerly tiptoed back into the front area, trying to avoid as much of the blood and oil as possible. He activated his shoulder handset for the radio and called it in.

“Officers need backup.” He gave the address. “187, and we need a forensics team down here yesterday.”

“Copy that. 187, and forensics.”

“On the double, please. Over.”

~ ~ ~

Tess was on the East Side, by the river. She’d just circled around Sutton Place and was making her way up the island to 79th Street, where she’d hook across and move down the West Side. She was sick with worry over Nick and Uncle Stan, and the only thing keeping her from curling up in a ball and crying was the serotonin from the ride. She was pouring sweat, her tanned skin gleaming in the hot sun, and it was taking everything she had to keep going.

If Stan and Nick were hurt, or worse yet, dead, then she didn’t feel secure anywhere near her house. The only thing Saul, Stan, her Dad, and Nick had in common was the Asian bills. That meant whoever was doing the killing wanted the bills back, and was willing to butcher half the city to get them.

She wasn’t safe as long as they were out there, and they were likely to remain until they either got their money back or were killed. The problem, as she saw it, was that even if they were killed, they’d likely just be replaced by someone else; so she wouldn’t ever be safe—not until the counterfeiters had been caught.

So Tess needed to work on several things: she had to do everything she could to make sure the killers were stopped, sooner rather than later. And she had to get information to the Treasury Department that there was a million dollars of fake currency in her possession, while staying safe until she was satisfied she wasn’t a target anymore. Finally, she had to watch herself and suspect everyone from Red Cap until the serial had been captured.

Quite an agenda.

Tess was impatiently waiting for a call from Ron, and yet dreading her phone ringing. She put some muscle into it, propelled by a breeze off the river and a desire to keep moving, to get away from it all and leave it behind.

If only it were that easy.

~ ~ ~

Ron’s cell went off as he walked out the door to grab a sandwich. The task force was going to consume his entire afternoon, so he snagged calories where he could. He fished the phone out of his shirt pocket.

“Ron, this is Barry. Bad news on Nick. I just got lit up by dispatch: 187 at the watch store, and ugly by the sound of it. Somebody hacked him up, and boiled his face off. I’m on my way there in a few minutes.”

“You really are making me hungry. Thanks. You gotta know this is a team, don’t you? Some sort of 007 shit?”

“Yup. I’m with you. They make the Russian mob look understanding. There are a lot of bodies piling up at the watch store. Did you know that your boy Stan was a coin dealer?”

“No. What’s the connection? Did the dad have a military or ex-government background? Did Stan?” Ron was toying with the hypothesis they were being taken out because they knew something, some secret from their past.

“Nope. Nothing there. Whatever this is about, it’s in the here and now. Does your girlfriend have any information for your old buddy Barry, maybe make my life easier?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. I’ll ask her and see what she knows, but I wouldn’t bet on anything immediately. If my dad, and now my uncle and boyfriend, had all been tortured and murdered inside of sixty hours, I’d be cracking up.”

“And there’s a serial out there going after bike chicks, seems I heard on TV or something. Isn’t she a bike chick?”

“Oh, that. Huh. Maybe I should try to do something, you know…catch him or something? You think that would be good?”

“That could do the trick. Best of luck, Ron. I’ve got my hands full right now.”

“I know the feeling.”

Ron looked at the selection of sandwiches at the deli next to the precinct, and realized he’d lost his appetite. He grabbed a couple of breakfast bars, paid, and walked out. He really hated to be the bearer of this news to Tess, but someone had to do it.

~ ~ ~

Ken had a team assembled and was waiting for Secret Service to arrive. He’d notified them that they had a confirmed counterfeit. He didn’t want to botch this. He called the NYPD detective running the watch dealer investigation again. This time the man picked up.

“Childen.”

“Detective Childen, this is Ken Pritchard at Treasury in D.C.—I called you earlier today.” Ken sounded annoyed.

“Yes, Ken. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you, but it’s been a busy day. I’m dealing with the city’s fourth homicide in the last twelve hours, two of which are mine. What can I do for you?” Barry asked.

“I understand you’re handling the Gideon case,” Ken said.

“Gideon? You mean the watch guy? Yeah, that’s me. What do you need?”

“There may be a matter of national security involved, Detective…” Ken started in his best government bureaucratese.

“Right. So what do you need?” Barry wasn’t responding well to the gray-suit runaround.

“Have you heard or seen anything on the case that was odd?” Ken asked. He couldn’t tell Barry anything, or even ask any questions that would hint at counterfeiting, because Secret Service might want to clamp a lid on it until they could develop a strategy. But he needed to know what was happening with the NYPD’s investigation—how much they knew.

“Odd? Odd? Well, Ken, given that the Treasury Department is calling about a tortured and murdered watch dealer, your call is odd. The fact the watch dealer’s friend, a coin collector here in the Big Apple, came in as another torture/murder today, well now, that’s odd, don’t you think? Or maybe the fact that someone just boiled the watch dealer’s assistant in oil at his shop—while it’s still wrapped in crime tape—would you say that was a trifle odd?” Barry clearly wasn’t responding well to the suit trying to milk him with vague national security gibberish and one-sided Beltway speak.

Ken digested the information. The coin dealer who Saul told him about was dead, and now the assistant was dead, and everyone had been tortured. He was way out of his league at this point; Secret Service would need to figure this one out.

“Detective, it sounds like you have a full plate. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I had no idea you had all that going on. My questions can wait. Thanks for your time.” Ken hung up.

Barry stared at his phone. He supposed he’d given the Treasury wonk enough info to make him leave him alone, which had been his purpose in telling him about all the murders.

But that still left the question as to why Treasury was calling in the first place.

“What was that all about?” asked Darren.

“Treasury wanted to know if I was happy with the new quarters,” Barry quipped.

“Oh. I got one of those calls yesterday. I told them they tasted fine, had a hint of minty freshness,” Darren deadpanned.

“I’d love to hang out and chat, but I have to go back down to the watch store and scrape a guy off the carpet. Enjoy the uncle,” Barry said, leaving his partner with the Stan crime scene.

“Have fun at the shop. You might want to consider one of those $250K Pateks—might lift your spirits. Take out a second on the house,” Darren suggested.

“I’ll look into that. Or coin collecting.” Barry glanced at Stan’s corpse one last time. “Or not.” He pushed past the technicians, and made for the elevators.

~ ~ ~

Ron patiently sat through another meeting, this time a task force orientation. Everyone wanted a piece of the action. The mayor’s office had sent a representative, the chief was there, the FBI was arguing for jurisdiction because it was a serial; all the usual suspects were positioning for covering their asses and taking as much credit as they could.

Ultimately, the session had gotten down to brass tacks and all the bigwigs had lost interest and departed, leaving Ron as the task force head and free to run the investigation his way, for now. The bright side was that he had whatever resources he needed; his first action was to requisition the five best detectives he knew for interviewing and fact-checking his hot list of suspects—half of Red Cap.

They agreed they’d interview everyone again the following morning and do more in-depth checks on the star list, as well as run backgrounds on the rest of the crew.

Ron was drained from the day’s meetings as well as from the distraction of Tess’s case. He’d put off calling her about it until he got out of the task force love-fest, but he couldn’t stall any longer.

“Ron. Is there any news?” Tess was outside; he could hear cars in the background.

“Yeah, there is. Tess, where are you?” Ron wanted to make sure she was stationary when he told her.

“I’m hanging out in Central Park,” she said.

Here it goes. “Tess, it isn’t good.” He waited, gave her a few seconds to get prepared. “We found Stan. He’s been killed at his apartment. We believe it’s the same group responsible for your father’s death.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. But no screaming or crying.

“I was afraid of that. I thought about it a lot while I was riding, and figured he was probably dead when he missed our breakfast.” She sounded detached, distant. “What about Nick?”

“Tess, the news there is just as bad. Whoever tried to assault you must have gotten to Nick first. He didn’t make it. You’re lucky to be alive.” Ron listened for her reaction.

Tess was sitting cross-legged on the grass in the park, her bike lying beside her, the tears silently rolling down her face. She’d had a terrible feeling about Nick when she’d seen the Asian man in the shop, and had steeled herself for the worst. She’d decided to stay strong and not cave, not collapse, which is what she really wanted to do. But hearing it hit her hard.

“Ron, was he tortured too? Was Uncle Stan?” He could tell she was crying—her voice was trembling and tentative, and he could hear the strain, the effort she was putting into holding herself together.

“I won’t lie to you. They were both subjected to terrible ordeals. My friend is heading up the investigations and he believes, as do I, that this is a professional group. I’m so sorry, Tess. This has got to be the longest week of your life.” Ron couldn’t even imagine what she was feeling. Everyone she knew and loved had been killed in the space of two days. Some people never made it back after that kind of trauma. Others became harder and stronger. You saw it in warfare, with the survivors of massacres: one personality type became basket cases, and another picked up weapons. Tess could go either way.

“I need to call you back, Ron. I…I can’t talk now.” She was crying. He understood.

“Call me whenever you want, Tess. Anything I can do, I will. I can’t tell you how sad I am you’re going through this.”

Ron wondered how much of his sorrow for her was driven by her beauty, and how much by genuine compassion. Equal amounts, he was surprised to admit. He thought he’d lost most of his compassion after years of seeing victims of serials and tracking the animals that waged war on the unsuspecting. He wondered why Tess affected him as much as she did.

“I will. Later.”

Tess hung up and cried; cried for her father, her uncle, her lover; cried because the world was so unfair, and because the good were slaughtered by the bad. Her sorrow was bottomless and she cried for a long, long time. She needed to do this, because once she was out of tears, she was going to be done crying until it was all over and someone had paid.

And so she sat, a tiny figure on a huge expanse of grass in a sweltering city teeming with people, as alone as anyone could ever imagine being, a small speck of raw pain and anguish in a field, crying, as women have cried for their fallen since time immemorial.

Chapter 27

A meeting was in full swing at the Treasury Department. Ken was in attendance, along with Mark from the lab, the Director of the Treasury, several high-level Secret Service agents, a Deputy Director from CIA, and a gentleman of indeterminate rank from the National Security Agency. Everyone had been briefed on the level of sophistication of the fake, as well as the ramifications of its existence, and the discussion was not an optimistic one.

“How certain are we these bills came out of Korea?” This from the NSA guy.

“We aren't. All we know is that they came from a South Korean diplomat, and we only have the word of the dead watch dealer. But he had no reason to lie about the transaction.” Ken figured that was obvious.

“But they could have actually originated anywhere, right? I mean, a South Korean slips them to the watch dealer, but that doesn’t mean that North or South Korea are necessarily involved,” opined the CIA man.

“Correct.”

“And there’s no telling how big the threat is,” the Secret Service man said.

“Look, we have a bill that could only have originated from a state-sponsored effort,” Mark pointed out.

“Wait a second. How do we know that for sure?” asked one of the Secret Service agents.

“The level of finesse and accuracy, the paper, the security strip, the watermark…the color-shifting ink. Look, I could go on, but to accomplish what’s being done would require at least a billion-dollar investment, and access to classified information from inside Treasury. This isn’t the mob, it isn’t some terrorist camp, and it isn’t amateur. It’s another government.” Mark wanted to make sure they completely understood that. He didn’t like the way the discussion was going.

The Director of the Treasury spoke up. “Gentlemen, I’ve been listening to this for half an hour, and it seems like two central points are getting lost. One, we have a spy working here, selling or giving our most precious secrets. Two, we have a level of sophistication that spells sovereign nation, nothing else.” He stood up, took off his bifocals, and stretched his arms out over his head. “Now, the question is not whether the threat exists, or whether it’s another government. It is. These bills came from a Korean, ostensibly a diplomat, if Ken’s account from Saul is accurate. It could be any of the Asian or Middle Eastern countries hostile to our interests, or even China or North Korea. Given the bill’s history, I’d start in Korea, but we should consider any governments in the region suspect.”

“Now, hold on a minute—” the NSA man started.

“No, you hold on. I’m not going to sit here and debate possibilities. I want to hear how we’re going to locate the person or persons who sold our secrets. And I want to hear how we’re going to stop whoever is printing these. Clear?” The Director wasn’t interested in a mid-level brainstorming session.

“I think we need to look at the bank accounts of every employee with access to the classified info, and we need to track the ink sales from the manufacturers. And that’s just for starters.” The second Secret Service agent, apparently the superior, was speaking for the first time. “We also need to put out feelers to our intelligence-gathering apparatus in Asia and see what surfaces. And we need to scan the records and identify who the Korean was—there couldn’t have been many Korean diplomats flying into San Francisco last week.”

The NSA man looked at Ken. “This Saul fellow. How much did he say was brought in on the watch transaction?”

“One million.” Ken didn’t need to refer to his notes.

“Well, we have our work cut out for us. This is the biggest currency threat we’ve ever faced, and it needs to receive the highest priority from every agency involved.” The Director wanted to ensure everyone appreciated the gravity of the situation. “I’m headed over to the White House in an hour to brief everyone. You’d better come up with a plan to contain this, quickly.”

“Where are the rest of the bills?” the first Secret Service agent asked.

“We don’t know,” Ken admitted.

“We need to find them. And we don’t want this getting out to the general public, ever. So add that to the list.” The Director looked around the room. “Gentlemen.” He walked out.

The meeting went on for another forty minutes, and action items were agreed upon and delegated. The mention of the White House eliminated the philosophizing and departmental jockeying.

CIA would circulate to the field that it wanted info on any new factories or plants that could be used for large-scale money production, or rumors of activity. There wasn’t a lot of hope there, but you never knew. Treasury would compile a list of all employees with access to the classified information, and run bank scans for unusual deposits. The NSA would interface with NYPD on the murders, and check on the airplane records for the Korean. Secret Service would follow up with the ink and paper and strip manufacturers. Everyone had their marching orders, and as the meeting broke up, the mood was glum. They were behind the curve, battling against an unknown adversary, and the stakes had never been higher.

~ ~ ~

Tess had worn herself out, her grief exhausted for the moment. She needed to find somewhere safe to stay. She was a loner by choice, didn’t require the company of her fellow man to feel satisfied. So she didn’t have a lot of friends in the city who weren’t female bicycle messengers. And they were on the endangered list at present.

She thought about Stan’s apartment, and her dad’s, and realized that those places were just as safe as hers, which was to say, not at all. Any team savvy enough to track Saul and Stan and her dad, and even Nick, would know where she lived.

It wouldn’t be hard now that they undoubtedly knew she had the cash. She had to disappear.

She called Duff on her cell.

“Whassup?”

“Hey, Duff, it’s Tess.”

“Hey, how’s it going? Did you see all the stuff in the paper this morning?”

“Yeah. Hey Duff, I need a huge favor.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Duff, Nick was murdered today, and so was my Uncle Stan. The killers almost got me, too. I need someplace to stay for a few days.” Tess hated to ask, but she didn’t have anywhere else to turn.

“Whoa. You kidding? That’s messed up. I mean, really messed up.” He hesitated. “You can stay on my couch if you don’t mind cockroaches. I’ll let Shaneese know what’s going down.” Shaneese was Duff’s girlfriend, and the mother of his little girl.

“Thank you so much, Duff. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“Just get here safe. This isn’t the best neighborhood, you know? Call me when you get close, and I’ll come out and make sure you get in okay.” Duff had always been protective of Tess, almost since they had first met. She was glad he was a good guy. There was no way he was the Red Cap serial killer. No way.

The idea gave her pause. Are you sure, Tess? I mean, a hundred and ten percent? Maybe your buddy is a little loco, ex-gang, maybe angry about the bullets in his back? Maybe likes to take his aggressions out on the ladies?

Tess thought about it. He worked hard, didn’t get high, had always been straight with her and was doing right by his daughter. That was way more than she could say about most of the other dudes at work, white, brown, yellow or black.

So she supposed that yes, she was a hundred and ten percent on Duff. She knew him. He was one of the good ones.

She pointed her bike uptown to where Duff lived. It wasn’t the best area—in fact it was terrible—but right now it was the safest place for her to go.

~ ~ ~

Gordon prepared to call the minister to let him know he’d gotten the box set up and was ready for the next round. The day was winding down, and he’d stayed late at his office. He had his feet up on the desk, glad the whole dangerous part of the adventure was almost over.

He’d lit up one of his fine Cuban cigars, and breaking every law in Manhattan, was puffing away in a self-satisfied manner, looking out over the city, savoring a glass of Johnny Walker Blue scotch. He activated an outbound line and dialed the number.

“Mingalaba.”

“Hello, it’s Gordon.”

“Ahh, Gordon, I was expecting another call.”

“I just wanted to let you know I got a box at the bank. So whenever you need me to go in, I can.” Gordon was feeling expansive—why not appear eager to help?

“We have a little problem. We still do not have the key or box number. But we are very close.”

“A problem? Nothing serious, I hope.” Gordon didn’t like hearing about “little” problems. He sat up, alert.

“I don’t think so. A minor inconvenience. It should be rectified by tomorrow.” The singsong voice gave nothing away.

“Care to share? Perhaps I can help.”

“There is a watch dealer who obtained the test batch. We have been trying to locate the key to his safe deposit box, as well as the box number. It has been harder than anticipated.”

“But the cash is in there? So what’s the big deal? As long as it stays in the box, we’re golden.” Gordon chomped on the cigar, dipped the chewed end into his scotch and replaced it in his mouth.

“I’m not concerned. It is a triviality, a minor nuisance. But one we must nevertheless deal with.”

“Well then, I’ll sleep well. We’re close to implementation time. I’ve bought all the positions, and I’m just waiting for the fireworks to start.” Gordon was watching his net asset value drop every day as the futures worked against him, but he knew it was temporary.

“I wish you untroubled rest. I have to go now—I’m waiting for a call.” The minister severed the connection.

Gordon considered the discussion and had an uneasy feeling. The Asian was saying all was well, but his voice sounded strained. Gordon wasn’t an idiot, and had read people over the phone his entire life. The minister was worried about something.

That meant he should be worried, too.

~ ~ ~

Tess called Ron when she stopped at West 90th to get more fluid into her system and buy another jogging bra and some panties.

“Stanford.”

“Ron, it’s Tess.”

“Tess. How are you holding up?”

“I’ve had better two-day periods, Ron. I’m all right now, I think. I’m worried about my place, so I’m going to crash somewhere else for a few nights.”

Ron understood why she felt at risk—aside from the serial threat, she was also the only one who’d seen the watch-shop killers and lived to tell about it, which meant he should probably get her in to sit down with a sketcher ASAP. “That’s a good idea, Tess. But before you drop off the radar, I need you to come in and talk to a sketch artist. Now, if possible.”

“God, Ron. Now? Can’t it wait?”

“I’m afraid not. You’re the only one who can ID the perps. We need some help here.” It wasn’t his case, but he felt it was in all their best interests to nail these pricks before they could kill more civilians. He also would get to see her again.

“I’ll be there in half an hour. How long will it take?”

“No more than an hour. Ask for me when you get here.” He gave her the address.

“All right, I’m on my way.”

Tess called Duff and let him know she’d be a couple of hours late. He was easy with that. She rode steadily and got to midtown around 5:30. Ron came down the stairs two minutes later.

“Tess. Come on up, let’s get you set up with the artist,” Ron greeted, all business.

“Okay, Ron. But once we get up there, can I take a minute or two to use the facilities? I’ve been on my bike all day.”

She looked amazing, even with eyes puffy from crying. Ron had never been a sucker for the damsel in distress thing, but she was pulling at some essential part of him and he seemed to have no choice but to follow.

“Of course, Tess. It’s been kind of hectic here—I’m so focused on the Red Cap investigation I tend to forget my manners. How are you feeling?” He studied her, looking for signs of serious damage.

“All things considered? I’m hanging in there.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Poor Nick. And Stan. It’s hard to understand a world where this can happen, Ron.” She wouldn’t be back to normal for a long time, he saw. Maybe not for the rest of her life. Something about her had changed in the last forty-eight hours; some essential vulnerability had been lost.

“Welcome to my world, Tess. It’s been a brutal couple of days for you; let’s get the drawing over with so you can go home.” Ooops. “Or wherever you’re headed.”

“I know why everyone’s being killed, Ron.” She said it so casually, so easily, he almost missed it. I’d like a latte, Ron. It’s kind of chilly in here, Ron.

He struggled to keep his face unreadable. “Really?”

“My dad sold several expensive watches to a Korean diplomat who paid him in cash last week. Stan smelled a rat, and took some of the cash to Saul for authentication. Saul said it was fake, counterfeit.” She looked at him. “Someone wants their bogus cash back, and is killing to find it. It’s all about the money—funny money, in this case.”

Ron was buffaloed. It fit. All of it. Currency dealer, coin dealer, watch dealer.

“So where’s the cash?” he asked softly.

She looked at him. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I have a feeling I’m the next one in the line of torture leading to the answer.” She smiled that smile and his heart melted, just a little. “So where’s the ladies room?”

“Over here. I’ll give the artist a buzz. It’s after hours now, but she agreed to stick around.” Ron gestured to a door and watched her go in.

Ah, well, back to work.

Tess returned, was introduced to the artist, and the drawing began. Forty-five minutes later they had two sketches of Asians that looked like half of Chinatown. He supposed it was better than nothing.

Tess prepared to take off, and Ron again told her to call him if she needed anything. She was appreciative, but distant—obviously brittle, at the end of her rope.

“Have you eaten?” Ron asked.

“No, but I grabbed something earlier, around two.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but—would you like to get something to eat?” Ron couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

She looked at him. For a long time. “Thanks, Ron, but not tonight. It’s been a bad day all around. I think I’ll just hit it.”

“No worries. Take care of yourself. You have my number,” Ron said, and watched as she walked down the stairs to the front door, almost colliding with Amy.

“Oh, my God. Sorry,” said Tess and Amy simultaneously. Amy held the door for her, and after Tess exited, looked up at Ron.

“Friend?” Amy asked.

“Witness from the messenger company. Her dad was murdered on Monday and her uncle and boyfriend were killed today.”

“That’s horrible. Poor thing.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Does that mean she’s single now?”

He knew a minefield when he saw one. No thanks.

“What can I do for you, Amy?”

“I was just punching out, wanted to see if you had any plans for dinner.”

He considered his day, and tomorrow’s likely trajectory.

“No plans. Let’s do something quick; I need to come back and work late,” he said.

~ ~ ~

Tess stopped to eat before she rode into Harlem. She felt disoriented from trying to absorb all the killings, but was feeling stronger every minute she was on the bike. The food gave her energy, a necessary boost for the ride to Duff’s.

As she passed 120th Street the roads deteriorated. Twenty years ago, you didn’t go past 110th Street unless you had a serious death wish, but since then the entire town had undergone a renaissance, and much of the island that had been dangerous beyond description had been cleaned up and rendered livable, if not desirable.

Still, there were areas that were bad, and Duff's neighborhood was one of them. She called Duff when she crossed 140th Street to let him know she was approaching, and he gave her directions to his complex.

The pavement became increasingly decrepit, and groups of locals were hanging out on the street, it being far too hot to remain indoors. Tess gazed up at the plum-colored dusk sky and was glad she’d made it before dark. Cars sat double-parked with massive bass reflex speakers blaring rap, and cliques of thugs loitered about, selling drugs and watching for police.

She wheeled around a corner and raced to Duff’s monolithic apartment block, noting the increasingly menacing air of the young toughs hanging out on the stoops.

Duff was waiting for her in the doorway and waved at her. She rode up on one pedal, having flipped her other leg over the frame so both were on the same side, and pulled to a stop.

“Let’s get off the street. How you doin’?” he asked.

“Not so good, Duff. Not so good. This hasn’t been my favorite week.”

“I hear that. Let me introduce you to my daughter, and you can tell me about it.”

The elevator was out of order so they walked up four flights of stairs, Duff carrying the bike. The stairwell was sweltering and smelled of urine, filth and evil doings. She spotted a few tiny vials used for hits of crack. This was a verifiable hell hole, and Duff’s everyday life, she realized—and yet she’d never heard him complain.

Down a hall punctuated with lights ensconced in metal cages to prevent them from being broken or stolen, she could hear fighting from behind some of the doors, woo-hooing from behind others, bass beats thumping from behind others. They reached his apartment and he unlocked the two deadbolts and invited her in.

The place was spotlessly clean, small, but had been brightened by a woman’s touch. The kitchen was tiny and the living room little more than a closet, with a dilapidated couch and two easy chairs oriented around a flat screen TV, and a child’s futon in the corner. The windows were open and fans were perched on every ledge, pulling in air and circulating it as best they could.

“Brandy, come out. I have a friend I want you to meet. Her name’s Tess. She won’t bite.” He looked in the direction of the bedroom. A small head peeked around the corner of the doorway, shy, eyes the size of half dollars.

“Hi, Brandy. My name’s Tess. I work with your Daddy.” Tess held out her hand, very seriously, by way of greeting. Brandy, equally seriously, approached and shook it ceremoniously.

“Hello…I have a bunny. Wanna see?” Brandy asked, with considerable gravitas.

“That’s one of the things I came here to do,” Tess responded. The little girl disappeared momentarily and then returned with a small, dirty stuffed rabbit, obviously her constant companion.

“What’s her name?” Tess asked.

“Bunny,” Brandy answered shyly.

Duff set her bike in the hallway next to his and offered her some soda or water. She opted for water. Brandy was sent into the other room to watch cartoons, and Duff sat down and asked to have the whole story laid out for him. It took a while.

“Then these gooks are still going to be in your face. They want a piece of you. Wanna off you, by the sound of it,” Duff summarized.

“I don’t know what to do, but I’m all ears, Duff. They won’t stop till they get me, I know that. I think I hurt the tall one, but I wouldn’t bet on them quitting.”

“I gotta talk to my old homies. I think there’s a way to make them go away. How much money could you scratch up in the next forty-eight hours if you needed to, cash?” he asked.

“How much would I need? What are you thinking?”

Duff laid out the basics of the plan forming in his head, and Tess helped him fine-tune it, objecting to this, tweaking that. After an hour or so of discussion, she felt like they had a workable strategy to solve the Asian problem.

Tess felt better about Duff’s solution than about hoping the police would do something. So far the only thing they’d been able to do was roll bodies away. She would bet on Duff over the cops any time; in fact, she was going to do exactly that.

Duff called Red Cap and told them he wouldn’t be in tomorrow, had a personal crisis. He’d spoken to Shaneese before her night shift at the emergency room about Tess spending a few days with them, and she’d reluctantly agreed. Not too many women would be thrilled about having another woman staying with them and their man, especially not a beautiful woman they’d never met, but Duff had explained about the murders and she’d acquiesced.

They settled down for the night at around ten, Brandy occupying the futon and Tess on the couch, and as she dozed off she heard Duff on the phone in the bedroom in a muted conversation. It had cooled down to where it was only slightly uncomfortable with the fans blowing, and she was out within five minutes.

~ ~ ~

Ron apologized for being lousy company at dinner, and Amy let it go at that; she could understand the pressure he was under and felt it was reasonable to cut him some slack. It wasn’t like she had some sort of proprietary claim on him.

Still, she was annoyed at some level by the looks he’d exchanged with the girl, who was everything she was not, at least physically. Tall compared to Amy, slim, tanned, beautiful in a very obvious way, tattoos that made her look a little trashy but also sexy, Amy had to admit.

Amy considered her own assets, and found herself wanting. She was small, not fat, but not model slim, pale from her indoor occupation, not plain—in fact attractive, but certainly not Cosmo quality—and had a conservative demeanor.

Amy had always looked at girls like Tess and wondered what planet they originated from; that’s how alien they seemed. She knew it was silly, but it was a visceral world and beautiful people seemed to lead beautiful lives. Amy knew that was bullshit—especially once Ron told her about all the murders surrounding Tess—but that’s how she felt emotionally. And seeing Ron interact with her in an easy and familiar way bugged her, pure and simple.

~ ~ ~

Ron had other things to concentrate on besides Amy’s mood at dinner.

Once back at the office, he called Barry and explained about the money and the Asians, and the link between Saul, Stan, Nick, and Robert.

“Your girl’s in big danger if that’s the case, Ron,” Barry said. “A pro team of hitters isn’t going to stop until they get what they want. And this is more than hits. It’s systematic torture. You had to see this Nick guy to believe it… They cut his foot half off, cooked him, bashed his mouth in, boiled the skin off his face… It’s way above and beyond a hit.” Barry was just now finishing up at the watch shop. Ron could tell he was stunned that the killers would be ballsy enough to return to a crime scene and kill again, in broad daylight, the same week.

“Yeah, you’ve got some bad ones there. I know she’s in trouble; she’s going to avoid her usual haunts until this is over. She’s staying with friends and isn’t going by the shop, so they’ll be out of luck if that’s what they’re hoping for. Just catch them, Barry.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I need to call back that prick from Treasury and find out what they know. I got the impression he was holding out on me, and now I think I know why—this is way bigger than a few murders if it involves international hit teams.”

“Let me know what they say. I’m curious too,” Ron said.

“I know the feeling. You’ve got your own fun and games with your serial. Isn’t tomorrow the big night? You any closer to getting him?”

“Wish I was. Why do you think I’m still at work?”

“Good luck. I’ll let you know what the Washington boys say.”

~ ~ ~

The bar was crowded and rowdy. Situated in a seedy section of the Lower East Side, on the fringe of the East Village, it was one of several dozen dives the messenger crowd called their own at night. The killer moved easily through the throng of revelers, who were attracted by cheap beer and dollar shots of rotgut booze—an inexpensive way to numb the pain and congregate with other unfortunates from the same community.

The primary features of this establishment, aptly named “The Drunk Tank,” were an old mahogany bar running the length of the main upstairs room and a downstairs area with a couple of distressed pool tables and a small stage local bands played on for free beer.

The place reveled in its status as a dive, and celebrated its lowly position in the liquor service hierarchy. That attitude was one of the reasons it was so popular with many of the bike messengers—you could be a loser, yet the place embraced you with a cloak of understanding and non-judgmental acceptance. And you could get wasted on twenty dollars. A definite plus if you were working on a budget, which the bike folk inevitably were.

The killer nursed a beer at the bar and watched a chunky girl with bright red hair drinking with a group at one of the booths. She was awful, had a gap when she smiled where she’d lost a tooth toward the back of her upper dental plate, and featured several large tattoos on her shoulder and one arm: a roadrunner from the Warner Brothers cartoons, and a lowrider car with a vato in a stylized zoot suit tossing some dice.

It always amazed him when he saw chubby bike messengers. How many calories did you have to onload to pack on the pounds when you were burning almost constantly? No matter. Her hair was the right color.

She was loud and drunk, yelling at her equally-abrasive companions, throwing back her head and laughing. He wondered how he was going to connect with her, and then grinned. Given all the other characteristics, she had to like cigarettes—and probably drugs, as well. What was life without a little stimulation?

He finished the beer and made a big show of pulling out a cigarette, then walked by the booth carrying the pack in one hand and the smoke in the other. Sure enough, she drained her drink and pushed her way out of the booth. The killer exited ahead of her and stuck the cigarette in his mouth; she came out and smiled at him in what he was sure she believed was a coy manner.

“You got an extra one?” Her voice sounded thrashed from years of abuse. Up close, he could tell she’d been cute in her teen years, but a decade of non-stop partying and hard living had burned most of the good out of her, leaving a woman sliding down the hill toward looking matronly and shell-shocked. He guessed she was no stranger to speed and coke, in addition to alcohol and nicotine, which would accelerate the decline.

“Sure.” He handed her a cigarette and lit it for her. She sucked at it greedily, inhaling deeply.

“How’s it goin’?” he asked.

“Oh, you know. Having a few laughs,” she rasped.

“What’s your name? I’m Michael,” he lied.

“Sherry. Pleased ta meet you.” She had a slight drawl of some sort, maybe Oklahoma, Arkansas?

He made small talk as they smoked, complimented her on her eyes, told her she reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. Sherry worked at Arrow Courier, a rival of Red Cap. It was perfect. She wanted to know what he was doing there, and he told her he was a graphic artist who lived a few blocks away, and had decided to have a few drinks, hinting that he was bored and lonely. He offered her another cigarette, which she accepted, and the next portion of the discussion centered around the awesome weed he’d just scored.

She was interested, and he offered her a bowl almost as an afterthought. He’d brought a little pipe with him, and they ducked around the corner and sparked it up. She took several huge hits, holding the smoke in her lungs for maximum effect. He took a few hits as well, but exhaled much sooner.

“Wow. That’s good shit. Thanks for the tokes,” she said.

“No problem. You should see the coke I get. I got a Peruvian who gets me the weed; his cousin gets coke, and man, it’s from heaven.” He needed to suck her in, get her committed to a rendezvous for tomorrow. If he’d read her right, coke would do the trick.

“Really? I’d love a taste; it’s been a long time since I had good blow. Most of the coke around here sucks.” Bingo. Fish on the hook.

“Yeah, I know. Isn’t worth shit.” He didn’t want to play too eager.

“I love good blow, it makes me horny. Why don’t we get together and get high? It’ll be fun.” She leered at him, the promise of sex obvious.

“Why not? I’ll be over at Lucy’s tomorrow night if you want to hook up. I’ll get some and bring it with me.” He smiled his best innocent smile.

“Lucy’s? I been there. On Avenue A. Same place?” She was clearly anxious to close the deal.

“That’s the one. One of my hangouts. Low-key, not too far. I’ll be there at about nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be there. Better take your vitamins, Michael. I have a feeling you’re gonna need your energy tomorrow night.” She winked at him. “I wish we could get some now.”

“I’m fried, plus I have to see my guy. Tomorrow sounds cool. I won’t forget. Hey, want a little weed for the road?”

“Thanks. That’s cool.” Sherry thought she’d gone to heaven. He emptied some of the tobacco out of a cigarette and stuck a pinch of marijuana into it, then rolled off the tip and handed it to her.

“Something to get the party started tomorrow night,” he said.

She grabbed his crotch and rubbed it clumsily, he supposed as a preview of things to come. “Nine o’clock at Lucy’s. I can’t wait,” she said, and turned and walked unsteadily back into the bar. He strolled down the block, whistling. That had been simple. She was a disaster, and would definitely meet him; she wanted the coke so badly she would have blown him right there just on the promise of getting high.

He felt dirty from where she’d touched him. The things he had to do.

Twenty minutes later back at his apartment the music was pumping, and he was wearing Loca’s hair, singing, as was his ritual. He couldn’t wait until the process was complete, and he’d be completely invisible in his current incarnation and visible only as a woman. The magic was real, he could feel it; he just needed to keep going, get enough of the pretties to take him to the next level.

Sometimes he could feel waves of it, in everyday life, where he knew he was almost invisible; people couldn’t even sense his presence. He could stand in a club with his eyes closed and his head back, and no one would bump into him, like he had a force field around him, protecting him.

He’d been aware of his calling, of his imminent transcendence, for years. He’d tried other things, but he knew at some basic level that this time, in this way, he’d make it to the other side and his transformation would be complete.

The drugs helped him stay focused, gave him a preview of what it would be like. Acid or ’shrooms were his favorite, ecstasy a good all-around mood enhancer for the nighttime. He was so close. He danced and twirled, spun in the candlelight, keening the song over and over in a high falsetto.

“Don’t you want me, baby…”

Chapter 28

Tess awoke to yelling in the bedroom. Even with the door closed, she could clearly make out the argument between Duff and Shaneese. The gist was that Shaneese was upset Duff had taken time off to help Tess.

“What the hell is going on here, Lamar? You know we need every cent to make ends meet. Now you’re flaking on your job, not going in, so you can run around town with your new girlfriend?” Shaneese yelled.

“Baby, you know I love you and Brandy more than anything. I need to help Tess out. She’s in bad trouble—her people have all been killed. She needs me,” Duff argued.

“Needs you? Needs you? What about your family? We need you. You got some white bitch dragging you around by the nose, you just too dumb to see it. Now you missing work. What’s next—you gonna start slangin’ again?”

“That’s not what it is. She’s a friend, that’s all. She almost got killed, she’s all alone; what you ’spect me to do? What if it was Brandy when she was grown, what if she needed help?” Duff asked.

“You do what you need to do. But I want her gone. She need to find her own people. That’s all I got to say.”

Brandy looked up at Tess from the futon, clutching Bunny to her chest, awakened by the ruckus.

“She isn’t always like that,” Brandy said in a tiny voice.

“I know, honey. This has been hard for everyone. Your Daddy’s a good man.”

“He’s the best man in the whole world,” Brandy said with complete seriousness.

Duff came out of the bedroom looking sheepish.

“Shaneese had a long shift, a lot of stuff going on. She thinks maybe it’s not a good idea to have you stay any more.” Duff was trying to put a brave face on it. “I’m really sorry, Tess.”

“No problem, Duff. I’m grateful for the night. Besides, if things go well today, maybe it won’t be as big a problem,” Tess said.

“Yeah, well, I just wanted you to know it isn’t my choice. I have to keep the peace, know what I’m saying?”

“I do. What’s on the agenda?”

“I talked to my homie Rufi last night, and he said come by and lay it all out for him. Said he could probably help you—for a price, you know?” Duff said.

“Well, whenever you’re ready. Is it okay if I take a shower?” Tess asked.

Duff thought about it. “Let me talk to Shaneese for a second.” He went back into the bedroom, and there was a muted discussion. He returned.

“Maybe it isn’t such a good idea. I’m sorry, Tess. Lemme grab my gear and we can hit it.”

“It’s all right, Duff. I can understand where Shaneese is coming from. I’d have a hard time too.” She realized Duff was going out on some precarious limbs for her, and she wanted him to know she appreciated it.

Tess walked over to the little sink in the kitchen and using some dish soap and a paper towel, did an impromptu cleanup. She’d been through worse—it wouldn’t kill her. Finished, she asked Duff if she could use the bathroom. He said no problem, and she tiptoed into the darkened bedroom and locked the door to the restroom, changed into new panties, and ran her fingers through her hair. She was more or less drip-dry, not a lot of primping required, so not being able to take a shower hadn’t thrown her psyche out of kilter.

Tess emerged from the bathroom and crept back out, closing the door softly behind her. Duff was talking to Brandy, telling her he needed to go out, and to keep quiet so Mommy could sleep. Brandy looked up at Tess.

“Are you going too?” she asked.

“Yes, honey, I have some stuff to do. Take care of Bunny, okay? Make sure she has the very best day ever.”

Brandy appeared to consider the request seriously. “I will. I’ll take care of Bunny. She’ll be okay.”

Tess hoped the same could be said for her. Duff grabbed his keys and gestured for her to follow. They exited the apartment; it was already sweltering in the hallway, and she was relieved when they emerged onto the street. Most of the rough crowd was still asleep from the night’s partying, and there were only a few random dealers loitering around waiting for customers.

They walked several blocks and approached a brownstone with boarded-up windows. A teenager sitting on the stoop nodded at Duff, gave him a high five, and shot the shit with him for a minute. The young man reached into his pocket, extracted a two-way radio, and muttered something into it. After a burst of static followed by a mumbled response he gestured with his head for them to proceed up the stairs.

The door opened and another youth with a submachine gun greeted them while his associate patted them down, after which they were directed up another flight of stairs to the second floor. They ascended, and walked into a construction zone—the floors stripped to bare concrete and the walls exposed brick. The room was barren except for a desk with a phone and a laptop computer on it, along with another two-way and a police scanner. Behind the desk sat a wiry chocolate-complexioned man wearing a brown jogging suit and a bandanna tied around his head. He gestured to several chairs in front of his desk.

“Sit.”

Duff started right in. “Yo, Rufi, like I said last night, we got us a situation. We need some soldias to take care of it. There’s some gooks trying to off Tess here; they took out her dad and her uncle and boyfriend, and it’s gotta stop.”

Rufi appeared to consider the idea. “How you want to deal with them?”

Duff laid out the plan they’d come up with the prior night. Rufi said nothing. Instead, he got up and went to a wall, touching the brick.

“These places are a gold mine. I’ve been buying them for six hundred G’s; I gut ’em, do up the interiors, and they’re worth a million three and up. They were built a hundred years ago, but they’re still standing and worth the trouble. I own almost a whole block now.” He looked at Duff and Tess. “Thirty grand will get you enough homeboys to grind them to hamburger, send them back to wherever they came from in a cigar box. The plan sounds good. When can you get the money?”

Duff spoke up. “I’ll vouch for Tess. You’ll have it within twenty-four hours. I’m good for it. We go back, Rufi.”

“Fine. When do you want to do this? I figure six or eight of my crew should take care of things.”

“I’ll let you know. Sooner the better. Next day or two, at the latest.”

“That’s cool. I’ll pull some homies together and tell them what’s going down. You just let me know.”

~ ~ ~

Ron gathered his task force together and handed out assignments for the day. The best way he’d come up with to prevent another girl at Red Cap from being butchered was to put a surveillance team in place to watch every female messenger. He’d considered following the men too, but the logistics of tracking almost fifty possible perps were far beyond their capabilities.

Now that Candy and Loca were out of the mix and Tess was safely in hiding, they could concentrate their resources on the remaining ten female messengers, which was manageable. Since this serial was nocturnal, they could do their investigations during the day and then get into position to watch the targets at night.

Ron wanted someone to sift through Turbo’s background more closely, based on his behavior and the presence of the number on Candy’s pad. There was something going on with him, something shady. He was jittery and scattered enough to be a serial, and the missing piece in his history made Ron suspicious. Turbo’s military records also needed to be sorted through to see if he had a history of liking the killing part of the job too much, or if he was unusually brutal—something that would point in a firmer direction.

Tiny also warranted attention. Ron had requested the results of the psychiatric evaluation that was done while he was behind bars, but it still hadn’t shown up. The system was so goddamned slow sometimes. Tiny exuded an air of drugged menace, and his truculence in the interview had been palpable. Maybe he just had a bad taste in his mouth from being inside, but Ron didn’t like his attitude, and could easily see him doing bad things to people.

He assigned an agent to each one of the more obvious suspects, chartering them with finding out as much as they could. This was where a task force came in handy; the workload could be shared and results generated faster.

He selected ten officers for the night shift and gave them the afternoon off—they’d be working till midnight or later. He wanted them alert and able to get a team there in minutes at the first sign of anything funny. They would all be armed, but it was better to have them wait and get a squad to tackle the perp when he showed up, if at all possible. Hopefully the serial wouldn’t anticipate all the activity and change his cycle.

~ ~ ~

The killer was preparing his kit, making sure everything was in it, as he did before each hunting session. He methodically inventoried his store of latex gloves, the garbage and ziplock bags, the syringe with the epinephrine and the potassium chloride. One had to be careful and systematic so as not to make foolish mistakes. And he hadn’t made any. Of course, one could well argue that choosing to hunt only within his employer’s pool of available young ladies had been a mistake, but he was sure he could handle it.

He’d need to find someone to lay the blame on for the current crop of victims; he understood once there was enough pressure on the city to convene a task force and look into every employee of Red Cap, this particular episode of his evolution was drawing to a close.

If tonight’s collection didn’t achieve the transformation, he’d have to lay low until he could begin again, altering the items he collected. He’d been sure the hair, eyes and breasts had been the correct combination, but if the magic didn’t occur tonight, perhaps he’d miscalculated and would need to rethink the items he was taking.

He knew from experience that sometimes there were bumps on the road to becoming; the hurdles were there to keep the unworthy from achieving that which was reserved for the special, the chosen. He didn’t think he’d gotten it wrong this time, but one never knew—he’d been wrong about things before. One thing he was sure of was that he had to plan the next phase carefully to ensure he remained free and clear.

If he had to start over, he could make the new murders look like a copycat—add some additional twists to the killings that would convince everyone it was a different perpetrator, some nut trying to emulate the original. He’d add some genital mutilation and maybe clip their ears off. That would send everyone on a wild goose chase.

And he’d have to lay off bike messengers.

Maybe actresses or models next time, something with a bit more glamour.

But Tess would stay on his agenda. She was stunning enough to be a model or an actress, anyway. She’d just have to wait a little while. Then again, tonight’s pretty could very well be the one that did it for him. Either way, it was time to put this round’s end-game into play. He’d calculated all the angles and had a plan for everything.

His mother had always told him he was a smart boy.

~ ~ ~

Finished with the task force, Ron was back at his desk looking over what they had so far, which other than the pathology reports and the crime scene documentation didn’t amount to much. He reread his notes from the interviews with the messengers, and nothing jumped out.

Ron scanned his wire inbox, which looked like a bag person had been collecting crazy paper for weeks, and saw a package with the distinctive FBI seal on it. He wondered what that was all about until he remembered his request on the Pennsylvania punk rock killings. He opened the oversized envelope, removed the old files, and browsed them quickly. Three street girls who hung out in the punk rock scene had been murdered, their eyes removed and breasts cut off. No scalping. Those killings had been on a three-week cycle, and had stopped as suddenly as they had started after the third girl.

The FBI had hypothesized there might have been more victims, but it was hard to tell with street kids—if you didn’t find a body, you had to assume you’d located all the casualties, as street people didn’t file missing persons reports.

That case was still considered open; they’d never found the killer. But there were too few similarities to make it a good fit. Pity, as they’d collected some good evidence on the punk rock murders.

No point in dwelling on the past—he had a different serial on his hands here, so a trip down memory lane wasn’t going to pay dividends. It was nice of the agent at the FBI to remember, though; Ron would have to send him a note and thank him. You could never have too many friends with the Feds—their databases were comprehensive, and having access to their info in a pinch was a godsend, especially when you needed profiling capability.

~ ~ ~

Gordon’s line chirped. It was the minister, checking in to see if he'd heard anything ominous. Another courtesy call, apparently. That gave Gordon pause. He knew all this courtesy was bad news.

The minister’s voice was guarded. “Our men are finishing up as we speak, and should be ready for your help in the next day or so.”

“What do you want me to do, precisely? I thought I was done when I opened the box for you,” Gordon said.

“We will need you to pull out the money from the watch dealer’s box once we have the key and the box number. It is a two-minute job. You go in to remove something from your box, open his instead, pull the cash out, and you’re on your way. It is nothing.”

Gordon couldn’t see any immediate downside. “You can rely on my assistance. How will I get the key?”

“I’ll contact you shortly. An intermediary will drop it off at a place of your choosing. It will be no effort, I assure you.” That ended the call.

Gordon thought about his participation to date. He wanted to make sure the Asians were accomplishing everything as effectively as the minister would have him believe. He kept hearing about how it was all going smoothly and was no problem, but the matter hadn’t been resolved yet. He might as well touch base with his man at Treasury and confirm nothing had shown up on the radar there.

He called his contact.

“Hey, it’s Gordon. Anything else surface?”

“Not really. There’s been some high-level meetings about something over the last day or so, but I’m not privy to those. Probably getting ready to make another change somewhere on the tens.”

“Well, keep in touch if anything suspicious happens.”

“Pretty dull over here, Gordon. I never heard another peep about the New York stuff, so that must have turned into a big fat nothing. Not too surprising, especially when you consider the source.”

“No problem then. Talk to you soon.”

~ ~ ~

Duff and Tess rode their bikes to her bank and pulled out fifteen grand—half her life savings. The teller looked at her strangely, but it was her money and she could do what she wanted with it. She hadn’t shared with anyone that she had at least a couple of million coming her way from the inheritance.

They’d agreed to pay Rufi half the money up front and the other half once the job was done. She had no moral quandary over paying the local gang to handle her problem rather than waiting for the NYPD. If this was really a foreign hit team, the killers probably wouldn’t get the chair once they were caught; they would likely be traded back in exchange for some concession. That wasn’t an eye for an eye.

They rode up to Rufi’s and the same sentry waved them up. Rufi was in his office talking to a twenty-something youth wearing oversized jeans and a Lakers jersey. Duff handed Rufi the cash, and he smiled as he counted it. Gold teeth across the front. A diamond in one of the incisors.

“This is my man Jamal, and he got six more niggas want to do some wailing. Right, J?” Rufi declared.

“Rufi laid it all out. Sounds like we going to have us a little party.” Jamal was enthusiastic.

Duff explained the whole thing again, and Rufi and Jamal nodded. They got it.

Tess stepped in. “They killed the security guard, Jerome, with some sort of poison, so you have to be careful. I don’t know how they got it into his system, but one of the police said it was a dart. So anything in their hands could be a dart gun, no matter what it looks like.”

“Was Jerome a brother? That’s cold, shoot a brother with a dart.” J sounded genuinely annoyed.

“That’s okay. We gonna take care of ‘em now,” Rufi snarled.

Tess looked straight at him with emerald eyes. She believed him.

~ ~ ~

Ken was working on his fourth cup of coffee as he entered the conference room. The entire group was already there, and they jumped right into it.

The NSA man spoke first.

“We should have the data on the employee bank accounts within an hour. If we see anything suspicious, we’ll do a secondary screen to filter out things like insurance settlements and inheritances, and whatever is left will probably be our target. The secondary screens shouldn’t take more than a day, so if there’s anything to catch we’ll know by tomorrow.”

The first Secret Service agent chimed in.

“We’ve run traces on every sale of ink from the major suppliers over the last year, and there are a number of suspicious larger sales to a company in Hong Kong. It could easily be a shell company; in fact it looks that way. Peeling the onion on that will take time, but we’re in the right region of the world for North Korea or Myanmar, both of which are hostile. Hong Kong could be where the buying’s coming from if it’s one of them.”

The NSA man spoke again.

“A Korean diplomat—mid-level, no one special—arrived and departed last week in San Francisco. On the ground for two hours total. Name’s Kiu,” he said.

“That’s got to be our guy. Can we arrange for an interrogation with the South Koreans?” Ken asked.

The CIA man leaned back and nodded. “I’m way ahead of you. Unfortunately, the mysterious Mr. Kiu was the victim of a brutal robbery the day of his return. He and his wife were killed. Very unusual for the area of Seoul he lived in.”

“So a dead end?” Ken asked.

“Depends on how you look at it. The question is, why was he killed literally right off the plane? And who did it?” The CIA man continued. “I read the report on the watch dealer murder, and saw one of the items taken into evidence was a Patek Philippe watch worth over a quarter million dollars. The assistant claimed it was one of those sold to Kiu.”

The NSA man smiled. “I won’t ask how you got that report. We’re still waiting for a copy from NYPD.”

“Suffice it to say, we know Kiu flew in, then turned around and flew back to Korea, presumably taking his newly purchased watches with him, and was robbed the moment he stepped through his door. Then one of the watches shows up in New York at the murder site a few days later. Could the link be any clearer?” The second Secret Service man observed.

“I’m afraid it has to be clearer before we can do anything. This is all circumstantial, and we need hard evidence before we take draconian steps.” The Director had advised Ken that they needed tangible proof for the White House to go to the mat.

“Let’s hope the intel comes back with meat, or we find the traitor. Without one or both of those, we can’t do a lot.”

“We still need the bills, too. We can’t have this leak out, ever, and we’ll need proof should China or anyone else question our actions after the fact,” the second Secret Service agent said.

Ken looked around the room. “Let me know how the scans of the phone records turns out; maybe we’ll get lucky there. Let’s reconvene tomorrow. How’s the effort to keep this quiet going? It’s harder every day to keep this under wraps. Just the way it works, I’m afraid.”

Secret Service and NSA regarded each other and assured Ken there’d been no leaks. CIA smiled and pointed out it wasn’t a question of if the word spread, it was when. They all glanced around the table. The clock was ticking, and time wasn’t their friend.

Chapter 29

Ron and two of his detectives were at Red Cap conducting another set of interviews, trying to get alibis and looking for changes in the stories from the last round. Ron had interviewed everyone on his star list except for Tiny and Turbo, who were due back shortly.

Luis had seemed agitated again, but had an alibi for Monday night; he’d been at a Salsa club near Times Square. They’d have to check that out. Dirter and Skid had been at rehearsal and then a bar to watch some friends play. So again, probably clean, but the alibis hadn’t been checked yet.

Turbo arrived first, and stepped into the little lunchroom reluctantly, his eyes looking everywhere and his mouth working with an automatic grinding—a telltale of meth use.

“So why do they call you Turbo, James?” Ron asked.

“On account of how fast I get from place to place,” Turbo fired back.

“It wouldn’t be because you’re jacked on crystal, would it, James? Rev you up, kind of like a turbo?” Ron figured he’d toss that out there.

Turbo smiled. “Why, Detective, that would be illegal, now wouldn’t it? Poisoning myself with a controlled substance?” Turbo’s words were colored with a little Texas twang. He smiled, and his teeth were grayish, the gums receded. Periodontal issues were the least of Turbo’s worries, Ron guessed.

“I saw you were in the military, James. Four years. After that, you got into a little trouble and then bummed around, and then you went dark for a while. Care to talk about where you were for the three years you dropped out?”

“Oh, you know. I wanted to see this great country of ours, detective. Here and there, I suppose. Here and there.” Turbo was staring around again, looking feverish.

“Did you know Candy?” Ron asked.

“Can any of us truly know anyone, Detective?” Turbo grinned again. “I knew her. She worked here; we were pals, sort of.”

“Sort of? She ever call you, want to get together?” Ron asked casually.

Turbo calculated his answer quickly; a sly sidelong glance, and then his jittery eyes glared back at Ron. His demeanor was that of a weasel or a wolf—a wild animal, trapped, caged against its will. “She would call me every now and then. I think she wanted some Turbo love, you know?”

Ron studied his full sleeve tattoos, the demented look, and obvious junkie pallor.

“Who could blame her? You are a stunning specimen. Do you remember when she last called, looking for some game?” Ron could play along, although he was running short on patience.

“Nah, my memory ain’t so good since the military. Coulda been any time.”

“Like Monday night?”

“Sure, maybe. I don’t pay much attention to the local skanks who wanna get a piece of me. Too many.” The grin again. “Supply and demand, you know?”

“Yeah. I can see that. Where were you on Monday night, Turbo?” Ron asked.

“Just chillin’ at the crib, detective. Watching MTV. No big.”

“Anyone there with you? Anyone who can confirm your whereabouts?” Ron felt like he was getting close. This prick was toying with him. Cocky.

“Well, now, Detective, I do recall that someone stopped by, but I don’t recall who it was. I’ll have to think on that and get back to you. My memory from the service, all that post-traumatic stress… It’s a bitch sometimes,” Turbo explained.

“Yeah, do that. Candy was murdered on Monday night, Turbo. Do think on that, would you?”

“I will, Detective. Can I help you with anything else? I still gotta go make a living. Idle hands and all.”

“Why do you think the killer is cutting their hair off, huh? Got any ideas, Turbo?” Ron threw it out as his parting shot, trying for a reaction.

“Well, I reckon he likes their hair, chief. He’s taking scalps like the Indians used to. Didn’t they do that to steal their enemy’s power or something? I never was too good in social studies.”

“You should have paid more attention. The white man initiated scalping as part of a bounty program for killing Indians. The Indians only started as retaliation, after years of scalping by the whites. Had nothing to do with power, everything to do with money,” Ron explained.

“Hmmm. Well whaddaya know. Maybe if I’d learned more stuff like that I’d be a homicide detective instead of a bike messenger. You got anything else?” Turbo appeared unfazed. Completely didn’t give a shit.

“No, we’re done here. Wouldn’t want those hands to be idle for too long. Got any plans for tonight?” Ron asked.

Turbo grinned again, and Ron noted one of his lower teeth was almost completely rotted out, brown from decay.

“Nothing special, Detective, nothing special at all. I’ll try to remember who stopped by on Monday, though.” Turbo sauntered out of the room.

Turbo was trouble. Stone crazy, but slippery. Ron liked him for the killings the more he talked to him. He could imagine an old man in Texas, rocking back and forth on his porch, being asked about young Turbo—could practically hear the man’s response. “That boy ain’t raght…”

Tiny was next, whenever he rolled in. The freak show continued.

~ ~ ~

Tess called her dad’s attorney on her cell. Simon picked up within a few moments.

“Hello, Tess. I reached your sister, and she agreed to a telephonic reading. We can schedule that for whenever you both like.”

“That’s great, Simon. Listen, I’d like to ask you a legal question. Hypothetically, if you had a stack of counterfeit currency you received believing it to be genuine, would you be breaking any law possessing it if you didn’t plan to circulate it?” Tess asked.

“I’ll have to look up the actual law, but I seem to recall something about a five-thousand-dollar fine and up to fifteen years in prison, although it’s questionable depending upon the circumstances how it would be handled. Why do you ask?”

“Confidentially, my dad received a million dollars’ worth of bills from a Korean, and I’m now of the opinion that the reason he was killed was to get them back because they might, and I stress might, be counterfeit. Let’s say I knew where he stashed them, and let’s further say I was interested in exchanging them with the Treasury Department for the real thing, assuming they were interested in getting their hands on them. What would be the best way to handle it?” Tess was thinking out loud. There had to be a way to convert the bills into real dollars.

She told him the whole story about Stan being killed, and Saul, and Nick. That Saul had claimed the bills were nearly identical to the real thing, and that an airport currency booth had verified them as genuine.

Simon took a long time to consider the issue, then voiced the opinion that the U.S. Government might not want the public aware of the existence of such a big chunk of bad bills floating around.

“Hmm. If you intended to go on television or do an interview with The New York Times, and if the government wanted to keep it quiet, you’d have considerable leverage. Hypothetically, that is.” Simon played along. He understood the fundamentals of the question.

“Could you make a call to the Treasury Department and see what their interest level might be in doing some sort of exchange? That is, in the highly unlikely event I could find the bills?” Tess had already considered moving them from the safe deposit box to another location out of town.

“I certainly could, although I do need to know that you don’t have possession of the bills yourself, and therefore aren’t in violation of any law.”

“I don’t. But please keep my name and identity out of it. I don’t trust anyone at this point,” Tess requested.

“You can rely on my discretion. What did you have in mind for a fair value for the exchange?” Simon wanted to know the parameters.

“I hadn’t really thought about it. Do whatever you think is right,” Tess said.

“I’ll let you know what happens.”

Simon hung up and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. If Robert had been killed because of some sort of counterfeiting scheme, and if the bills were so good they passed as genuine, then he might have some real negotiating room with the government, although he knew from harsh experience that one had to tread lightly when it came to Uncle Sam. After looking up the laws on the books and ruminating on a solution, he called Washington—an attorney friend who was high-level on the Beltway, and who knew the Director of the Treasury, among others.

~ ~ ~

The Asians had taken the day off to deal with the taller man’s injuries. Who could have predicted he would be so badly damaged by a rank amateur? It had taken several hours to get enough fluids in him to replace the lost blood; his mouth hadn’t clotted, and he’d been in real danger of bleeding out. His strength was badly compromised, and he knew he’d need at least a day to get back on his feet. It was an inconvenience, but a necessary one. The smaller man couldn’t handle the assignment by himself, and the taller couldn’t afford to go back out until he wasn’t a liability.

He was hopeful he’d heal quickly. They had important work to do.

And they were on a schedule.

Chapter 30

Gordon was skimming a report predicting the direction the euro would take over the next six months. His cell rang and he noted the Washington telephone number.

“Samuels here.”

“We have a huge problem,” Gordon’s Treasury contact said in a hushed voice. “A high-quality counterfeit bill wound up in Washington, and apparently they have a task force on it now. I just found out.”

“Slow down. How can you be sure? How do we know it’s ours?” Gordon asked.

“I’m dating a division head’s secretary—she mentioned everyone was scrambling because of a task force. I asked what it was about and she said it was over some fake bill from New York.” The man was speaking rapidly.

“Where are you calling from?” Gordon had broken into a sweat. This couldn’t be happening. Just couldn’t. It was his worst nightmare.

“My cell. I’m at the office. Gordon—this could get ugly fast. If they know about the bills, the jig is up. I’d start covering my tracks if I were you.” The man sounded panicked.

“Look, one bill isn’t proof of anything. Maybe they’re freaking out, but that’s a long way from everyone having to fold up shop. Any indication they know where the bill came from?” Gordon was trying to talk himself down—this was a disaster of the highest order for them. Or was it?

“She didn’t know. Far as I know, they don’t have a clue.”

“Well, then, it’s not that big a deal in the scheme of things, is it?” Gordon rationalized.

“Gordon, these guys aren’t idiots. They’ll keep pulling on the thread until they find where it leads.”

“There’s no thread to pull; it’s just a solitary bill of indeterminate origin. Come on. You know how the government works. They’ll be having meetings about this for the next year. Christ, they couldn’t even predict the Berlin wall coming down the week before it happened. I’m supposed to be worried over one lousy bill? Please.” Gordon felt calmer as he spoke. He was right. These weren’t the best or the brightest he was dealing with—they were government wonks, losers who couldn’t make it in the private sector.

“This is your heads up. I’m telling you I’m concerned, and I don’t like any of this.” The man still sounded scared. And Gordon knew it was not good to have a scared accomplice around, especially if he knew your number and your part in a plan that could be misconstrued in an ugly way if it ever came to light.

Gordon made a note with the man’s name on it and circled it. He’d have to tell the Asians what was happening, for self-preservation. The Treasury contact would have to go.

“I wouldn’t worry about it—it’s one bill. Take a pill, have a couple of drinks. This is nothing. Trust me.” Gordon sounded convincing.

“I’ll keep you posted if anything else surfaces.”

~ ~ ~

Ken received a phone call from the Director, which had been an increasingly frequent occurrence since the bill surfaced.

“Ken, I just spoke with an old friend of mine who has a line on a million dollars’ worth of the Asian counterfeits.” The Director said, his tone fatigued.

“Wow. Let’s get Secret Service on it, have them picked up before they make it out into distribution.”

“Ken, this is a special circumstance. The person holding them wants to sell the bills to us.”

Ken was incensed at the idea. “Absolutely not. The law is clear. If he doesn’t turn them over immediately, he faces serious jail time. Period.”

“We’ve reached an agreement. We’re going to trade them three hundred dollars per bill, for a total of three million bucks, Ken.” The Director sounded resigned.

“Wha—”

“Look, the alternative is fighting in the court system for weeks or months to find out who’s at the end of the trail, and in the meantime risking an article showing up. You want to read about the end of the dollar’s integrity on the front page of the Wall Street Journal? We can’t let that happen. The White House made the final call. Three million buys us a written commitment to never divulge the transaction and gets us the bills. I’d say it’s a deal.” The Director paused. “Hell, Ken—the Pentagon pays that much for a few cars.”

Ken processed that thought. He supposed it was mice nuts in the scheme of things, and they would be clamping a lid on the most embarrassing scandal to hit Treasury in a hundred years. “So it’s settled?” Ken asked.

“It is. And no trickery, either. I made an arrangement to have the exchange done in New York on Monday. We will honor the agreement, Ken. It’s a done deal.” The Director was firm.

“What do you want me to do?”

~ ~ ~

It was four o’clock and the various tails were on the Red Cap girls. Most of them stopped in at the Corral after work, and they dispersed around six. Ron was at headquarters receiving radio reports from the officers in the field; he knew what the girls had ordered to drink, who they were hanging out with, what they were having for dinner, and where they were. As the evening wore on, most went out to bars, and three of them went to a concert at one of the clubs in the Village. Two stayed home; one could be seen working on a sculpture in her window, and the other was with her boyfriend watching TV.

As the night wore on, Ron got tenser. It would have to be one of the girls still out. They had kept track of all of them, so the killer would be apprehended within minutes of making his first move. Eight o’clock turned into nine o’clock turned into ten o’clock, and nothing happened.

It was a slow, mundane evening for everyone, but at any second that could all change.

His whole task force was on duty, and most had put in fourteen hours so far. The calls continued to steadily come in from each spot as the evening progressed. Apparently being a female bike messenger involved a lot of drinking, smoking, drugs, and partying, and Thursdays were a big night out. Not exactly new information.

Ron’s cell vibrated. He looked down and swallowed hard when he saw the number. He walked out of the main room to field the call.

“Ron? It’s Tess. Sorry to call so late.”

“That’s okay, Tess. Tell me you’re someplace safe.” He could hear a crowd in the background.

“I’m over at a restaurant on Third Avenue nursing a glass of wine and wondering what to do next.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ron—I don’t have any place to stay tonight. I don’t feel safe at my loft since the killers who got Nick are still out there, and the place I lined up fell apart on me. I don’t have anywhere to go, and I don’t want to chance a hotel, in case they can somehow track me through some registry. So I was wondering if the police station is open twenty-four hours, and whether there’s a couch I could sleep on for a while. At least until it gets light out.” Her voice was very small.

“Um—we’re kind of in the middle of something right now, Tess. I’m still at work. Let me call you back in a few hours and we’ll figure something out, okay? Are you fine where you are till then?”

“Sure. Nick and I used to come here once every few weeks. They’re open till midnight or so. You’ll call later?”

“I will, Tess. Promise.”

Ron hung up, a pensive expression in place. He’d just been lamenting his luck on the female front, and now Amy was making mating calls, and Tess was asking him where she could spend the night.

Life was strange, he thought, and then re-entered the conference room and task-force communication center to focus on the job at hand: catching a murderer before he struck again.

~ ~ ~

The killer had been sipping his beer in a dark corner at Lucy’s since 8:50. It was one of the original watering holes on the alphabet avenues, which used to be among the worst areas in town. Like all the rest of the city, it was getting cleaned up. But there were still blemishes like Lucy’s, places that catered to the dregs of humanity, making them feel comfortable.

And Lucy’s was comfortable.

He’d ordered a Jack and Coke for Sherry, figuring that was an appropriate first drink for her personality type, and had dropped in a few Klonopins. More than enough to knock her out with a follow-up drink. It was sitting ready when she showed up at 9:15. She’d gotten tarted up, he noticed, though the effect was more sad than arousing.

“Hey, look who’s here,” she said when she saw him.

“What’s up? I got you an adult beverage.” He smiled at her. “You made it.”

She laughed. “You bet I did. Thanks. I smoked that weed you gave me—it’s pretty killer.” She took a few swallows of her drink.

“Yeah, it is. I picked up the blow—it’s rocket fuel. I don’t know where he gets this stuff. It’s like pharmaceutical grade.” The killer figured he’d keep her thinking about coke until she drank enough to fall off the stool.

“I can’t wait. You look hot tonight,” she said. Not particularly subtle, but she wasn’t exactly a debutante, so what did he expect?

“You know what would be cool that I haven’t had for a while? A shot of tequila. You want one?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She downed her drink in two more gulps. “You bet. I love tequila. Tequila, coke and cock. A good cocktail. Get it? Cocktail.” She threw back her head and brayed her laugh.

He went to the bar and bought two shots of Cuervo and brought them back to the wretched little table. As he put them down, he looked at the door in alarm. A man and a woman had walked in.

“Shit,” he said.

“What is it?”

“My ex and some idiot. That’s just great. Look, I don’t want her to see me, I’m gonna duck out. Meet me by the front door in two minutes?” He didn’t want her to be observed leaving with him.

“Uh, okay…What about your drink?”

“You can have it. I’ll see you in a few. I’m going to go out for a smoke before they notice me.” The killer got up and pretended to scratch his head so his “girlfriend” couldn’t see his face.

Sherry looked at him as he left, and then back at the shots. Waste not, want not. She knocked back both without any hesitation, then stood unsteadily and walked out the door. He was standing down the street, smoking. She felt wobbly. Tequila was always a good party-starter.

“Hey, baby. You got a cigarette for a lady?” She was starting to slur. He figured he had five minutes before she was out cold. Perfect. “I’ll blow you for it.” She grinned crookedly at her joke.

“Sounds like a deal.” He flipped out a smoke, lit it for her, and noted her pupils didn’t contract from the match. Good. She’d be down for the count soon, and he’d never have to hear her again. “You wanna head to my place, get high?” he asked, as though he’d just thought of it.

“You betcha.” She was having a hard time with her consonants.

“That tequila can sneak up on you—here, take my arm. Let’s hit it.” Next she’d start weaving, and then her knees would buckle.

They staggered up the block and around the corner, and passed an alleyway. She was in trouble, head spinning, but was still game.

“You serious about a BJ for the smoke?” he asked, and guided her into the alley.

“Sure thing, baby.”

She sank to her knees and let her fiddle with his zipper. She was fumbling with it, rapidly losing motor function; she couldn’t seem to get her hands to work. Her eyes went glassy and she slowly slipped into a heap at his feet.

Grabbing her under her arms, he pulled her deeper into the alley, behind a reeking dumpster, and then extracted his kit from beneath it and went to work.

He had it down to a science now. Injection; give it a few minutes; hair took less than a minute; eyes, another minute; breasts, twenty seconds. He carefully placed his trophies in the bag and hefted her corpse into the dumpster.

He was golden. Another night’s work completed. He exited the alley and made his way back to his place with the best parts of Sherry safely tucked away.

~ ~ ~

Gordon called the minister a few hours after the conversation with the Treasury agent. He’d needed time to digest the news, think through its implications, and figure a way out. Now he would see how the Asians wanted to proceed, and what they could do about the mess.

“Minister, it’s Gordon.”

“Yes, Gordon. It must be late there. What can I do for you?”

“I got a disturbing call from our acquaintance at Treasury. Apparently one of the bills surfaced, and now there’s a task force.” Gordon waited for a response. None was forthcoming.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Yes,” the minister replied.

“I’m worried about our conduit there—he sounds like he’s panicked. I’m also worried about the last conversation I had with you, where you assured me everything was under control and we had nothing to worry about,” Gordon said.

“I see. Well, Gordon, up until you called, I thought this was handled. I talked to our agents this afternoon. They experienced a minor logistical setback, but feel confident they will have the situation concluded soon. Apparently that might be overly optimistic.” The minister sounded spooked. His calm singsong voice was obviously strained.

Gordon’s voice hardened. “Look, my net worth is at stake here, as well as most of your country’s account. The oil futures and options will lose a fortune if the plan comes apart. I don’t like surprises—and I’m starting to think you aren’t giving me all the information you have.”

“I don’t know anything more than you do. But I would caution you that we are in this together, and that you work for me, not the other way around. Drop the insulting tone now or I may have the account transferred elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?” The minister’s voice hadn’t increased in volume or pitch, but the menace in it was unmistakable.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t be effective if you keep me in the dark. And you need to do something about the man in Washington—he sounds like he’s going to crack. You have to keep me up to speed, so I can maneuver.” Gordon had been checked, but the stakes were high and he wasn’t going to back down completely.

“You have many needs. I will call tomorrow once I have a full report on what is going on in New York.” The minister paused. “And Gordon? Thank you for the advice, but I would caution you again—you are close to crossing lines best left uncrossed.” The phone went dead.

Well, now, that was just great. Cryptic threats, non-statements, no communication, and a tone that said you’re our servant, so suck it up.

Gordon’s sinking feeling intensified.

He considered how much he’d lose if he sold his options and futures—at this point, almost half his net worth. A fortune that had taken decades to build, gone in a few days due to the goddamn Asians.

Then again, there wasn’t necessarily any reason the plan couldn’t continue as scheduled. Just because Treasury was on alert didn’t mean they could do anything. What to do, what to do, that was the question. He washed down a valium with a glass of scotch, and figured he’d deal with it once he saw what tomorrow brought.

~ ~ ~

The killer was dancing to the music, the candles were lit; all the eyes were watching him, the breasts shifting against his chest as he sang his anthem in the eerie falsetto. He’d been twirling and keening the song for fifteen minutes, and the transformation wasn’t taking place. The music started again and he tried to clear his mind.

It was no good.

He’d gotten something wrong. He knew it, felt it. He’d made a wrong call somewhere, misread a sign, and now it would have to start all over again.

He became increasingly agitated, then enraged, sweeping the candles to the floor and stomping on them, screaming in a shrill high voice, kicking the chairs. He tore Sherry’s hair off his head, threw it on the ground, jumped up and down on it and then fell on it, sobbing. He was crying for his lost self, the self he was trying so desperately to become, that he was so close to becoming. He shrieked his rage into his arms and then gradually pulled himself together. He’d misjudged before. Maybe this was part of the journey.

His evening wasn’t over yet; he had to take care of an important piece of business. The cleanup would take a while. He carefully scooped up the hair—always wearing the gloves—and proceeded with the packing of his kit and all the trophies.

There was one last thing to do.

~ ~ ~

“Yeah,” answered the male voice.

“I have to stop by. I need two bills worth, and I got a taste of some new shit for you. It’s from the guy we talked about, my cousin. He says he can start at a grand a week, minimum, or it isn’t worth his time,” the killer explained.

“No problem—I’m rolling five times that, easy. If the shit’s as good as you say, we’ll all be golden. Why you need my stash if he’s got some?” the messenger asked.

“I already did some earlier, after work. There’s only one more line left from the sample, and I saved it for you. But I need some for the weekend, and he only slings weight. No two-bill bullshit.”

“Awright. Come on by. I’m just chillin’.”

“Ten minutes.” The killer hung up the pay phone, just a block from the messenger’s apartment. He was wearing gloves, and would take them off once he was at the door. The fool suspected nothing.

The buzzer rang and the messenger obligingly beeped him in. The killer walked up one flight of stairs to the rathole of a flat, removing the gloves as he approached the door. It opened before he reached it.

“Hey, buddy, it’s getting late. I hope this shit’s not as good as you say, ’cause otherwise I won’t be sleeping tonight.” The messenger laughed.

“It’s godhead, my friend. You got my stuff?” The killer didn’t want to appear too eager.

“Yeah, it’s on the table. You want a beer?”

“Nah. Gives me a headache.”

“So where’s the magic? Bring it on.” The messenger was anxious to see what the killer had scored. He dealt to a lot of the other members of the Red Cap crew, as well as to various stops on his regular route. If this stuff was as good as advertised, he would be able to put a good cut on it and make a lot more profit, while maintaining his quality.

The killer pulled out a small vial and dumped a line onto the mirror. “Careful, now. You might want to sit down before you huff that if you’re used to your regular shit.” He laughed.

The messenger laughed too. Right. Like he couldn’t handle it. He snorted it all in one movement, and then shook his head. “Whoooo…that’s fuc—oh my…” He convulsed violently as foam frothed from his nose and mouth, and after a few moments his heart stopped.

The killer took his time preparing the scene. He re-donned his gloves and wiped the vial, and then used the messenger’s hand to pick it up, ensuring his prints were on it. It took him half an hour to make the place look the way he wanted. He was saddened he couldn’t keep the trophies; then again, the transformation hadn’t happened, so there was no point.

He’d have to start anew. Pity, really. He’d gotten so close.

~ ~ ~

The task force had struck out. All but two messengers were now back at home, and the two that weren’t were at a bar in Soho with several men they obviously knew well. Their tails were staying put, but it was looking like the girls were going home with their escorts and had done so before. No serial killer had put in an appearance.

It was almost midnight, and Ron remembered Tess. He called her, and she answered on the third ring.

“Ron. How did it go?”

“We came up empty, Tess. I don’t understand it. This guy’s on a cycle, every three nights, but he didn’t go for any of the Red Cap girls. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Maybe he just stopped?”

“They hardly ever just stop. There’s been a few, but it’s rare.” The San Francisco Zodiac killer of the 1960’s came to mind. He was considered the prototypical modern serial killer, but was atypical in that respect. He’d never been caught, and would be in his seventies by now, if the profiles were correct. That rang a bell in the back of Ron’s head, but he lost the thought.

“I’m sorry it didn’t turn out the way you hoped, Ron. But at least everyone’s still alive.”

“There is that. Listen, Tess, if you don’t mind a messy place, you’re welcome to come crash at my apartment for a night or two. I have to warn you, I’ve been a bachelor for a while, so you won’t find any fresh-cut flowers on the tables. But it’s clean, and the couch is comfortable.” He wasn’t crossing any ethical lines; she wasn’t a suspect or a witness, and he wasn’t on her dad’s case, so he was really just extending a friendly hand.

“Oh, Ron, that’s nice of you. You really don’t have to. I can crash at the station until morning if you want…” She sounded surprised, but also happy he’d offered.

“No bother, really. Let me give you my address and we can hook up in about half an hour. I mean it, it’s no big deal.” He was playing with fire, he knew—but he also realized life was short and you had to trust your instincts. And his instincts said inviting Tess was the right thing to do.

“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? Was 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.

He tried to imagine what the killer was getting out of this—why kill these women, this way, now? It was a ritual, that was clear, and most serials followed a ritual because they felt compelled to. But by what? What did he do with the trophies? Ron usually could get into the head of the psychos, but this one stumped him due to the rapid cycle. Maybe he just liked killing and wanted to be distinctive. But then why use the sublingual shot?

Ron still had more questions than answers.

Amy was involved in her work, soldiering away, and he let her do her thing. They hadn’t found a shred of evidence to suggest a suspect. This was a very careful and methodical killer. He’d avoided all the usual mistakes—no saliva or bodily fluids to trace, no stray hair or latent print, no accidental sighting in a bar or by a passerby, nothing. The guy was a ghost.

“Same shit, different pile, Ron.” Amy’s voice carried down the alley.

“Anything new or exciting?”

“Not so far.”

They were interrupted by Ron’s cell.

“Stanford.”

“Officer Stanford? This is Leticia at Red Cap, up at the front desk. The dispatchers wanted to let you know one of the messengers didn’t show up for work today.”

“You’re kidding? One of the girls?” Ron was stunned.

“Uh…no. One of the men. Turbo didn’t come in, hasn’t called, hasn’t returned any calls. Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks.”

Turbo.

He knew it. The shitrat had cut and run, literally.

Ron had gotten a bad vibe from him from the beginning, and now one day after acting so smug in their little chat session, he misses work. He was probably halfway to Kansas by now. Goddamn it. Ron phoned his task force assistant and had him pull a warrant for a search of Turbo’s place, and was told they’d have it within two hours.

Ron told Amy about Turbo’s disappearance and decided to sit outside his apartment on the off-chance he was still there. He had to wait for the warrant somewhere; might as well be at his door.

~ ~ ~

Ken was in his second meeting of the day, discussing the progress on tracing the supplies sold into Hong Kong. The materials were paid for in cash by a trading company that was a cutout, and they were trying to get a shipment-by-shipment trace. Knowing the exact final destination of things like the inks would go a long way toward building a circumstantial case, and they’d require one to have any serious options.

The CIA’s network in Asia was nosing around but had made little progress. Several sites in multiple hostile countries had been identified via satellite as suspicious, but at the end of the day they all still looked like warehouse facilities. And there was no guarantee the printing hadn't been spread around to multiple locations, although everyone felt that was unlikely.

They needed proof linking a country or intelligence agency to the bill, and so far their best shot was sitting in a room downstairs with ten more minutes left to consider the deal. Plan B was to pull in Gordon and pressure him, but they didn’t have a lot to hang him with other than a phone call, which a good attorney might, just might, be able to get thrown out.

The phone on the conference room desk beeped. Ken picked up. It was the Director.

“He wants to see me,” the Director reported.

The Director took the elevator downstairs and walked into the holding room followed by a Secret Service agent with a tape recorder. He turned it on.

“This is a discussion between Walter Merriman and the Director of the Treasury, Richard Berrinson,” the agent said. He filled in the date and location and time, and asked Walter to indicate he was speaking of his own free will. Walter agreed he was. The agent spelled out the deal and asked Walter if he voluntarily accepted it and waived counsel. He did. The Director took over.

“Walter, we know you’re involved in a plot involving the counterfeiting of U.S. currency. Is that correct?” the Director asked.

“Yes.”

“What assistance have you provided, or what role did you play in this plot?”

“I was first contacted about two years ago by a friend of a friend, female, who was from Myanmar. We were intimate soon thereafter, and during our interludes she indicated she knew people who would pay a lot to understand the ins and outs of how we print our hundred-dollar bills. I was curious how much she thought was a lot, as I had some gambling debt I was struggling with. She said millions. Maybe even ten million depending how good the information was.” He stopped and took a sip of water. “I eventually got sucked in and was handed off to a specialist—one of the senior members of a network Myanmar set up in the U.S. for intelligence-gathering on this project. I understood it was horribly wrong to cooperate, but I also figured that this wasn’t Iran or North Korea or some other country that was going to use the money to buy nukes or take out buildings…I know that's pretty feeble to you, but in my mind it could have been way worse.”

The meeting went on for an hour. Walter had fallen for the honey trap and had been paid handsomely for divulging everything anyone would need to know to be able to create hundred-dollar bills. He’d been introduced to Gordon as a trusted friend of the Myanmar government who he could rely upon for financial acumen.

Payment came to a total of eight million dollars, all into an account set up for him in the Caymans by Gordon. Against Gordon’s advice, Walter had made progress payments into his domestic account to cover gambling debts, using one of Gordon’s offshore companies to funnel the money to him.

He’d gotten a feel for the plan from the questions and information they’d requested as well as from discussions with Gordon. It was never stated outright, but it was the only reason they would want to know about the security measures built into the currency and the tests used to detect counterfeits.

They’d shelled out millions to learn how to do it right.

Walter gave the Director the bank info in the Caymans so the sender could be traced. He also provided all of his contacts in the U.S. connected to the scheme.

When it was over the agent got the tape copied for the CIA and the FBI so they could roll up the network, assuming it was still in place. The NSA committed to having every call from Gordon Samuels and Meridian Trading placed over the last two years, including his cell records, available within one hour; the Patriot Act would make it far easier.

They agreed to reconvene that afternoon to compare results and develop a response.

~ ~ ~

Tess had spent the morning lying around decompressing, thinking about the events of the last few days, and had inspected the sparse contents of the apartment with curiosity. Ron needed a maid and someone to shop for him. His taste in clothes was conservative and very Caucasian, and his music only got as dangerous as some old Rage Against the Machine, no doubt from his wacky college years. Ron was just a really nice, smart, conservative man. She’d never dated one of those, preferring bad boys and the rebels.

Tess showered, and then committed to following up on the more unpleasant aspects of her life, namely, arranging for the funeral and dealing with her sister. The funeral took up the better part of the afternoon, and she snuck in some grocery shopping to stock Ron’s place. It was the least she could do to show appreciation for his hospitality. After she’d done everything else she could think of, she finally called Chrissy.

“Hey, Chrissy.”

“Tess. How are you?” Formal, cold, distant; there was the sister she was used to. At least things were back to normal.

“I’m hanging in there.” Tess went on to tell her that Stan and Nick had been murdered, and that she was staying with friends. She delivered the news with no emotion, deadpan: the weather’s humid out here; we’re expecting rain.

Chrissy was shocked, and blamed the city for it. She couldn’t comprehend there was a plan to kill them; it was New York’s fault. It was easier that way. Whatever. Okay, Chrissy, New York killed Dad, Uncle Stan, and Nick. If you say so.

Tess was able to communicate that there was more going on, but found she was talking to someone who seemed preoccupied, who didn’t really register her words. Chrissy didn’t want to know about a world where danger existed and people close to you could die for suspicious reasons, and had tuned most of the message out. Not surprising. Tess wished she didn’t know either.

The conversation ultimately came to Monday’s will reading, and Tess resisted the urge to dig at Chrissy again over the funeral expenses.

Her sister advised her to “get out of that filthy town as soon as possible,” but Tess noted there was no invitation to come to California and stay a while. Not that she’d expected one. Still, she’d hoped in some small part of her that the tragedy of the last week would pull them together, at least a little. So much for that.

Tess felt depressed when they hung up. She really was alone in the world. Her sister was a cold-hearted rat bastard, she had no real friends, and she didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. Atta girl, she thought, beat yourself up good and hard. Maybe you can convince yourself you should have been killed, too.

She was still trying to deal with the deaths of those closest to her, and wasn’t ready to digest it all. And the Asians were still out there and so was the Red Cap killer. Maybe her sister was right and the best thing she could do was leave town.

It was something to consider.

~ ~ ~

The warrant for Turbo’s apartment arrived and Ron called for backup in case he was inside. Ron almost hoped he was, preferably with a gun, so he could have the satisfaction of watching Mr. Earl go down for good.

Assuming he was guilty, of course.

They climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. No response. Tried again, nothing. The NYPD lock expert had a tool that looked like a pistol grip with wires emanating from a narrow shaft; he slid it into the lock and worked for a minute or so.

The door opened.

They entered cautiously, guns drawn, and stopped when they came upon Turbo—obviously dead, hunched over the mirror where he’d snorted his last blast. He was naked from the waist up, full sleeve tattoos proclaiming counter-culture rebellion even as his dead eyes stared sightlessly at his reflection.

They searched the apartment carefully and found several thousand dollars in twenties and six ounces of meth in his bedroom drawer.

One of the detectives called Ron’s name from the kitchen. The detective held the freezer open. Four sets of eyes stared from the interior, a container behind them holding the breasts, also frozen solid. The freezer was full. Automatic defrost, Ron noted.

“We got him. Looks like he celebrated a little too hard over the last one and took himself out.” The detective was shaking his head.

Ron looked in the fridge, where the scalps with the hair carefully folded sat in ziplock bags, behind the milk. He radioed for the crime lab people to come up and told everyone to cease and desist. His last call was to Amy, asking her to join him.

He was relieved they’d finally come to the end of the road on this one, but felt oddly unsatisfied by the scenario. It all fit, everything was there; he had no doubt they’d find the killing kit stashed somewhere. Maybe he had doubts because there was no showdown, no chase, no last minute confrontation, just a dead junkie psycho who’d killed for reasons Ron would never understand.

The chief was on the line within half an hour, congratulating him and wanting to plan the logistics of the press conference announcing the end of another reign of terror. He went along with it, but something was bothering him and he couldn’t pin it down.

Amy showed up and went through her routine, carefully removing the residue from the mirror and scraping it into a test tube. She dropped the small dope vial into another tube and then took samples of the six ounces of meth. At some point the killing kit was found, sure enough with potassium chloride and epinephrine in small bottles. It all fit together.

So why did Ron have an uncomfortable sensation? What were they missing? He didn’t know why he felt the way he did, but couldn’t shake his misgivings. Something on the periphery wasn’t adding up. Or perhaps Ron was just unaccustomed to sudden reconciliations in cases like this. He was too close to it to know whether his doubt was legitimate, or just nervous energy with no outlet. He resolved to accept this at face value, at least for the present, since there was no hard evidence to back up his skepticism.

~ ~ ~

The CIA was in full-blown crisis mode now that the focus had been narrowed down to Myanmar, based on Walter’s testimony. NSA had secured Gordon’s telephone records and found numerous inbound and outbound calls to several numbers there, which they’d identified as belonging to a group of numbers associated with the Ministry of Finance.

The satellite recon images had come up with suspicious activity at several sites, but one looked more like a paper manufacturing plant than all the others. They’d been watching it full-time, had zoomed in to the point where you could almost see the time on the guards’ watches. There was an unwarranted amount of security in place for a simple warehouse, even one housing weapons or a bio lab.

What looked like an airport x-ray and metal detection unit were set up in the entryway and no one was allowed in or out of the building without going through it. The task force could infer they were worried about their own people bringing items in, but also taking them out. That wasn’t standard procedure—something special was going on inside.

The situation team was discussing their options.

“You can see they’re running shifts; groups are coming out and being replaced by those going in. What’s weird is the body searches.” The CIA analyst was a specialist on Myanmar.

“How about the overall security? It looks like they’ve limited all the approaches and have a perimeter cleared. That eliminates any chances of hitting it from the ground without getting into a major firefight.” The speaker was the liaison for the Treasury task force.

“There’s a few problems in that regard. Myanmar is tightly controlled, so getting a team in to demo the building is going to be tough no matter what—although its position on the coast makes it vulnerable. Security’s extremely tight and the area’s controlled by the military, so I don’t see how you could get to it covertly by land.” The analyst didn’t sound optimistic about the possibility of a surgical strike.

“The Chinese are going to object strongly to anything overt. I think someone has to put out feelers to the Chinese to alert them there may be a situation, and that any action there would be strictly self-defense. I’m not sure how we’d do that without tipping our hand. We’re going to need to be creative on this.” The second analyst was more politically-oriented; the first had more of a logistical bent.

“If you could do it in the dead of night, by boat, and could hit them so quickly they never saw it coming, you could pull off a deniable strike. But everything would have to work in your favor,” said the first analyst, considering the map and the satellite images again.

The liaison officer mulled the input over. He’d have to think carefully about his recommendations to the State Department. He knew how easy it could be to botch a sensitive operation by delaying action indefinitely while they played political games.

~ ~ ~

Gordon had placed another call to Myanmar within the last few minutes and they’d logged another incriminating abbreviated conversation. The official had told Gordon he hadn’t heard anything from their team in New York, and they had gotten into an argument after Gordon told him about news of a million of the “test batch” reaching the task force on Monday. So the link between Walter and Gordon and the Asians was completely clear and indisputable, and the Myanmar government was receiving information real-time.

Things were coming together quickly now they could listen to Gordon’s calls, and the circumstantial evidence against Myanmar was mounting by the minute. The next challenge was verifying that the compound in question was generating currency, and that it was the only site.

CIA had a team on the ground probing some of the local workers to see if anyone could be turned. They’d approved a budget to smuggle anyone who cooperated out of the country and set them up in the destination of their choosing—potentially costly, but the stakes were huge, and the White House had indicated they wanted the threat treated as a top priority.

The team was going to work around the clock until a solution was developed. They would engineer a plan to destroy the facility once they were sure about the operations going on there, thereby eliminating both the immediate threat and the chance of the technology being used down the road.

China wouldn’t look kindly on any acts of aggression against Myanmar. They needed to find a way to achieve their end-goal without having to explain their actions publicly, possibly creating an international scare that could develop into a full-scale confrontation.

The FBI was working on rolling up the network that recruited Walter. They’d established surveillance on the group and were just waiting for the word to bring in the participants simultaneously.

It was shaping up to be a very long weekend, but everyone was aware time was of the essence. This needed to be contained yesterday, and the clock was running out.

~ ~ ~

Ron finished at Turbo’s at four o’clock, and was immediately sucked into the press vortex by the chief and the mayor’s office. They’d scheduled a five o’clock press conference to break the story, and wanted Ron on the podium to represent the successful face of the NYPD.

The timing was critical for the evening news programs; it ensured maximum exposure for their win. Too often the murders dragged on for months in a serial case, and it was rare for the department to be so effective in such a short period of time.

No one was questioning whether they’d gotten the right man, and it certainly wasn’t being touted that the only reason he’d been stopped was because he’d blown out his brains with drugs.

Amy had departed with the corpse an hour earlier, and the remainder of her team was carefully categorizing and printing everything in the apartment. They’d be there until well after nine, but the chief was adamant he wanted this over with and proclaimed a success ASAP, and was unwilling to wait for a few formalities. Turbo had been caught red-handed with the body parts and the killing kit; the only thing more definitive would have been a video of him cutting.

Ron wasn’t going to rock the boat and fight city hall, especially when every piece of evidence pointed to a successful closure for the case, so he was going on TV and would smile with the best of them. He called Tess to let her know he’d be on the news.

“Hey, Ron. I figured you were busy ’cause I hadn’t heard from you all day.” She sounded far more cheerful than yesterday.

“Yeah. We got the serial, Tess.”

“That’s great, Ron! Congratulations. Who was it?”

“Turbo. He had all the hair, the eyes, everything at his place. Psycho central over there.”

“Oh, my God. That’s so strange, you work with someone for so long, and it turns out they’re some kind of monster.” She shivered involuntarily. “How did you catch him?”

“He didn’t show up for work this morning so we got a warrant for his place. He killed another girl last night, a messenger for Arrow Courier. Looks like he OD’d while celebrating his latest victim.”

“Let me guess—meth? Duff told me he was dealing. Turbo was trying to recruit Duff to sell for him, Duff told him to stay away from him. I never liked Turbo, Ron. He was a creep.”

“Well, everyone’s happy it’s over. I’m going to be on television in a half hour. Watch the TV news, you may see me.” Ron clearly hated the press crap, but wanted to show off a little for Tess.

“Oh, I’ll have to turn it on. That’s exciting, I know a celebrity.” She was teasing him, but maybe he wasn’t so boring after all. Star of stage and screen, serial-killer catcher, super-sleuth. Maybe in his case the boring looks were deceiving.

“When are you going to be home? Should I wait for you, plan a celebratory dinner?” she asked.

“Why not? I should be done by seven. Let’s plan on seven-thirty. My place.”

Tess hung up and considered Turbo as the killer. She remembered her last conversation with Loca, where she’d said something about going to dinner with one of the Red Cap guys, just mentioning it in passing. It hadn’t been for any specific night, so she hadn’t brought it up to Ron—but she remembered Loca saying, “he was really different off-hours than he was at work,” whatever that meant. She couldn’t imagine a meth fiend like Turbo being “really different” in his off-hours, especially if he was dealing. Tess didn’t want to dampen Ron’s success, but she had a strange feeling they’d gotten the wrong man. Turbo didn’t fit.

It had to be someone else. She’d been racking her brain to remember if Candy had mentioned anything that pointed to someone else, but couldn’t think of anything specific.

~ ~ ~

The conference was somber and self-important, the chief doing all the talking on behalf of the NYPD, and introducing Ron as the man primarily responsible for their success, the head of the special task force, blah blah blah. It went on for half an hour, the reporters asking all the predictable questions, and everyone departed with what they wanted.

The killer switched off the television and laughed. That had been too easy. He was amazed at the level of stupidity the cops always displayed, and was already planning a new set of killings. He figured he’d save up some more money, then go cross-country—start with Tess, and kill his way to Los Angeles. But he still needed to figure out where he’d gone wrong this time. Maybe he needed to eat their hearts? Absorb their essence?

He’d been so close.

But he’d figure it out—he knew he would. A few times he’d become almost completely invisible, so he knew he’d only left out something small.

He’d get it right eventually.

The weekend was coming up; he’d scored some X and a few mushrooms, and although he was working Saturday he didn’t have a lot planned besides getting high and tripping once he was off. This round was over; he hadn’t reached his goal yet, but he was refining the process, discovering the right combination. He could only learn by trial and error, which was unfortunate but unavoidable. There was no risk he would do something while he was stoned out of his mind—he wasn’t an impulsive killer, he could control himself, so it wasn’t like there were voices in his head telling him to go kill, must kill.

That would be crazy.

~ ~ ~

When Ron made it home he was struck by how clean his place looked, and realized Tess had tidied up. She came out of the bathroom and practically jumped—she hadn’t heard him come in. She looked amazing, wearing a simple light-colored summer dress that accentuated her deeply tanned skin and showed off the tattoos on her arm. Her hair was down, and she had a wild, untamed appearance.

He kind of liked it. Hell, he really liked it.

“You look great,” Ron said, obviously taken aback.

“Welcome. I caught you on the tube. Very impressive—the conqueror returning victorious,” she teased.

“Yeah. I’d rather have a root canal, but it’s part of the job. They like to trot out their trained chimp to show the taxpayers they’re getting some bang for their buck.”

“You looked very handsome and dignified, Ron. What did you have in mind for dinner?” That was a nice one-two punch. What did he want for dinner? Get your mind out of the gutter, pervert boy.

“There are some great places down by Lincoln Center. You like Italian?” he asked.

“I like it all. Italian’s good.”

“Let me change and we can head out.” He walked over to grab a soda and saw the refrigerator was filled with food. “Thanks for picking all this up, and for cleaning—you didn’t have to, you know, but I appreciate it.” He snagged a Fresca and went into the bedroom. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“It was no problem, Ron. Take your time. We’ve got all night.”

Chapter 32

Gordon’s phone interrupted his run on the treadmill at his club. He glanced at the screen. Washington. Why would his contact call on a Saturday morning? He thumbed the phone on, slowing to a jog.

“This is Gordon.”

“Gordon, it’s Walter. You got a few minutes?”

“Sure. What’s up?” He hoped it wasn’t yet more bad news or paranoia. His blood pressure was through the roof from fighting with the Asians yesterday.

“I found out last night the money coming in on Monday isn’t related to our thing. It’s a mob operation—cheap paper, laser printed. So false alarm.” Walter still sounded tense.

“Well, that’s a relief. I told you not to be so freaked out. You even had me going there for a while.” Gordon felt vindicated in his decision to hold his positions. Too bad his relationship with the minister had deteriorated, but screw him, he’d get over it. Especially if Gordon called with good news. “How’d you find out?”

“The secretary told me she heard her boss talking to a Secret Service agent about the quality of the bills. No security strip, crummy paper quality. I guess I got my wires crossed.”

“It happens. Thanks for calling and setting things straight,” Gordon said, wishing Walter would just die now, have a stroke or something and end the trail there.

“No problem.”

A hand came down and depressed a button, terminating the call on Walter’s end. He was nervous, sweating even though it was sixty-six degrees in the office. The agent gave him a humorless smile.

“Think he bought it?”

“Sounds like it.” Walter had been very cooperative. Gordon was going down, that was certain, so it was save-yourself time.

And Walter wasn’t taking any more bullets.

Gordon called the minister and shared the news with him. The man still sounded like all was not well.

“What’s wrong?”

“The New York team is back on track, but I don’t like the delays. This is taking too long.” The minister sounded troubled.

“I don’t disagree—but you have to admit this is good news. It seems we’re in the clear again.”

“It is good news. Hopefully the rest will get put to bed and we can all get back to normal. I appreciate the information, Gordon.”

~ ~ ~

The killer watched the front of Tess’s loft, wondering why there had been no sign of her. He’d taken to riding his bike by her place once a day, usually before work, and had discovered that the little bohemian java bar on the corner really knew how to make an espresso.

He wasn’t sure when he would be prepared for the next stage of ascension, didn’t know when he’d be called to progress to the next level, but he knew Tess would be key in starting the final phase. She had an energy about her, a strength, like a warrior woman—a Valkyrie, an Amazon. That power would be essential in his realization.

He’d been so stupid. He’d valued the ritual over the object. Both were important; he’d chosen unworthy candidates, and now he was caught in a kind of purgatory, between states. Close to the new him, but held back by the old him. That couldn’t last forever. His duty, his mission and purpose was to move on.

And Tess held the key. Not all bike messengers, not all females, not different hair colors or body types. Tess, and a few select others who were vessels of the same strength he required, were his natural prey.

He’d been so stupid, so shortsighted, and had wasted so much time.

Now it was clear, and he understood his error. Soon, Tess, soon we will be one, and everything will be as it was meant to be.

Soon.

~ ~ ~

The Myanmar CIA team had gotten an employee to take them up on their offer, as long as his family could be removed from Myanmar with him. They’d agreed, and he confirmed the plant was being used as a paper mill and currency printing site by the Ministry of Finance; as far as he knew, the only one they had.

It hadn’t been hard to find someone willing to turn in a country where starvation was the leading killer.

Offering someone the chance to leave with a half-million dollars in their pocket was a dream come true. It was surprising the compound’s entire staff hadn’t lined up, decided to split the bounty, and blown the place up themselves.

The 24-hour satellite coverage enabled tracking of the guard shifts and the employee schedules, so now that the operations had been confirmed, planning a mission could begin in earnest. There was debate at the Department of Defense as to how to take it out—whether to fire a salvo of missiles from offshore “by mistake,” or have a rogue pilot violate Myanmar airspace and use a fly-by-wire bomb (with the U.S. apologizing profusely and disciplining the mentally-ill man upon his return), or use a drone, or have a naval ship in the Adaman Sea conduct a missile test exercise where one went off course, or do a nocturnal penetration and destroy the facility secretly.

After considering the alternatives, it was decided the best approach would be the old-fashioned way: sending in a team while the Asians slept. The CIA advanced that as their recommendation.

The beauty of the approach was that Myanmar couldn’t go nuts over the plant being destroyed if no destroyer was evident. It would be hard to raise a stink over an illegal counterfeiting plant being flattened by parties unknown. As a precaution, the situation team would develop a contingency plan while they were planning the assault.

Ten armed soldiers guarded the warehouse at night inside the perimeter of the grounds, with one guard change at midnight, and another at eight a.m.. The optimum time to strike would be at four, allowing enough time for charges to be distributed and for the squad to escape to a safe distance. By going in at that hour they’d benefit from the cover of darkness, as well as from any sluggishness the guards might suffer from.

It was decided to use SEAL Team Six members of Asian heritage, so in the event casualties were left behind there would be racial deniability.

As they tightened up the tactics it seemed increasingly straightforward to pull off. The warehouse was in a coastal area of Myanmar between Sittwe and Sandoway, a former naval facility on the Bay of Bengal fallen into disrepair. The only military forces in the five-mile area were the soldiers deployed as guards for the facility—a company of roughly forty men, including officers.

The barracks for the off-duty military personnel were at the far end of the grounds from the production site, at least an eighth of a mile away. Sound suppressed weapons could dispatch the entire contingent of guards at the warehouse, and the team could theoretically set charges, destroy the plant, and be gone before the barracks could respond.

There was much debate over whether to infiltrate via low-flying helicopter, or by sea in “radar-soft” zodiacs, possibly launched from a submarine. The sub approach seemed like the most practical. The Myanmar coastal surveillance was iffy, the systems in horrible shape, and likely unable to pick up a few fast rubber boats.

Summer was the rainy season, which meant ugly sea conditions, but also less likelihood of detection—the rain and swells created scatter that would make spotting small non-metallic craft practically impossible. The team would have to travel across roughly forty-five miles of sea if they departed from Bangladesh, but most of the roughest water would be further off the coast if they took a straight-line route; while nasty, it could be done.

Using a submarine was ultimately dismissed because of the likelihood of detection when it surfaced. Because of the proximity of China and India, and the tensions in the region, keeping the mission as small and deniable as possible was prudent.

All the experts liked their chances. A group of sixteen men would go in, take out every living thing within the vicinity of the building, and then blow it up before anyone had awakened. With any luck they’d be back in Bangladesh before daybreak. It wasn’t a bad plan. Now they just had to execute—always the hard part.

~ ~ ~

Ron and Tess spent the first part of the morning at one of the countless restaurants shoehorned into slots at the bases of the buildings along Broadway. Any awkwardness between them had subsided during the prior night’s dinner, and they were now comfortable in each other’s company, chatting easily as they enjoyed a relaxed breakfast.

He had to go into the office to tie up the case’s loose ends after they ate, so Tess breached the topic of Turbo and her doubts about him being the serial. Ron hated talking shop outside of work, but she was persistent and they ultimately spent the meal discussing her concerns over Turbo’s death—she couldn’t shake the sense they’d gotten the wrong man.

Ron couldn't shake his uneasy feeling, either; it had all fallen into place too easily, and in his experience life just didn’t happen that way. A sketchy doper like Turbo was certainly capable of being a killer, but the level of planning and methodical attention to detail was inconsistent with what they’d found at his apartment. That’s what had rubbed Ron the wrong way.

Here was a perp perennially addled by meth, whose dwelling was unkempt and disorganized and whose body was ravaged by signs of addiction, and yet he’d been able to pull off four murders in public places within two weeks of each other using wildly innovative techniques for the killings, without slipping up anywhere.

It was possible, but it didn’t fit the scumbag he’d interviewed and the shithole he’d spent most of yesterday searching. The apartment was clearly the abode of a meth user who was high most of the time, who lacked self-awareness, and consequently also lacked attention to fine detail.

The killings had been the work of a ritualist, someone who placed importance on repetition and minutia, whose internal world was highly organized and rich in imagery. He’d kept to an aggressive schedule, hadn’t made any mistakes, and had obviously aroused no suspicion in his victims. Turbo looked exactly like what he was—a loser on the edge, propping himself up with chemicals.

The killings just didn’t feel like Turbo to Ron once he’d seen his place and gotten more sense of his character. It was a nuance, but an important one.

“You’ve been doing this a long time, Ron; if the facts aren’t lining up for you, dig some more,” Tess advised. She didn’t want to push him, but she also wanted to tell him what she’d remembered. “Loca mentioned having a dinner date with someone from Red Cap, but never said who or when, just that he was different away from work. That doesn’t sound like Turbo, does it? I can’t see her going anywhere with a scumbag like that, or him being different off-hours.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I just remembered yesterday. It didn’t seem like anything until you told me it was Turbo, and then it didn’t fit and it became important.”

“I’ll say. As far as I can tell, he was a junkie dirtball 24/7.” The little voice in his head that was singing “maybe you’ve got this wrong” was quickly becoming a Greek chorus. “I just don’t buy it in my heart, you know? I feel like I’ve been played by an intellect far more developed and malevolent than Turbo—not that he wasn’t a wrong number.”

“Ron, you’ve got an algorithm you’ve developed for these serial killers based on input you’ve accumulated over time. Now you’ve fed the facts of the case into that algorithm, and what comes out the other side isn’t Turbo. Am I missing something?” Tess had distilled it; if the algorithm came up with someone different, then the serial was someone different, and Turbo was a set-up.

Simple.

She had a rigorous and logical way of viewing situations that reminded him of Amy, except Tess was wearing board shorts and a tank top this morning and looked like his wildest fantasy. That was a pretty important distinction from where he was sitting at the moment.

He reluctantly went into his office after they were done, and she went for a ride around the island. The day was cool for late summer, and she planned on taking advantage of it; she still had a lot of thinking to do. A ride was useful for processing and bringing things into perspective.

She was glad Ron was the type of man who’d stand by his principles and stay on something everyone else had put to bed. She didn’t know why she cared, but she did. Tess realized she was enjoying their time together far more than most of her time with her boyfriends. He looked at her in a way she found engaging, and spoke to her as if their interactions really mattered, a lot, all the time. He was far more intense than she’d originally thought, which intrigued her. Tess was still dealing with all the killings and wasn’t anxious to jump into anything, but there was something palpable between them. She wasn’t prepared to devote any more thought to it at the moment, though.

For now, she just needed to ride.

~ ~ ~

Ron pored over his notes on all the Red Cap employees again, looking for holes in their histories or stories. It seemed none of them had been with the company for more than a couple of years. Even Frank had initially been there for a decade but then dropped off the map, reappearing in the city two and a half years ago and resuming with the company. It was a strange industry where transience was the norm, where you were dealing with people who couldn’t even keep fast food jobs on a steady basis.

He was the only one in his section working, reading the backgrounds probing for anything suspicious—or rather, more suspicious—than he’d seen before. He’d discounted Frank as a possibility due to his age, but his recollections about the Zodiac killer had gotten him thinking—that one had never been caught, and would be about Frank’s age now. He idly wondered if Frank had lived in the Bay Area in the late sixties-early seventies. Many had, since Haight-Ashbury had been the center of the flower-power movement, so Ron made a note to ask him if he’d been there.

Stu was not particularly suspicious, sort of a non-entity in terms of personality, although he’d been detached and quirky in the interview. He’d been in and out of jobs in New York for the last two years, settling at Red Cap a year ago. Before that he’d drifted around, spent some time in Milwaukee six or seven years ago judging from a few traffic violations, but other than those he didn’t have a record, so he’d managed to keep his nose clean.

Luis was a definite maybe, in that he had a lot of anger and was skittish during his meeting. His background had big gaps in it as well, and there was no accounting for two of the last four years. He’d shown up on the employment rolls in New York a couple years ago but had been off the radar for a long stretch before that. Having spent time in jail, he’d naturally be anti-social to members of law enforcement, so it didn’t necessarily mean much, but Ron got a creepy feeling from him, like he was ready to jump across the table and start swinging. He also looked like a crackhead—had that slightly manic thing going.

Tiny made him uncomfortable. He seemed like he had some kind of inner dialogue going while Ron questioned him, and gave the impression of being not quite present during the interview. When Ron and Tess had been discussing his A-list of suspects, she’d told him Tiny was well-known in the crew for enjoying psychedelics and being “loco,” in the parlance of the street. It didn’t make him a serial, but it did bear looking into his story a little closer. He was also an ex-con and had gaps in his background from before two years ago.

Tess had told him Dirter was just junkie crazy, but probably harmless, in her opinion. He was always going on about his latest adventure being high or getting into a fight—the punk rock ethos in action.

That brought him up short. The punk rock ethos. Punk rock.

There was something he hadn’t considered carefully enough. What if there was a connection between his current serial and the punk rock murders? He flipped open that file and went through the case history, reading carefully.

The girls had all overdosed on heroin prior to being mutilated—a drug killing prior to the butchery, and no sexual assault. Those were some strong coincidental similarities, and Ron had learned to be skeptical of coincidences. He decided to check and see if any of the lads had been in Pennsylvania at that time; it wasn’t proof of anything, but it would sure go a long way to pointing him in the right direction, if one of his boys had been there when the punk girls were being slaughtered.

His line rang, and Amy’s voice greeted him.

“I thought I was the only one working today. What are you doing in?” she asked.

“I’m going over some files. I still don’t feel a hundred percent about Turbo being the serial, Amy.”

“Well, it won’t sway you either way, but I got a return on the screen for the substance that killed him. It was meth, but much stronger than you’d see on the street. This was super meth. It wouldn’t necessarily have killed anyone snorting it, but the odds are high it would have at least caused a stroke or blackout. He couldn’t have known what he was snorting.” Amy also sounded a little suspicious.

“It’s possible he was sampling something new, didn’t know how pure it was—or he could have been committing suicide, couldn’t live with his evil deeds. Or he was slipped something guaranteed to incapacitate him if not kill him, and given a hot shot later. He did have track marks in with all the tats.” Ron had learned Turbo had been on the needle when he’d gone over the body. Full sleeve tattoos made an effective cover for casual intravenous drug use.

“So we’re back to having no reason to doubt he’s the bad guy, but small hints he might not be. The chief won’t like continuing an investigation that’s already closed, not on data this iffy, Ron.”

She had a point. Still, a little background checking never hurt, especially if he was doing it on his own time.

“Are you doing anything for dinner tonight?” Amy asked.

Damn. He hadn’t seen that coming.

“Actually I am, Amy. I have a houseguest for the weekend, and I’m tied up. I really appreciate your thinking about me. Can I take a rain check for next week?”

“Sure, Ron, sure.” And then the left hook. “That houseguest… It wouldn’t happen to be a former witness who needs a strong shoulder to cry on, would it?” What was Amy, psychic? How could he answer that one without looking like a complete predator?

“Come on, Amy, do I strike you as that kind? Seriously? I just have other obligations. Let’s do it next week, okay?” That was a good feint. Use the opponent’s energy to pull them past you, grasshopper; their strength becomes yours.

“Okay, Ron, next week.” Amy sounded a little hurt. “I noticed you didn’t answer my question. Good luck with the investigation.” She hung up.

Ron felt bad, but he had nothing to be ashamed of—Amy and he weren’t in a relationship; hell, they hadn’t even had a first kiss. What right did she have to take a proprietary stance with him? He was a free man and could do what he wanted.

He tried to work up his righteous indignation, but couldn’t generate enough lift to get it off the ground.

Resignedly returning to the Red Cap files, he reviewed all their histories again, with a new perspective now that he was considering the possible punk rock connection. Scanning them, he felt his heart flutter for a second. One of the suspects had been in Pennsylvania at the right time.

Now all he had to do was come up with even a shred of proof for an alternative theory. Amy was right—once a case was closed it was likely to stay closed unless something very big came along. And hunches didn’t qualify.

He wanted to bounce it off of someone, but all his colleagues were gone today.

He called Tess.

She was of breath when she answered.

“Hey, Ron. What’s up?”

“You still out riding?”

“Yeah, it’s a beautiful day.”

He told her about his suspicion.

“Wow. That’s…it sounds unbelievable. Really. So what are you going to do?” Tess sounded strange, but it could have just been the exertion of carrying on a conversation while pedaling.

“I don’t know. Right now, barring a miracle, he might get away with committing the perfect crime. He doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d crack under interrogation, so getting a confession’s unlikely. And the commissioner won’t reopen a case like this on a coincidence, won’t throw any resources at it. I might be hosed.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something, Ron.” She sounded unconvinced.

“Yeah, well, I hope so. I don’t have anything solid to go on, but I’ve got a bad vibe about this.”

“I know what you mean. It was awfully convenient how everything came together. I mean, you didn’t even really nab Turbo, did you? He was sort of delivered on a platter,” Tess said. Good point.

“That’s the problem. But I’m the only one that thinks so.”

“I’m glad I don’t have your job.” They talked for another minute and then disconnected.

~ ~ ~

Tess considered the call. It all fit. In fact, now that she had all the pieces, she was sure of it. Candy would have been stupid enough to hook up with him if there was enough of a chemical incentive, although she still didn’t see what Loca could have been thinking. Maybe he transformed into something completely unexpected after work. Who knew?

One thing she did know was she was still in danger—she’d noticed the way he looked at her, and understood that a sick bastard who butchered girls for fun wouldn’t be able to stop. It was a matter of when, not if, he started again. And she had a feeling she’d be one of the next targets. Couldn’t say how she knew, but she was one hundred percent sure of it.

As she rode, a plan began to form. If Ron couldn’t keep her safe, then maybe it wasn’t a good bet to depend on the police for anything. So far they hadn’t protected anyone; not Loca, not Candy, not the girl from the other courier company, nor the girl from the club. The only thing they’d actually done well was throw a press conference after finding an OD’d junkie.

No, she couldn’t expect much from that direction.

The glimmering of a strategy took shape. It would be hard, but not impossible, and could solve several problems. She’d have to make some calls when she got home—or rather, to Ron’s—and see what she could organize. Her days of waiting for the hammer to drop on her were over. She was going to have to stay proactive on all fronts to stay alive. It was time to go on the offensive and fight back—eat or be eaten.

~ ~ ~

The Asians were watching Tess’s loft from a nearby coffee bar, patient, sure of themselves. Headquarters had secured an address within a few hours of identifying her, so all they had to do now was wait. They’d been there since 6:00 a.m. and they knew she’d eventually appear. Breaking into her loft had been discussed, but dismissed as unnecessary—there was no rush, and she had to come out or come home sooner or later.

The taller man was in considerable pain from the surgery and dental work. The tongue would eventually recover, although the Burmese doctor who’d worked on him had warned he would have permanent numbness and loss of smell and taste. He’d sutured him and given him two bags of plasma to help with the blood loss, and then a dentist had gotten involved.

That had been a mess. Dental care was non-existent in Myanmar, so his gums were in terrible condition and wouldn’t stop bleeding, making repairs difficult. They’d had to extract one of the damaged teeth, but they were able to do primitive caps on the other few. Still, he was in pain, and the Percodan made him fuzzy, which he knew was dangerous. Then again, their target was a twenty-eight-year-old bike messenger—this wasn’t guerrilla warfare. She’d caught him off guard with the head-butt using the helmet; that wasn’t going to happen twice. He’d make sure she paid ten times over for every twinge of pain he’d endured.

His companion sat outdoors with him, smoking and sipping an espresso. The taller man was sucking down fruit juice with a straw for his nutrition—he wouldn’t be eating solid food for some time. It was another hot day, and the streets weren’t busy, so they had no concern about missing her. The taller man just hoped they would have enough time and privacy to fully savor their work, perhaps enjoy some fringe benefits from their interrogation. He had always had a spot in his heart for the ladies; this one would receive the full treatment.

If only his goddamn mouth didn’t hurt so badly.

~ ~ ~

At around 4:00, both men came alert—the girl was walking down the street toward the loft, carrying a bright red satchel, accompanied by two men, both black, and very big.

The smaller man looked at the taller one. It would be hard to take those two out with him in a weakened condition. The best they could do was observe and hope for a break of some sort. At least they had her in sight.

That changed when she entered her loft with one of the men, the larger of the two, dreadlocked and menacing looking. The second man loitered outside radiating street danger. The girl and the larger man emerged in five minutes holding the satchel, now obviously full, bulging—perfect size to fit a million dollars in, the two thought to themselves simultaneously.

They didn’t know what to make of this; was it possible the girl had removed the cash from the box, and was planning on moving it or exchanging it for something? It certainly seemed odd she was being flanked by two thugs, although that could have been as a result of the attack at the shop. They exchanged glances, and got up casually to follow the trio as they made their way down the street.

~ ~ ~

Duff’s phone went off as they walked.

“Yeah, what up,” he answered.

“You got two on ya booty, my man. ’Bout a hundred yards behind you.”

“Got it.” He disconnected, and told Tess she’d guessed right; they had company. She looked tense but determined.

So far, so good.

~ ~ ~

The Asians followed at a discreet distance as the three walked block after block, until they stopped in front of a run-down turn-of-the-century brownstone. Most of the buildings were covered with graffiti, and the stink from accumulated refuse was overwhelming—the residents had taken to piling up bags of refuse on the sidewalks as the garbage strike persisted. They watched as Tess and the two men walked up the stairs to the front door, loitering on the stoop while the woman made a call.

~ ~ ~

Duff inserted the lock picks into the cheap deadbolt on the front door of the ramshackle tenement and had it open within forty-five seconds. He could have probably done it with a paper clip—that’s how squalid the place was. He nodded to J, who’d been blocking his actions from anyone viewing from the street, and J nudged Tess, who terminated the fake cell call. Duff and Tess turned and entered the building, leaving J on the stoop.

Both Duff and J were strapped, and weren’t particularly worried about being interrupted. They knew their admirers had their backs, and that the second-floor apartment’s occupant wasn’t home. Duff had confirmed that the tenant’s shift didn’t end till five, at the same time he’d gotten the address—when Leticia had gone to the bathroom and asked him to watch the front for her. She’d been surprised to see him on a Saturday, but he’d told her he needed something out of his locker, and she hadn’t questioned it.

Saturdays were lousy, slow shift days, and only the newest rookies worked them. There was no money to be made; most offices were closed, so it was a skeleton crew. Red Cap was one of the few messenger companies that was even open.

Tess and Duff ascended to the second floor and Duff expertly picked the apartment lock. He wiped off the knob and they entered, making a point to turn on the lights in the living room and bedroom. They didn’t want anyone confused about where they’d gone. Duff unpacked the two partially inflated balloons he’d put in the bag to make it look full and let the air out. He pocketed them, and then folded the bag and stuffed it under his loose shirt. Tess removed some tape from her fanny pack and taped it flat against his torso.

She spotted the killer’s computer and walked over to the desk. When she moved the mouse the screen popped on, and she tapped a few keys and scanned the browser's history files. The blood drained from her face.

“Duff, come here,” she said, staring at the screen.

He approached. “What’s up?”

“This is my building. He’s looking up information for my building.” Tess was truly scared for the first time that day.

“So this is the right thing, then. You called it. This prick killed Loca and all the others, and he’s gonna come for you next.” Duff had liked Loca a lot, and his face was clouded with emotion. It’s one thing to suspect, another to know.

Now they knew.

Tess glanced at her watch. Five o’clock on the nose. It would take the killer maybe ten minutes to get home, so they were on schedule.

They turned the lights off, careful not to touch anything, and Duff wiped down the light switches and the computer equipment. They exited, wiping the knob again, and waited a few minutes before rejoining J on the stoop. Tess retrieved her cell phone and made another call, gesturing at the building, nodding. The trio conferred amongst themselves, and then descended the stairs and ambled slowly down the street.

The Asians didn’t know what was happening. They’d watched as the lights had gone on and seen shadows as people walked around inside. They’d quietly discussed going in but had decided against it—the man on the stoop had looked a little too casual, with one hand in his loose sweat jacket, most likely holding a gun. His eyes had been moving back and forth down the street, and it would have been difficult to take an armed man expecting trouble, even with the pens.

So they’d watched. And waited.

After fifteen minutes the lights on the second floor had flickered off, and a few minutes later the girl and the other man had exited without the bag. That was a problem.

Now the Asians were on full alert, and they didn’t like their choices. They could either stay at the building or follow the girl; they argued it hurriedly, and decided to stick with the building. They couldn’t take the chance the money had been left there, and they had to see where this led. Normally they’d have split up, but the taller man was still not up to snuff, and it might take both to do whatever was required here. Besides, they knew where the girl lived, so it wasn’t like they couldn’t pick her up again later. But the priority was the cash, and it was probable the money was now on the second floor.

~ ~ ~

The killer finished up his day at work and climbed on his bike to go home. He was feeling good, glad to be done.

When he got to his apartment, he went through it and ensured everything had been removed, that every shred of evidence was gone. The freezer and fridge still needed to be sanitized, but he’d already mopped the kitchen floor and vacuumed multiple times, throwing out anything resembling evidence, including the clothes and shoes he’d worn to hunt. He really wasn’t expecting trouble, or any kind of search, but you could never be too careful.

He flipped on his stereo and hummed along with his favorite song, and felt a stirring, an old call to action, which he resisted. Now wasn’t the time. He needed to understand where he’d slipped up on the last bunch of trophies.

It wasn’t like he did this for fun; there was a purpose to it all, and the girls were just necessary cogs in the big wheel of life, grist for the mill. He simply needed to fine-tune his process.

~ ~ ~

The Asians watched as a man on a bicycle pulled up to the building a few minutes after the girl and her companions left. He shouldered the bike and walked through the run-down doorway, and after a few moments the second floor lights went on again. Bingo. It had been some kind of a drop. Now the question was, how could they get in and find out what had been dropped off?

Chapter 33

The killer was in the bathroom, having just taken his first hit of ecstasy of the weekend. He’d munched on a few of the mushrooms as well to add some color and fun to the party—he liked the hallucinogenic quality they brought to the front-end rush of the X. He was transfixed by his reflection in the mirror, his nose about two inches off the grimy glass, gazing at his eyes staring back at him, entranced, humming along with the music.

He was conflicted over having to stop in his quest to become, but rationalized that it was a temporary setback. His metamorphosis was pre-ordained, and nothing could stop it. The drug was starting to kick and he had an overwhelming urge to masturbate, thinking about the one that was to come: Tess, the first of the real ones, as he now saw. He pulled his pants down as he continued to stare at himself, and slowly closed his eyes as he began the process of ridding his body of filth.

When he’d been a boy of maybe nine or ten his mother had caught him playing with himself and had been mortified. She’d always suspected he was dirty, and this was her proof. She’d been furious, and had made him go out in the front yard with his pants off, in the snow, and do it while she “and the whole neighborhood” watched. He’d never been sure whether anyone else had seen him, it having been dusk, but from that point on he’d lost any ability or desire to do anything similar unless it was early evening, and he was high. He’d been horrified at the idea of people watching him, judging him as he went about his filthy chore, but over time he’d become fascinated with the idea of the watchers. The mushrooms made it easier to imagine he was being watched—by his victims, by Tess.

He saw her face in his mind’s eye, watching in revulsion as he touched his filthy parts with his dirty, dirty hands, horrified as his mother had been at the foulness of his deed.

~ ~ ~

The Asians soundlessly pushed the apartment door open, having easily overcome the barrier the cheap lock presented, and registered the incense in the air and the stereo playing in the front room. They cautiously entered the living room, and seeing no one, approached the bedroom, where they could hear a keening noise.

They could sense something off-balance in the environment, something not quite right. But they had a job to do.

And they were professionals.

Both donned plastic bags over their shoes; they’d seen it done on American TV while at their hotel. They’d never bothered with it before, but it never hurt to learn a new trick.

All part of the benefits of travel, and being exposed to new and disparate cultures and influences.

~ ~ ~

The killer heard a sound behind him and opened his eyes to see two Asian men staring at him in the mirror. He wondered absently if they were real or ghosts, and then the smaller of the two kicked him in the kidney, confirming they were part of the here and now. A starburst of pain shot up his spine and he went down, clutching the sink in futile support. As he fell, the two men stepped back, and the smaller man grabbed his leg and dragged him into the living room, where they would have space to work.

The killer was in tremendous agony, but the drugs made the pain seem almost separate from his physical body. He allowed them to slide him along—he too needed room for what he intended to do.

The taller man secured the killer’s hands behind his back using the duct tape he’d brought, holding him face down on the Persian carpet that covered the floor. When he was finished, he grabbed the killer by the hair, bringing him to his knees as the smaller man picked up a wooden dining room chair and approached him.

The killer launched from his supplicant position in a flash, lunging at the smaller man’s neck, missing the carotid artery by a few scant inches and biting down hard on the muscle of his shoulder. The smaller man screamed, dropping the chair in surprise as the two went down together, the killer attached to his shoulder like a moray eel, blood running down his face from the Asian’s wound. A blinding flash of agony caused the killer to loosen his jaw’s grip; the world spun and turned multi-colored, and then slowly receded into black.

The last thing the killer registered was the satisfyingly salty taste of blood in his mouth accompanied by the sounds of the stereo emanating an off-key baritone singing, “Don’t you want me, baby…”

~ ~ ~

The smaller Asian was in pain, but it was manageable. His partner improvised stitches using the duct tape to hold the two crescents of the bite wound together. He’d have been better protected if he’d been wearing a jacket, but it was hot out and a shirt had seemed like enough. The bite was tender, but the bleeding had stopped; it was more of a nuisance than anything.

They’d bound the killer to the chair, circling his body multiple times with tape and securing his legs the same way. They were taking no chances with him—he’d done enough damage in just a few seconds for them to assume he was extremely dangerous. Maybe another pro? But how would a pro have factored into the mix? And where was the money?

The smaller man brought the killer back to consciousness with a few open-handed blows to the head. He’d found a soldering gun and some Raid in the kitchen for the interrogation; he could improvise something with that. Beggars couldn’t be choosers; you had to make do with whatever was available.

The killer came to with a shriek, muffled by the tape across his mouth. He regarded the two men with wide and unfocused eyes; he looked more insane than afraid. The smaller man exchanged a glance with the taller. This was very unusual indeed.

“Where is bag?” the smaller man asked. “Tape off, you answer.”

Just the crazed stare and some struggling by way of response. The smaller man was uneasy, and had a tingling of fear in his stomach, entirely unwarranted, but there nonetheless. What the hell was wrong with this cretin? This was not the way his victims typically responded to his questions. He tried again.

“Where is bag? Answer now.” He didn’t like the look in the killer's wild eyes.

The killer nodded and the taller man ripped the duct tape off the killer’s face.

A high-pitched laugh, otherworldly, emanated from the killer’s mouth. The tape had removed some, but not all, of the drying blood from around his lips, and he had the look of a demented clown as he let loose a banshee wail.

“I’m not here, and neither are you.” More shrieking laughter. “If you are, you have no idea what you’ve done. I’ll eat your heart, you motherfu—” He was interrupted by a devastating blow to the head, which brought that portion of the discussion to a close. He slipped into unconsciousness again.

The men ransacked the apartment and found no trace of the satchel or the money. They were proficient, and methodical, and there was no bag. They were now really perplexed, and the smaller man’s shoulder had begun to ache. He’d make the bound man pay for that.

Ten minutes later the killer came to again. The smaller man held his hand in front of the killer’s face, and then pinched his nose closed, the duct tape he’d reapplied to his mouth ensuring he couldn’t get any air.

Both men waited until the killer started to turn blue from asphyxiation, and then the tall man ripped the tape off again, enabling the killer to gulp rasping breaths.

“Where is bag?”

Nothing but gurgling.

“Where is bag?”

The killer was unfocused, partially from the pain but also from the drugs now hitting full force.

“Mommy? I’m…sorry…I…”

This was going nowhere fast. They needed information, and instead they had a hallucinating freak calling them Mom.

The taller man walked around to the front and slammed him across the face with the can of Raid. He shrieked again, an inhuman sound, and the smaller man clamped another piece of tape across his mouth. The shrieking continued. It was looking doubtful their guest was going to provide any information—he was clearly departed for another world.

The little man figured he could make the session last for a while; they might as well make it as lengthy and painful as possible, on the off-chance their victim became talkative somewhere in the process. That, and he was more than a little annoyed about the bite. He took the Raid from his partner, and toyed with his lighter, flicking it nonchalantly, an idea for intensifying the torture taking form.

~ ~ ~

Half an hour later, they still hadn’t gotten anywhere and the man in the chair was incoherent, his skin bubbling from the burning. He hadn't given them anything, and was now completely out of it, rambling and gibbering nonsense punctuated by tortured shrieks of pain and laughter.

They were out of tricks.

Reluctantly, the smaller man held the killer’s nose again, this time for good. He watched impassively as the man’s body turned red, then purple, and then blue, writhing and straining until it eventually shuddered and remained still.

The bag was nowhere to be found, the smaller man’s shoulder hurt like hell, and they’d gotten zip from whoever it was they’d just interrogated. They were no closer to the cash than before. Nothing but unanswered questions remained. Who was this man? What had been in the bag, and where was it? What was their next move?

The shoulder had to be attended to, and they needed to locate the girl.

Everything came back to the girl. She was the key, and they’d have to get to her to find the cash, that was clear.

After doing one more search of the place lest they’d overlooked any hidden compartments or false floors, they left as quietly as they’d come and slipped into the dusk, an echo of music following them down the street as they made their way toward their hotel.

They would get to have their chitchat with their young lady friend sooner rather than later.

That was certain.

~ ~ ~

Ron got a call in the late morning on Sunday from Barry. He’d been sucked in on the weekend, par for the course in the murder game.

“Hey, Ron. Remember being all up in arms over one of the other Red Cap crew being the real serial?” Ron had explained his theory to Barry yesterday, and they’d both agreed there was no way the administration was going to let him follow up on his hunch.

“Yeah, I seem to recall that. What have you got?” Ron asked.

“I think it’s safe to say you can stop worrying,” Barry responded.

“What are you talking about?” Ron wasn’t following.

“You might want to come down to the perp’s apartment—I’m here right now, and it’s ugly as hell. Amy’s going over the place and thinks she may have found something in the freezer. She’s like a bulldog on this one.” Barry gave him the address.

“What happened?” Ron didn’t understand. Why was Barry dealing with his serial suspect?

“The torture squad seems to have put in an appearance. They were especially thorough. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Makes you believe there might be a God.”

“But…that makes no sense. Why would they hit him? What’s the connection?”

“Dunno, Ron. All I can say is your buddy Stu here has definitely seen better days. He looks like a bad art project.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Oh, and Ron? It looks like he was planning on taking out your girlfriend next. His hard disk is an architect’s dream for loft plans in her neighborhood.”

~ ~ ~

Ron returned from the crime scene that evening, having spent the better part of the afternoon going over Stu’s place. He’d never seen a more gruesome killing, and that was saying a lot. And he’d never felt less remorse over a human life having been extinguished.

Amy had found suspicious trace material in the freezer, and had collected evidence from his closet that looked promising. But for Ron, the damning evidence had been the computer. Not of the crimes Stu had already committed, but what was to come.

Tess and Ron elected to walk to one of his favorite neighborhood places for seafood. He looked worked from the afternoon’s events.

“So, you were out with Barry today?” She’d spent most of the day picking up odds and ends for tomorrow—a big day, to be sure.

“Yeah, it was a hoot. Stu got himself murdered, and it looks like it could have been the same group that got your father and Nick and Stan. I don’t see the connection. It’s baffling, frankly.”

Ron recounted the finding of Stu butchered at his apartment, apparently by the same team that was involved in her father’s death. He wondered again to himself what evil had been going on in his city over the last week.

Tess was all shocked surprise. “That’s horrible, Ron. God. But what did Stu have to do with the rest of this mess?”

He studied her face, trying to tell whether it was an act or not. He felt like she knew more than she was letting on, but he couldn’t be sure. He paused, considering, and then told her about what they’d found on Stu’s computer.

“Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. Kind of karmic justice. We would’ve never been able to pin anything on him; there’s no way I could have gotten a warrant to search his place, and it’s unlikely he would have slipped up and given me an opportunity. He was way too cunning to make any big mistakes. Stu would have gotten away with the murders, no question. Just like it looks like he did in Pennsylvania.” He looked at her. “And he wasn’t planning a very long retirement.”

A range of emotions played over her face. Fear, dread, understanding, and finally, relief.

“Well, then everything worked out for the best,” she observed, and took a swallow of water. “God. Stu…who would have guessed?”

He really couldn’t read her worth a shit, he thought.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Chapter 34

Monday came quickly, and Gordon felt like he could still use a few more days off after a week like the last one. His lingerie model was behaving petulantly, and had thrown a minor scene in Daniel’s on Saturday night, which he supposed was what hot young lingerie models did. Still, it was exhausting.

He was stopped by two men in bad sports jackets as soon as he entered his building. They flipped out badges. FBI.

“Gordon Samuels?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Sir, we’re with the FBI and we’d like to have a word with you. Would you be kind enough to step outside?” one of the agents suggested.

“Uh, sure. What can I possibly do to help the FBI? You guys need some tips on the futures markets?” Gordon’s pulse had increased twenty beats per minute; he noticed no one was smiling at his little funny.

They exited the building and Gordon stopped on the sidewalk.

“So what’s this all about?” he asked.

“Sir, you are under arrest for treason. You have the right to remain silent…” The first man had pulled out a small card and was reading from it while the second man expertly cuffed Gordon’s wrists.

“This is preposterous. You have no idea... I want to talk to my lawyer, now, do you understand?” Gordon was being led to a waiting Lincoln Town Car with federal plates.

“Watch your head as you get in. You’ll have plenty of time to consult with attorneys, Mr. Samuels.” The agent was courteous but firm.

“Did you say treason? Are you guys kidding? You have the wrong guy.” Gordon was processing furiously. What could they possibly prove? He’d been careful. It was one thing to suspect, another to prove anything.

Unless they had Walter. If they had him, this could be a real problem.

If they knew about the bills, if they had Walter, then the plan wouldn’t be moving forward, and his fortune looked to get devastated by the futures and options markets.

His fortune. That was the only thing that would insulate him; he’d get a good legal team, he had the ability to make bail. He had to sell his positions this morning.

“You have to let me call my office and put in some trades. There’s millions on the line, and when this turns out to be a mistake you two will be liable for my clients losing their money. Personally liable.” Encountering studied indifference from the agents, Gordon switched tactics. “Please, just one call—you can listen in, it’s just some sell trades. Please.” Maybe they would listen to reason.

“You hear that, Cliff? He just needs to place some trades.” The first agent was smiling at his partner. They both ignored the request. “Do they still hang traitors, or do they use the chair—fry them like in the fifties? The little sponge on the head? What was that movie—The Green Mile?”

“I think they’ve moved to lethal injection. I don’t really remember. It’s so hard to keep up these days,” the first agent responded conversationally.

Gordon sat stewing in the back seat, alternating between panic and fury.

This couldn’t be happening. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him.

The car pulled into traffic. Mondays in Manhattan could be gridlock. It was likely to be slow going.

~ ~ ~

Tess woke up and took a shower, and spent some time applying a little makeup and putting gel in her hair.

This was a big occasion, after all. It wasn’t every day that you became a multi-millionaire.

Yesterday she’d taken some time and gone to Bloomingdale’s, bought a conservative dark gray two-piece suit with a white blouse and a pair of business-like black pumps. She figured she’d present as conservative an image as possible since she’d be meeting with lawyers and government agents, and afterwards with the funeral director.

She paused and assessed her reflection in the mirror. She saw a businesswoman ready for the next corporate meeting, or an attorney prepared for contract negotiations. She decided to pull her hair back, lending a more severe look to her profile. The tattoo of the sun wasn’t visible, a loose ponytail cinched further down her neck covering it. She felt confident. It was fun to play dress-up sometimes.

Tess hailed a cab and went to her father’s bank, and went through the ritual at the hand scanner. Once in the vault she quickly removed the box, pulled out the sack of bills that was responsible for so much misery, and replaced the container into its slot. She’d bought an oversized purse yesterday in anticipation of today’s requirements; the sack fit easily inside.

Fidgety in the cab to Simon’s offices, she checked her watch. The blue of the lapis dial glinted in the sunlight, and she realized she already took the watch for granted. She made a mental commitment to never, ever do that again. She was very fortunate, and every day she was breathing she’d make a point of remembering how lucky she was.

She exited the taxi at ten-forty, and entered the elevator along with several business people. Simon’s offices were in midtown, in one of the skyscrapers that defined the New York skyline. She got off on his floor and followed the numbers to his suite. An older, conservatively dressed receptionist greeted her, and she registered two armed Brinks employees sitting in the lobby area. A portly man in his sixties in an impeccably-cut suit came out of the back and took her hands.

“Tess, I presume. What a pleasure. Please, come back into our conference room. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Water? A soda, perhaps?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. I noticed the armed guards. Is that for me?”

“Yes, I thought it would be better if we had a bonded company take possession of the cash immediately. I’d never forgive myself if you were robbed leaving the building. This way Brinks is on the hook for it the second they sign the receipt. They’ll deposit it at the bank of your designation.” Simon had thought of everything. She wondered how the clerks at her branch would react to a three-million-dollar cash deposit into her savings account.

“Probably not a bad idea, Simon. How should we do this?” Tess asked.

“Their attorneys will have a document for us to sign, and I’m sure they’ll want to know all about you and how you came into possession of the cash. Just tell them the story as best you can. You don’t have to be afraid of anything. The deal’s all worked out.” Simon oozed reassurance.

They discussed the will reading while they were waiting, and at exactly eleven the phone on the conference room desk beeped. Treasury was there.

Larry and David entered the conference room along with an older, wizened gentleman carrying a thin briefcase—the attorney, no doubt. The two younger men both carried larger briefcases, and David also had a currency counter. The Treasury attorney introduced himself and re-stated their agreement, then produced two documents in triplicate for them to sign. They did, and then he asked to see the bogus cash. Tess pulled the paper bag out of her oversized purse and plopped it on the table.

The three Treasury men looked at the stacks of hundreds inside. David removed the currency counter, plugged it into the wall, and started loading the bills into it. In less than ten minutes they were done. David and Larry placed the two briefcases onto the table and opened them, revealing neatly stacked rows of new hundred-dollar bills.

“Three million dollars, Ms. Gideon. I’m deeply sorry about the loss of your father. I was informed of the whole situation over the weekend, and it’s terrible that so much sorrow was created over these bills.” The government attorney seemed genuine.

Tess looked at the cash. It was so much money, and yet it was just so much paper; it really didn’t seem worth killing over. Simon used the intercom and requested that the two Brinks men be shown to the conference room. They used the counter to verify the amount and took possession of the two briefcases, exchanging them for a receipt. Tess gave them her account information and told them where she wanted it delivered, however they indicated they’d prefer if she made the actual deposit, and arranged to meet her at the bank in two hours.

And that was it.

The government men shook hands and departed as silently as they’d arrived, no questions, no admonishments, nothing but a simple exchange and business as usual. It seemed anti-climactic.

Sometimes that’s how real life was.

Simon invited her back to his office, where he dialed her sister’s number and put her on speakerphone. He read the will, which took fifteen minutes, and you could tell Chrissy was both surprised and delighted she was getting so much money, but was also trying to figure out whether it was worth it to go after the watch shop. They heard her husband in the background whispering to her. Simon cut her off at the pass.

“Chrissy, you should know this will was prepared two years ago, in my presence, and represents the legitimate last wishes of your father, who was of sound mind at the time we drafted it. If you’re unhappy about any area of it I apologize, but that’s the way your father wanted it. Are there any questions?” Simon had done this before.

There was a long pause on the other end. Muffled discussion. Eventually, Chrissy came back on the line.

“How soon until we receive our share?”

The remainder of the call was about the logistics of payouts. Tess wasn’t surprised her sister hadn’t bothered addressing her. Fine. Good riddance, she supposed.

Simon offered to take her to lunch, but she declined and asked for a rain check. They still had the watch shop to dispense with, and that was her next project: to find an appraiser and give Simon a number. They agreed he’d receive a three-hundred-thousand-dollar discount if he purchased it. She suspected he would, and was happy—she liked him.

Tess said her goodbyes and went down to the lobby. She called Ron, who answered his cell on the second ring.

“Do you have time for lunch?” she asked.

“Actually, I do. Where do you want to meet?”

She named a restaurant by her bank; that way, she wouldn’t have to rush if the service ran slow. He told her he’d be there in fifteen minutes.

When he walked into the restaurant he glanced around, and then Tess tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and his mouth fell open.

“I clean up pretty well, huh? Don’t just stand there, let’s grab that table by the window,” Tess said, and then took his hand and guided him over to it. He was still astounded by her business look; he hadn’t been able to respond except for some monosyllabic noises. He got hold of himself and they considered the menu, glancing at one another occasionally.

“Ron, I just swore on a stack of bibles and at risk of serious prison time to never tell anyone what happened today, but I feel like I can trust you. Can I trust you?” she asked.

“You can, Tess. You should know that, I hope.”

“I do. I just wanted to hear you say it.” Tess proceeded to recount the story, omitting the part about Stu.

“Wow. That’s quite an adventure. So you’re filthy rich now?” He stopped as the waiter appeared, and they ordered. He resumed. “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard of who got the better end of a deal with the government.”

“Apparently I’m absolutely filthy dirty rich, Ron. I don’t feel any different, though. Should I?”

Ron regarded her. “I’m afraid I’m the wrong guy to ask, Tess. I don’t have a lot of experience with obscene wealth. If I were you, I don’t know what I’d feel right now. You’ve had a hell of a week.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

They enjoyed lunch, both immersed in their thoughts. He was still trying to figure her out, but was beginning to see that could be a lifelong project.

~ ~ ~

Two Zodiacs plowed their way through the confused seas at a good clip. They were thirty-three-foot inflatables, with black fiberglass hulls and flat black topsides designed to deflect radar; each one carried ten men and an operator.

The waves were cresting at six to eight feet, wind blowing at twenty knots, and a sustained rain fell from the moonless sky. At their current rate, they’d reach the target within fifteen minutes—on schedule for a four o’clock landing. The satellite images had revealed three large piers in reasonably good shape, and the plan called for each boat to tie up at a different dock and offload the crew.

Every member of the team had night vision goggles, and all were dressed in black wet-weather gear, underneath which they wore Myanmar army uniforms. The large seas were rough to take at thirty knots, and everyone’s lower backs were feeling the pounding from the small summer storm’s surges.

There’d been no evidence of any patrol boats, although it would have been hard to see any given the limited visibility—actually, it would have been hard to spot a tanker at a hundred yards in the downpour and the dark. They were fortunate it hadn’t been a clear moonlit night, although that was a mixed blessing given the chop and the deluge.

All men were sharpshooters with sniper ratings along with fluency in demolitions and assault, and two spoke rudimentary Burmese—enough to give a few orders in the language. The team was equipped with flash- and noise-suppressed M4 assault rifles and Czech-manufactured 9mm pistols.

All were Asian and under orders to communicate exclusively via hand signals once they reached the target. Each had a small earpiece in place so that they could communicate remotely via a series of clicks once they landed. Their faces were grimly determined, set, prepared for the assault only minutes away.

The twin noise-deadened diesels hummed silently, underwater exhaust outlets diminishing any hint of their operation. The captains were using GPS, radar being out of the question given the return signal it would create. Sonar was also out, as they didn’t want to alert any stray submarines to their presence.

The men were given the signal from their operators and saw a dark coastline approach out of the rainy murk, with the dim glow of some illuminated buildings vaguely visible in the distance.

The team prepared the lines as the operators throttled down and eased toward the piers, and once alongside, secured the two boats to the pilings of the docks with grappling hooks. Another set of hooks flew up onto the docks, and once their grip was confirmed the men silently climbed the attached webbing. It was pitch black out, except for the main building and one smaller structure in the distance—the barracks they’d been briefed about.

Once on land, they moved silently toward the main warehouse. They’d discarded their slickers and now were wearing the uniforms and overcoats of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. Eight of the men carried large backpacks containing explosives to be used once the facility was secured.

The forward scouts used their night vision to ensure no sentries were posted on the water side of the compound, even though the satellite images had shown none in the last forty-eight hours. The guards were standing in two sandbagged areas near the building entrance, three per outpost, with four floaters continually making perimeter rounds.

The front-runners stopped once the team was a hundred yards from the two bunkers, which were open and had tarps stretched across them to protect the men inside from the worst of the elements. They could make out men playing cards beneath the tarps, none holding their weapons.

Three men from each group split off to locate the floaters. They’d been instructed to take them out first, before hitting the bunkers. After roughly ten minutes a series of clicks sounded in the earphones. One click, and then a few minutes later two and three clicks, and then a series of four.

The floaters were neutralized.

The snipers each took a target, previously agreed upon according to their positions, and listening for a series of clicks, fired simultaneously on the third click. The rain muffled any sound, and the six men in the bunkers expired in unison, never knowing what hit them.

The squads moved quickly toward the building, and six members of the team took the places of the guards, ready to shoot in case anything required them to speak. The rest of the men entered the building.

They had little idea of what to expect other than what the worker had told them. They knew a security man watched the monitors on the printing rooms twenty-four hours a day, but had no idea what communication capability he had. Two men were dispatched to deal with him, and the rest awaited the signal he’d been neutralized. A few minutes later they heard a muffled explosion, and then a click in their earpieces. He was down.

They entered the printing areas, where eight technicians were working, and one of the team told them in halting Burmese to stop what they were doing and get onto the floor. They complied—not surprising since all the intruders were wearing officer uniforms and were heavily armed. The workers were systematically bound using plastic ties intended for that purpose.

The technicians in the clean room similarly offered no resistance.

In one locked area of the building, adjacent to the clean room and the production facility, sat pallets of hundred-dollar bills—hundreds of millions of bogus dollars. One of the team memorialized it all with a small digital camera. Further down the warehouse’s length was the paper production facility, which wasn’t in operation that night. The whole plant wasn’t that large.

The men removed the explosive devices from the backpacks and placed them in strategic locations: one for each press, several for the paper production equipment, one for the security room, and two for the computer and generator rooms. An incendiary device was positioned near the piles of cash, ensuring fire would engulf the pallets. The total destructive capability of all the explosives was enough to lift the building off its foundations and collapse the walls, roughly the same as if a group of Scuds had made direct hits.

There would be nothing recognizable once they were detonated.

They herded the workers outside into the rain, and directed them to an area several hundred yards from the building. Four members of the team secured their legs, ensuring they wouldn’t be able to run.

So far, just under twenty minutes had elapsed.

The team returned to the boats and one man stood on the dock as they prepared to head out to sea. In his hand he held a small device that looked like a controller for a model airplane, which it was similar to in some ways. He got a nod from the boat operator and depressed a button.

The building tore apart—the sides distended, the roof blew off, and an bright pillar of flame rose skyward into the night like an orange fist.

Pieces of debris and machinery described arcs as they flew through the air, thrown from their positions inside, their trajectories spectacular to behold.

The man on the dock descended into the waiting boat and it pushed back out to sea, throttles wide open, hitting upwards of forty knots as the craft shredded through the waves.

They needed to be well clear of Myanmar water within thirty minutes, so it was going to be an uncomfortable ride, but no one complained. The last thing anyone wanted was for an inquisitive helicopter or patrol boat to spot them and call out the dogs.

Right now surprise was on their side, and they used it to their advantage as they raced through the harsh wet night.

~ ~ ~

The Chinese Ambassador was enjoying his late lunch with the Assistant Secretary of State. He knew there would be some sort of an overture, but he was unclear on what it would be. They’d agreed to look at the trade imbalance issues and there were ongoing talks over the rampant piracy that went on in China—but these hardly warranted a one-on-one.

They sat on the patio of a very exclusive club, which had several private rooms available for high-level discussions in discreet surroundings. The U.S. diplomat savored his coffee, checked his watch, and apropos of nothing, broached the meeting’s real topic.

“There are always situations in our respective geographical areas of influence that can act as critical flashpoints. Sometimes, even our trusted allies can disappoint us with ill-conceived campaigns,” he began.

“China is always interested in stability and in enhancing our relationships in positive and mutually beneficial ways.” The Ambassador spoke excellent diplomat-ese, a unique and universal language where one said absolutely nothing using as many words as possible.

“Let me frame a hypothetical for you. If China discovered South Korea had embarked on a counterfeiting scheme to print fake yuan and flood the market, destroying China’s currency integrity, how would China react?” The U.S. diplomat took another sip of his coffee.

“That’s an interesting hypothetical. I suppose our stance would reasonably be that by attempting to counterfeit our currency, they would have declared war on us, or at the very least be guilty of terrorism and criminal conduct.” The Ambassador was careful in his wording; he didn’t know where this was going, and didn’t want to step over any lines.

“The U.S. would take the identical stance, and would of course assist China in any way we could to rectify the situation in a non-disruptive manner agreeable to China.” The U.S. diplomat admired the Washington Monument in the near distance with a cautious nod. Eventually the Chinese Ambassador would have to say something.

“Is there a danger you are attempting to warn us about?” The Chinese Ambassador had to ask the question. Had to.

“Hypothetically, if it was a questionable regime like Myanmar counterfeiting U.S. dollars and preparing to release them into the world markets, how would China respond, or better yet, how would they expect the U.S. to respond?” Now there was a question. The trap was sprung; the Ambassador had to answer.

“That would be a very difficult situation for China, as we are fundamentally opposed to Western military intervention in our region, but of course we also couldn’t condone that behavior.” The waffling began.

“So in that instance, you wouldn’t consider it an act of war or terrorism, but if it was South Korea you would? Interesting.” He wanted to nail him, make him say it.

“That’s not my position. I am simply saying it would put China in a very awkward position.”

“Just as the South Korean scenario would put the U.S. in a very awkward position. But we would also recognize that our ally, in a volatile strategic region, had stepped over an important line, and would do whatever was necessary to rectify the situation.”

“I think I am not so good at hypotheticals,” the Chinese said. Suddenly his English was deteriorating.

“Nonsense. You’re a brilliant diplomat. We’re just examining two sides of the same coin, and considering whether there’s a double standard, or if both of our countries would behave similarly,” the U.S. diplomat said.

“I prefer to stay in the world of actuals, my friend.”

“Perhaps China should ask what they would do in both of those situations. We know what we would do. It’s an interesting exercise, isn’t it?”

“Yes, perhaps China should ask those questions. I wonder if asking our assets in Myanmar would be productive?” The Chinese was probing. What had those stupid peasants been up to, and what could China do to short-circuit it before it caused a major problem?

“My feeling is that unless China was prepared to deal with the problem directly, it might be in its best interests to consider the hypothetical confidentially.” Translation: Stay out of this.

“Even though we share borders and some common interests, we cannot know everything all our neighbors are involved in.” In other words, we know nothing about this. “We would naturally be most relieved if any hypothetical simply resolved itself.” Ahhh. There it was. If the U.S. could “resolve the problem” quietly and without creating a situation, China would be relieved.

“We would adopt the same view with respect to South Korea. They are valued and trusted allies, but if they embarked on a universally condemnable course of action we would be most relieved if any situation was resolved quietly.” The U.S. diplomat had made his point and could rest assured the lines would be burning between the embassy and Beijing following their get-together. That way, if there was any fallout or damage control to do, China had received advance warning and understood the U.S. wasn’t acting aggressively.

Both men enjoyed the view and had a second cup of coffee in silence.

~ ~ ~

The Finance Minister was awakened by a phone call at 5:30 a.m.. He groped for the handset, nearly knocking it over in the process.

“Hello,” he muttered groggily.

“We have a disaster. A car will pick you up in fifteen minutes. The currency facility was destroyed an hour ago.” It was the Defense Minister.

“How? Who did this? No one knew about it.” The minister was trying to understand what had taken place.

“We don’t know. We’re still trying to figure it out. I have a helicopter waiting to take us there so we can view the damage first hand. Fifteen minutes.”

The minister shook his head. His hands were shaking and he felt surreal. This wasn’t possible. The plant destroyed? It was inside Myanmar, on a relatively remote area of coastline, well hidden from prying eyes. It was inconceivable anyone could have reached it and caused the kind of damage the defense minister was describing.

He dialed Gordon’s number while he pulled on his uniform. The receptionist told him Gordon was unavailable. When he pressed, she indicated he wasn’t in today. He hung up. Tried his cell phone, got voicemail.

“Gordon, we have a serious, serious problem. I’ve just been advised that our plant has been destroyed. I need information, and we need to sell all the options, now. Call me as soon as you can.”

The car pulled up and the minister went out into the rain, the humidity and heat already unbearable.

Chapter 35

The sun reflected off the sidewalk, making the street shimmer from the heat waves. The afternoon rush hour had been underway for fifty minutes, although Tess’s street didn’t see many vehicles.

The two Asians were back, across from her loft at the little coffee shop. Morning and afternoon had come and gone and the two men were getting bored, the taller one popping Percodan like Tic-Tacs. His mouth still felt like he’d been kicked in the jaw. The pain pills were making him sleepy, and he was having difficulty staying sharp as the day wound down. He wondered if they had somehow missed the girl.

They had time, but the constant throbbing from his tongue wasn’t doing anything for his mood or his focus, and he’d had enough fruit juice to last a lifetime.

They might as well have rented the table they occupied.

The smaller man was smoking his thirty-second cigarette of the day with apparent gusto, occasionally rubbing his shoulder when a twinge of pain seared through the muscle. It was a filthy habit, the taller man thought—although he enjoyed a smoke himself, now and then. But two or three packs a day. That was really just too much.

Finally, a bicyclist approached, riding slowly up to the loft.

They had discussed it, and agreed they’d wait until she got settled in and then jimmy the lock, dealing with her inside, at their leisure.

Tess locked her bike to the pole, and then took her helmet off, shook out her hair, and stretched. She wanted to make sure anyone watching would see her. She didn’t dare go into the house, in case they’d broken in and were waiting for her. She was pretty sure they hadn’t, but that could be a mistake that cost her life.

She got a call on her cell, as planned, and answered. Duff’s voice emanated from the speaker.

“Time to get going,” he advised.

Tess pretended to have an animated discussion, shaking her head, looking at her watch. She walked down the street, still apparently talking, and the two men stood, slowly, and followed at a distance as she made her way toward the waterfront.

Duff’s voice cut into her phony soliloquy. “I just spotted them. They started walking down the street on the opposite side of you. Behind you a hundred yards. Let me call you back. I want to give the crew the heads up.”

“Okay, Duff. Let’s stick with the plan. Make sure it’s only the two of them, okay?”

“You got it. So far it is. I’ve got someone at the shop and he’s hanging to see if anyone scrambles from there. That would be the only other place they’d be watching. We’ll know for sure in five minutes.”

“Call me back soon, please? This is nerve racking.”

Tess continued chatting into the phone even after Duff disconnected and walked at a moderate pace toward the river, checking her watch occasionally.

She made it one block, then two, and then her phone vibrated again.

“No one at the watch shop, and the boys are ready for action. The bad guys are about seventy-five yards behind you; they crossed the street a minute ago. Good luck, Tess.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Catch you soon.”

Tess walked up one more block and then paused at the mouth of an alley. She looked at her watch again, pretended to look up the block as though waiting for someone, and then ducked into the small side street.

~ ~ ~

The Asians were stumped. They hadn’t noticed the man on the bike a block behind them talking into a wireless headset.

They watched as Tess approached an alley in an ominous-looking deserted area—abandoned warehouse territory. She appeared to be scouting the street for somebody and when she didn’t see them, abruptly disappeared from view.

Now they had a problem. They had no idea where the alley led; for all they knew, it fed out to another street and she was already gone.

The smaller man rapidly went over their alternatives and the taller agreed they had to go in after her.

Their cell rang. A singsong voice barked a short instruction in Burmese.

“Terminate the mission. Now. Get to the airport, fly to Canada, then return home immediately.”

The shorter man informed his partner, and the two exchanged toxic glances. It was frustrating to have their mission abruptly ended so close to their goal. But sometimes that’s how the ball bounced, and they knew to follow instructions without hesitation. Survival often depended upon it.

They made their way back up the street, retracing their steps until they hit a main artery, where they hailed a cab and disappeared.

~ ~ ~

One of the toughs standing with Tess got a call from Duff, who told him the Asians had spent a few moments at the mouth of the alley, answered a phone call, and then abandoned their pursuit and hightailed it out of the area. Everyone was puzzled—it had been a perfect plan.

They waited until it became obvious there wasn’t going to be any confrontation that day, and then dispersed, with several of the group accompanying Tess back to her place, just in case. There was no evidence of surveillance. It was just plain weird.

~ ~ ~

Tess opened the door to her loft. She didn’t know what had happened, what had tipped the Asians off—but that wasn’t Rufi’s fault, and he’d still want to collect his fee. She called Duff, and they agreed to get together tomorrow and she’d deliver the rest of the cash. Rufi had earned his commission, even if the end had been a non-event.

Tess didn’t feel comfortable staying at her place. It was always possible the Asians would return, and she supposed she might never know with complete certainty that she was in the clear. Just as she didn’t know what had spooked them or why they’d suddenly aborted their hunt, she also didn’t know whether hers was a temporary reprieve or whether she’d always have to be watching over her shoulder. She didn’t want to think about that right now. Staying with Ron made her feel safe, and that was as far forward as she was prepared to plan for the moment.

She finished stuffing her backpack, locked her deadbolts, and exited the building.

~ ~ ~

Gordon’s attorney came into the holding cell and sat down at a small table. Ten minutes later, Gordon was escorted in by two hard-looking uniformed officers. The attorney sighed and looked hard at Gordon, who was still wearing his suit while he waited to be formally charged.

“They’re dead serious about hitting you with treason, Gordon.” No ‘hello,’ no ‘how are you holding up’—just the bad news, right out of the gate.

“That’s absurd. They have no basis. They’re dreaming.”

“Well, speaking with the Attorney General it seems like they have a basis. Their position is that you’ve conspired with a foreign power to subvert the U.S. financial system by counterfeiting and distributing fake currency, and further did so knowing the foreign power was using classified data to do it. They have your phone records and are also looking at charging you with conspiracy to commit murder, as you apparently were the last caller to speak to a certain currency dealer, who was murdered shortly thereafter.” The attorney didn’t look upbeat.

“Look, they can claim all they want, but they couldn’t have any proof. It’s all conjecture.”

“They have numerous calls to the foreign ministry of Myanmar, Gordon.”

“So what? I haven't ever accepted or managed any money that came directly from Myanmar.” Technically true; Gordon was conveniently overlooking several of his large hedge fund investors based suspiciously close to the Myanmar government's financial sphere of influence.

“And they have recordings of some very damaging phone calls wherein you discuss the plot with a co-conspirator.”

“Nonsense. I know you can spin those calls any way you want, maybe get them tossed out based on illegality—they aren’t allowed to just record conversations, are they?” Gordon asked.

“Since the Patriot Act everything has changed, Gordon. I don’t think I’ll be able to get them tossed, but then again I haven’t heard them. Oh, and they have a witness who will testify against you.” The attorney had sallow cheeks, and looked ill.

“Walter. That stupid prick. He’s a pathological liar and a paranoid, probably completely delusional and willing to say anything, blame anyone, to save his own skin.”

“You seem to know him well, Gordon.”

“He’s a client. We all make mistakes. So how much is it going to cost to get me out of here?”

“There’s no bail. You’re viewed as a flight risk. I’m working some back channels to change that, but for now you’ll just have to be patient.” The attorney regarded Gordon with a frown. “I’ll need a one million dollar retainer to represent you, Gordon. You’ll need to authorize your office to have the funds transferred. There may be a problem though, as your personal accounts have been frozen.”

“Wha—? But they can’t do that. What happened to innocent until proven guilty? We have to do something.”

“Again, I’m working the issue. But if I were you, I’d be thinking about selling the townhouse to raise capital. I’ll float you for a while but I won’t work for free. I’m sorry for how this is turning out, but my hands are tied. If you want to sell the house let me know, and I’ll draft some documents for you to sign to give me power of attorney in the matter. I think that may be your best bet. Think about it.”

Gordon drew in a harsh breath. “Are you kidding me? That’s the best you can do? Sell my house? What is this, Screw Gordon Day? Get me out of here. Now. I have to trade accounts, do some damage control, and I need to be able to communicate. Do something, goddammit!” Gordon was turning red, anger and frustration building.

“Gordon, you don’t get it yet, do you? They’ve got you. And they’re not going to let you go. They aren’t even offering a deal—I fished for one and they aren’t interested. They’re talking about the death penalty. This is real, and your life is at stake. Sell the house, get me money, or you’ll be dealing with a public defender.” The attorney stood, walked to the door, and knocked twice. A guard opened it. The attorney turned around.

“Call me and let me know what you want to do.”

And then the door slammed behind him, a bolt slid into place, and he was gone, leaving Gordon alone with his thoughts.

~ ~ ~

Tess and Ron spent four days together at his apartment, but as the imminent threat receded with time, it became obvious there was no reason for them to share the same space.

They both felt a connection and an interest, but the timing wasn’t right, and they were both mature enough to recognize it.

She’d been reluctant to go back to her loft, and had asked Simon to arrange for a hotel to stay at under the name of the firm—she didn’t want to be listed in her own name just in case anyone was still looking for her. Simon had been happy to accommodate her.

Tess had already grown restless in Ron’s apartment and needed to get out and ride, to feel the wind in her face and the energy of the streets. Even if she wasn’t going to return to her work at Red Cap she’d conditioned herself to require motion and exertion in order to maintain a balance in her life. It wasn’t complicated: the rush of endorphins from the multi-hour workouts made her feel good, and the sense of movement and boundless freedom gave her hope and joy.

She spent a lot of her time alone, although she got together with Duff and a few of the girls from Red Cap. She also met Ron for lunch and dinner, and the more she was around him, the more she realized how unique and self-possessed he was. She was used to dating boys in the process of trying to become men, whereas Ron was already solidified, sure of his destiny and his course.

There was an appeal in that for her, especially now she’d lost everyone she’d valued. Her life had been changed through the resultant upheaval, and for better or worse, she felt the decisions she’d been avoiding for years weighing heavily on her mind.

She felt like she was in the eye of the hurricane, the calm in the storm, and as hours turned into days and her wheels ate up the pavement, she realized her period of naïve denial was at an end.

So now what?

That was, as always, the question.

Chapter 36

The Finance Minister was taken into custody two days after the destruction of the plant and held in a rural military facility, where political prisoners spent their days ruminating on the error of their ways.

He’d known from the beginning that he was engaged in a high-risk proposition and that failure, while a remote possibility, would carry a high cost. He wasn’t kidding himself that his years serving the Republic would count for anything. He’d committed the ultimate crime: he’d failed.

They had lost the billion dollars’ worth of equipment and knowledge, and seen another two billion evaporate from the market action. That was a significant percentage of a year’s gross national product, in a country relying on mercy from others to feed its population. It was a body blow for the economy and for the very future of the regime.

He knew he was never going to see daylight again as a free man. That was just the way it worked. He’d done nothing wrong; he had, in fact, come very close to saving their bacon from grinding poverty and slow demise. But close didn’t count.

For a day or so he’d considered running, requesting political asylum from China, starting a new life elsewhere, but realized he’d never make it. They’d hunt him down wherever he went, and the result would be the same—every day he’d be wondering if today was the day he’d die. He couldn’t live like that. He was too old.

So he sat in his small cell, waiting for the footsteps that signaled the end of his life’s adventure. Each morning when the guards came and brought his meager rations, he wondered if today was the day.

And then one day it was.

The cell door sprang open and two men from the Ministry of Defense grabbed him by his arms and escorted him forcefully down the dank hall into the barren courtyard. One pushed him to his knees onto the stark concrete, and the other unceremoniously unclipped his holster and held a pistol to the back of the minister’s head.

So this was how it ended.

He remembered his childhood, running across a field with a homemade kite his father had spent countless hours laboring over, laughing as the little object rose into the air seemingly of its own volition, soaring into the sky, apparently free and yet tethered to the earth by an invisible string and the arm of a little boy. He loved that silly thing, the colored paper like a rainbow of possibility, and he loved his father for toiling to create something for no other reason than to bring him joy.

He could still smell the fresh grass on the gentle wind from that afternoon—one of the last times he’d been with his father, before he’d learned things and grown up and become of this world.

A pin dimpled the center of a cartridge, creating an explosion of rapidly-expanding heated gases, and then a supersonic thimbleful of lead brought the reverie to an abrupt halt, and the image was replaced by the endless silence of eternity.

~ ~ ~

Ron was at his desk, feet up, talking on the phone to Amy.

“It was weird. I liked Tiny for the killings, then started to think Frank might have some connection—the whole Zodiac story got me fixated on the idea the killer didn’t necessarily have to be a younger man,” Ron said.

“Stu was so invisible. It’s like he deliberately created a veneer to make himself seem as innocuous as possible.”

“Yeah. He got away with it, completely. Even after we searched his place, there wasn’t a trace of anything incriminating other than some latent blood in the freezer and a few hairs in his closet—damaging, but not necessarily a guaranteed conviction. I’d have never gotten a warrant to search, so we wouldn’t even have found any of that. I can’t prove it, but he had to be the perp in the punk rock killings too.”

“Do we have any idea how many people he actually killed?”

“Not really. But he wasn’t going to stop. When we went through his apartment, we found Tess’s address all over his computer.”

“It sounds like someone did the world a favor, huh? How is Tess, by the way? Have you had any chance to follow up with her?” Amy was tactfully framing things in a professional way, giving her plausible deniability if Ron accused her of prying.

“She’s still trying to come to grips with losing so many people in such a violent and sudden way. I recommended she see a counselor to work through her issues. That’s gotta be life-altering, but I think she’s going to be okay.” Ron was staying away from discussing his personal involvement with Tess. The truth was that he was still trying to figure out what his involvement was. They’d been seeing each other on a casual basis, lunch here, dinner there—but he’d held back on making a move, and she seemed tentative.

There was an attraction, he could tell, but he was also old enough to know that trauma took time to heal, and that it was probably too soon to be thinking about romantic engagement. For all the outward bravado and tough chick swagger, she still seemed frail inside, and he sensed she needed time.

“She seemed nice enough, I suppose. A little young, but they all look that way to me lately. So, are you up to for dinner tomorrow?” Amy abruptly changed the subject on him, apparently just as uneager to talk about Tess as he was.

Ron wondered how he was going to reconcile this thing with Amy. If not for Tess, he’d have been more than happy to see where things led. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to explore an Amy relationship—it wasn’t like Tess and he were engaged. He just had the hots for her, and if he stopped dating every time he had an infatuation, he’d never get laid.

Oh, that’s right. He never did anyway. Case in point.

“That would be great, Amy. I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied lately. Being done with this case might be just what the doctor ordered.”

“Call me tomorrow afternoon and let’s figure out where we’re going to go, okay?” Amy beamed at him through the phone. She was a remarkably compatible woman, he reasoned. Who knew what the future held?

~ ~ ~

Gordon’s life had gone from bad to worse. His attorney finally got a plea bargain, an impossible choice: life in prison if he pled, with a possibility of parole within fifteen years. So he’d be in his early sixties, and broke, when he got out. Presuming he stayed alive that long. That was the best case.

The alternative was a trial, and the government pushing for death. His attorney advised him to take the deal. The government’s case was a winner, and the only reason he was being offered anything was to keep the matter low-profile.

He’d lost most of his cash as his stock options lost value, and by the time he got permission to sell, he was down to fifteen million. The problem was, the state froze his assets, so he’d likely never see a dime of that money again. His attorney wasn’t hopeful. It wasn’t right or fair, but when it was the government dealing with a treason case, apparently it could get pissy.

He ultimately had to sell his townhouse, and most of the cash went to the legal retainer and covering costs for his offices as he tried to market the brokerage. He’d lost many of his clients since the event, but he still had a few, and his book of business was sellable to someone.

So he’d finally taken the deal, and was scheduled to be transferred to Leavenworth, where he was going to be making license plates or washing sheets for most of the rest of his life. He still couldn’t believe this had happened to him. A man who moved markets. One of the best in his field—a virtual god on the Street, capable of making millions in one day. A trusted confidant to royalty and governments.

Reduced to the prison laundry.

He had started having suicidal ideation, had contemplated how to end it all, but thought dejectedly that the system was quite adept at keeping its charges breathing, so he couldn’t even accomplish that.

His attorney came that afternoon with the paperwork to accept the deal, and was kind enough to place half a million of the legal fee into an escrow account so he’d have something to look forward to upon release. Given that the whole negotiation had occupied a week or so, half a million in fees was truly highway robbery, but he was in no position to negotiate anything. Just more Gordon getting the shaft.

Needless to say, his lingerie model hadn’t stopped by to wish him well or bring him a cake with a file in it. No one had stopped by other than his lawyer. Gordon was still shocked by how quickly it had all unraveled, how suddenly everything could turn, and circumstance savage the unwary.

The attorney watched as Gordon shuffled away in his orange jumpsuit, head bowed, broken. He felt sorry for him on one level, but on another had no empathy—Gordon had been guilty of more than treason; he’d committed the cardinal sin that claimed so many on Wall Street. He’d forgotten the old adage: Bulls make money, bears make money, but pigs get slaughtered.

Gordon had been a pig. Plain and simple. He’d wanted too much, too fast, and had risked it all on a losing bet.

~ ~ ~

Tess and Ron were at dinner a week and a half later, enjoying a quiet meal at Gramercy Tavern, savoring a bottle of Napa cabernet. It was Tess’s treat; she was feeling flush, having inked a deal with Simon to sell the watch shop to him for $3.2 million. It was at the lower end of the range the appraiser had suggested—and the inventory alone had been worth well over $1.4 million—but it felt right. Simon had his watch shop to tinker with, and Tess had freed herself from her last obligation in the city.

Apart from when he’d first broken the news, Ron had never brought up the logical oddity that the Asian hit team had apparently taken out Stu, and Tess had never seemed interested in exploring it. The episode remained a lingering unexplained piece of the puzzle, but they’d sort of silently agreed to keep it buried. He had his theories, but left them unspoken. That was fine by both of them; some things were better left in the past. A bad man had gotten his comeuppance. End of story.

They discussed the sudden end to the violence, the unexplained conclusion of the affair, and the inconsistencies surrounding Stu. Eventually the conversation turned to the inevitable personal subject, the elephant in the room with them.

“Tess, I want you to know—the last few weeks have been remarkable for me. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more fascinating or attractive woman in my life.” The wine made it all easier. He wasn’t normally given to flowery language or flattery. You’re never too old to learn, he thought.

“Oh, Ron, I wish we’d met under different circumstances. I’ve never spent time with anyone I connected with like you. It’s just that the timing’s so screwed up, and my head is in such a different place…” Tess seemed to be groping for words to articulate her feelings.

“Look, I know it’s been rough. I don’t want to rush anything or put you in an uncomfortable position. I just wanted you to know how I feel. That’s all. No response required.” Ron took a sip of his wine.

She leveled her gaze at him from across the small table. “Ron, I’m leaving town for a while. I don’t know for how long. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few months. I need to clear my head. I’m no good to myself, or you, or anyone, the way I am right now.”

Ron digested this new information. It didn’t surprise him.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m heading to Europe. I’ve never been, and parts of it are supposed to be really beautiful. I want to go somewhere different, where nothing reminds me of here.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “Do you understand? There’s been too much sorrow and brutality, and I think about the people I’ve lost every minute of every day. I need a new perspective, a different setting, someplace unlike New York.”

He understood.

They held hands for a long time, and then the waiter interrupted with their coffee. The moment was over.

“I’m going to get on a plane for Madrid tomorrow, but I want to stay in touch, Ron. I think we have some unfinished business to take care of when I get back. But I want to come back whole, and strong, and thinking clearly. I owe that to myself and to you.”

“Tess, I get it. Wrong place, wrong time. You’re a different person than you were when I met you, and you may become different again by the time you get back. But I’ll still be interested in who you’ve turned into, and time goes by quickly. So consider it a date.” Ron had known in his heart that this round wasn’t meant to be. But the next round was a different story.

Maybe that’s why he’d told Amy the day before at lunch that he wasn’t on the market, and that it had nothing to do with her. She’d been graceful and understanding, but the hurt in her eyes had been evident. Ron wasn’t ready to dive into anything yet, and tonight he was more convinced than ever that the reason was Tess.

They finished their meal and lingered over a nightcap in the bar area, saying little—there wasn’t much left to say. Done with the drinks, they left the restaurant and he hailed a cab.

“So this is goodbye, at least for a while.” He smiled, a trifle sadly.

“For a while.” Tess’s eyes were welling up with moisture.

“Have a good time in Europe. Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Ron’s voice cracked on the last syllable.

She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him over, and kissed him for a long time—kissed him ravenously, tears flowing freely, her lips crushed against his with unmistakable hunger. When they disengaged they looked at each other and laughed—she while still crying—and held each other at arm’s length.

“Take care of yourself, Teresa Gideon. There is something to return to. Keep that in mind.”

“I know, Ron. I’ll be back sooner than you think.”

And then he climbed into the waiting cab, everything said that needed to be, and told the cabbie his address.

She closed the door for him, and the last thing he saw as he pulled away from the curb, the impression indelibly seared into his visual cortex, was Tess, her hair stirred by the summer night’s breeze, to him the most beautiful woman in the world, waving at him, laughing, as tears streamed down her face.

<<<<>>>>

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Turn the page to read an excerpt from Fatal Deception,

Book Two in the Fatal series

Excerpt from

Fatal Deception

Copyright © 2016 by Russell Blake

Chapter 1

Two days ago, Manhattan, New York

The high-resolution image jiggled slightly as a young woman, hands and feet bound, a strip of duct tape over her mouth, stared wide-eyed at something off-camera. Inky veins of mascara streaked down her hollow cheeks, standing out in high relief against her alabaster skin. The relentless glare of the harsh lighting lent her face a washed-out quality, as though her features were molded from wax.

Beneath the metal chair to which she was tied, the floor was lined with green plastic garbage bags taped together, and her pale naked form glowed against the backdrop. She squirmed, trembling, her head shaking as a pair of bright yellow dishwashing gloves appeared in the frame, one of them holding a lit cigarette. Serpentine coils of smoke drifted lazily toward an unseen ceiling as a casual finger flicked away ash, and the woman shook her head again in silent horror.

The scene zoomed until the frame was filled with her upper body and face. Her eyes welled with tears, glistening as they pled in silent desperation.

The gloved hand pressed the cigarette’s glowing tip against the skin of her breast and she bucked against the chair, eyelids clamped shut, nostrils flared in agony, her muted scream echoing off the walls as it forced its way through her nose. Several seconds later the cigarette pulled away, leaving an ugly red welt.

The camera twisted to the side, where a television was broadcasting a news report. Ruins of buildings smoldered as the ticker across the bottom of the screen announced further action against insurgents by a coalition of international forces. The woman’s tortured emanation faded into a long whimper as blossoms of orange lit the television image: detonating bombs, dropped from invisible planes filming the destruction.

The focus returned to the victim’s quivering torso, her face now covered with a sheen of perspiration. A gloved hand came back into the frame, this time holding the long wooden handle of an artist’s paint brush, the bristles slathered with neon green. The woman winced as the brush touched her breast and then traced a circle, slowly, as though caressing her skin with the paint.

The hand drew away, and for several long beats it was just the woman’s chest rising and falling rapidly, her pulse visible in her carotid artery as she drew shallow, terrified breaths.

The paintbrush reappeared. A single drop of green hung from the tip, as though fighting the pull of gravity before yielding and falling downward, out of the image. The brush neared the crude circle and settled on her sternum, and slid from the top to the base in a single swipe, neatly bisecting the ring.

Another pause and the brush returned, slathered with more paint, and sketched an inverted V, creating a peace symbol on the woman’s brutalized form.

The silence of the room was shattered by the strains of the “Star-Spangled Banner” from off to the side as the camera zoomed out. The image swung to the right again and fixed on the television, which was now displaying a slideshow of photographs of infants mutilated or killed during coalition attacks in the Middle East. After a half-minute montage, it reverted to the naked woman, who was struggling against her bindings as the screen filled with her seated form.

A figure stepped into view, clad in a black plastic raincoat, its slick surface shining in the glare. In its right hand the figure clutched a meat cleaver, its blade gleaming. The woman’s eyes bugged out of her head at the sight. The figure stood, back to the camera, watching as she fought to free herself, and then slowly turned toward the camera. A Halloween mask, the beaming features of a popular cartoon ghost twisted in a permanent smile, its cherubic cheeks painted with small peace symbols in the same green paint as the woman’s, smiled ghoulishly at the camera. A gloved hand entered the frame and waved, like a child on a school outing, and threw a peace sign in the best tradition of Japanese teens in selfies before giving the camera the finger.

The figure turned back to the woman and ripped the duct tape from her mouth in a single motion as the national anthem ended, and flipped the silver strip at the television. The room fell silent but for the woman’s ragged, harsh breathing. When she spoke, her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Please. Don’t do this.”

The figure backhanded her, and the woman’s head jerked to the side from the force of the blow, her hair askew. She blinked rapidly, obviously dazed, and then the background filled with the sound of keening – the ululating of mourning women drifting from off-camera speakers.

A gloved hand reached for something out of the frame and returned with an electrolarynx vocal synthesizer. The figure held it against its throat, and a monotone robotic voice filled the screen.

“You are a child of privilege. You live in a nation of spoiled children. You destroy other societies without a second thought, claiming to bring them freedom or to protect yourself. Now you know the fear of real danger. Today is your day of reckoning.”

The woman shook her head. “No. Please. I beg you. I haven’t done anything.”

The figure held up the cleaver and studied the blade. “That is correct. You have done nothing. Just as the innocents everywhere who are butchered have done nothing. That is the world you have created. That is the world you live in – fragmented, each individual an island, apathetic and uninterested in the destruction your lifestyle inflicts upon others.”

The woman closed her eyes and her lips moved in silent prayer. The figure moved out of the frame. A moment later the background ambiance changed to a wailing clarinet over a bouncing Dixieland jazz melody, and the figure stepped into the scene again, a single red rose in one hand and the cleaver in the other. The woman’s eyes opened and stared down at the flower, which the figure had tossed into her nude lap. She appeared confused, and then her face froze in fear as the figure raised the cleaver above her left arm, pausing dramatically before swiping down in a brutal blow.

A spray of bloody mist dusted the camera lens as the woman’s hand and half her forearm dropped with a thump onto the garbage bags. The bouncing music played on, drowned out by the woman’s agonized shrieks, an otherworldly sound as she howled like a wounded animal.

Five minutes later the screen went black. Three men seated at a battered wooden conference table stared in horrified disbelief at the monitor upon which they’d watched the abomination of the woman’s torture and dismemberment.

The oldest of the trio, his creased face red and puffy from years of hard drinking, sat back and exchanged a glance with the others.

“Jesus God…” he began, and choked on the last syllable.

“Yeah,” the man next to him whispered.

“Well, we know how the body at the school got that way,” the third man, NYPD homicide detective Ron Stanford, said in a hushed voice. A headless, appendage-less torso had been discovered in the schoolyard of an uptown Catholic school the prior day, scarring at least a dozen children for life. The video answered any questions about where it might have come from.

Ben Rollins, the young homicide inspector who’d caught the case, shook his head. “I’ve seen some disturbing crap in my life, but this takes the cake.” He looked to his silver-haired superior. “What do you think, Captain?”

“I think I’m not going to be able to eat dinner,” Captain Elton Larraby muttered. “What kind of sick bastard would kill someone on video? To what end?”

Ron considered the overhead ventilation grill before returning his attention to the blank screen. “Someone who wants his deeds commemorated. Who wants the world to see what he’s done – to call attention to himself. Obviously, there’s some kind of symbolism at work, both with disposing of the body at a school and with the video. He’s trying to send a message.”

“A political message, judging by the footage,” Ben agreed. “We need to get Homeland involved.”

“Why?” Larraby demanded.

Ben looked less sure. “This could be terrorism. All the anti-war rhetoric…”

Ron shook his head. “No, this is the equivalent of a selfie taken by a monster, using the pretense of being anti-war to butcher a young woman. Since when did being anti-war equate to terrorism, anyway?”

“I just thought…”

“This is murder, plain and simple,” Ron said. He sighed. “What do we know?”

“The news broadcast was day before yesterday’s local late news, at eleven p.m. The rest of it, we’re working on,” Ben said. “The video was received by all the major stations this afternoon, sent via the Internet in compressed format.” He paused. “They’re already calling the bastard ‘the Rose Killer.’ Leave it to our press to glorify a monster at every turn.”

“Any progress on the school?” Larraby asked.

“Not yet,” Ben admitted. “No traffic cams around it, and nobody living in the area saw anything. We’re running all the usual tests, but forensics isn’t optimistic.” He shrugged. “There was evidence of recent sexual activity, but no semen.”

“How recent?” Ron demanded.

“Within four to six hours of the victim’s death, at the latest. There are abrasions consistent with rough play.”

Ron swiveled to face Larraby. “At least we have some promising threads we can follow from the footage. First, we can trace the IP of the sending computer. And there’s the electrolarynx – those aren’t exactly common. And then the paint. The brush. The raincoat. The music. The flower. All of it – it’s a goldmine if we can catch a break on even one element.”

The captain frowned. “The networks are going out with this tonight. I argued against it, tried to convince them, but they refused to put a lid on it. Best I could get was an agreement to only show a brief snippet of the beginning, so we can see if someone can identify the woman.”

“Can’t you quash it?” Ron asked.

“Negative. Believe me, I tried. But apparently this is a ratings week, and nobody wants to suck hind tit by censoring themselves. Just be glad they aren’t going to show the whole thing.”

“Which means we’re going to have every nutcase in the city calling in phony confessions by midnight,” Ben spat in disgust. “We’ve already had a dozen from the news on the torso discovery. This will up it to hundreds.”

“Goes with the job,” Larraby said. He rubbed a calloused hand across his face. “Ron, tell me this isn’t the beginning of a serial spree.”

Ron shook his head. “I can’t. My bet is that he’s been thinking about filming this little masterpiece for a long time. The odds that it’s a one-off are slim to none. Sorry.” He eyed Ben. “Obviously, we need to run a search for similar MOs. I’d go nationwide.”

“You think he’s done this before?”

“He came prepared. My hunch is yes.”

Ron Stanford looked suddenly older than his mid-thirties. A career as the NYPD’s floating serial killer and sensational homicide specialist weighed heavily on evenings like this. Even as hardened as the men in the conference room were, the video had clearly unsettled them. They were accustomed to discovering the aftereffects of murder, not viewing a particularly brutal one real-time, and none would sleep that night even though they habitually swam in the noxious waters of death.

“And Homeland? FBI?” Ben asked.

“I’ll run it past them,” Larraby said. “But my guess is Homeland won’t want any part of it. The feds? Right now there’s no reason for them to care.”

“There will be when the next one appears,” Ron stated flatly. “And there will be a next one.”

“The mayor is already freaking out,” Larraby said. “He’s going to call a press conference to get in front of it.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, good. A press conference. Because those have proven so useful in solving crime.”

Larraby shrugged apologetically. “I know, I know. I’ll do the talking-head routine and keep you out of the spotlight as long as possible. But you know the drill. That won’t last long – he’s already demanded a briefing within the hour.”

“What are you supposed to tell him?” Ben asked.

Larraby frowned. “That we’re pursuing all leads and can’t discuss the case at this early juncture.”

Ron nodded. “I don’t envy you.”

The captain grimaced. “Yeah, well, you’ll be up to bat soon enough.”

The meeting broke up, and Larraby left Ben and Ron to coordinate their response. They agreed on a distribution of tasks, with Ben taking the lead – Ron was still embroiled in the trial of a group of thrill-kill teens who’d been murdering homeless men for kicks, so his time was limited until the verdict came in. The attorney general had demanded he be present for the closing arguments so the jury could see his face, which he believed was a colossal waste of time, but he’d been forced to play along. Ron was a minor celebrity in the city after solving several high-profile murders, including the recent Red Cap serial killings that had panicked Manhattan over the summer.

Ben made his way to his cubicle and Ron to his. The day shift was long gone, and the floor largely empty now except for a few detectives finishing up their projects. Ron glanced at the vacant cubicles as he passed and felt a pang of envy at the nine-to-five life most of his peers enjoyed. That had never seemed appealing to him before, but now, after a tough year of emotional roller coaster rides and some of the most challenging cases of his career, there was something to be said for being able to clock out and go home, leaving the job on the desktop until the following day.

He flopped down in his worn chair and reached for his phone, the message indicator blinking a notification with the regularity of a metronome. Ron punched in his password and listened to the voice mails – a call from forensics that his results were in and had been emailed to him; another from one of his colleagues with whom he was putting to bed a grisly stabbing death of a teenage runaway skater chick who’d been killed by her stoned boyfriend; one from Sarah Lieberman, a reporter with the New York Times who’d been hounding him for an interview for an article she was working on that would feature Ron as the new face of the NYPD.

The final call was a voice he hadn’t heard for three months, and he sat up, instantly alert, his heart rate increasing by twenty beats per minute.

A female voice.

“Ron? It’s Tess. Tess Gideon. I…I’m back in town. Got a new cell number. Call me when you have a little time to catch up.”

He jotted down the number and replayed the message, savoring the musical lilt of Tess’s cadence, every word to his ear a promise. He’d all but abandoned hope of ever hearing Tess’s voice again when she left New York to spend time in Europe after her father’s savage murder.

But she was back in the city and wanted to catch up.

To pursue that which they’d agreed to leave unexplored until she was on firmer emotional footing.

Ron smiled to himself and tossed the pen aside. His otherwise bleak evening had just brightened.

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Table of Contents

Books by Russell Blake

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Excerpt from Fatal Deception

Table of Contents

Books by Russell Blake

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Excerpt from Fatal Deception