The Time of The Cat 3
Chapter 3
THREE
LIZ
I led Declan out onto the street and headed south towards the Museum of Natural History. I wasn’t sure, but thought that was the direction we needed to go. As we walked, I briefly reviewed my past six months with special emphasis on the last ten days.
It was about six months ago that my boss stuck his head out of his office and called, “Elizabeth, come in here.”
His wire-framed spectacles were down at the end of his nose and he had his head tilted forward in order to look over them at me. Between that look and his wrinkled, cheap suit, he looked like my idealized version of a clueless accountant. I knew him too well, though, and his use of my full name indicated that he wasn’t interested in any delay. I jumped to my feet and followed close on his heels as he turned back and shuffled around his desk, dropping into his saggy chair.
I paused momentarily and then, when he was settled, I picked out one of the two chairs facing the desk and sat down, ready for either a new assignment or what he called a helpful critique of my previous mission. His idea of constructive criticism was usually unjustified and was always more in the line of an acrimonious attack on both the target’s intelligence and their maturity, so I took a deep breath and prepared myself.
He sighed and pushed a slim, brown folder over to me. It was marked “Top Secret,” though why it should have that level of security was questionable. It was a simple briefing on some high-quality counterfeit bills that were beginning to come into circulation in several of the major cities, including New York.
“Elizabeth, I’d prefer to send someone else to check this out, but you’re the only one of my personnel who isn’t currently assigned. The other people are all committed to more important tasks, so I’m afraid that you’re my only option.”
In addition to holding the opinion that women weren’t really able to investigate anything but recipes, he also automatically held my looks against me. I’d heard him tell one of the other men when he thought I was too far away to hear, that I was too good-looking to be serious about law-enforcement work. It didn’t help that I was also the rookie in the group. I had over a year’s worth of experience in another division but had just transferred to this one, and I’d taken a lot of kidding over my ‘new’ status.
I closed the folder and answered, “I’ll get right on it, boss.”
As I stood up and turned to go out, he added unnecessarily, “I hope I don’t regret trusting you with this.”
I turned back and gave him my sweetest smile and said, “Don’t worry, it can’t be harder than baking a cake.” Then I pushed open the door, inwardly snickering at the look on his face.
Using the information in the folder (which was scanty at best), my various connections, and the Internet, I was able to trace the flow of the counterfeits from Mexico back to New York. I had a lead that indicated the origin of the bills was in DC. The bills themselves used the same paper that the US Mint used, and the various experts I’d consulted thought that the plates used to print the fakes were such high quality that they might have been stolen from the Mint. The only way to tell they were fake was that the serial numbers overlapped some already existing, older bills. None of the legitimate bills were in newly minted condition.
Based on that information, I went to DC and got lucky. I was able to locate some rental trucks that were being used to transport the bills to Mexico and other locations as well. I’m making this sound easy, but it wasn’t. It took a lot of grinding-hard street work and months of labor to get this far. I wasn’t able to locate exactly where the bills were being printed, but it seemed like they were coming from somewhere in DC.
By this time, I was getting desperate. I figured that my boss was going to pull me off the case due to lack of real progress. However, I finally got a break. I accidentally located one of the rental trucks parked at an all-night diner. I waited until the driver came out and followed the truck to see where he was headed.
I reasoned that if I couldn’t figure out where they came from it would be the next best thing to see where they were going. I trailed the guy all the way from DC to New York but then lost him in the traffic.
The next day, I checked in with the boss. He was not too pleased with my lack of progress, but after begging for him not to take me off the case, he said that he’d give me a couple of more days.
Not wanting to waste any time, I checked out of the office and hit the streets. I had one really good source that I wanted to check first. A pawnshop owner who always had his ear to the ground. I’d used him carefully and sparingly because I didn’t want him to get a reputation for passing info on to the cops. I suppose that it was a little bit unfair that he was my uncle’s brother-in-law, but the family connection meant that he was always happy to see me, even if he didn’t have anything useful to say.
I walked into his store and pretended to be interested in some jewelry while he dealt with an enormous woman dressed in a gaudy caftan. She was shouting at him with a Jamaican accent about getting her TV out of pawn. When he’d finished with her, and she was on her way with the flat screen tucked against her ample bosom, he turned to me.
“Hi, Liz. What’s up with you? Not some more information, is it?” he smiled.
“Yeah, Uncle Frank. It’s easy, though. Have you heard anything about some new paper that’s coming in from somewhere?”
It was obvious that he knew exactly what I was talking about. He frowned, “I got burned for a couple of hundred, and I didn’t even know it until I went to the bank.” He prided himself on his ability to catch counterfeits, and he was pretty pissed about taking a couple of bills without realizing it.
“I’ve got one right here,” he said as he opened his cash register and pulled out a new-looking one-hundred-dollar bill and handed it to me.
“How do you know?” I asked, examining the bill and then holding it up to the light to peer through.
“The bill is high quality, but the serial numbers are in a sequence that overlaps some real bills that were printed last year, so you have to remember the numbers,” he answered.
That squared with my information, and I was happy to hear from him that the counterfeits weren’t so secret after all.
“I’m supposed to find out where it’s coming from,” I sighed.
He shrugged, “It’s anyone’s guess, but if I were you, I’d go talk to Mustapha Varkey. He mostly has an in with anything of that nature.”
“OK. Where can I find him?”
“He’s probably over around the convenience store on Sixth Avenue run by that Paki. What’s his name? Oh, yeah. Mamoud Al Waziri.”
I said, “Thanks, Uncle Frank!”
As I turned to leave, he added with a cautionary tone, “Watch yourself over there. Those guys are pretty hard-core, and they don’t like liberated women very much.”
“I will, and thanks again!” I waved at him and left.
My next stop was along Sixth Avenue. It turned out to be easier than I thought. I didn’t see Varkey, but as I drove up, Al Waziri was standing by a vacant parking space in front of the aforesaid convenience store. I pulled in and got his attention by rolling down the passenger window. I think he thought I was soliciting because he bent down and looked in with a lecherous grin.
His grin faded as I held the bill out to him, “What? You want to pay me? Normally, I’m the one who pays, but if that’s what you want, I’m ready!”
I shook my head, “Don’t go off half-cocked! I’m not that sort of girl.”
“What sort are you?” The grin was back.
“I’m looking for more of this stuff,” I waved the bill at him.
His attitude changed immediately, “Law enforcement?”
“No.” I smiled at him and answered, “I’m just a working girl, but my fiance asked me to find out how to get some of this.”
“And who is your fiance?” he asked, starting to back away.
“Roberto d’Angelico,” I answered, naming one of the most well-known and reputedly dangerous mob members in town.
“I know nothing,” he answered, moving toward the middle of the sidewalk.
“Do you want Roberto to come and ask you? He’s within about five minutes of here right now, and I can call him to come over. He’ll be sure to bring some help with him, and I’m not sure they’re in a very good mood since they think this paper is infringing on their territory.”
He stepped back towards the car with a fearful look in his eyes, “No. It’s not needed to have them come by. My family owns the store, and they are very poor. They don’t need trouble.” He was ignoring the fact that he was usually the source of the trouble in the neighborhood. He continued, “I know nothing, but I happened to hear that some new paper would be coming into a warehouse on the west river about three AM.”
He gave me the address nervously, looking over his shoulder at times. He knew a lot for someone who knew nothing. I was determined to be there when the stuff came in. I left after threatening to tell Roberto whom to blame if the information wasn’t accurate. As I pulled out, he trotted heavily inside.
I realized that he’d undoubtedly make a phone call to alert someone and perhaps the shipment would be delayed or, considering Roberto’s reputation, the delivery would turn into a set-up. The Middle Easterners were intent on moving in, and there was already bad blood between the two groups. In either event, I decided to get there plenty early in order to check out the situation.