chapter two

fly on the wall

Baker’s call behind me, I slogged through invoices, billed third-party payers, dictated progress notes, and then grabbed a quick lunch at a new Mexican dive down the street. Then, with no afternoon clients, I decided to head downtown to take care of a speeding ticket I’d forgotten to pay. Paying in person meant a stop at the DMV in City Hall, so I headed down Market Street until a traffic backup forced me to stop in the intersection.

A cop stood in the center of the road, directing traffic with his whistle and orange baton like there was something big going on. I had the top down, so I leaned out and called to him.

“What’s going on downtown today?” I asked.

He blew his whistle and a line of cars stopped. He looked at me, considering whether he needed to answer. “Press conference. News trucks have the traffic backed up.”

“Is it about the counterfeiter?”

The surprised look that crossed his stubbly face was my answer. He blew the shrill whistle at me, then pointed his baton and ordered my line of cars to proceed through the intersection.

In the rearview mirror, I saw a sleek black motorcade approaching, and before I had a chance to change my mind, I pulled over at the nearest open meter. I was here to pay the ticket anyway, I told myself. What could it hurt to cross the street, watch the press conference that I assumed would be at the federal or court building, and maybe learn a little about the case against Baker’s counterfeiter? Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

It took no time to get the ticket taken care of and the news crews were still setting up, for some reason on the steps outside City Hall, so I headed for the men’s room. The tacos I’d had for lunch were already coming back, and I was afraid it wasn’t going to be a friendly visit.

I was minding my own business in a corner stall when the door to the bathroom opened, and I heard the quick shuffle of footsteps followed by a metallic click. Who locks the door to a public men’s room?

“What if it’s true?” I heard a man whisper under his breath. That grabbed my attention.

Then a second man: “Not another word.”

Somebody took a piss while the second set of hard soles scraped against the marble floor, striding down the row of stalls. All I could think of was the cute little Amish boy in the movie Witness. But with my pants around my ankles, and my tacos ready to return with a vengeance, I couldn’t stand and crouch on the toilet seat. Instead, I lifted my feet off the floor as high as possible and said a prayer of thanks for the tight fit between the stall door and side wall. For him to see me, he’d have to go to his knees and peek under my door, but if he tried to push open every stall door, well—he’d know they weren’t alone. But that didn’t happen.

I never realized how good the acoustics were in old, high-ceilinged marble and tile bathrooms until now. Makes you think twice about taking care of business, but it helped me hear most of the exchange, minus certain snippets.

The second man said, “Okay __________. Tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

“Imagine the possibilities if they’re good.”

“He’s lying. _____________. Besides, we’ll know soon enough. ________ is on our side.”

“We already cut off the head. We can use______________. Think about what’s still out there.”

Silence followed. Had they left? I hadn’t heard the click of the lock. I started to shift on the toilet seat and then my stomach protested, loudly. Shit—am I about to be dragged from the stall? Is there still Mafia in St. Louis?

Then the second man: “Okay, I’m with you; what about___________ containment?” Voice rising, he was excited, damn near giddy.

“I can handle my part. The big top is the key.”

A silence, then the second man: “I know the right man and you know the right _______.”

“Everyone has their price. Make it happen.”

“You look perfect. Let’s go to work.”

The latch clicked again, the door swung open, and I was mercifully alone, but covert talk of cutting off heads and containment and payoffs didn’t help my digestion. I waited for minutes in silence until someone entered, used a urinal, and left.

When I left the bathroom, a few people glanced my way but no one appeared to pay me special attention or follow.

Most of the media were now in place and a small crowd had gathered outside for the conference. They stood or paced in front of the massive marble steps, casting sideways glances at the sleek motorcade double parked next to a fire hydrant.

I watched heads turn as two men approached the podium flanked by two strapping young men in dark suits and darker sunglasses. Security. At the podium, a small man in his forties with short receding hair, intense eyes, and precise economical movements whispered nonstop to the other man. The smaller man peeled off, leaving the star of the show at the podium. He had a practiced, movie-star smile, a handsome face, short dirty blonde hair, and penetrating blue eyes that remained fixed on the portable cameras as if he were about to speak directly to me and everyone else in the world right then and there, like we were best friends. His broad shoulders filled his tailored suit to perfection and he had the square lantern jaw of a prizefighter. A light breeze blew, but his hair remained perfect, unmoved, as if earthly elements such as the weather didn’t affect him. He was so confident and polished, I almost expected to see a diamond sparkle of light flash from his pearly whites when he spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce that a sophisticated and dangerous counterfeiting operation was shut down yesterday by our city police force. One arrest was made and a manhunt has begun for at least three other known associates. The man in custody is believed to be the gang’s primary counterfeiter and possibly their ringleader.

“It was only through diligent and coordinated police work that this dangerous criminal was apprehended before his gang could contaminate our local economy with their counterfeit currency. During today’s initial appearance before Judge Springfield, I requested that the prisoner be charged and held without bond as I believe he presents a major flight risk and public danger. Today the judge ruled in my favor and bond was denied. The prisoner has been remanded to the custody of the US Marshals, pending his judicial hearings and trial. The Marshals have accepted my proposal to house the prisoner in our Gateway St. Louis City Jail until the trial. Our city police force is working in conjunction with local Secret Service agents, questioning this man in order to apprehend the others and insure that all the counterfeit monies will be recovered and destroyed. The damage their activities could have caused—both locally and nationally—was potentially immense, and there must be zero tolerance for such crimes against society. I will prosecute these men myself and seek the maximum sentence. Questions?”

A flurry of action followed on the steps of City Hall as reporters jostled for position, hands and production mikes waving in the air. They called out his name all at once, like unruly grade schoolers, eager for face time and a sound bite they could play on the evening news. He chose a waving hand.

Debbie Macklin, a toothpick-thin blonde, waved her hand in front of the podium with a self-satisfied smirk. I’d worked with her a number of times when the program manager at Channel Four wanted to air a free professional opinion on a breaking news story that involved mental illness or a case that contained psycho-dynamics considered to be of public interest. She’d interviewed me on topics ranging from Munchausen’s by Proxy to prostitution to the psychological dynamics of what drives a woman to cut the fetus from her best friend’s belly with a pair of scissors and claim it as her own, a la a grisly Metro East murder case that created headlines a few years back. The ham in me used to enjoy the free publicity, the challenge to compress complex issues into easy-to-understand sound bites for the general population.

That person is gone now. Will he return?

“Good guys one, bad guys nothing. Mr. Maynard, you said these criminals are sophisticated and dangerous. Can you describe the scope of this counterfeiting ring?”

Maynard grinned down at the anorexic reporter, showing at least a hundred perfectly capped white teeth. “Glad you asked, Debbie. These men shot and nearly killed a pregnant security guard and her unborn baby when they stole a large quantity of paper and ink the federal government uses to print money. The man we have in custody engraved duplicate plates of the latest United States hundred-dollar bill while working in a printing company on the city’s north side. They had the ability and resources to print a great number of bills, but the good news is that the copies are not able to pass for real currency by someone accustomed to handling money. The three men who remain at large are considered to be extremely armed and dangerous.” He scanned the steps looking to field another question.

Eager reporters pushed forward a second time. Maynard scanned the group until his winning smile landed on another woman. “Yes, Virginia.”

Another blonde reporter spoke up, even more energetic and perky than Debbie. “Chief Prosecutor, how long were these criminals operating and how much counterfeit money entered circulation before our police shut them down?”

He smirked, as if he’d anticipated the question. “Virginia, the stolen paper bundle had the capacity to print a little over twenty-five million dollars of illegal hundred-dollar bills. We have already recovered over twenty-four point five million—”

Maynard paused long enough for the cameras to record the oohs and aahs and whistles from the fourth estate.

“We also seized their master plates, printing press, various related counterfeiting equipment, and an impressive arsenal of unregistered and illegal weapons that included AK-47s and hand grenades. We also confiscated significant quantities of crack cocaine, China White heroin, and methamphetamine.”

“Can you tell us about the man who’s been charged? Is he the ringleader?” another reporter called out.

“The man in custody is Lonnie Washington, a loner from a broken home on the near north side, a man behavioral experts from the Secret Service have profiled as a loose cannon, perfect human fodder for a life of crime. We believe he was the brains behind the production of the counterfeit plates and bills.”

“What about the others?” Virginia asked.

“Three men fled the scene during the raid on the printing company and are wanted for questioning. Their physical descriptions match the other three company employees. They failed to return to their known residences and may be in hiding. They have not been charged at this time, but it is essential they step forward now and talk, given the gravity of the crime. We want to verify that the entire counterfeit product has been contained. Chief among them is Earl Mooney. Mr. Mooney owns the store where the bills were produced and, if involved, may be the money and front man behind the operation.”

“Why is the Secret Service involved?” a male reporter called out.

“Stopping counterfeiters is why the Secret Service was created.”

“Can you give us the name of the printing company?” another reporter asked.

“My office is preparing a statement with profiles and pictures of the known suspects. That should be available within the hour.”

“Who are the other two employees?” Debbie shouted.

“We want to question Benny Blades and Tyrone Sparks, two apprentice printers at the company. Given the unique nature of this crime, APBs have been issued on these men and, I remind everyone, they are considered armed and dangerous. We believe these are the principle players, but there may be others. There will be more to this story, and we’ll update you as the situation develops. Thank you for your time.”

The collection of reporters shouted questions as some followed Maynard, who orchestrated a controlled exit stage right. The two beefcake security men shadowed him while the little man greeted Maynard with a smile and handshake, resuming their private dialogue. The four men disappeared inside the glistening black limousine that immediately pulled away from its illegal parking spot and sped west on Market.

Maynard was smooth. He was smart.

He was the first-born son of a former US president.

He also sounded like the first man I’d heard whisper in the bathroom.