Dolled Up for Murder (24 page)

“So the counterfeits were made in this country and more than four years ago?”

“Most likely on both counts. It's possible someone shipped the paper to another country, just as it's possible there are some reams of Elegance still knocking around, but that would be a fluke. Based on the materials used and the old-school printing quality, my guess is that someone created these bills years ago.”

“I don't have a clue about what's going on, Barry—but I know I have to report this to the police right away. Can you e-mail me your report?”

“I have a hard copy of it here. Let me fax it over. Do you want me to send out an alert to dealers, a BOLO?”

I recognized the acronym: Be on the lookout. “Yes, please, and ask them to report any sightings to Police Chief Hunter.”

I gave him Ellis's contact information and our fax number, asked him to ship the counterfeit currency back for next-morning delivery, and told him to send his invoice. I added one more thank-you, then hung up and dashed downstairs. I wanted to get the fax myself before anyone else saw it. I didn't want to take the time to explain Barry's findings; the situation was too urgent and the potential ramifications too dire to risk any delay in reporting it to the police. Jamie and Lorna had to be told—I only hoped they'd believe me when I assured them I hadn't tried to pull a fast one.

I knew Ellis would want me to give an official statement, so I made a photocopy of Barry's fax, filed the original in a locked drawer of my desk, and called Ellis from my private office.

“I have something to tell you and something to show you that can't wait. Can I stop by now?”

“Yes. I'm in the middle of six things, as you can imagine, but I'll fit you in for sure.”

Downstairs, I told Cara I'd be back in a while and left.

*   *   *

Cathy, the Rocky Point police civilian admin, showed me into Ellis's office. The office furniture and the layout were unchanged from when Ty had been the police chief. The desk, bookcases, and guest table and chairs were crafted of ash. From where I sat, I had a good view of Ellis's framed Norman Rockwell posters that lined the walls.

The door opened. “Thanks, Cathy,” Ellis called over his shoulder. He smiled as he closed the door. “It's nice to see a friendly face.”

“You look harassed.”

“I feel harassed.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

He sat down and arched his back a little, stretching, maybe trying to loosen taut muscles or ease an ache.

“I guess it's all right for me to tell you,” he said. “The attorney general wants the world to know, and it'll be all over the news in about an hour anyway. The attorney general, in cooperation with the federal prosecutor, has issued warrants for Lenny Einsohn and Randall Michaels. He's calling a press conference on the courthouse steps at four thirty, just in time for the evening news. Our part in the production is to organize the perp walk. We'll be marching them up the stairs during his presentation.”

“Holy cow! What are the charges?”

“Racketeering and fraud are the big ones.” He took in a breath. “Various charges related to financial improprieties at Alice's company.”

“Are you happy to cooperate? Or are you feeling dragged into a media circus?”

“A little of both. The AG is a good man. He wants to reassure the victims that law enforcement is on the case and making progress, and he wants to warn other scammers that they're not going to get away with it on his watch, and this is a good way to do it. Yet it does feel a little staged.” He shrugged. “I'm just a cop. It's not my place to judge.”

“You're such a good man, Ellis.” I paused. “Lenny I expected … but Randall?”

“Yeah, I think the evidence is a little slim myself, but the AG is confident. According to his theory of the crime Randall's business is just a front, a tax dodge. He thinks it operated as a department of ADM Financial Advisers Inc., not an independent entity, and that as Alice's chief marketing strategist, Randall knew or should have known about the Ponzi scheme. Essentially, they're saying Randall was his mother's puppet.”

“Yikes.”

He glanced at his watch. “Yikes, indeed. We have to leave in about forty minutes. What can I do for you?”

I slid Barry's report across the table. Ellis's eyes dropped to the paper. He scanned it, then raised his eyes to meet mine.

“Counterfeit?” he asked.

“Yup.”

He read the report, taking his time, then rubbed his nose, thinking. He tapped the paper. “So the currency from the doll we X-rayed and two of the Chatty Cathys is fine, but the currency from the third Chatty Cathy, all three hundred bills, is fake, is that what he's saying?”

“Yes—and that it was printed between 1965 and four years ago, although the four-year mark isn't set in stone since a store or printer might have had some leftover reams in inventory.”

“Would you agree that in all probability Jamie and Lorna don't know the currency is phony?”

“Yes. Which means that probably Selma, their mom, didn't know either.”

“So someone replaced the real stuff with fake bills sometime between 1965 and a few years ago. Is there any way to narrow the timeline?”

“Absolutely. Paper's perishable. Even though it's archival, we have tests available to date it. We can get to within a year or so, but no closer. As to the ink, we can date that, too. Barry's shipping the currency back to us today. We'll get started as soon as it gets here. Barry's also sending out a BOLO to alert dealers so any sightings come to you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He stood up and placed Barry's report on his desk, tucking it into a corner of his blotter. I joined him as he walked to the door.

“Good,” he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Except before you do anything, check with me. I'll talk to the county attorney and get his read on the situation. We might need to call the Feds in on this one. Counterfeiting money is definitely not a local crime. We'll need to inform the owners, too. One more thing. We found the kidnapper's car, and the dolls are inside the trunk. I'll need to notify the owners that damage to their property occurred.”

“The owners? What kind of damage?”

“The Chatty Cathys were smashed, Josie.”

“Ouch,” I said.

“Yeah, but only them.”

“He knew where to search,” I said, “and how much money he was looking for. Once he found it, he stopped.”

“That's a reasonable theory. When we catch him, we'll ask.”

“When he jacked the van and there weren't any Chatty Cathys there, he thought maybe the money had been moved, so he looked in all of the dolls.”

“That's what I think, too,” Ellis said.

I nodded. “Can I get my dolls back?”

“Yes. As soon as the lab is done with them, which shouldn't take all that long.”

I stood in the lobby for a moment watching him stride down the corridor, then waved good-bye to Cathy and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The sky was a delicate shade of pale blue. The tall grasses that edged the dunes swayed in a gentle breeze. One of God's days, my mother would have said. I walked to my car and sat with the windows down, listening to the waves roll into shore, thinking about Civil War currency and printing craftsmanship and dolls. Alice had been murdered, but I didn't know why. Except for the timing, I had no reason to think her death was in any way related to the dolls. It seemed obvious that Eric had been kidnapped to get the dolls, but the kidnapper was really after the money, not the dolls, so someone must have known that the dolls contained rare currency. Who? After a while, having had no new thoughts and having reached no conclusions, I decided to take a brief detour. I wanted to hear the attorney general's press conference and witness Lenny and Randall being marched up the courthouse steps.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I parked on Thistle Lane, a short, narrow road off Main Street, across from a bookstore named Briscoe's and about two blocks from the Rocky Point Courthouse. I walked across the green, pausing for a few seconds to watch an orange monarch butterfly flit from one lilac blossom to another, its wings fluttering.

As the courthouse came into view, I saw that I was not the first person to arrive, or even the tenth. A small crowd had congregated near a makeshift podium that had been positioned at the top of the steps in front of the main entry doors.

The setting was certain to communicate the kind of gravitas the attorney general hoped to convey. The courthouse, half a block wide and made of local granite, with a gold cupola and fluted columns, was a relic from a different era. An owl, an ancient symbol of wisdom, perched on the roof, encouraging all who entered to bring their individual best in the common pursuit of justice.

Wes, I noted, was already in position, standing directly in front of the podium, with his feet spread wide apart, guarding real estate. Two young men and a young woman were fussing with the microphone hook-up, saying, “Test. Test. Test,” over and over again, but the mic wasn't on. I counted eight other reporters standing near Wes and three cameramen, their video units resting by their feet. As I mounted the forty-five steps, four flights of stairs, two satellite vans pulled up, followed by Bertie.

“Hey, Wes,” I said as I approached.

He turned and chuckled. “I thought it wouldn't be long before you showed up. I knew you'd want to be in on the action.”

“May I share your space?”

He glanced over his shoulders, eyeing his competition, and lowered his voice. “Guarantee me an exclusive about the story you told me today.”

Wes, I thought, was as relentless and irresistible as a hurricane. “Deal.” I paused, then added, “Which doesn't mean you can publish it now.”

“I know, I know.” He stepped to the left to make room for me. “This is Mickey.” He nodded toward one of the cameramen. Mickey, older than Wes by a generation, was short and thin, with arms as muscular as Popeye's. “He's shooting footage for our Web site.”

Mickey and I exchanged hellos; then I turned around to scan the crowd. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me, a good thing, until Pennington Moreau arrived and zeroed in on me like a cat spotting a bowl of cream. He stepped out of a blue van with his station's call letters stenciled on the side, followed by a cameraman. He smiled at me, tossed a comment over his shoulder to his colleague, then took the steps two at a time heading straight toward me. Bertie, following his gaze, spotted me, too, and I knew I was done for.

“Your competition is about to try to wrest me away from you.”

Wes spun and eyed them. “Don't let them,” he said.

“I won't.”

“Josie,” Penn said when he was half a dozen steps away, his voice a soothing mix of graciousness and sympathy. “We keep meeting under such difficult circumstances. I heard the good news about your employee.”

I smiled. “Good news doesn't even begin to describe it. It's spectacular news!”

“How about a quick on-air comment to that effect?”

I felt Wes, facing the other way, bristle.

“Do you know Wes Smith?” I asked.

He said he didn't, and the two men shook hands.

“I'm not doing any on-air anything, Penn.”

“It would be good exposure for you, Josie. My segment is seen from Cape Cod to Bar Harbor.”

I shook my head and looked away. “No, thanks,” I said.

“Josie!” Bertie called. “What an experience for you. Tell me, woman to woman, were you terrified?”

You're not a woman,
I thought.
You're a she-devil.
I pretended I hadn't heard her.

Bertie kept chattering at me, closing in as if she could force me to talk to her if she intruded far enough into my space. I planted my feet on the granite step and continued to ignore her.

A dozen or more reporters arrived and began their climbs. I recognized several of them, then noticed that several nonreporters were in attendance, too. Some people seemed merely curious, like me; others had a vested interest in the situation, like Ian Landers.

Ian stood off to the left, parallel to the podium, leaning against a column. His fiery bright blue eyes and cocky grin made me suspect he had a plan, and whatever it was, it would be ugly. He looked threatening, like a pit bull showing teeth. I wanted to call Wes's attention to him, but I didn't want Penn, or any of the other reporters, to think I was cozying up to Wes or excluding them. I dug my phone out of my bag and texted Wes.
LOOK @ IAN.

I pretended not to notice as Wes pulled his vibrating phone from his pocket and read my message. I turned my back to the podium, watching as the crowd swelled.

Wes texted back,
NASTY.

HAWK?

 

NO.

I suggested,
TIGER?

YES. ABOUT TO POUNCE. LOL.

I nodded. Wes was right. Ian had homed in on game and wasn't going to let it escape. Penn jostled his way into a prime spot a little to the left of where Wes and I stood, out of earshot, so I risked whispering a comment to Wes.

“Ian looks positively gleeful.”

“In spades,” Wes said. He turned to Mickey, standing on my other side, and whispered, “Do you see that guy? I don't want to point. Tall and big, leaning against the column?”

“Yup.”

“Make sure you include him in the shot. He's up to something.”

Mickey nodded, picked up his gear, and headed to the left and down a few steps. From that angle he'd have both the podium and Ian in view.

“Do you know when the attorney general is supposed to start?” I asked a woman I didn't know standing to my right.

“Any minute, from what I hear.”

One of the men who'd been fiddling with the microphones tapped it. It was live. “Test, test, test,” he said, and his voice carried up and over us, probably reaching all the way to the green. He nodded over his shoulder, and New Hampshire's attorney general, Frank Harson, strode forward. He was about forty pounds overweight, but tall enough so he didn't look fat. He had thick dark hair and wore glasses. At a guess, he was around fifty. Another man, leaner and younger, walked beside him.