Shift (ChronoShift Trilogy) (32 page)

“Clyde Moore.  IRS.  I need to speak with you please.”  His tone was commanding, indicating it was not a request.

“Uh....sure.  Excuse me for a moment,” he said to the customer.  “Let’s go to the back office.”

“Sorry about the interruption.”  Once again, Rialto’s tone implied he wasn’t.

“No problem.  What’s this about?”

“Mark Carpen.  Name ring a bell?”

“Ah.  I wondered when somebody would get back to me on that.  Did you find out anything?”

“That’s why I’m here, actually.  Carpen’s name came up in another investigation and I need you to tell me everything you can remember about him.”

“Okay.”

“I understand he tried to place an order with you to create some antique coin molds.”

“Yeah, a big order too.”

“What exactly did he want?”

“He wanted me to make a bunch of coin molds so he could fabricate thousands of antique coins.  Said they had to be exactly like the originals, so even an expert couldn’t tell the difference.”

“How many did he want?”

“Over a thousand molds.  He wanted a mold for every major coin in use for the past 500 years in over 20 different countries.”

“Wow.”

“That’s what I said.  I mean, I don’t know why he thought I could even do such a job.  It would have required hiring a number of very skilled coin specialists to help make the molds, and even then it would have taken years to complete.”

“What did he offer to pay you?”

“$4 million.”

Rialto’s eyebrows took a turn upward.  “That’s not chump change.  Would that have covered your expenses?”

“Definitely, and with a ridiculous amount of profit to boot.  Almost all the cost would have been in paying a couple of specialists for research and craftsmanship for several years, but I could have done that for under $500,000.”

“Yet you turned it down.”

“I’m a purist, Mr. Rialto, not a crook.  I love antique coins.  Anybody offering that kind of money for molds can’t be up to any good.”

“How much could he have made counterfeiting these coins?”

“Well....I don’t know....assuming an average value of $500, I guess he could have made about a million dollars if he made a couple of each.”

“Yet he offered you $4 million.”

“I said if he made a
couple
of each.  There would be no limit to how many he could make with molds.”

“Wouldn’t the coins he made seem too new to be taken for the real thing?”

“There are ways to make them look aged.”

“What about selling them?  Wouldn’t it be difficult to dispense with a huge number of antique coins that the market didn’t know about?”

“He’d have used intermediaries so the coins wouldn’t be traced to him, but yeah, he’d still be limited by the normal rules of supply and demand.  If he flooded the market with any one coin, collectors would catch on that something was up.”

“So, it’d take a while for him to recoup his investment?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say he was planning to do with the molds?”

“Said he was creating a replica coin company for enthusiasts who couldn’t afford the real thing.  He assured me every coin he made was going to bear a stamp indicating it was a replica.  I just couldn’t trust that.”

“Who else would have the capability of doing this work for him since you turned it down?”

“Here,” Moore pulled a piece of paper from his desk drawer and began to write.  “I’ll make a list of people who have the expertise to do such a thing.  There aren’t that many.  Only one other guy here in the Boston area.”

Rialto took the list and thanked Moore for his time.  He didn’t think Carpen would be wasting his time trying to fence counterfeit antique coins.  From what Moore had said, it would have taken him several years to begin to recoup his initial investment, and the profit would be minuscule compare to the billions he was already worth.  When you’re earning $200 million
per month
in interest on your current holdings, why would you put everything at risk with a criminal enterprise that would net you only a few million over several years?  It didn’t make sense.  Something else was up, and Rialto intended to figure out what.

October 12
^th
, 2012, Boston, MA

“So,
what,
exactly,
is it you want me to do?”  Mark asked.

He studied the strong, beautiful lines of her face.  Her skin looked like caramelized cream this morning, like a perfect latte.  He wanted to run his finger across its softness, but regardless of how enamored he was, Mark wasn’t about to check his principles at the door.

“I want you to
take care
of him,” she said again.

She was referring to Dwayne Cole, her old boss, the owner of the strip club where she had worked.

“Why?  What has he done that would justify it?  Has he murdered anybody?  Did he rape you, or any of the girls who worked with you?”

“No....not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?  He either did or he didn’t.”

“Then, no.  No, he didn’t, but he certainly made all of our lives a living hell.  I’ve had two different girlfriends OD and die from the drugs he gave them.”

“But they chose to take the drugs right?  And they came to him looking for work?  He wasn’t holding anybody there against their will, was he?”

“I can’t believe how cold-hearted you are!” She spat disgustedly.

“No!  Look, I
feel
for them.  I’d love to help them in any way we can.  The guy sounds like pure trash, but I can’t just go murder somebody because they’re a filthy pig.   This shifter, it’s powerful.  It’s not to be abused.  Can’t you see that?”

She sighed forcefully, slowly resigning herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to wear him down.

“Listen,” he said, “Let me go back and investigate.  I’m sure we can put him out of business without resorting to murder.”

“All right, but I’m coming with you.”

Mark shut his eyes, mentally kicking himself.  He should have just gone back alone without saying anything.  She was obviously unreasonable with regards to the guy and would only be a hindrance to him working effectively.  He knew there would be no arguing with her this time.

“Fine, but this is the last time you come along on a shift without me agreeing.”

“Fine.”

Dwayne Cole ran a messy operation.  The strip club, like all of its kind, was located in a run-down part of town.  The faded pink stucco exterior, which was meant to look alluring under a plethora of bright blue neon lights at night, only looked drab, lifeless, and decaying during the day.  Light had an amazing ability to reveal the truth about something.

The lights inside the “club” were kept on permanent dim, using darkness to create a mysterious ambiance.  Yet, Mark was sure if those same lights were turned up, you would suddenly see what a dump the place was.  Cracks and dirt and filth in all its corners.  Peeling trim, scuffed paint, and deeply stained carpet.  Its appeal was a lie.

Cole’s back office was in fact, the only office.  The only other room in the place, besides a stockroom, was the ladies’ dressing room.  Mark had no desire to go in there.   They were just here to investigate.

Cole’s office was a dingy mess.  Dirty clothes, crumpled papers, and food wrappers were strewn about chaotically.

“So, what are we looking for?”

“I don’t know.  Let’s see if we can find his stash.”

“Where does he get his drugs from?”

“A local guy named Rudy.”

“Did you use?”

She shot him a sidelong glance.  “No, I wasn’t that stupid.  I knew why he was always pushing us to take them.  Here it is!”

She had pulled hard enough to pop open one of the lower drawers in Cole’s desk.  Inside was what looked to be an enormous amount of drugs.  Heroin, Cocaine, Marijuana.  You name it, it was in there.

Mark grinned.  “Let’s flush it all.  That’s gotta be a tremendous amount of money he’s got invested.”

She returned the smile.

They dumped all of Cole’s stash in the toilet, though there was so much of it, it took four flushes to drown it all.

“That oughta set him back a while,” Mark said, “Let’s head back.  I’m gonna brainstorm.  I’m sure there are some other things we can do to make this guy’s life uncomfortable.”

Laura laughed.  “Yeah, this alone is going to make him pretty mad, let me tell you.”

Over the next few days, Mark took his time shifting in and out of Dwayne Cole’s business.  One day, he stole his guns, the next, his money.  Then, he reported him to the Health Department.  He stole and flushed the guy’s drugs four different times.  Cole installed all kinds of security measures to try and catch the thief.  He even started living in the club 24/7 for a while, but of course, Mark just shifted around him.

The pimp bought a small safe to store the drugs in, but Mark just slipped in and shifted out with the safe under his arm.  After he’d blown it open, he returned it empty.  Mark wished he could have seen the guy’s face when he walked back into that office and saw the safe with its door blown off.

Then, Mr. Dwayne Cole started storing his stuff at home.  Of course, this didn’t stop Mark either.  The fun finally came to an end, though.  Cole eventually abandoned everything, the club, the house, and was never heard from again.  Mark guessed he had gone deep in debt to some drug lords trying to keep his stash up and had to run for his life when he couldn’t pay them back.  His girls were jumping ship right and left since he couldn’t keep them high or paid.  The Health Department shutting him down for a week certainly didn’t help either.

In the end, Mark was content.  He felt like the guy had gotten what he deserved, and a good scare to boot.  Well, maybe not everything he deserved, but it was all Mark was willing to do.  He thought Laura was happy with the results too.  Which was what was important.

You've been searchin' from here to Singapore

Ain't it time that you noticed the girl next door baby,  why not me?

“Why Not Me?”

                        ~ The Judds

October 22
^nd
, 2012, Boston, MA

The sun was up, bold and bright in the clear blue sky, marking a new day.  A beautiful day.

Mark and Laura strolled into the office, full of smiles and laughter.  They had dated for several weeks now, and Mark was overjoyed with the power of the relationship, with the way it seemed to fill a deep hole he’d born since Kelly had abandoned him.  There were moments when he worried that maybe he was latching on to her too quickly, but the happiness he felt washed those concerns down the river before he could even weigh them.

He felt so good about their budding relationship, he was ready to introduce her to the rest of the crew.

“Good morning, Savannah,” Mark called as they swept in.

Savannah sat gracefully behind her desk outside Mark’s office working on the latest report for him on her computer.  Her white cotton skirt draped daintily along the line of her legs, its hem angled so that one end revealed a bare knee while the other corner reached her ankles at the heel.  A fresh, blue pastel blouse graced her shoulders, and her honey-streaked hair was wound up in a bun as usual.  A pair of thin, red-rimmed glasses had slipped down toward the tip of her finely chiseled nose, but she pushed them back up as Mark and Laura waltzed in.

“Good morning, Mark,” she replied. 

“Savannah, this is Laura.  Laura, Savannah.  Savannah’s been a huge help to us.  She’s our primary historical researcher.”

Savannah blushed lightly at the compliment.

“Nice to meet you.”  Laura extended her hand.

They shook hands abruptly, a faint and unusual tension between them.

“C’mon, Laura,” Mark said, “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”