Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (21 page)

I could tell she thought my request odd. “Do you want to give me change for it?”

“Heaven’s no,” I said. “I don’t carry that much cash. I just don’t get to hold too many hundreds.”

“Are you worried it might be counterfeit?”

I felt silly answering. “Well, as a matter of fact, I am interested.”

She rang up my purchase, opened the register drawer, pulled out the bill, and held it up to the light. “See the watermark?” She pointed out a faint image of Benjamin Franklin. “When I see him, I know it’s legit.”

I thanked her, marveling at how easy it was to gain her cooperation, and thinking about how much fun it might be to take a counterfeit money survey. Having a camera along would be best, but I decided to attempt another trial run on my way back to the station.

I stopped at Hell’s Kitchen, a popular downtown restaurant
that promises “damn good food,” to dine on a half order of their house salad and famed ham and pear crisp sandwich. I made sure I snared a table where I could watch the cash register.

After my quick lunch, I talked the clerk into opening the till and holding the twenty-dollar bills up to the light and trading me one of mine for a suspicious-looking Andrew Jackson without the watermark. I might want to hold a bogus bill up on the air should I pull a story together on counterfeiting.

“But if it ends up fake,” the cashier asked, “aren’t you out the money?” She understood the principle of the last one holding a counterfeit bill loses.

“No, I’ll expense it to the network,” I said.

We laughed together and as I turned to leave, I noticed the man who saved me from the wrath of Buddy’s owner sitting in a back booth with a cup of coffee, a bowl of soup, and a notebook.

Him being there was just a happenstance, I knew that in my head, but in my heart I wanted to believe he sat alone in the corner of the restaurant on protection detail for me. The man appeared unaware of my presence, but I remembered Father Mountain quoting a Bible verse about being nice to strangers because they might be angels testing us.

Test or not, I decided an expression of gratitude was appropriate. So I walked over to him and sat down. “I never got the chance to thank you the other day for stepping between me and that lunatic. So thanks.”

He didn’t act confident like he did the other morning when he threatened the egg man with calling the cops. Sitting across the table from me, he seemed tongue-tied and insecure. Yet days earlier, he had been my white knight.

“You’re my guardian angel, aren’t you?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.

The man’s jaw tensed. He left a ten-dollar bill next to his plate, before brushing me and mention of his good deed off with an excuse about being late for an office meeting. I figured he knew
who I was—not because I was vain, but because most people recognized me from TV, though I introduced myself anyway, handing him a business card.

“Let me know if I can ever do a favor for you,” I said, preparing to walk out with him and maybe see where he worked.

But he waved me off, saying he needed to stop at the restroom. Only close friends wait for each other outside the bathroom, so I let him go. I genuinely hoped our paths would cross again because it was refreshing to meet someone who expected nothing in return for helping another.

As I returned to my desk, the investigative journalist in me realized that he’d dodged my guardian angel question. When that happens during a television interview, reporters try to gauge what about the question the subject is trying to avoid. Sometimes an award-winning story pivots on discerning that answer at that moment.

I’d expected him to laugh at my angel line and tell me not to be silly, that chivalry wasn’t dead in Minneapolis. I’d also assumed that when I said my name, he’d tell me his—but perhaps it was Gabriel or Michael—and he was guarding his spiritual identity. Angel law probably forbade their kind from either confirming their earthly mission or lying about it.

I smiled for the first time all day, and made a mental note to call Father Mountain and share my heavenly wit.

She suspects, he thought. No, she knows. Why else would she throw the word “angel” at him? She must lack evidence and was attempting to get him to incriminate himself. Don’t engage her, just walk away, he told himself, and walk away he did. But he felt her eyes staring at his back, and for the first time since he began pursuing his avocation, he was unsure who was watching who.

Following her into the restaurant was a mistake. But he’d relished the idea of observing her and recording his impressions in
his notebook. Her obsession with the cashier’s money puzzled him, but his real worry was how much she knew about him.

Now she’d seen him three times. A trilogy of sightings that had a symbolic sensation. The egg attack. The skyway crowd. And now, Hell’s Kitchen—a suitable name for a showdown, especially because the restaurant’s logo was dominated by an angular raven.

Letting his victim Kate know he was coming had added suspense to the chase. In this instance, the TV reporter was letting him know she was coming. He vowed not to wait any longer, but to act.

She would see him a fourth time . . . and it would be her last.

B
y the time I got back to the station I had two suspicious twenties in my wallet that I reminded myself not to spend unless I wanted to risk being arrested.

The counterfeiting story got a green light from Noreen because I assured her it could be shot without fuss and air the same day. Malik and I set off to grab interviews and cover.

We learned how slick money rings bleach the front and backs of five-dollar bills and reprint a higher denomination so the paper feels genuine. And we saw up close that border and portrait edges are blurred on phony cash, distinct on the real McCoy.

“We tell stores to be wary of customers who make small purchases with big bills,” said the Secret Service field agent. “Small businesses are more likely to be victimized because their staff is often untrained.”

“What about counterfeit detection pens?” I’d heard their ink turned black when marking bogus bills.

“They are designed to detect starch and are not foolproof. If employees become familiar with how money is supposed to look and feel, they’ll be able to tell what’s counterfeit themselves.”

He complained of losing investigative leads when stores simply
pass the money back to other customers instead of calling police. “No one wants to be caught with the hot potato.”

We even heard a fun story about a couple of meth dealers who called the cops after getting paid with a big stack of bad money, some printed only on one side. Ends up, they got booked for dealing drugs, and the counterfeiters never got caught.

I started off the script with an anchor lead in talking about how counterfeiting sounded like an exotic crime, but was really quite common.

((SOPHIE CU))
IN FACT, THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS
OF PHONY MONEY IS PASSED
AROUND THE TWIN CITIES MOST
WEEKS.
RILEY SPARTZ EXPLAINS WHY
COUNTERFEITING IS BECOMING
A BIGGER PROBLEM AND HOW TO
TELL WHAT’S REAL AND WHAT’S
NOT.

But I was most proud of my standup.

((RILEY STANDUP))
IN THE OLD DAYS OF
COUNTERFEITING, THE CRIME
REQUIRED A REAL INVESTMENT . . .
WITH PROFESSIONAL PRINTERS
AND PHOTOGRAPHERS. NOWADAYS,
ANYONE WITH A SCANNER AND
COLOR PRINTER CAN MAKE BOGUS
BILLS LIKE THESE.

To dress up the video, I demonstrated the ease of counterfeiting by scanning real twenties and printing a phony page right before the eyes of the viewers. Malik shot the standup wide, then reshot it tight on the action and edited sequences together. At the end, I held the fake money toward the camera lens making it look close-up.

“Cute.” While Noreen pretended to share my enthusiasm for the counterfeiting story, what she really wanted was to know what progress I’d made on the pet custody story we’d discussed earlier and how soon that could air.

“My gut tells me viewers haven’t tired of it,” she said.

The divorce file of Keith and Barbara Avise documented a complicated legal battle over their pet dog, Buddy. I had talked to family court judges and attorneys about such custody decisions and briefed Noreen on what I thought we could broadcast.

Noreen deemed the story “promotable”—her highest praise. “What’s holding things up? Grab a photographer tomorrow and start shooting.”

I slept better that night than in a long time. No bad dreams. No second thoughts. No phone calls.

Two men in dark suits and sunglasses were standing outside the station next to a black sedan with government plates when I got to work. I looked at the pair curiously, wondering whether a VIP with heavy security was due for an interview at Channel 3. Then one of the men approached me, flashing a badge.

“Secret Service. Are you Riley Spartz?”

“I think you know I am.” Otherwise why would they be waiting here? Maybe they’d come to thank me for last night’s story educating viewers about money.

“You’re under arrest,” one of them said, as the other opened the back door of their vehicle. Each grabbed one of my arms, lifting me off the sidewalk, all the better to fling me into their backseat.

“What are you talking about?” I yelled, shaking myself loose. My tush hit the curb and my foot kicked the door shut.

“Counterfeiting.” The taller one loomed over me.

“What are you talking about?” I repeated. I thought it was all a gag and didn’t take them seriously.

“We have video of the evidence.”

I refused to come peacefully, insisting instead on speaking with my attorney.

“Time for that later,” the bossy one said. “When we get downtown.”

He tried to pull me up from the sidewalk while his buddy opened the door again. I shifted away, keeping my butt glued to the concrete, and my fingers across the keyboard of my cellphone.

URGENT. SEND MILES OUTSIDE ASAP. I texted Ozzie because I knew he constantly monitored his line.

WHAT’S UP?

UNDER ARREST. GET CAMERA. STOP WASTING TIME.

Noreen would be plenty disappointed in me if I let myself be taken into custody right outside the station without a camera present.

“I have to let my boss know where I’m going,” I told the other fed as he tried to pry my phone away.

Just then Malik came through the door and hoisted a camera to his shoulder. His presence stalled the action until the arrival of Miles Lewis, the station media lawyer, seconds later.

Miles mustered enough indignation to ask, “What seems to be the bother here?”

The Secret Service team explained that I was guilty of counterfeiting for copying money on camera in my story that aired last night.

“Guilty?” Miles said the word in his legal scorn tone.

“Technically, yes.”

“Well,
technically,
I can’t believe your agency actually has time
for jokes like this. Say what you need to say and let’s finish up here.”

As a compromise to hauling me off to jail, they agreed to settle for confiscating the paper money I printed for the standup. I wasn’t sure where the pages even were, and envisioned having to crawl through the Dumpster in the alley behind the station.

The Secret Service team followed us into the building to observe. After leafing through my desk and several wastepaper baskets, I came up with a handful of copy pages of twenty-dollar bills.

“Is this all, Ms. Spartz?” one of them asked.

“You can’t possibly claim these could pass as counterfeit,” Miles said. “They’re only printed on one side. And it’s cheap copy paper.”

They ignored Miles to lecture me about crime and punishment. “Are you sure this is all?”

I had no idea how many copies I’d made. I have a reputation of having to shoot multiple standups just to get a decent one. So there could have been lots more.

But Miles assured them they had the complete set, offered mea culpas, and agreed to call if any more should turn up.

“Why wasn’t this story run by me?” Miles asked, after the men in black left. He was supposed to review any stories that might have possible legal entanglements.

“Because I didn’t think there were any legal issues. We weren’t defaming anybody. These guys got more dangerous crooks to chase than me.”

After this, Miles told me, I needed to send all my scripts to him before air.

I
know. I know,” I told Noreen as she too came up to scold me about the money printing mess. “I don’t need to hear more.”

I reminded her that if she wanted the pet custody feature finished, I had to start working on it pronto.

At the end of the day, she loved the script and wanted to hold pet custody a couple of days to promote the story before a big network audience.

((SOPHIE BOX W/BUDDY))
BY NOW MANY OF YOU ARE
FAMILIAR WITH THE STORY OF
BUDDY, THE DOG WHO DIED AFTER
BEING LEFT IN A HOT CAR.
WHAT YOU MAY NOT KNOW IS THAT
BUDDY CAME FROM A BROKEN
HOME. REPORTER RILEY SPARTZ
HAS MORE.

Buddy’s situation was unusual. Because pets are considered property, not family, courts typically don’t assign visitation. But
in their affidavits, both spouses said they’d rather share Buddy than see him given to the other outright. So the judge approved a week-by-week custody arrangement.

((JUDGE SOT))
PET CUSTODY CAN CAUSE
EMOTIONAL TURMOIL BUT COURTS
ARE BACKLOGGED AND CAN’T MAKE
THAT A HUGE PRIORITY.

My story explained how the court looks at whether an animal was purchased during the marriage; who handled the chores of feeding, walking, and vet visits; if children are involved; or whether one party has a fenced yard and the other a tiny apartment.

But the piece was missing one element.

In most cases, I never voluntarily give up a slice of any story I deem mine. But when it came to Keith Avise, I wasn’t sure he would agree to answer my questions, or that I would be comfortable interviewing him. Besides being a journalist, when it came to him, I was both a witness to and victim of his various transgressions.

“I’m not sure my objectivity could go unchallenged,” I told Noreen.