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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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By the end of the week, I had accepted the fact that my trip to New York had been a total flop. I was no closer to finding a way for Max to clear his name and no nearer to helping him come out of hiding and receive the medical care he needed. Although my personal regard for Max had cooled somewhat, my concern for him as a patient was as strong as ever. I would consider it a major professional failure if I couldn't get his hand repaired. But I hadn't a clue how to do it.
One evening as I was leaving Max's place, I saw a silhouette in the doorway of the barn. A man—and a dog. I grabbed a wrench from the toolbox on my Honda and approached the figures cautiously. Keeping my voice low, I said, “Who's there?”
The pair came toward me and I recognized Hiram Peck, homicide detective of the New Jersey State Police. No stranger.
“What are you doing here?” we asked simultaneously.
He explained first. “I was just passing by, glanced in the barn, and was intrigued by all the printing equipment.”
A likely story, I thought, although I had done the same thing a week ago. “Do you have a search warrant?”
“Oh, come on. You don't think I'd …” He changed course. “You haven't told me why
you're
here.”
“The printer is a patient of mine.”
“I see.”
The German shepherd stood quietly at Peck's side.
“Why the dog?” I asked.
“Jake's a friend of mine.” He leaned down and rubbed his ears.
“A well-trained friend.”
He ignored this. “Well, I'd better be on my way. Nice seeing you.”
I watched man and dog walk down the drive to the road, where, no doubt, Peck's unmarked car waited.
 
 
I felt uneasy all the way home. What was Peck up to? What was he doing there? Did he suspect Max of having some connection with the dead counterfeiter? Could Max
be
a counterfeiter? Not with that antiquated equipment in the barn. But he had a computer and a laser printer in the house. Maybe he had a camera in the cellar.
As soon as I got home, I went to my laptop and surfed the Net for information on counterfeiting. There was plenty—all of it highly technical. I settled down for a night of serious study.
There were three articles of special interest. The first dealt with all the tricks the U.S. Treasury had come up with to make it next to impossible to copy a twenty-dollar bill—the most frequently copied currency. I made notes.
1.
An invisible watermark of Andrew Jackson becomes visible on both sides of the bill when held up to a bright light.
2.
An invisible “security thread,” or stripe, cuts across the bill and glows green only when held under an ultraviolet light.
3.
Color-shifting inks: The number 20 in the lower right-hand corner looks green when seen head-on but becomes black when looked at from an angle.
4.
Fine-line printing: Very clean lines appear parallel to each other, but when printed on a standard printer, they appear splotchy.
5.
Microprinting: The words
USA 20
are repeated in minuscule letters within the numeral 20 in the lower left-hand corner. And the words
United States of America
appear inside the oval that frames Andrew Jackson's face.
Someone would have to be crazy to try to duplicate a twenty-dollar bill!
The second article explained that every laser printer had a serial number, which was automatically transferred to every sheet of paper it printed. The number was invisible to the naked eye but could be detected under a special light. Therefore, any printer could be traced from any printout from that machine. Wow!
The third article was the most interesting. It described the Secret Service's latest means for detecting counterfeit money: dogs. A canine training program had been set up to teach dogs to detect bad money. They had been taught to sniff out drugs and explosives, so why not money?
Is that why Peck had Jake with him?
I closed the laptop and pondered my new knowledge. I would never rest easy until I knew for sure that Max wasn't a counterfeiter and that he had no connection to that murder. I would have to search his den. But how? He'd rarely left it since his injury. Lolly had even taken to serving him his meals in there. Should I slip a narcotic in his soup? Whoa, Jo! What about medical ethics? No, I would have to wait until he was in another part of the house, and take my chances. I wanted to find out more about the murdered counterfeiter, too. I
would have to pry that information out of the pathologist at the hospital. I also wanted to take another look at the site where the body had been found. Maybe the police had overlooked something. Doubtful, after all this time, but you never knew.
Having come to these decisions, I slept better that night.
Some days, the gods are on your side. Today was such a day.
The pathologist, Dr. Brooks, was feeling unnaturally garrulous and told me everything he knew about the deceased.
“He was shot execution-style, twice in the back of the head with a thirty-eight-caliber revolver. He died instantaneously and there was very little bleeding. His hands and feet were tied. And in the Mafia tradition, he was tossed in a bag by the side of the road.”
“Was the weapon ever found?”
“No.”
Because it was in my underwear drawer? Don't be ridiculous, I told myself. “How was he identified?”
“The old-fashioned way—fingerprints. This guy's prints were in the FBI database. He'd done time for counterfeiting before.”
Some hobbies are addictive. “Any clues to who did it?” I asked. “The usual mob killing. The guy probably flipped.”
“Flipped?”
“Squealed, informed.”
“You're really into this, Doctor. Have you been watching those
Sopranos
reruns?”
Dr. Brooks flushed. “Well, it isn't every day you get to work on
a major criminal case in these parts. I admit I read a bit and surfed the Net.”
I laughed. “That's no crime. What did you find out?”
“Well, it seems the Philadelphia mob isn't what it used to be. It's a poor shadow of its former self. Ethnic gangs—young Asians, Africans, Hispanics—and biker gangs have replaced it. In the old days, all a mob member had to do was send a little note with a black hand printed on it to a storekeeper or business owner and they'd cough up a monthly protection payment—usually half their profit. The sign of the hand meant ‘Pay up, or we'll harm you or your family.'”
This was all very interesting, but I did have work to do. I thanked him and wished him well with his research. Obviously, he could write a thesis on the Mafia, although it had probably already been done.
My good luck continued when I dropped by to see Max. Lolly informed me he was in the shower. She led me to the den and excused herself, explaining that she was in the middle of cleaning out the refrigerator.
I couldn't believe my good fortune. I was alone in the den. The computer took forever to boot up, and in the meantime I kept my ears peeled for Max or Lolly. When I finally got into Microsoft Word, I typed “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” and pressed the PRINT icon. It was printing out when I heard Max coming down the stairs. I shut off the printer, but half the sheet was sticking out. I prayed he wouldn't notice. But Max was a neat freak, at least when it came to his equipment. He spied the sheet right away. He grabbed it with his good hand. “What's this?” He looked perplexed, then frowned. “Has that girl been playing with my computer?” He was about to go after Lolly when I stopped him.
“It was me,” I said, looking embarrassed. “I was bored and was just fooling around.”
“Oh.” He handed me the sheet and calmed down. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem.” I tucked the sheet in my backpack and proceeded with his examination. “No swelling or tenderness?”
He shook his head.
“It's healing well,” I said.
He said nothing. Ever since I had returned from New York, our relationship had become more formal, strictly doctor and patient. Silently I applied fresh bandages, and silently he watched. Before leaving, I went to say good-bye to Lolly. I found her in the kitchen, still scrubbing the inside of the fridge.
“Wow,” I said, “You should come do mine.”
“Really?” She beamed.
“No. Mine's too small. I can handle it. But you sure did a good job.”
She basked like a kitten under my praise. Poor Lolly, she received too little of that.
Next stop, site of the body drop. That's when my luck ran out.
The days were growing shorter and it was almost dark when I parked my Honda on the side of the road and went over to where I thought the body had been dropped. It would have been better to do my investigating in daylight, but I didn't want to be seen poking around. Old gimlet-eyed Peck might wonder what I was up to. Or Tom might drive by and start asking questions. I did the next best thing—brought a flashlight. There was a three-quarter moon, which helped some.
I was working over the ground a second time when I heard a car coming. I snapped off my flashlight and ducked down in the tall grass to wait for it to pass. To my surprise, the car stopped. I peered through the grass. The car was unfamiliar—a sleek black limo that looked as out of place here as a pickup on Park Avenue. Two men got out. One was of average height and build; the other was short and wide. Both were wearing hats!
As they drew closer, I could see their expressions. Grim. Stay or go? I wondered. I darted toward my bike which was only a few yards away.
“Stop!” The word wasn't loud but came out as a hiss.
I obeyed. Not because of the order but because at that moment
the moon came from behind a cloud and revealed the gun in the taller man's hand.
I prayed for a bunch of rednecks to drive by—they always kept rifles in their pick-ups—or even Tom with his bow and arrow. My prayers were interrupted by the gunman, who was now only a few feet away.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I might ask you the same,” I said.
“Except I don't have to answer. I have a gun.”
Seeing the logic of this, I said, “Jo Banks, M.D. Everybody knows me around here and several people know where I am.”
“Is zat so?” put in the shorter, broader man.
I didn't think that required an answer, gun or no gun.
“Hey, boss, let's finish her off and get the hell out of here.” He looked over his shoulder at the empty road behind him and back at the cornfields stretching as far as he could see. Just then, an owl hooted. “Geezus, this place gives me the creeps.”
“Easy, Fatty. I'm waiting for an answer to my question.”
“I lost my keys here the other day,” I said, “and I was looking for them.”
“In the dark?”
“It's the first time I've had a chance. I have a busy practice.”
“Keys to what?”
“My Honda.”
“How did you ride over here with no keys?”
“I have two sets.”
“What were you doing here when you lost your keys?”
“Watching a hawk.”
“You stopped riding to watch a birdie?” The fat one snickered.
“Shut up,” the gunman said.
“What kind of a hawk?” he asked, as if he was interested.
“Red-tailed.”
“Geeze, she knows her birdies.” Fatty snickered again.
“One more crack out of you”—the tall guy turned toward his pal but kept his eyes on me—“and you'll be seeing birdies playing harps.”
Fatty shut up.
“Take the car and park it behind those trees.” The gunman pointed to a clump of trees in the field across the road.
“That field belongs to Farmer Jenkins. I don't think he wants it turned into a parking lot.”
“He's asleep. All these rubes hit the hay as soon as the sun goes down.”
I didn't argue that point. I was too busy wondering where this conversation was leading and how it was going to end.
Fatty went back to the car and followed his boss's orders. I prayed Farmer Jenkins's two hounds would hear the car and set up an alarm. But the silence was deafening.
“So what am I going to do with you?” The gunman spoke thoughtfully, as if talking to himself.
“How about letting me go home to bed,” I helped him out.
“But you've seen us.”
“Not very well. It's dark out here.”
“You might start rumors.”
“I never start rumors. I'm a doctor. We keep our mouths shut. Patient confidentiality and all that.”
“We aren't your patients.”
This guy was smarter than most of the mobsters on TV. “I won't start rumors,” I repeated, putting every ounce of sincerity I could muster into my voice.
“Whatcha doin', boss?” Fatty was back. “Why don't you get rid of her so we can get outta here?”
“She's coming with us.”
Oh my god.
“What?”
“You heard me. Come on, Doc.”
I didn't argue, fearing the alternative would be worse—being shot then and there and thrown into a ditch. He hustled me at gunpoint across the road to the recently parked limo. He told me to get in the back and he got in after me. Fatty took the driver's seat. As we passed the Honda, I asked, “Can I lock up my bike?”
“Sorry, hon. Besides, you probably won't be needing it.”
Fatty chuckled.
I felt the shakes coming on. I took deep breaths and clenched my teeth to prevent them from chattering. I knew I shouldn't have gotten in the car. My dad had always told me, “Never get in a car with strangers.” I guess the strangers he'd had in mind didn't carry guns. I should have jumped him, but there was the other guy. I didn't know if he was armed. If he was, I knew he'd shoot me without a thought. My only hope was the smart one. I might get through to him. I sat rigid, pressed against the door, and followed the road carefully so that if I escaped, I would at least know how to get home.
Something hard was boring into my hip. My cell phone. But Bayfield was such a remote area, you could never be sure it would work. Sometimes it did; sometimes it didn't. I could only hope. But I'd have to find an excuse to get out of sight for a minute. When we came to a wooded area, I yelled, “Comfort stop!”
“Huh?”
“I have to go potty. You wouldn't want me to soil your beautiful car, would you?”
“Shit,” said the driver. “Don't listen to her, boss.”
“The truth is, I have to take a pee myself.”
“Crap.”
“No—
pee.
Pull over.”
The driver pulled to a stop and placed his head on the steering wheel. I jumped out and started for the woods.
“Don't try anything. I've got you covered,” the boss called after me, as if reciting from an old movie script.
“Don't worry. Modesty is my only concern,” I yelled back. As
soon as I hit the trees, I pulled out my cell.
Please work. Please work.
I dialed 911, figuring that state police guns would be more effective than Tom's bow and arrow. The tiny screen glowed, but all it portrayed was a single word: SEARCHING. Shit. As I tucked it back in my pocket, I heard footsteps shuffling through the grass. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the boss approaching, his gun trained on me.
“Hey, can't a woman have any privacy?” I pretended to be fastening my jeans.
“I thought I'd join you.” He laughed, one hand on his zipper.
“Turn your back,” I shouted.
“Prudish, aren't you? I thought doctors had seen everything.” He paused as it dawned on him that he couldn't unzip and hold the gun at the same time. Under other circumstances, I would have laughed at his predicament.
“Hey, boss, let's get going,” Fatty whined.
“Come over here,” the boss ordered.
Fatty stomped over, making the dead leaves crackle. “What's the matta?”
“Hold my gun on her while I take a leak.”
So Fatty wasn't armed, or he would have used his gun instead of the boss's.
He grinned and took the gun. “It'll be a pleasure.”
Since any chance I might have had of disarming the boss while he relieved himself had disappeared, I said, “I'll wait in the car.”
Wondering if Fatty had left the key in the ignition, I walked faster.
“Follow her, jackass!” the boss shouted.
I heard the jackass's heavy footsteps crackling behind me. The keys
were
in the ignition. As I reached for them, I felt the cold muzzle of the gun against my neck.
“In the back,” Fatty said. All trace of the whiny adolescent had vanished.
I got in the backseat. The boss came toward the car, zipping up
as he walked. I noticed a rabbit's foot dangling from his belt, and for a split second he seemed almost human.
“She tried to snatch the ignition keys, Boss.”
“You did that?” He slid in beside me. “That was very naughty. Next time, Papa spank.”
Keep cool, I told myself. These two are no Einsteins. You should be able to outwit them. I continued to keep track of our itinerary. We passed the last farm before we entered the marshes. I secretly hoped the car would hit a soft spot and sink. Then I remembered
I
was in the sinking ship. Pretty soon we'd come to the bay. Then what? I pushed the possibilities from my mind and concentrated on how to escape.
BOOK: Sleight of Hand
3.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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