Ed McBain - Alice in Jeopardy

“What do you mean the police supplied it? Where’d they get that kind of money?”

So he has to explain that the Treasury Department supplied the bills for another kidnapping down here a couple of years ago, and that the bills were these counterfeits called super-bills…

“Get out!” she says again.…which are so good it’s impossible to tell them from the real thing.

“Which is what I tried to explain to these former business associates of mine,” Rafe says, “but they wouldn’t buy into it.”

“Wouldn’t buy into what?”

“Well, these people are criminals, am I right?” Rafe says. “The ones who kidnapped Alice’s kids?”

“So?”

“So what harm would it do if someone took that money from them? I mean, they’re criminals, am I right? Serve them right, am I right?”

“I’m still not following.”

“And also, the money is fake besides.”

She shakes her head, totally bewildered.

“What we’ve got,” he explains, “is a pair of chicks sitting out there on two hundred and fifty grand in fake money so good you can’t tell it from the real thing. So what if some enterprising souls relieved them of that money? It’s fake, anyway, am I right? And they’re criminals in the bargain. So where’s the harm?”

“Two chicks, huh?” Jennifer asks.

“It would appear so, yes.”

“All we have to do is find them,” she says.

“That’s all, baby,” he says.

For some reason, he’s getting hard again.

Alice’s phone rings at 8:45 A.M.

Charlie is still asleep on the living room sofa. She grabs for the receiver at once.

“Hello?”

“Alice, it’s Frank. How are you?”

Her boss at Lane Realty.

“Fine, Frank.”

“How’s your foot?”

“Okay.”

“Are you able to get around?”

“Pretty much so.”

“Do you think you’ll be coming in today?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Still in pain, are you?”

“No, Frank, it’s just… the foot’s in a cast, you know…”

“Yes, so I understand.”

“…and it’s a little clumsy driving. Maybe Aggie can handle any appointments I have for today…”

“Is that what you’d like me to do?”

“Yes, Frank.”

“Give these various listings to Aggie?”

“I’m sure she can handle them.”

“When do you think you’ll be coming back to work, Alice?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Sundays are big, too.”

“Yes, I know.”

“O-kay, Alice,” he says, and sighs heavily. “Let me know when you’re ready to come back, will you?”

“I’ll let you know, Frank.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Get better.”

And hangs up.

They know the blue Impala was followed yesterday, but they do not yet know that Avis has given up the license plate number. Even so, they are reluctant to drive the car again, or even to leave it where they’ve parked it on the mainland. They check the Yellow Pages under CAR RENTAL AGENCIES, find the nearest location for a Hertz place, and call to reserve a car for Clara Washington. It is Christine who arrives at the Henderson Grove outlet in a taxi that morning.

She shows the clerk behind the counter the same fake driver’s license, and charges the car rental to the same fake American Express card. The man from whom they purchased the credit card in New Orleans told them it was a “thirty-dayer,” his exact words, meaning it would be good for thirty days before Amex recognized it as a phony. He assured them that the driver’s license, however — which also cost them a sizable bundle — would never be challenged. Christine doesn’t know that the FBI has already flagged both the license and the credit card. But in any event, the Hertz people say nothing about her credentials, and she drives off in a sporty new red Ford Taurus.

There have been a lot of bank holdups in the state of Florida during the past year or so, and a big sign at the entrance to Southwest Federal cautions all customers to remove hats, sunglasses, or kerchiefs before approaching any of the tellers’ windows. Christine takes off her own sunglasses the moment she steps into the lobby. A uniformed guard at the door gives her the once-over, but she surmises he’s scrutinizing her boobs rather than her potential as a bank robber.

She chooses a black teller, a woman like herself. HENRIETTA LEWIS, her little name plaque announces in white letters on black. Sometimes choosing a sister backfires. You get a black with attitude, she’ll give another black more grief than any white person in the whole wide world. But this one greets Christine with a cheery smile.

Christine is carrying $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills, five of them in the bill compartment of her wallet. The cab driver who drove her to the Hertz place accepted one of those bills with a pained expression not half an hour ago, when he nonetheless made change for her. For his trouble, she gave him a big tip and a leg show as she got out of the taxi. She now removes three more of those bills from the wallet, slides them onto the marble counter, and says, “May I have these in tens and twenties, please.”

Henrietta smiles, and picks up one of the bills.

She notices at once that this is not one of the new hundreds with the oversized picture of Benjamin Franklin on it. There are still many of these old hundreds in circulation; it will in fact take years before they’re all replaced by the Federal Reserve. Henrietta checks these older bills more carefully than she does the Big Bens because she knows there are a lot of fakes out there. The American hundred-dollar bill is the most widely used piece of currency in the world, and hence the most counterfeited.

She holds it to the light to check the security strip along its edge, sees the repeated USA100USA100USA100USA100, picks up the second bill to perform the same check and then something catches her eye in the sequence of serial numbers, and she frowns slightly — which Christine catches even though it lasts for less than maybe five seconds.

“Excuse me one minute, miss, okay?” Henrietta says, and leaves the teller’s window, and goes to where a bald-headed white man wearing a blue seersucker suit is sitting behind a desk near the vault. Christine sees her handing one of the bills across the desk to him. She wonders if she should run. The white man looks over to where she’s standing. Henrietta is handing him the second bill now. Let’s get out of here, Christine thinks. Just walk slowly to the door, smile at the uniformed guard there, go out to where she’s parked the red Taurus, and split, sister!

The bald-headed manager, or whatever he is, gets up from his desk, smiles at Christine where she is still standing at the teller’s window, and goes to a paneled walnut door. He disappears from sight behind it. Henrietta walks back to the teller’s cage.

“Sorry, miss,” she says, “but Mr. Parkins has to run those bills through the machine.”

“What machine?” Christine asks.

“To verify them.”

“Oh dear,” Christine says. “Did someone pass me some fake money?”

“It happens,” Henrietta says, and smiles. “These supers are hard to recognize with the naked eye. But the machine will tell us.”

“Supers?”

“Super-bills. They’re made in Iran on intaglio presses the U.S. sold to the old shah. They print the bills on German stock. They’re really very good.”

“I see,” Christine says.

Her eyes are on that closed walnut door.

“But the Fed installed these machines in all our branches. Just like the ones they’ve got in D.C. I guess after 9/11, they’re more worried about people using fake money to do mischief.”

“I’ll bet,” Christine says.