Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

“They’ll come for you when they’re ready. Sometimes these things are a bit loose. If they don’t get you there, it’s their fault, not yours.”

The attorney and Mike Brentnor departed, leaving Susan to wonder just where she stood. She’d investigated a few murders in the past, during her travels for Mayfield’s, but she’d never been accused of committing one herself. The killing of Betty Quint while she was alone in the shower seemed so impossible that, paradoxically, Susan felt the solution must be a simple thing she could easily discover once she was free.

Presently one of the guards came for her. “Am I going before the judge?” she asked.

“Not yet. They want to question you some more.”

Susan was immediately on guard. “My attorney-”

“He’s been notified.”

She was ushered into one of the interrogation rooms, where she sat down at the bare table to wait. Presently the door opened and a stocky red-haired man she’d never seen before entered. He was carrying a briefcase and Irving Farber was right behind him. “Good morning, Miss Holt,” the redhead said, flashing a smile that was quickly gone. “I’m Adam Dullea, US Secret Service.” He flashed an ID that looked like miniature currency with its finely engraved borders.

Susan panicked, imagining some labyrinthian plot against the president. What had she gotten herself into? “What do you want?”

“I just have a few questions regarding your relationship with Betty Quint.” He opened his briefcase and took out a clear plastic envelope with a hundred-dollar bill inside. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

“A hundred dollars? I guess I’ve seen a few.”

“Did Betty Quint ever show you one?”

“No.” Then she remembered something. “She came to New York for a meeting about six months ago. We went out for dinner and drinks later and I remember she paid for the drinks with a hundred-dollar bill. I was a bit startled, but some people like to use big bills when they travel.”

“This one is counterfeit,” he said.

Susan peered at it more closely. It looked fine to her. “What’s its connection with Betty?”

“She passed it at a local restaurant. There’ve been a few other incidents too. We’ve had her under surveillance.”

“Is it true you can do these on a good color copier?” she asked.

“Not of this quality. We think it was printed overseas.”

“How-”

“I’m asking the questions, Miss Holt. Did Betty Quint ever show you or give you a hundred-dollar bill?”

“Just that one time when she paid for the drinks. And she gave it to the waiter, not to me.”

“I understand from your statement to the police that she received a phone call from someone named Roger while driving you to your hotel.”

“That’s correct.”

“Did she identify him further?”

“Not to me, no.”

“And she made a call from your hotel room?”

“Yes. I’m sure you could trace that. Most hotels keep a record of phone charges for billing purposes.”

Adam Dullea looked at her sadly. “The call was made to the local Mayfield’s store, Miss Holt.”

That surprised Susan and she must have shown it. “We’d just left there. Why would she -?”

He took a deep breath. “Look, Miss Holt, we’re inclined to accept your story for the moment, and so are the local police. If you had killed her, you would certainly have come up with a better story than you did – a burglar on the fire escape or a prowler under the bed, for example. Also, your coworker Mike Brentnor has informed the police that you’ve been helpful with other murder cases in the past. You’ll be released on your own recognizance, but you’re to remain in the city for at least forty-eight hours pending another court apperance on Thursday, when charges may be dismissed. Is that agreeable?”

“I suppose it’ll have to be.” What were they doing, giving her two days to find the real killer?

The Secret Service agent departed and Farber smiled encouragement. “Come on, Susan. You’re on your way out of here.”

In the courtroom it went exactly as predicted. The preliminary hearing was adjourned until Thursday morning at ten and she was released on her own recognizance. Mike Brentnor was waiting in the back of the courtroom. “Let’s go celebrate!”

“I’ve nothing to celebrate, Mike. A woman’s been murdered and I’m the only one who could have killed her.”

That was when Adam Dullea reappeared, his smile a bit more sincere this time. “Now that you’re released from custody, I wonder if we could talk.”

“About the murder?”

He nodded. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr Brentnor-”

Susan was happy to escape from Mike’s eager clutches. She allowed herself to be guided out of the courthouse and into Dullea’s car. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Back to the scene of the crime. Isn’t that how these things are done?”

She laughed. “I’m no psychic, you know. I don’t pick up the killer’s thoughts or visions. Sometimes I notice things that others have missed.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

This time as the car pulled up to the house a white-haired man came onto the front porch to greet them. He introduced himself as James Liction. “I own the place. You folks more police?”

Dullea showed his identification. “Secret Service. The victim was part of an ongoing investigation into counterfeit currency. Could I ask you if she paid her rent in cash?”

He shook his head. “Always a check, first of the month. My wife Mona was just saying what a nice tenant she was. Never any trouble. I can’t believe she was involved with counterfeiters.”

His wife a stocky woman who moved slowly, came out to join them. “Tell ’em about that suspicious-looking guy across the street, James.”

“Well, I already told Sergeant Razerwell.”

“Tell me too,” Dullea requested.

Liction shifted his gaze to Susan. “I happened to see the two of you drive in. After that a fellow parked across the street. He just sat there in his car for a long time. It was too dark to get a good look at him. When he heard the sirens coming he left quick.”

Susan remembered that Betty Quint had glanced out the front window and become upset when she saw the car. “We’re going to take another look upstairs,” Dullea told him.

James Liction shrugged. “Go ahead.” He and his wife went back inside.

The apartment was much the same as the day before, except that the door was sealed by yellow police crime-scene tape. Dullea pulled it away and used a key to enter. Inside Susan noticed signs that the drawers and closets had been searched by the police or Dullea’s people. “What are you looking for?” she asked. “More counterfeit money?”

He nodded. “A great deal of it. Before she went to work for your store, Quint was employed on the reservations desk of a major airline. Her boyfriend, a copilot on international flights, brought back several small packages of counterfeit money, all hundreds like this one. They’re often printed overseas and used as bulk payoffs for drugs.” He brought out the bill he’d shown her earlier, in its clear plastic envelope. He pointed to the lower right of the portrait where it read “Series 1996” in small print. “Notice anything wrong with it?”

She shook her head. “There’s Ben Franklin, looking the same as ever.”

“That’s what’s wrong. Beginning in 1996 the hundred-dollar bills changed significantly. The portrait is larger and off-center. There’s a new watermark and other safety features. Skillful as this job is, the counterfeiters made a fatal mistake in using the old design and dating it 1996. These bills couldn’t be passed in bulk overseas, where a suitcase full of drug money would be carefully examined by the seller, so they were smuggled into this country to be passed individually.”