Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

“Not as easy as it sounds. Especially for that much cash. Our financial world is too complicated. Computers make tracking and reporting too easy. Ever heard of Superdollars? The best counterfeits ever? Even better than the real thing?"

"I work in the Miami Field Office, Sunshine. We get briefed there, too."

"Well, thousands of Superdollars have been snagged through mundane paperwork.”

“You bean counters are gonna kill us all.”

“Basic money laundering usually requires three pretty complicated steps because you’ve got to get the bad money out there, pass it through several legitimate places to clean it up, and then get it back and do something with it that makes the proceeds look legitimate so you’ll have ready access.”

“Right.” Preoccupied.

“But I’m thinking Harry just found a good placement exchange plan and stopped there. In other words, he places the Kliners into the financial system somewhere and takes back genuine money which he stashes someplace else. Not in his closet hidey hole.”

“That’s the simplest plan.”

“But impossible for Harry to execute.” She noticed he hadn’t moved from the window. “What are you looking at?”

“Maybe nothing. Keep going. Why couldn’t Harry execute the simple plan?”

“He couldn’t place the old bills here in Margrave or anywhere close. Everybody around here would at least suspect they were Kliners, like your waitress. All the usual options for moving small amounts of money would take the rest of his lifetime to complete, given the volume. He’s got a job, so he’s not free to be traveling around the state or the country to buy a little of this and a little of that and get real money in change. No bank is going to take them. Any business that takes in a lot of cash, like a horse track or a theme park or casino, is going to have good anti-counterfeiting procedures in place.”

“So what’s left? Offshore banking?”

“Not so easy these days. Even the Swiss are turning in tax cheats now. He’d have to smuggle the fakes out of the country for starters. And how would he access the real money when Sylvia wants a new outfit?”

Gaspar seemed to think about it. “The dead Chevy guy and Reacher were in this all along. They helped Harry and Sylvia with the laundering.”

She heard inattention in his tone. “That’s how I figure it, too.”

“Why kill Harry now?” He still hadn’t moved from the window.

“That’s the sixty-seven million dollar question, isn’t it?” She looked up to receive his answer, annoyed. “And what the hell are you watching out there?”

“Headlights. Coming this way.”

Her heart skipped uncomfortably. “Roscoe?”

“Smaller car. Pulling into the driveway.”

Reflex. Hand slipped under the table to pat her gun lying on the seat next to her in its holster.

She heard the car stop out front. Car door opened. Slammed shut.

Gaspar said, “Tall male. Front door.”

Too late to turn off the kitchen lights without signaling where they were inside the house. Kim grabbed her holster and slipped into it. Stood back to the wall beside the open hallway arch.

Stillness. A key in the lock. The front door opened.

A deep voice. “I’m in! Thanks for the ride!”

Front door slammed. Footsteps approached along the carpet.

The same voice, louder. “Hey! I’m home!”

Kim glanced her question to Gaspar. He nodded. Gestured that the car had departed. She remained vigilant.

“In here,” Gaspar called out, while there was still time to appear normal.

A dark-haired boy dressed in sweats and unlaced running shoes came through the archway, tossed his backpack onto the sofa, flashed his multi-colored braces, and bee-lined to the refrigerator. The kid said, “I’m Davey Trent. You’re Mom’s friends, right? She texted me.”

Kim relaxed slightly, but her voice was stuck somewhere. Davey Trent. Roscoe’s thirteen year old. He looked like a foot-taller version of his mother. Same amazing brown eyes.

Gaspar said, friendly, “That’s right. Carlos Gaspar and Kim Otto.”

Davey collected a large bottle of blue beverage from the fridge and ducked his head by way of acknowledgement, “Mom said not to bother you. She’ll be home later. Yell if you need anything. I’ve got homework.” The kid grabbed his backpack and headed up the stairs.

Kim and Gaspar exchanged nods. For now, all strategic conversation was over. She returned to her seat, but didn’t remove her holster. Gaspar collected his cold toast. He opened up his laptop and sat opposite her at the kitchen table.

“Transfer that testimony over here,” he said. “I’ll go through it and whatever else the boss sent me while you follow up on your stuff.”

“Study the images of the fakes, too. They’re very good,” she said.

For several hours, they worked like that until finally, Gaspar stood, and stretched, and glanced at the wall clock. “I need a beer.”

Kim said, “I need a nap.”

“That, too.”

“When do you think we’ll be able to leave Margrave?”

Gaspar twisted off the top of the beer bottle he liberated from Roscoe’s fridge, took a long swallow. “Without some assistance from the boss, never.”

“I didn’t peg you for a quitter.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Right now, I’m sleeping,” Kim said. “Roscoe comes in, you can charm the answers out of her. Maybe this stuff will make more sense later. It can’t get a lot worse.”

She picked up her laptop, gathered her scattered possessions and moved to the guest room. Ten minutes later, she’d sunk into blissful oblivion.

Margrave, Georgia

November 3

12:45 a.m.

She was submerged in deep slow-wave sleep, like a dolphin, maintaining only enough consciousness to remain wary of predators. She bobbed gently, down and up, each soft bounce tugging her higher until at one apex her eyelids fluttered. An orange glow inches from her nose showed 12:45 a.m. She’d been asleep three hours.

But now she was awake.

Because: there was hushed shouting in the house. Echolocation placed two women safely distant. One older, one younger, both angry. She recognized Roscoe’s voice.

Roscoe’s guest room was cozy. The temperature was perfect. Quilted goose down enveloped in fine cotton created a warm cocoon. She snuggled deeper, drifted lightly on sleep’s surface, still aware. She sighed.

Return to nirvana demanded a glass of water and a pee. She listened, heard no silenced screaming, concluded quick stealth was now possible. Where was the bathroom? Down the hall, she thought, near the kitchen.

Vision limited through eyelids too heavy to lift, she moved toward the door, turned left, and shuffled along the carpet. A computer screen’s soft night-light glow guided her progress. There were warm aromas she couldn’t identify. Wood smoke, maybe? And something sweeter.

She reached the archway and stepped into cold open space. She recalled the kitchen on the left, a den on the right, the guest bath straight ahead.

Then the whole room lit up. Instant blindness. Kim’s forearm flew up to shield her eyes. A tall, slender blonde girl had opened the refrigerator door. That was the light. The girl was holding a bottle of beer. She turned, saw Kim, and cocked her wrist, ready to throw the bottle.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And what are you doing in my house?”

The girl was very pretty. She was dressed in ragged jeans and a sloppy sweater and heavy mud-covered boots. She was backlit by the refrigerator. She was a foot taller and thirty pounds heavier than Kim, and she looked very capable. Kim figured the bottle would hit her dead center in the head, if the kid got around to throwing it.