Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  The man continued to push, shoving the attorney against the wooden railing. “I just need meal. Anything. You can spare buck or two.”

  Jake rushed to the encounter. He grabbed the homeless man from behind and pulled him off Reid. Jake spun the man around and grabbed the tattered shirt with a powerful grip. “My friend isn’t interested in donating to the cause.”

  Jake noted the man’s balance was a little too perfect for his apparent station in life; his motions too fluid, and his eyes too clear for a street dweller.

  The homeless man muttered something, collapsed onto a concrete bench, and began to cry. Jake released his grip, confused by the performance. He looked to Reid, who was shaking as he straightened his suit coat. Jake took two steps, grabbed Reid by the tie, and with his free hand reached deep into the attorney’s pocket, pulling out a money clip loaded with hundreds. Jake sorted through the bills until he came to twenties. He pulled a twenty from the wad of bills and turned to the homeless man who sought sanctuary on the Santa Monica Pier. Jake stuffed the money in the man’s hand.

  When Jake turned back to Reid he said, “Just my way of redistributing the wealth. Next time pay the toll or stay out of the man’s neighborhood.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The morning commute was far from subsiding. The Pacific Coast Highway was still creeping along and even the majors like Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards were heavy with solo drivers hoping to get somewhere on time. With all their clamoring for liberal causes L.A. residents never quite caught the concept of carpooling. Even the carpool lanes on the freeways required only two people. Traffic jams in L.A. began decades ago and would dissipate when the oil ran out. It was usually a nightmare regardless of the hour and this morning was no exception.

  Actually the traffic made Jake’s objective a little easier. He checked his mirrors as he took a circuitous route through the residential streets of Santa Monica. A left, two quick rights, even turning left well after the light was red. He was looking for a tail but saw none. Surveillance wasn’t as easy as they made it look on TV. Trying to follow someone, either on foot or in a car, was seldom a one-man show, especially in a city as congested as Los Angeles. If Reid hired a PI or had a gangbanger or two following, Jake was confident he would spot it.

  He doubted the attorney or his stooges were shadowing him, but since Jake was wasting Bureau gas and not his own he didn’t mind taking the long way to the Brentwood coffee shop.

  The meet at the pier had gone a little too easy. This wasn’t Jake’s first dance recital, so maybe it was an undercover agent’s paranoia. Reid seemed too eager to employ a man he just met while standing at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. You play to emotions but you live by logic. Cautious optimism would prevail.

  Jake’s vehicle, a 2013 Range Rover HSE, was his most recent reward for a short-term undercover assignment in San Diego. Jake did a quick hit on a cartel meth dealer who delivered ten kilos of the powder in his brand-new, paid-for-in-cash, luxury off-road SUV . . . Oh, the joy of dealing with really stupid criminals who get to forfeit any property used to “facilitate” a narcotics transaction!

  He remained married to his rearview mirrors, making sure he wasn’t being followed. A tail might even be another law enforcement agency. Jake couldn’t be certain Reid wasn’t setting up the entire scenario to avoid a prison vacation. The odds of that seemed remote, but when dealing with sleaze even the unlikely can become real. So far, the trip from the pier to the coffee shop appeared surveillance-free.

  Jake pulled into the Chevron station at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Bundy. He really didn’t need to fill up but decided to top off. It provided one more opportunity to scour the landscape and see if anyone was on the high ground preparing an attack.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Jake was satisfied he was clean, he headed east on San Vicente Boulevard and took a left at Barrington. He found an open parking spot on the street and threw a couple of quarters in the meter. As he was exiting the car, he glanced over at the outdoor tables of the coffee shop. The only two occupants practically screamed FBI: discount suits, white, button-down collar shirts, and ties that were stylish during the Bush administration—forty-one, not forty-three. He shook his head and walked onto the patio. As he passed the waitress, he ordered the no-frills coffee . . . black and hot.

  Before Jake even sat down he took a shot. “Did the Salvation Army have a two-for-one sale on suits?”

  Trey Bennett looked at the younger agent. “I told you he was a jerk.”

  Jake pulled up a chair and said, “You know this is L.A. You don’t have to wear a suit and tie to every meeting, and I am trying to maintain some type of cover. Why don’t you both get newspapers and cut out eyeholes?”

  “Cover? You’ve got to be kidding me. Is your next gig the Grand Ole Opry? In those boots you look like an extra in some low-budget country-western music video. And don’t even talk to me about ties. I’m guessing the only one you own is a bolo.”

  Jake laughed. “Bolo, that’s pretty good. Too bad you don’t apply that innovative imagination to your investigations.”

  The younger agent wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He wanted to laugh but thought maybe the two were about to go to fist city.

  “So why the suits? Was this picture day at the FBI?” asked Jake.

  “It was a mandatory all-agents conference with some deputy director from D.C. Apparently you didn’t get the memo,” said Trey, a broad-shouldered former Division I linebacker.

  “So what was the meeting about?” asked Jake.

  Trey shrugged. “I don’t know. I was finishing up a crossword puzzle and didn’t pay attention.”

  “Who’s your date?”

  “This is Brian Carter. He graduated from the Academy about six weeks ago and he’s been doing the new agent’s rotation. You know, applicants, fugitives, banks, anything to get his feet wet. He’s now assigned to our squad and I picked him up about an hour ago. As part of his training, he needs to check off a box ‘interacting with a problem child’ and yours was the first name that came to mind.”

  Jake reached across the table and the two shook hands. “Welcome to Hollywood. You from around here?”

  Brian shook his head. “Upper Michigan, the peninsula.”

  “Did you want L.A.?”

  “I was hoping for Detroit,” said Brian.

  Jake laughed. “Good to know the FBI hasn’t changed the division assignment policy. Name your top choice and they’ll send you to an office within five hundred miles of an airport that can fly you to your preference.” Jake paused briefly. “Where’d you go to school?”

  “The Naval Academy.”

  “The Boat School,” said Jake. “Did you go blue side?”

  “No, I went into the Marines.”

  Jake offered a welcoming smile.

  Just then the waitress arrived with Jake’s coffee, steam rising. Jake blew on the drink but it was still a minute or two from being consumed. “And your MOS?”

  Trey interrupted. “Speak English.”

  “I forgot. We are in the presence of a civilian who was a cop in Bumrush, Iowa, before joining the Bureau,” said Jake.

  “It was Indianapolis,” said Trey, feigning irritation.

  “Special Agent Carter, please tell the Boilermaker from Purdue what your military occupational specialty was,” said Jake.

  “I was an 0302.”

  “English,” said Trey.

  Both Jake and Brian said simultaneously, “Infantry.”

  Trey wanted to hurry the conversation. “Enough with the pleasantries; how’d the meeting go?”

  “But I need to brag about my illustrious Marine Corps career,” protested Jake mockingly.

  “Share your oorahs over another cup of coffee on someone else’s watch,” said Trey.

  After signing the chain of custody, Jake turned over the FD-504 ELSUR envelope containing the micro-memory chip. The recording of the meeting with Reid was the first piece of electronic survei
llance evidence in this phase of the investigation and the manila envelope held evidentiary gold. Jake then detailed the meeting with the notorious L.A. lawyer. “I’m not one to worry about administrative protocol, but this murder-for-hire case might bring down the rest of our investigation before we’re ready.”

  Trey shrugged and threw up his palms in a muted surrender. “I’m not sure there is any way around it. Once Tommy brought up the fact Reid was looking to get somebody clipped, we had to act.”

  “Have you explained to Brian what’s happening?” asked Jake.

  “You do the honors,” said Trey, gesturing with one hand as if offering the probationary agent entry into a fiery FBI netherworld of unknown dimensions.

  The waitress approached and the three men quieted as she refilled the empty cups.

  When she left Jake began: “We’re taking a hard look at a Korean crime syndicate that’s been operating in L.A. for years. They’re into drugs and counterfeit goods, mainly cigarettes and name-brand clothing, but they brought in a container of counterfeit watches the other night. We just got started and I’m trying to work my way up the ladder. We began with a guy named Tommy Hwan. He’s a member of the junior varsity but seems to be gaining credibility by bragging about his association with a ‘round-eye who can get things done,’ as he likes to call me. The night before last, he told me an attorney he deals with, a real slime bucket in L.A.’s legal cesspool, H. Daniel Reid, is in need of someone who does contract killings. I sold myself to Tommy in the early run-up as a person willing to do anything for a buck. So today Reid and I had our first kiss.”

  Brian sat there without saying a word but smiled with a slight nod.

  “We were lucky Tommy solicited Jake and didn’t shop this around,” said Trey.

  Jake looked to Brian. “When Tommy approached me I told him I’d give him a third as a finder’s fee so I knew he wasn’t going anywhere else.”

  Trey added, “Several agencies have taken a run at these Asian gangs doing cross-border counterfeit imports and haven’t had much success. This seems like our best shot at making a real dent in Koreatown.”

  Jake nodded. “We’re just getting started. We’ve got Tommy on importing counterfeit goods. I might be able to get his immediate boss and of course, assuming all goes well, we should nail Reid, but I had high hopes of this thing lasting awhile and taking us all over the map.”

  Trey was educating the new agent but also thinking out loud, trying to make the most of the situation. “We take it down when we have to take it down. You never know who is going to roll. Maybe one of these guys can take us even further or in directions we never anticipated.”

  Jake turned to Brian as he pointed to Trey. “His beer mug is always half full. I just wanted to stretch it out for months, even years, to avoid going into the office and dealing with the bean counters and feather merchants.”

  Trey looked at Brian. “Jake has issues with Bureau administrators. Once you understand that, it’s easy to predict almost any move he makes.” Then looking back at Jake, Trey said, “Getting back to the issue at hand, do you think Reid bought your act?”

  “I think so,” said Jake, giving Brian a cherub-like grin. “Most people do.”

  “So who does he want hit?”

  “His Asian girlfriend, who happens to be carrying his love child. I’ll get as much as I can when I meet him tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Are you still meeting with Tommy this afternoon?” asked Trey.

  “Yeah, but Reid didn’t want me to say anything to Tommy.”

  “Will you?”

  “I’ll see how it plays out. It’s more important we keep Tommy in the loop than Reid, so I’ll probably tell him about the meet and explain how his Johnnie Cochran wanted me to keep it a secret.”

  “It’s your call,” said Trey.

  Jake grabbed the check and threw a couple of dollars on the table. Turning to the new agent, he said, “This isn’t the Marines, Brian. Here’s how it works in the Bureau.”

  Trey, now standing, just shook his head as Jake added, “I’ll cover it this time. Now your training agent owes us both a free lunch.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The thirtysomething athletic Korean bounded across the street during a break in the traffic. Dressed neatly in a solid dark green shirt and designer jeans, he contrasted greatly with H. Daniel Reid’s homeless man. Even though the two men differed in appearance, their meeting didn’t draw the attention of others. L.A. was a forgiving town when it came to fashion. Blue jeans were routine business attire and nothing the men did attracted the interest of those passing by.

  After purchasing coffee from a beachfront vendor, the two men grabbed a seat at a concrete table near the entrance to the pier. The noise from the traffic on Ocean Boulevard to their east and the waves splashing ashore to the west provided all the “noise cover” they needed to openly discuss their business.

  “Mr. Park was right. He is a problem,” said the homeless man.

  The other man nodded, his expression displaying frustration. “I knew that long before you got here and told Mr. Park even before this latest wrinkle surfaced.” He paused to take a sip of coffee. “It’s clear Reid is weak and brings little to the table. Mr. Park was wrong to go outside the community. He could have laundered the funds hundreds of ways through our people but he chose to wash the money through Reid.”

  The homeless man nodded, then added, “As you know, I have only been in this country a few months, but it is already apparent Mr. Park is caught up in the Hollywood glitz; too many free tickets and too many red-carpet front-row seats.”

  With a wry smile the neatly dressed North Korean operative shook his head. “I wouldn’t want Mr. Park to hear you talking like that. He doesn’t take criticism well.”

  Both knew Park had a well-deserved reputation for disposing of those who committed mistakes, expeditiously and with considerable violence. If necessary, they all were willing to show H. Daniel Reid how North Korea’s Office 39 handled people who created problems. “We need to resolve the matter quickly but not be foolish in our efforts.”

  “Could you overhear their conversation?” asked the man.

  “He was hiring the big American to kill the girl.”

  “Jenny?” asked the boss.

  “I think so. He didn’t say a name but as Mr. Park suspected it makes sense it would be her. The American was charging fifty thousand dollars and Reid quibbled over the price,” said the homeless man, taking another sip of coffee.

  “He is cheap for a rich American lawyer.”

  The homeless man spit out the coffee as they both laughed out loud, knowing Park often complained about Reid never picking up a check when they went to dinner.

  The homeless man continued, “Reid said the girl was pregnant. Do you think she is?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Reid believes he is the father. Why else would he want her killed?” said the homeless man.

  “From what I’ve seen of her in the clubs, he might want to wait until the baby is born to determine paternity. I’m not sure Reid is the only man she’s been with.”

  “I heard you danced with her a time or two; any chance it’s yours?” asked the homeless man with a grin.

  “I never went there.”

  “Don’t tell me your kindness toward her was out of guilt,” said the homeless man.

  “I did what I was ordered to do. Park wanted her husband killed in a manner no one suspected was murder. The others were collateral damage.”

  “I think collateral damage includes Jenny and her current lifestyle,” said the homeless man.

  The other man raised an eyebrow. “It may play a part.”

  “Do we talk to her?”

  “I’m not making that decision. We don’t speak to her unless ordered to do so. She would immediately run to her father and we don’t need the headache.”

  The homeless man nodded. “We have a headache now. Maybe we should let this cowboy handle the matter. The lawye
r and his hired gunman are meeting again tomorrow afternoon at three.”

  “Where?”

  “Here at the pier.”

  “Good, I will tell Mr. Park. If he orders it, you and I may have to put in more blood work and eliminate this attorney and his contract killer.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mohammed entered the Koreatown restaurant through the alley entrance and spotted Kareem, who had his back turned, busy stocking the bar. Though several people were seated at tables in the dining area, the bar was empty as the lunchtime crowd was still a half hour away. Mohammed stayed near the back in the darkened hallway, waiting to be acknowledged.

  Candy was at the hostess stand and saw the Lebanese man she knew Kareem so admired. She gave him a huge smile and bowed slightly before walking over to Kareem and saying quietly, “Mohammed is here.”

  Kareem turned and nodded for Mohammed to come to the bar.

  “I’m just about done. He’s upstairs,” said Kareem.

  “Do you want me to take him up?” asked Candy.

  “No, I’ll do it. Just give me a minute.”

  Mohammed appeared uncomfortable in the bar but took a seat waiting for the prison convert.

  “Can I get you a drink?” said Candy.

  Kareem snapped his head at the offer.

  Mohammed feigned surprise. “I’m shocked you would offer me alcohol.”

  “I mean Coke or club soda. I know he not drink,” said Candy awkwardly, knowing the importance of the man to Kareem.

  Mohammed patted her hand as if offering forgiveness, and Candy rewarded him with a smile. With that Kareem escorted Mohammed upstairs to meet with Henry Yeong.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In Los Angeles’s Korean community, it is known as “Sa E Gu,” or “four two nine,” the first day of the L.A. riots.