Licensed to Thrill: Volume 1

by Diane Capri

  “Prints,” she said.

  He nodded.

  They snugged the panel back into place.

  “We need to call the boss,” Gaspar said.

  The choppers were right on top of the house now.

  Kim said, “No time.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Margrave, Georgia

  November 2

  2:50 p.m.

  THE GHP AVIATION UNIT UH-1H Huey settled on Harry Black’s front lawn in a storm of noise. The ground was too wet for dust, but pine trees bent and waved. Uniformed personnel ran doubled over through the downdraft and fanned around the house. All local. No federal agents yet.

  Roscoe and two others were the last to come through from the whipping wind. Then the Huey lifted off again. One of Roscoe’s companions was the surviving Leach brother. He looked all wrung out. His hands were sooty. His face was lined by smoke and sweat and horror. He had big patches of dried blood on his filthy uniform.

  His brother’s blood.

  Roscoe nodded the introductions. “FBI Special Agents Otto and Gaspar, GHP Officers Archie Leach and Sam Friesen.”

  Archie Leach stared holes in Gaspar’s chest. Kim felt the showdown simmering. She understood a brother’s need for vengeance. She didn’t know why he directed that need toward them. She planned to steer clear of Archie Leach. She figured Gaspar should do the same.

  Kim said, “We picked up charred scraps of hundred dollar bills at the site of the explosion. We figured they were in the car and might have come from here.”

  Roscoe nodded.

  “Kliners,” she said.

  “What are they?” Gaspar asked.

  “It’s what we call them.”

  “Call what?”

  Archie Leach said, “Stop screwing around, G-man. You know what we mean. Counterfeit hundreds. From the old Kliner operation. Find any here or not?”

  Kim blinked.

  Harry’s stash wasn’t porn money.

  It was counterfeit money.

  Made sense.

  As if he had known all along, Gaspar said, “We found the storage spot, but no Benjamins, which is what they call them where I come from. This way.”

  They followed him to the bedroom. He pointed, then stood aside. Leach and Friesen yanked out the back of the closet revealing the black hole. Leach pulled his flashlight. He twisted sideways to get his bulk through the narrow entrance. He pulled the light cords as he went.

  Roscoe stared as if he had exposed the lost city of Atlantis.

  At the far end Leach turned back to face them, shaking his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe it. His buddy Friesen whistled, long and low. He said, “Could Harry Black have kept this place full of Kliners? All these years?”

  Kim thought they were genuinely surprised. She glanced at Gaspar for confirmation. He shrugged, unwilling to abandon his suspicions. Harry Black was a cop and had $67 million in dirty money. Hard to make that happen as an independent operator.

  Gaspar had a valid point.

  Then Roscoe took charge.

  Kim followed her outside. Roscoe lined up her subordinates and said, “Get on the horn to GHP. Tell them we need forensics out here again. A full team to collect evidence. Properly this time. Tell them to bring a twenty-four-foot truck if they have it, a hand-truck, and a tool box. They’ll need food and coffee. They’re going to be here a while.”

  Sergeants Brent and Kraft were there. They exchanged quizzical looks. Brent said, “What’s up, chief?”

  Roscoe ignored his question. “You talk to me alone. No one else. And we need this place secured. No one goes in or out or past you except law enforcement with full ID. Any questions, you call me and only me for authorization. Set up at the driveway entrance and log every visitor, including the vehicles they arrive in. You keep doing that until I personally tell you otherwise. Each person asking to enter, you take a picture of them and their ID. Send it to me immediately. Got all that?”

  “Got it,” Brent said, but he made no move to do her bidding. Kraft took his lead from Brent and stood still. “Who are we looking for?”

  Roscoe said, “Make those calls. I’ll update you as soon as I can.”

  Brent and Kraft jogged toward the end of the driveway. Kim hoped Roscoe was wondering whether they were trustworthy. She needed to.

  Kim asked, “Why are they called Kliners?”

  Roscoe swiped her hair away from her face with a grubby palm. Soot had settled in the starburst crevices around her eyes. Fatigue freighted her shoulders. She said, “Because of the Kliner Foundation.”

  “What was the Kliner Foundation?”

  “A charitable foundation based in Margrave, long ago.”

  “What kind of charity?”

  “No kind, as it turned out. It was a front.”

  “For counterfeiting?”

  “On a massive scale,” Roscoe said. “Bad hundreds were floating around Margrave like leaves off the trees.”

  “How much total?”

  “Joe Reacher estimated four billion a year. For five years or more.”

  “That’s twenty billion,” Kim said.

  “Could have been more. We never got an accurate count. But it was enough to destabilize the currency, potentially. Which is why Joe Reacher was involved. Plus murder, intimidation, kidnapping, bribery, theft, embezzlement, bank fraud, and trafficking. You name it. Anything and everything except printing money. They didn’t print the bills here as far as we know. Joe thought the printing was done in Venezuela.”

  Pieces of the puzzle crashed together. Joe Reacher’s treasury job was to bring counterfeiters to justice. His death in tiny Margrave in the line of duty must have been caused by the Kliner Foundation. The waitress’s freak-out at Eno’s Diner when Gaspar paid the check with his crumpled hundred happened because she must have thought it was a Kliner fake.

  And Jack Reacher lived so far off the grid because with that much cash and some ingenuity, he could easily erase his paper trail forever.

  Roscoe said, “I really thought this mess was behind us. But Kliner spread the cash pretty thick. He was buying silence. And I guess people being what they are, bills got stashed. And pulled out on a rainy day here and there.”

  “But?” Kim asked.

  “There could have been more than fifty million hidden here.”

  Kim said, “We figured sixty-seven million and change. Assuming each box was full. Including the two boxes worth that must have been in the Chevy.”

  Roscoe nodded. “It’s unfathomable to me. Harry couldn’t have acquired that many Kliners fifteen years after we squashed the operation. Where the hell did he get them from?”

  Kim watched Roscoe and said, “And where are they now?”

  Roscoe just shook her head.

  Kim knew Roscoe was the key to building the Reacher file. Whether she was trustworthy enough to help was the big issue. Now Kim decided the answer to one simple question would make up her mind.

  She asked, “Will you lose your job over this, Beverly?”

  “Yes,” Roscoe said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Whose decision is it?”

  “The mayor appoints the chief of police.”

  “Why won’t he let you keep the job?”

  Roscoe’s shoulders slumped; she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Long story. Family rivalry. Goes back a hundred years. Teales think they own Margrave.”

  “How’d you get appointed, then?”

  “Finlay insisted. Mayor Teale’s been looking for a good excuse to fire me before the second I was sworn in.”

  “Why didn’t he fire you before?”

  “No cause. But look at the facts here. Harry Black was operating right under my nose. Even folks who believe I didn’t know what my sergeant was up to will judge me incompetent. You know how hard it is to pass counterfeits these days. The banks have taken old bills out of circulation. Harry’s stash might have been equal to all the old hundreds sti
ll existing in the entire country. Every time he tried to spend one, it would be rejected by the scanners. People will figure he couldn’t have passed those bills anywhere in Margrave, hell, anywhere in Georgia, without my knowledge. Even I can’t believe it. This is definitely the end of my career. Even Finlay won’t be able to help. Can’t imagine our little asshole mayor will let such a prime opportunity go to waste. In his shoes, I wouldn’t. Would you? I mean, it’s not so much losing the job. When you serve at the pleasure of a weasel, that’s always hanging over you. It’s going out in shame that hurts. My entire family has been so proud of me. After a hundred years of obscurity, we’d finally become something in Margrave again. Might not mean much to you, but in our little corner of the world, to my kids and my husband, my parents, it means a lot.”

  Roscoe shuddered, and Kim watched her.

  Now or never. Life or death. Yes or no?

  She took the plunge.

  She said, “I can help you, chief.”

  Roscoe raised her head, looked deeply into Kim’s face, wary and weary.

  She asked, “In exchange for what?”

  Kim said, “Reacher.”

  Kim said, “Think about it, chief. We were sent here because of Reacher. And think about the two shots in Harry’s head. That’s how Joe Reacher died, too, wasn’t it? It was a message. Reacher killed Harry. He killed the guy in the Chevy. Maybe vengeance for his brother. Maybe money. Maybe Sylvia. Maybe something else.”

  Roscoe was listening.

  Kim continued. “Then Reacher rescued Sylvia. You saw her face on that video. She was expecting him. She was happy to see him.”

  A flicker of something else crossed Roscoe’s face.

  Jealousy?

  Kim pressed on. “A clever jailbreak, easy enough for an ex-military cop, right? He knows where the weak points are. He’s got Harry’s money now, too. He can go underground forever if we don’t find him soon.”

  She wasn’t pleading, but her argument was solid even if she couldn’t prove it all. Roscoe had to recognize that. “Help us find him. And you’ve got my word. I’ll help you navigate your way out of this mess. Finlay’s not the only guy in high places. You’ve checked me out. You know I wouldn’t offer if I couldn’t deliver.”

  Roscoe studied Kim for what felt like a long time. She breathed in, and breathed out. She shook her head, slowly, and maybe with regret. She said, “Even if I knew where Reacher was, I wouldn’t tell you. Even though I’d like to see him again, myself.”

  Kim shrugged, one bad habit she’d already picked up from Gaspar. She’d tried. She’d given Roscoe the best she had to offer. Sad. She’d come to like the woman. There would be no pleasure in bringing her down.

  There were helicopters again in the distance, getting louder. Two, maybe three.

  Roscoe said, “The GHP isn’t going to accept all those shoe boxes were empty when you found them. You won’t be able to leave Margrave tonight.” She took out a card and a key. She said, “Make yourselves at home. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  She walked away.

  Kim read the card in her hand. It said: Mr. & Mrs. David Trent, 37 Roscoe Place Drive, Margrave, Georgia.

  Chapter Thirty

  Margrave, Georgia

  November 2

  4:30 p.m.

  THEY USED ROSCOE’S CAR as far as the Margrave Police Station, and then they changed to their own Crown Vic and drove south toward town. The county road ran straight through Margrave. Now labeled Main Street, it was nothing more than potholes connected by multi-layered asphalt patches.

  The GPS found a satellite. Gaspar said, “The directions look pretty simple. We stay on Main Street to Roscoe Place Drive.”

  “Who knew Margrave was such a lovely place?” Kim said. Slow progress let her study peeling paint, broken windows, and ragged awnings. Small buildings faced each other on opposite sides of Margrave’s four-block commercial district. Vehicles waited for angled parking spots along both sides of the street as patrons came and went. Graffiti defaced walls and sidewalks sprouted hearty weeds from their cracks. Pedestrians simply walked around them.

  November twilight meant store signs and interior activities were illuminated.

  Teale’s Barber Shop was lined with benches where clients waited inside and out. Teale’s Pharmacy had a flashing neon sign promising that flu shots were still available. Teale’s real estate office windows were papered with colored flyers offering homes for sale or rent. Teale’s Mercantile & Sundry filled most of the storefronts in the center block. Its stenciled windows boasted discounts and closeouts on everything from baby clothes to toilet paper. Shoppers rooted through bargains piled on long tables, pushing and shoving as they competed for the best deals.

  “Easy to see why the Teales might think they own Margrave,” Gaspar said.

  “Roscoe’s right,” Kim said. “Surprising she’s lasted this long on the wrong side of anybody named Teale.”

  In the third block, Kim recognized a standard construction single story brick U.S. Post Office, circa 1960. Vehicles lined up to park as folks filed in and out before closing. A tall flagpole out front flew the stars and stripes as required, with an illuminating floodlight at its base, but the other poles along Main stood bare of colors.

  “Want to stop and check out the P.O. Box question?” Gaspar asked.

  “They’re too busy right now. Let’s put that on tomorrow’s list.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  At the south edge of town a village green similarly in need of an increased maintenance budget sported a statue of a long-dead city father on a flat patch of long-dead brown grass, dandelions, and overgrown hydrangea bushes. Birds had defaced the statue in the usual way making it difficult to identify the bronze under the white slop.

  “Roscoe should take a lesson; the birds know how to handle those Teales,” Kim said, and Gaspar laughed.

  Off one side of the statue’s roost, a residential street ran west. Beckman Drive, its barely visible green sign asserted. A tired white church with an empty gravel parking lot filled a larger unkempt circle between Beckman and Roscoe Place Drive, the opposite residential street pointing east, where a convenience store serving coffee and conversation adorned the corner.

  When the GPS instructed, Gaspar turned left into near darkness brightened only by the moon. This had been farmland once. Roscoe said her family had lived in Margrave a hundred years, probably here on the farm once upon a time.

  Roscoe Place Drive opened up to a quiet residential lane unbounded by hedges or fences. Lawns rolled from the pavement up to red brick homes settled on multi-acre parcels. Built within the past twenty years. Not ostentatious, but stately. Well kept.

  Kim counted three driveways as they passed. Each with solar lights along the drive to mark the way, and mailboxes enclosed by brick housings at the road. Each box was numbered. 7, 17, 27.

  The Crown Vic’s headlights revealed the house at the end of the road. Same vintage, similar construction. Number 37. Nobody home. Gaspar said, “Nice shack. A step up from what I can afford on my paycheck. Still think Roscoe didn’t pocket some of those Kliners?”

  Kim said, “Lets get connected. Let’s find out what we can before Roscoe gets here.”

  Gaspar popped the trunk and stood aside while she collected her bags. He stretched like a cat. Bent over at the waist in three directions. Walked around a little. Retrieved his stuff and plopped it down by the front walk. “You’ve got the key, Sunshine. Turn on some lights. I’ll stow the car.”

  Roscoe’s key unlocked the double front door which opened into a wide carpeted hallway. Kim flipped light switches as she moved through. Fifteen feet in, French doors faced each other on either side. A formal dining room on the left, guest bedroom on the right. She placed her travel case just inside and continued through the archway entrance.

  A staircase leading to the second floor rested against the guest bedroom’s wall, open rails and spindles on the great room side. The rest of the first
floor was spacious openness.

  Even uninhabited and chilly, the room was an inviting place to nest. On the right, a family room with hardwood floors, fireplace, and comfortable furniture. On the left, an expensively appointed kitchen. The two living spaces separated by a ten-foot cooking island containing a fashionable sink and pricey accoutrements. Big bay window on the front.

  “Let’s meet back here in twenty?” Gaspar suggested. “I’ll make coffee. Whoever gets back first finds some food. OK?”

  “Perfect.” By the time Kim pulled out her toilet kit, fresh clothes, and entered the guest bath off the kitchen, brewed coffee’s heavenly aroma floated everywhere. A shower, and the promise of coffee, food and sleep. She almost swooned in ecstasy. Ten minutes later she was dressed in black jeans, red sweater and ballet slippers, wet hair loose around her shoulders, holding a cup of black coffee and working at her laptop on the kitchen table. She barely registered Gaspar’s return.

  “You’re fast for a girl,” he said. He opened his own laptop.

  “So I’ve been told.” She didn’t look up from her work.

  “My suit’s a goner,” he said. “We’ll have to stop for a new one somewhere in our travels.”

  “How about Teale’s? They have a closeout, don’t they?” He’d dressed in casual clothes similar to hers, but lighter weights acquired for his Miami life.

  “Find anything to eat?”

  “Didn’t look. Got distracted.”

  “By what?” He poured his coffee, opened the sub-zero fridge for cream and searched amid the neatly organized pantry until he found a bag of sugar and a measuring cup.

  “Sylvia and Harry’s tax returns. We also have the Roscoe/Finlay Kliner Foundation testimony. And images of whole Kliner bills.”

  “Where’d that stuff come from?” He continued searching cabinets for dinner, moving Roscoe’s staples around.

  “I’m guessing the boss made it happen. I found them waiting when I opened up my secure connection.”

  “So he’s got a guilty conscience?” Apparently Gaspar found nothing to his liking among the foodstuffs because he’d now returned his attention to the refrigerator.