by Edie Claire
Warren threw her a hard glance. "No, you don't," he insisted. "How could you? You've barely spent five minutes with the man."
"It was a full five minutes," she debated, "on two occasions. I can tell if someone is capable of murder or not. Trust me, he's not."
Warren and Maura exchanged skeptical glances over the desk, but Leigh ignored them. She realized she was defending Cara's father yet again, and she could analyze her reasons for that later. But right now all she knew was that trying to finger Mason Dublin for a murder was a waste of time. And they needed all the time they had.
"Besides," she went on, "how could Mason get back down to Alabama so fast? He'd either have to fly or drive all night, and he's injured." She remembered the secret relief she had felt when Lydie announced that it had been Mason on the phone. At least he was still breathing. There had been a fair amount of blood on the pavement, and though no one else seemed to care, a part of her feared he would have the gall to check out on them before everything was resolved. And by everything, she meant Cara.
"It's not impossible, Koslow," Maura said placatingly. "But you do have a point. Gordon's death could have nothing to do with Mason or Torr. But I'll be plenty surprised if it doesn't have something to do with his sudden shift into violent crime."
"Mo," Warren said thoughtfully, his mind on a new track. "I've been thinking about the 'funny money' in Torr's message, and what Mason told Lydie about Torr wanting something. If that's true, do you think it could be—"
The detective nodded quickly. "I thought of that, too."
Leigh's eyes darted from her husband to her friend. "Could be what?"
"I've been doing a little research on Mason's counterfeit operation," he explained to Leigh. "The one that put him away."
She wasn't surprised. Virtually anything that had to do with money interested Warren. When since her concussion he had had the chance to do research, she couldn't imagine, but once he got a fiscally-related problem in his head, he was like a dog with a bone.
"It seems that all of Cara's artistic talent didn't come from her mother," he explained. "Mason created a set of metal plates—bill-stamping plates—that were exquisite. Photo-etched in very intricate detail. He and his partner produced fake fifties and hundreds that were very difficult to detect with the naked eye. It was certainly possible, but you'd almost have to be looking for them. By the time the authorities got wise, thousands were already in circulation. Even afterwards, the two continued for months without getting caught. The genius of the operation was that they never unloaded very many bills in one spot. They traveled constantly, plus they had a network of underlings funneling bills at different points all over the country."
"That was how they finally got caught," Maura interjected. "One of their worker bees got greedy."
Warren nodded. "One of the distributors unloaded too many hundreds at once, got picked up, cut an immunity deal, and sold out both Mason and his partner. The two were arrested and convicted, as you know," he said to Leigh. "But here's the kicker. The plates were never recovered."
Maura leaned forward. "There was quite a buzz about them for a while," she explained. "I bet the place Mason was living back then got picked over pretty good by people wanting to take up where he'd left off. Good plates used to be worth their weight in gold. But the authorities assumed no one ever found them, because no new counterfeit bills ever turned up."
"And then, of course," Warren interjected, "The method became obsolete."
"Because of the new bills?" Leigh asked.
"Right. The Federal Reserve started printing the revamped hundreds with counterfeit detection devices in 1996. The fifties followed the next year. Fakes made with Mason's plates wouldn't stand a chance today."
"Then why would Torr want them?" she asked. "I don't get it."
Maura and Warren exchanged glances again. "There could still be some use for them," Warren suggested. "Some of the old legitimate hundreds and fifties are still in circulation. Torr couldn't pass off new bills straight from the plates, but if he had some way to realistically age them, they might pass for old bills."
Maura nodded, but her face was frowning. "I can see Torr having some use for Mason's plates. But I can't see anybody killing over them. The attack on Trudy, the shooting at your apartment—that's a lot of violence just to pave the way for a white-collar crime. And a tedious, time-consuming one at that." She shook her head. "It doesn't fit."
"I see what you mean," Warren admitted.
"I wish it were as easy as Mason handing over a set of plates and this Torr guy going away happy," Maura explained. "But my gut tells me there's a lot more going on. And right now, Mason Dublin is probably the only one who can clear it up." She leaned back in her chair again, assuming a more casual stance. "You guys celebrating at home tonight? Or are you having a victory party somewhere that I'm not invited to?"
Leigh had to smile. "The world's most honest and frugal politician, spend campaign money on a victory party? Please. Team Harmon will be content to leech off the general democratic levity at the gubernatorial shindig in Station Square. But we will be celebrating," she said proudly. "The response at the polls has been plenty encouraging."
Warren didn't smile. "It'll be close," he said distractedly. "Why do you ask, Mo? Do you think it's safe for Leigh to be out in public?"
Maura's brow furrowed. "Her staying out of sight as much as possible is definitely a good idea. But the reason I'm asking is Mason. We know he has your home phone number, and I'm hoping he'll use it. If he does make contact, and you can get him to give you Torr's full name and a translation of that message, we may be able to get somewhere. Better yet, you might be able to convince him to talk to me in person. He'll fight it, but you could try guilt-tripping him about endangering his family. If he's not responsible for any of this violence himself, he's got nothing to worry about from Allegheny County. But he could help us put this other guy away."
Leigh looked at Warren. "She's right," she appealed. "Maybe I should stay home in case he calls, at least for part of the night. I think I could talk sense into him. Really, I do."
Warren frowned. "You're not staying at the apartment alone. I'll stay with you."
"Not a chance," Leigh protested. "You're going to that party at the Sheraton and you're going to have the time of your life, and that's an order."
"Children, children," Maura said mockingly, "Let's not fight. Warren, I'm sure Leigh will be safe enough with you at a crowded, ticketed political rally. Leigh, just forward your calls to his cell phone." The detective stood up and collected her coat from the back of her chair. "When I filled in your parents and your aunt on the news, I told them they'd be wise to camp out at Cara's for a few days. With all the guards Gil hired, that place is safer than Fort Knox. As for your apartment building, the owners have tightened security, and the Ross police are going to keep an eye on it until further notice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere I have to be."
She whistled softly as she put on her coat, and Warren and Leigh exchanged quizzical looks. Maura wasn't somber as a rule, at least not when she wasn't working. But the whistling thing was new. Despite the seriousness of the last few days' events, the detective seemed pretty darned cheerful.
"What are you looking at?" she demanded playfully, giving Warren another hearty back-clap.
He caught the desk just in time to avoid pitching forward. "Nothing," he replied, eyeing her steadily, "I was just wondering who you've been looking at."
Maura's eyes twinkled evilly. "Careful, smart ass," she warned. "I haven't voted yet."
***
The Sheraton at Station Square was the place to be—or so it would seem to those enamored of the glamour of politics. Leigh was not, but she was happy enough for her husband that she could fake it. The early returns showed him winning by an easy margin, and after a few hours and a glass of wine, she was able to convince him that he could safely bounce around the festivities without having to keep her in a four-foot radius. She was
sipping her third glass of virgin punch (a truly excellent combination of 7UP and raspberries) when she realized that the high-pitched hum in her ears was not due to the punch being spiked, but to the phone in her purse ringing.
She located the cellular and lifted it quickly to her ear. "Hello?"
A man's voice spoke on the other end, but the ambient noise was so loud she could barely hear it. "Wait a minute," she insisted, then hiked off to find a quieter spot. "Are you there?" she asked hopefully, pausing finally on a veranda with a view of the Monongahela River. "Mason?"
"What the hell's going on there?" the now-familiar voice sounded loud and clear. "You got half of Pittsburgh in your apartment?"
Leigh smiled, despite herself. "No, I forwarded the call. The question is—where are you?"
"That's not important," Mason answered. "What's important is that I'm headed back to Pittsburgh now, and I'm going to set things right. Is everybody okay?"
She paused, trying to choose her words carefully. "Everyone's fine. But we'll be a lot better off if you come in and talk to the police."
To her surprise, he chuckled. A good-natured chuckle, but one laced with tension. "Right, kid. Sure. And then maybe we can send Lassie for help, too."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't patronize me. I happen to know the detective working on the kidnapping case. In fact, she's my best friend."
He didn't say anything for a moment. "Look, no offense, but I have this thing about people who incarcerate me. Not interested. Thanks anyway."
"Don’t hang up!" she begged.
"Wasn't going to," he said calmly. "But if you're worried about keeping me talking long enough to run a phone tap, you've been watching too many Dragnet reruns. There's caller ID now—much more efficient. Still, I'll spare the cops the effort—I'm at a pay phone on the turnpike. I won't be for long."
"Cagney and Lacey," Leigh said defensively. "And I know all about caller ID. But I'm serious about you talking to my friend. She doesn't want you, she wants this Torr guy. And she can't go after him without more information."
"She can have all the information she wants, but it's not going to do her any good, and I'm not going to any police station."
Leigh ground her teeth in frustration. "Why not? She said there aren't any warrants out for your arrest."
"Oh, really? That's good to know. I really should keep better track of that sort of thing."
Her face reddened. "Stop making jokes! I need to know more about this Torr. What's his real name?"
Mason was quiet a moment. "Look, Leigh," he said softly. "Nobody's taking all this more seriously than me. But I'm telling you, your policewomen friend, however upstanding she may be, cannot do squat about Torr. I have to handle this in my own way."
"Just tell me his name," she asked again, her tone turning a bit desperate. She wasn't sure why he had called her, but she was terrified that he would hang up before she got what she needed.
"Fine," he said placatingly. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know, and then you promise to do me a little favor, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Got a paper and pen handy? The guy's name is Torrence Bagley. His enemies call him Torr, and he hasn't got any friends. He's an arms dealer and a smuggler and he operates out of the panhandle, Panama City mainly. He's already got warrants out in every state south of the Mason-Dixon line, so your friend can just take a number."
Leigh scribbled on the back of her checkbook with one of her father's free Heartguard pens. "Keep talking."
"That'll get her all she needs to know," he answered. "Torr's record will speak for itself. Now for that favor you owe me."
She was silent.
"I don't mean to scare you anymore than you're already scared, but this Torr is dangerous, real dangerous. Before he showed up at Lydie's I didn't think he knew anything about my ties to your family, but I'm guessing he got to Sammy or Gordy one, and they sold me out. I don't know how much he knows, but I don't want you guys to take any chances. You've all got to leave town, ASAP. You hear me?"
She had a mental flash of Trudy, lying broken and pale in her hospital bed, and felt queasy. "He beat up your sister, didn't he?" she asked quietly. She supposed that being shot at should produce more emotional horror than the memory of a stranger with a wired jaw—but it didn't. Taking pot shots at an enemy was one thing. Beating an innocent woman nearly to death was another.
Mason didn't answer for a moment. "He was trying to find me," he said stiffly, betraying a sudden, strong mix of guilt and anger. "He knew I had a sister—she was part of the old counterfeit ring. But I didn't think he could find her." There was another pause. "She knew where I was, but she wouldn't tell him. I wish she had."
Leigh swallowed. "Why is he looking for you?"
There was no response.
"He's trying to kill you, isn't he?" She asked, her voice rising. "He would have killed you at my apartment building—but you moved suddenly, and he missed. Oh, my God, I forgot to ask. Are you all right?"
There was a slight pause, and from the tone of his voice she imagined that he had cracked a smile. "Just grazed my shoulder; thanks for caring. And I doubt he was trying to kill me so much as slow me down. Sort of like pulling the wings off a fly."
Leigh shivered. "What does he want from you?"
Mason didn't answer, and she took a breath and plowed on. "He left you a message on Lydie's mirror. I want you to tell me what it means."
"What message?" he asked quickly.
"Will you tell me what it means?"
"Just give it to me."
Leigh groaned in frustration. "Mason, you have to help the police catch this guy!"
"I'm handling it," he said firmly. "Now give me the damn message."
She prevaricated a moment, not sure whether she should use the message as a lure, or whether keeping it from him would serve only to put them all in more danger. In the end, she spilled it.
His voice, when he finally spoke again, was thin. "Okay. No problem—I've got what he wants and I'm on my way there now."
"Your way where?"
Mason Dublin was proving excellent at ignoring questions—yet another trait he had passed on in his genes. "Listen, kid. Forget about the police. No revolving prison door is going to end this thing. It's up to me and I'm going to take care of it once and for all. But in the meantime, you've got to get your family out of town."
"If you knew your daughter," Leigh said steadily. "You would know she never runs from anything. None of us are going anywhere. We're going to stay put and work with our happy, friendly, capable police force."
Mason muttered something under his breath. "Then for God's sake, call that friend of yours and make sure she keeps a watch on…on everybody. It should all be over soon. That Gil guy have security out there?"
Leigh's heart warmed. He did care, damn him. "Yeah. And by the way, 'that Gil guy' would give his life for your daughter and grandson."
Mason didn't answer for a long time. "Good for him," he said finally.
The line went dead.
Chapter 19
Sixty-three percent, Leigh crafted carefully with the tip of the purple frosting dispenser. She made the numbers fill up the whole surface of the cake, which was actually Betty Crocker blueberry muffins. Having never owned a muffin pan, she always baked them solid and round instead.
She toted the concoction into the bedroom on a tray, along with two glasses of orange juice, two mugs, and an entire pot of premium coffee. "How's the head, Mr. Councilman?" she asked with a smile.
Warren smiled back at her, only slightly bleary-eyed. "For the last time," he said mildly, "I did not have too much champagne last night, and I do not have a hangover. What you saw was pure adrenaline. My head is fine."
"Whatever you say, dear," Leigh agreed, her eyes twinkling evilly. "I'm sure you won't be needing these pain relievers then."
He looked at the two caplets like an ice cream sundae with caramel sauce. "No thanks," he insisted. Then he looked at the muffin-cake and smiled. "Loo
ks great."
Leigh placed the two caplets on the edge of his plate, then dug in. After she had let him eat four servings, covertly down the drugs, and thoroughly reminiscence about the victory, she decided it was time to come clean. "Mason called last night."
She should have waited until he had swallowed the coffee in his mouth, but her timing was poor. He sputtered the brown liquid out over his lap, drenching his next piece of muffin-cake. "I told you to tell me if he called, no matter what else was going on!"
"Yeah, I know," she said calmly. "But since when do I ever do what anyone tells me? You deserved a night of unfettered fun, and you got it. I called Maura right away and told her everything—there was nothing else you or I could do about the situation last night."
Warren exhaled with a growl. "What did he say?"
Leigh summarized the conversation. "I'm sure Maura's on top of things." She puzzled a moment. Something about her exchange with Maura had deserved further thought, but in the heat of the election returns, she had forgotten about it. "You know, I called her on her cell phone, and a man answered."
"Oh? Who?"
"I'm not sure. I thought the voice sounded familiar, but all he said was 'Polanski,' and then Maura took the phone."
"Well," Warren said matter-of-factly. "She did have a date last night, didn't she?"
"A what?"
He laughed. "Oh, come on. Surely Mo has been out before. I know she didn't date in college, but—"
"I've never known her to go out on a single date with anybody, ever," Leigh said firmly. "I thought—"
"You thought what?"
"Nothing."
The phone rang, and Leigh jumped to answer it. She was still trying to place the mystery man's stern, yet thin voice when her thoughts were interrupted by her mother's screechy one.
"Leigh, dear, you and Warren need to come out to the farm right away. Maura's coming over and we're having a family conference—well, not a full-blown family conference, under the circumstances. She feels it would be best not to involve the extended family; she didn't even want Bess to come because she isn't directly tied to Mason. Neither are your father and I, of course, but since our house is right next to Lydie's she thought it would be better if we stayed at the farm, too, and I figured—"
