by Steve Levi
“Picking up weight and having a hard time sleeping, but other than that, I’m in remission.”
“No rest for the wicked, eh?” Richiamo rose and extended his hand across the desk. “There will be another shipment as usual in about three weeks.” He looked slyly at the young Swensen and Delgado “Assuming you find your misplaced armored car.”
John Swensen smiled as he shook Richiamo’s hand. “Oh, we’ll find it all right. Armored cars don’t just vaporize.”
Richiamo looked at the two young men. “And you two keep a sharp eye on my shipments, hear?” The two young men said nothing, just visibly boiled.
Richiamo turned to go but then had a second thought. “Just out of curiosity, how much money was in the armored car that hasn’t vaporized?”
Swensen shook his head. “The legal answer is ‘I don’t know.’ Like I told you, we only deliver shipments. The real answer: none. It was on its way to pick up money, not deliver it. That’s what makes it so odd. Why waylay an armored car with no money?”
“Ah,” said Richiamo. “The world can be a very strange place.” He gave an odd smile. “Just to calm my nerves, how many deliveries do you have in your holding facilities at any one time?”
“Depends.” Swensen kind of shuffled through some papers on his desk. “And only because you are a customer who wants to know. We are not like a post office where deliveries come in, we sort them, and then they go out again. Basically, we have three different kinds of clients. One, like you, is a simple pick-up-and-deliver. A second kind is what we call a combiner. We could have ten or fifteen small companies who do business with a single bank. We don’t deliver to the bank every day, so we accumulate the packages and deliver the packages unopened, maybe, once in a week. These businesses are too small to have sophisticated electronic links to the banks, so we have to physically deliver the actual cash and receipts to the bank. Larger businesses don’t have to do that. Money, as in cash, from a large business is automatically electronically recorded on the bank’s books. Legally, I guess you’d say, the cash moves from the customer to the bank in a nanosecond. We verify the actual amount when we count the money here. It’s best that way. The companies want their money earning interest as fast as possible, and the banks want access to the money to lend it out as fast as possible. Everyone is happy with the arrangement.”
“But I thought the banks wanted the cash every day. If I were a business, I’d want interest on my deposits every day.”
Swensen smiled.
“Oh, you are so old school, Joe. You’re not a cash shipper, so you don’t understand money does not exist anymore. The moment a business—the kind large enough to use the Swensen Armored Car Company—gets money in any form—check, credit card, debit card, cash, whatever—the money is deposited directly into the business account in a bank. We handle the paperwork here. It doesn’t make any difference where the paper is; the money value is immediately transferred electronically to the bank. The five dollars spent in a store immediately is five dollars in the business account at the bank even if the five dollars, the actual paper money, is not at the bank.” He paused and pointed at the young Swensen. “This is a good discussion to have now because John and Ramon, here, need to know the nuts and bolts of what the Swensen Armored Car Company does. Otherwise I would have waved off the question,” he said, smiling.
“But when does the bank get its money?” Richiamo now showed interest in the process. “I mean, the actual dollars, checks and debits.”
“For the big companies, electronically the bank gets it right away. It doesn’t make any difference if the money is in the form of cash, checks, credit cards, or debit cards. Once the money is transferred electronically, the paper called checks and card receipts is simply filed away here. It’s just backup. The cash sits in our vault. Here. We count it and store it. Think of this part of our operation as a storage facility. We simply store paper with cash value the banks already have on their books electronically. Once every couple of months, we transport the actual paper to a bank’s storage vault. Maybe. The money—as in cash—usually just sits here until it’s needed. When a small business wants, say, ten thousand dollars in cash for the Fourth of July weekend, we take ten thousand dollars in cash out of the vault, debit the bank’s record, and credit the small business.”
“But when does the money, the actual pieces of paper, make it to the bank vault?”
“It rarely does. To the rest of the world we appear to be a money movement operation. In actual fact, we are a cash holding facility. We hold money—what you call cash—for the banks until such time as they want the cash, or it is shipped to the feds. No one wants cash anymore. It has to be counted, stored, protected. That’s part of our service here at Swensen.”
“But RMD, LLC has cash here.”
“In your case, yes. We have a palette of RMD, LLC cash, which you have asked us to keep separate from the rest of the money, cash, in the vault. But other than being identifiable because it is on a palette, the process is the same. Your money comes into the vault, it is counted, and you get a receipt. But the money just sits in the vault. It’s part of our inventory. The only difference is that we can point to the palette and say, ‘That’s RMC, LLC’s cash.’”
“Forget the money. It’s covered by insurance. I’m worried about my package. You just said I could not open my package,” Richiamo started to protest.
“You cannot open your package because you are a transport client. We move your shipment; that’s it. For the banks, we warehouse their money, so to speak. They can come and look at their money any time they want—the electronic record of the money, that is. They never do. But they can come any time to look at our money—cash, that is. But it’s just paper in bundles in storage crates. It does not have anyone’s name on it.”
Richiamo started to speak, but Swensen politely cut him off. “You are thinking of money in terms of something you can hold in your hand. That’s cash, and the only thing that matters is who owns the paper, not where the paper is. Once a twenty-dollar bill has been spent in a store, the store records the twenty-dollar sale electronically. The bank gets it as a credit right away.”
“But it doesn’t have the twenty-dollar bill.”
“Correct. The bank doesn’t need it. We do—for the businesses that use us, anyway. We verify the receipt of the twenty dollars just as if we were the bank. Then we inform the bank—electronically—that the twenty dollars has been received here, but the value of the paper is already on the bank’s books. We’re just backstopping . . . er . . . double-checking the bank’s and the company’s records.”
John Swensen leaned forward and said to the young Swensen and Delgado, “This is important for you two to hear. When a business electronically deposits twenty dollars in its account in a bank, the bank knows twenty dollars is available to be loaned out. See, the bank wants its money as fast as possible so it can lend the twenty dollars out. It leverages the twenty dollars out. Crudely stated, twenty dollars is going to come in, so the bank can lend out two hundred dollars. Ten times as much. In loans. It doesn’t matter where the twenty-dollar bill is, the actual piece of paper. Its value has already been transmitted.”
Delgado seemed a bit confused. “But what happens to the actual twenty-dollar bill?”
“We store it here.” John Swensen looked at Richiamo, swiveled in his chair, and pointed at his back wall. “Joe, behind this wall is a massive vault. It’s where we keep what you call cash. We count it and sort it. As long as what we say is in the deliveries matches what the businesses and stores said was in the deliveries, there’s no problem. When the bank wants cash, say for a big sales weekend or Black Friday, they order so much paper money from us, and we ship it out.”
“So we are basically a bank vault.” The young Swensen got the point.
“Sort of,” his uncle said. “Except the money is not ours. We are just storing it for a bank or large business.
Delgado pointed at the back wall. “So there are mill
ions of dollars in cash in there?”
“Millions. About twenty million dollars,” John Swensen said. “Give or take. But don’t get any ideas. We are audited regularly, and there are snap inspections. We have been doing this for thirty years and haven’t lost even one dollar.”
“But the actual cash is there, our cash, RMD, LLC cash?” Richiamo said, pointing to the wall.
“Yes, but there are six feet of steel between here and there. Then there are all kinds of auditors and security people nosing around.”
“So no one can get sticky fingers, eh?” Richiamo gave an odd smile.
“Not and stay employed here,” John said. “Which reminds me, I must get some more personnel files for the cops, the ‘Bearded Holmes’ guy. Then I have to talk with the local police. And more insurance people. It has not been a good day, Joe. Let me assure you your cargo is safe. It wasn’t on the lost armored car.”
“I hope not,” Richiamo replied. “It would take a lot of time and effort to replace what’s in the shipment.”
“Your shipment was not lost,” cut in the young Swensen. “Neither was the armored car. It’s just been misplaced. We’ll find it.”
“Just don’t misplace my shipment,” Richiamo shot back.
Chapter 11
Gloria Jackson was at the tanning salon when she got the call. She was naked, on her back in the tanning bed, and had to take off her eye protector to look at the incoming number on the phone. When she saw the number, she was not happy. She jammed in her ear buds. “What’s the matter with you?!” she snapped. “You can’t stay low and quiet for a day or two?”
“Just wanted to check in, babe,” said Charlie electronically. “I miss you, honey.”
“Don’t ‘honey,’ me,” she snapped. “Everything’s on the line here. Now, you’ve said you love me. OK, prove it by staying silent for another forty-eight hours. As soon as the plane leaves, we can celebrate. But right now, you stay low and off the phone.”
“But, honey, I miss you!”
“Three days from now, we’ll be together forever. Until then, get off the phone, and stay low.”
Chapter 12
Noonan was writing up his interview with Steigle when there was a tepid knock on the breakroom door. Noonan said something that sounded liked like “yeah” or “come in,” and in walked the thinnest man in the universe. To describe him as cadaverous would have been an overstatement.
“You’re the insurance man,” Noonan said, remembering the movable skeleton from the trio in John Swensen’s office.
“That’s right.” The erect corpse gave a wicked smile, revealing missing front teeth. “Harry Sandusky of North Carolina Mutual Indemnity.” He tried to hand Noonan another card, but the captain waved it off. “You never know when you’ll need insurance, Captain.”
“Heinz.”
“Eh?”
“Heinz. I’m not a captain here. I’m just on loan from homeland security.”
“Odd. What does homeland security have to do with a missing armored car?”
“That is such a good question I don’t have an answer for it,” snapped Noonan. “As far as insurance goes, I’ve got nothing to report.”
“So you haven’t solved the matter of the dematerializing armored car?”
“You flatter me, sir. But I like the term dematerializing. It’s so much better than stolen, missing, vanished, or misplaced. But words aside, nope. I don’t have a clue. Why are you here?”
“Well, the Swensen Armored Car Company—”
“I know that part,” Noonan cut in. “Why are you talking with me. There is no claim.”
“Well, you know, you know, you never know. Things like this have a tendency to—”
“You’ve had a dematerializing armored car before?” Noonan emphasized the term dematerializing.
“Well, no. It’s just North Carolina Mutual Indemnity insures everything here. We just want to know what’s going on.”
“Nothing is going on right now,” Noonan said as he stretched his arms out. “Right now, there is no crime. At best, or, in your world, worst, we are talking about a destroyed vehicle.”
“But there are the drivers, and they have families.”
“Probably. I don’t know anything yet,” Noonan said, pointing to the folders on his desk. “I haven’t gotten to their personnel records yet.” Then he scratched his beard and looked at Sandusky. “Why are you really here?”
“Well, you know, you know, I’m just—”
Noonan didn’t let him finish. “Let me guess. The dematerializing armored car is the least of North Carolina Mutual Indemnity worries. So what’s the big worry? I mean, why are you here?”
“Well, you see.”
Noonan pulled out the business card he had been given earlier to check the man’s name. “Harry.” Noonan gave him a hard look. “Don’t give me a song and dance. There’s a big picture here. What is it?”
“Well, you know, you know . . .”
“Harry . . .” Noonan let the rest of the sentence hang. And hang it did. There was a long moment of silence. Noonan did not break it.
“Well, you know, you know . . .” Sandusky stalled. “It’s about the cash.”
“What cash? There’s none missing.” Noonan shook his head. “The armored car was empty.”
“No. Not the cash in the armored car. In the vault.” Sandusky pointed through the wall behind Noonan’s back.
“This is an armored-car company, Harry. There is always money here. What does the money back there,” Noonan pointed behind his back without looking, “have to do with a dematerializing armored car out there in the real world?”
“Money changes people, you know.”
“Harry.” Noonan was clearly trying to sort out the connection between the dematerializing armored car and the money in the armored-car vault. “Harry,” he said again. “I am here to solve the problem of the dematerializing armored car. The armored car had no money in it. I can’t tell you anything about the money in the vault because it was not in the armored car.”
“Oh, I know that, you know . . . you know . . . but . . . you know . . . if you should come across any hint there might be a connection—”
Noonan didn’t let him finish. “I will pick up the phone and give you a call. Yes. But until I find a connection, Harry, there is nothing I can tell you because I don’t know anything.”
“Well, when you know—”
“If I know there is a connection . . .” Noonan corrected him midsentence. “I will let you know right away. But until I know anything about the money in the vault, this is only a case of a dematerializing armored car.”
This did not satisfy the living osteological specimen, but it was clear that was all he was going to get from Noonan.
“Well, I’ll be around, you know, just in case.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Noonan said, and he went back to the personnel files. “Please close the door on your way out.”
Chapter 13
Richiamo waited until he was a good block away from Swensen Armored Car Company before tapping his cell phone open. He didn’t wait for a response on the other end. When the ringing stopped, he simply said, “Chum sprinkled.”
Chapter 14
“What a toot: RMD, LLC. Just a bunch of letters with nothin’ behind them.” The old man snickered as he sipped his coffee. His legs were soaked to the knees.
“Well, we’re in with ’em whether we like it or not. We didn’t plan this, you know. We’re just playing someone else’s game.”
“Ain’t no ‘they’ in RMD, LLC. It’s a him. Number one, and no number two, three, or four. A post-office box and business card. Followed him out to his office. In his house. No one there but him.”
“So what?”
“Don’t care, Harry. Don’t care. We’ve got a few dozen hours to go, and then we will be out and gone.”
“With luck, the going’s gonna be good.”
“If you plan it right, you don’t need luck.�
�
“I’ll take it if I can get it.”
“Then stay off the blasted phone. We don’t need to push our luck.”
Chapter 15
“Captain Noonan?”
“That’s me,” Noonan said as he looked up from the personnel files. There were two men in the room, neither of whom looked remotely like armored-car drivers or security guards. They had a Cookie-Cutter look. Like government agents. “Let me guess, FBI.”
They smiled.
In unison.
The kind of a smile federal agents practice in front of their mirror—false friendliness with no commitment.
“Nope. We’ve got more personality than their people.” One of them, the older one (maybe?), pulled out a badge. “Treasury.”
“Secret Service?”
“Nope. They went to the Department of Homeland Security in 2003. We’re with Financials.”
Noonan scratched his head and then smiled. “I’ve never heard of Financials. That’s what you said, right?”
“Yes. Financials. Part of the FinCEN—Financial Crimes Enforcement Network in Revenue. We’re the people who go after money laundering and financial crimes.”
Noonan took a closer look at their badges. “Nothing personal, but I’ve never heard of your office.”
“We’re very low key,” Cookie-Cutter one said. “It’s our way. No theater.”
Noonan gave him an avuncular look. “OK, what does this . . . this . . .” He stalled.
“FinCEN,” Cookie-Cutter two said. “FinCEN.”
“Fine. What does FinCEN have to do with this matter? There’s no proof the armored car has been robbed. Where’s the financial crime you are supposedly investigating?”
Neither of the men said anything.
“Ah,” said Noonan. “The old FBI response. Say nothing. So you are leaving it up to me to guess what you want.”
Again, there was a twin silence.
“Keeping you in the loop, I’ve got zip. I haven’t had a chance to look over all the personnel files.” He lifted one of them and showed it to the Cookie-Cutter twins. “All I know is an armored car is missing. Dematerializing is the term I’m going to use until I learn otherwise.”
