Chapter Text
“I’m tired and my eyes are burning,” I complain to Peter, who basically ignores me and continues to stare at a page in a voluminous file in his lap. We are kicked back on the Burke’s couch in Brooklyn trying to find some tiny lead in an old case.
“It’s a friggin’ cold case, Peter,” I try again. “It’s years old and it’s not going to get any warmer tonight, so let’s pick it up again tomorrow.”
“The damn thing hasn’t moved from frigid to tepid in a long time, and that annoys me,” Peter huffs out a frustrated breath.
I sigh. “Look, Buddy, I know you relish solving things like your crossword puzzles, your challenging anagrams, and lining up all your beloved numbers in a sudoku grid, but give it a rest already.”
Peter finally looks up at me and gives me the patented FBI stare. “Tell me this guy doesn’t intrigue you, Neal.”
I have to admit he’s got me there. The suspected forger, John Killbride, has become a legend in the counterfeiting world and, as a fellow enthusiast of faux whatever, I am a devoted fan. “Well, Killbride is very gifted, and he’s never been caught, so yeah, I’m intrigued.”
“Is he better than you?” Peter asks when he becomes aware of my hero worship.
“Peter, I have to give credit where credit is due. The man is a genius and a virtual Michelangelo of fabrication.”
“He’s been at it a long time,” Peter muses thoughtfully.
“Yeah, I know,” I reply as I dutifully recite the details. “His story began when he immigrated from Ireland years ago and opened an old bookstore here in Manhattan. The business was actually legit if you didn’t count the many manuscript forgeries he created. He perfected the aging of the paper and ink as well as the cording that bound the pages and the paste that adhered them to the cover. He actually foisted off ‘signed’ copies of novels by John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain as well as earlier works by Thomas Paine and even letters supposedly penned by George Washington.”
“Killbride got away with it for a long time,” Peter frowns, “until he decided to branch out into Federal Reserve notes. We believe he was the mastermind behind creating a pseudo plate of the $100 bills produced by the Treasury before the new ones came out in 2013. Then he was suddenly in the wind.”
“I’ll bet a ton of those C-notes are still out there in circulation,” I reply with a smirk. It was just so much fun to wind Peter up.
Peter looks at me dolefully. “I think you may be a bit jealous, Neal.”
“Maybe a tad,” I reluctantly agree as I hold his stare. “But now my days as a very bad criminal are over thanks to you and my trusty ankle monitor.” After that bit of poking the bear, I stand and head for the door. I know Peter is watching my retreating figure as I leave, just as he’ll be checking my tracking app on his phone as I make my way home. Sometimes it’s comforting, in a perverse sort of way, to know that someone is watching. At other times, it’s downright maddening to be observed so closely.
I stroll down the quiet street and summon an Uber with my phone. It pulls abreast of me at the curb almost immediately, and I later realize the timing was definitely off and I should have been more observant. Well, hindsight is 20/20, but right now I can’t see anything because a pillowcase has been pulled down over my head and I’m squeezed into the footwell in the back seat of the vehicle wearing zip ties on my wrists. I feel rough hands on my left ankle and I just know my tracker is about to be removed. I am not disappointed as my link to Peter is severed.
The ride continues for probably at least a half hour, and there are many right and left turns during the journey. Finally, we come to a stop in what I suspect might be an underground garage by the hollow echo I perceive and the smell of motor oil and old auto exhaust. I’m hustled along between two burly men who invade my personal space on both sides. I just keep walking because I have no choice. I’m sure we’ve entered an elevator because I hear an automatic door slide shut and I feel a little lurch as the car begins to rise. I think I’m about to find out the ultimate destination after my abduction.
I’m led into a room where the pillowcase is removed and I gaze around me in what appears to be a small apartment. A man, probably somewhere in his mid-40s, is already seated on a couch with a tumbler of something amber in his hand. “Mr. Caffrey,” he says amiably, “please have a seat and let me apologize for the unorthodox manner that brought you here. Let me make amends by offering you a bit of some very fine whiskey.”
“Maybe later,” I say coldly.
“Well, suit yourself but you’ll be missing out on some excellent Jameson’s. It’s warm and smooth like the inside of a lady’s thigh,” he says with a smile.
“You know who I am, but I’m at a disadvantage,” I challenge.
“Of course you are,” he agrees. “But I’m a good host and want to put you at ease. So, you can call me Del if I can call you Neal.”
“Is that short for Delbert?” I ask snidely. “If so, then perhaps your parents didn’t like you very much if they saddled you with that moniker.”
“My parents liked me just fine,” he says with his smile still in place, refusing to be insulted. “My Mom gave me that name to try to protect me. It’s of English origin, so she wanted an Irish Catholic boy in Belfast to fit in with all the British tyrants. It didn’t work, actually. She died when some stupid Westies set off explosives in our neighborhood and she was killed. My Dad was just a book illustrator by trade and he was never very political, so it made absolutely no sense. My father couldn’t get over his soul mate’s unfathomable death, so the first chance he got he took himself and me far away from the madness to America. I’ve had a pretty good life in my adopted country, so I can’t complain.”
“Thanks for the autobiography regarding your family tree, Del,” I say cynically, “but what does your life story have to do with kidnapping me?”
The man across from me stops smiling. “Kidnapping is perhaps not the right word for your situation,” he says slowly. “In another context, one could say I set you free from your captors. Surely these past years living under the oppression of the FBI haven’t been easy ones. Right now, consider yourself liberated. You can walk out that door—or not,” he teases.
“That seems like an empty offer,” I say as I nod toward the two men who had abducted me blocking the only way out.
“Oh, the two aides over there?” Del arches an eyebrow. “Don’t concern yourself with them. They’re like family.”
“Sure they are,” I say sarcastically. “So, what’s the catch, Del? There’s always a catch,” I say with a frown.
“Not a catch, really, but rather an opportunity,” he shrugs. “You can hear me out and agree to do a little something that’s right in your bailiwick, or you can go back to what may have become a comfortable prison for yourself. I don’t judge, but don’t you want to be your own man, Neal, making your own choices? I’m giving you that chance,” he tempts me with his words.
“Okay, I’m listening,” I finally agree.
“I have ways of finding out information,” he say ominously, “and it has come to my attention that you and your handler, Peter Burke, have decided to pick through an old cold case like scavengers ravaging a landfill. Unfortunately, that ridiculous snooping couldn’t have come at a worse time. I have grand plans in the works and you have put yet another glitch in my objective. Now, if you are agreeable to help me out with just one of my problems, I’ll make sure to get you away safely to wherever you wish to go. South America, Europe, Asia—I can make it happen and you can begin a whole new life. Most likely, the US Marshals have already pegged you as a fugitive, so what have you got to lose except a very heavy yoke from around your neck?”
My mind is working overtime as I listen to Del and his sales pitch. Peter and I have been rehashing John Killbride, who is now probably close to 70 years old. I wonder if this guy could be his son. The pieces all seem to fit, and I’m almost afraid to ask what happened to the old man.
“What exactly do you want me to do for you?” I ask with raised eyebrows.
“Ah, so I have piqued your interest, and that’s a good first step,” Del says with that renewed infuriating smile. “Let me show you around,” he says as he stands and beckons me with his hand.
We traverse the length of the apartment, passing a small bedroom on our way, until we stroll through an arch. I suddenly realize that the wall between an adjacent dwelling has been removed making the space much larger with an additional room. I look around at all the specialized equipment arrayed before me and realize, quite quickly, that I have entered into an Aladdin’s Cave for a counterfeiter. No expense has been spared and I see things that I’ve longed to use in my previous work but could never get my hands on.
“Impressive, isn’t it,” Del says with pride. “Tempted to try out a few of the toys?”
“Maybe,” I say slowly. “But first, let’s lay our cards on the table, my friend. Exactly what do you want me to do for you?”
“Directness—I like that,” my captor laughs. “I’ll be just as blunt. I want you to create a plate for the new $100 dollar bill.”
“That’s become virtually impossible because of all the bells and whistles the Treasury added in 2013,” I reply.
“Yeah, I know,” he agrees. “I’ve been told the raised printing over Franklin’s shoulder may not be an issue and neither is the faint portrait of him embedded in the watermark, but all the other holograph stuff presents a challenge.”
“Exactly,” I agree. “The color shifting bell on the copper inkwell changes hues as the bill is tilted in the light, and so does the numeral 100. By far, the biggest stumbling block is the blue security strip running down the middle of the bill. It’s actually woven into the fabric rather than superimposed on top, and it contains images of liberty bells that change to the number 100 as the bill is moved from side to side.”
“You know your currency,” Del says in approval. “But I also think I know you. You’re a perfectionist who likes a challenge, and you get a high when you can outsmart the brightest minds and thumb your nose at the system. I’ve made myself quite familiar with your work before I ever decided to recruit you, and I was very impressed. I believe you can do this if you are willing to give it a whirl.”
I think about my suspicions and decide to take a chance and just put it out there. “If you want the best, why don’t you ask your father to do the work for you. You are John Killbride’s son, aren’t you?”
“I knew you were a very smart man, and I thought you would eventually figure it out,” Del remarks with a grin.
“So, answer my question,” I insist. “Why can’t your own flesh and blood do your dirty work? He’s done it before, so why not now?”
“He would, if he could,” a son agrees. “But Dad has gotten on in years and he has issues that prevent a new undertaking of this magnitude.”
“Care to explain?” I say as I push the envelope.
“In a word—Parkinson’s,” Del says quietly. “Even though he’s on medication to help with the tremors, it’s gotten quite advanced and it’s hard for him to come to terms with being disabled. I make sure that he lacks for nothing and is comfortable. Actually, those two men who brought you here really are aides who help with his care 24/7. They’re devoted to him. Some days, Dad gets very bitter about his situation and all the expenses that are necessary for his wellbeing. But I’m never going to put him in a nursing home, so the answer to my problem is to refill the coffers and continue to keep him with me.”
“That sounds very noble, but there has to be other ways for you to do what you need to do,” I say logically.
“Neal, I was brought up knowing all about forgeries and counterfeiting. That was always our life and our livelihood, so that’s the avenue I’m choosing to take. Will you help me or not?”
“Do I really get a choice?” I want to know.
“This was all dumped in your lap very suddenly,” Del says carefully. “Be my guest while you give it some thought. Of course, I must insist that you stay here during that time because you now know much more than you should. The aides will see to your needs and we can talk again in a few days.”