Play Dead

Franklin is waiting for us in the parking lot in front of the main building. He gets right to the point. “I think I figured it out,” he says, and leads us through a side entrance, down a darkened corridor and into a warehouse. There is a security guard at the entrance, but he just waves us in once Franklin identifies himself.

“There was a slowdown at the pier today, almost a work stoppage. So that’s why some of these things are still here.” He points to some huge crates and boxes. “Otherwise they would have been shipped out already.”

I’m confused, which doesn’t exactly qualify as a news event. “Shipped out? These things are leaving the country?”

He nods. “Right. Everything passes through here, but there is obviously less attention paid to what goes out.”

He stands up on one of the crates and then climbs up toward another, which is farther back. He uses a small flashlight to help him on the trek. “Come on up here,” he says. He’s already pretty far off the ground, and what he is standing on seems rather precarious.

I turn to Karen. “You wait down here so that when I fall, you can call an ambulance.”

I climb up after Franklin, though it takes me twice as long as it took him. He uses the flashlight to light my way, and when I get up there, he points it at a crate that has been partially opened.

“I opened a few of these. They went through Chaney’s department, and they were stacked so as to be hard to get to, so I figured I’d take a shot.”

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“Take a look,” he says, and points the flashlight so I can see inside.

The crate is filled with maybe the last thing I’d expect.

Money.

I can see twenties, tens and fives, but I have absolutely no idea how much might be in there, other than the fact that it’s a hell of a lot of money. “Damn…,” I say, never at a loss for a clever quip.

“What’s going on up there?” Karen calls out, but neither of us is inclined to answer her just yet.

“The two crates back there are the same,” he says. “We’re talking serious money.”

I climb back down while Franklin closes the crate so that it will not look as though it had been opened. Soon he joins me on solid ground, and the three of us head outside. On the way I tell Karen what was in the boxes.

“Somebody was sneaking money out of the country?” she asks. “Why?”

I’ve already figured out the answer to that, but I wait until the three of us are seated in my car before I voice it.

“It has to be organized crime; it’s Petrone’s money.”

“Dominic Petrone?” Franklin asks, and if it weren’t so dark in the car, I would see him turning pale.

“Yes, it all fits. Don’t forget, people don’t pay prostitutes or street drug dealers or bookies by check or credit card. They pay in cash, and often small bills. Not only does it add up, but it weighs a lot.”

“But why ship it out of the country?” Karen asks.

“Because our banking system is tightly controlled. Getting that amount of cash into it would draw big-time attention. Other countries are not as strict, and once the cash enters any country’s banking system, it’s easier to send it back here. Probably by wire.”

“So Petrone owns Roy Chaney?” Franklin asks.

“I would assume so,” I say.

“And he was getting rid of Richard so that he could run this operation?”

“That remains to be seen,” I say, although I don’t think it does. I don’t believe this has anything to do with Stacy Harriman’s murder and the setup of Richard, but I don’t want to share this with Franklin. He doesn’t need to know our case strategy.

One thing this does explain is why Petrone had been monitoring my movements. He was afraid that I would uncover his operation while investigating the case, and he was right about that. The question now is what to do about it.

Franklin has no great desire to intervene in a situation that gets him on Dominic Petrone’s enemies list. He is therefore receptive to my suggestion that we just sit on this for a while. The country is not going to be irreparably harmed by this shipment going out; similar shipments have probably been making the same trip for years. I want to see if I can somehow use this information to our advantage rather than have it lead to our deaths. Franklin is fine with that.

As Franklin is about to get out of the car, I ask, “Have you ever heard of a man named Yasir Hamadi?”

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“Just a name that came up in connection with the case. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but I think I’m going to have to pay him a visit.”

“Can I go with you?” Karen asks. “Haven’t I been a great sidekick?”

I smile. “You’ve been extraordinary.”

* * * * *

THERE IS NO message from Yasir Hamadi waiting for me at the office this morning. I can’t say I’m surprised, nor is it a sign that he is any kind of bad guy. People don’t return phone calls from strangers all the time. He could think I’m a bill collector or, even worse, a lawyer.