Tracing real money was Ray's primary concern, and they eventually got around to it. Money is not actually marked, Talbert explained, for obvious reasons. If the crook could look at the bills and see markings, then the sting would fall apart. Marking simply meant recording serial numbers, once a very tedious task because it was done manually. He told a kidnapping and ransom story. The cash arrived just minutes before the drop was planned. Two dozen FBI agents worked furiously to write down the serial numbers of the hundred-dollar bills. "The ransom was a million bucks," he was saying, "and they simply ran out of time. Got about eighty thousand recorded, but it was enough. They caught the kidnappers a month later with some of the marked bills, and that broke the case."
But a new scanner had made the job much easier. It photographs ten bills at a time, one hundred in forty seconds.
"Once the serial numbers are recorded, how do you find the money?" Ray asked, taking notes on a yellow legal pad. Would Talbert have expected anything else?
"Two ways. First, if you find the crook with the money, you simply put two and two together and nail him. That's how the DEA and FBI catch drug dealers. Bust a street dealer, cut him a deal, give him twenty thousand in marked bills to buy coke from his supplier, then catch the bigger fish holding the government's money."
"What if you don't catch the crook?" Ray asked, and in doing so could not help but think of his departed father.
"That's the second way, and it's much more difficult. Once the money is lifted out of circulation by the Federal Reserve, a sample of it is routinely scanned. If a marked bill is found, it can be traced back to the bank that submitted it. By then it's too late. Occasionally, a person with marked money will use it in one general location over a period of time, and we've caught a few crooks that way."
"Sounds like a long shot."
"Very much so," Talbert admitted.
"I read a story a few years ago about some duck hunters who stumbled across a wrecked airplane, a small one," Ray said casually. The tale had been rehearsed. "There was some cash on board, seems like it was almost a million bucks. They figured it was drug money, so they kept it. Turns out it they were right, the money was marked, and it soon surfaced in their small town."
"I think I remember that," Talbert said.
I must be good, thought Ray. "My question is this: could they, or could anyone else who finds money, simply submit it to the FBI or DEA or Treasury and have it scanned to see if it was marked, and if so, where it came from?"
Talbert scratched his cheek with a bony finger and contemplated the question, then shrugged and said, "I don't see why they couldn't. The problem, though, is obvious. They would run the risk of losing the money."
"I'm sure it's not a common occurrence," Ray said, and they both laughed.
Talbert had a story about a judge in Chicago who was skimming from the lawyers, small sums, five hundred and a thousand bucks a pop, to get cases moved up the docket, and for friendly rulings. He'd done it for years before the FBI got a tip. They busted some of the lawyers and convinced them to play along. Serial numbers were taken from the bills, and during the two-year operation three hundred fifty thousand was sneaked across the bench into the judge's sticky fingers. When the raid happened, the money had vanished. Someone tipped the judge. The FBI eventually found the money in the judge's brother's garage in Arizona, and everybody went to jail.
Ray caught himself squirming. Was it a coincidence, or was Talbert trying to tell him something? But as the narrative unfolded he relaxed and tried to enjoy it, close as it was. Talbert knew nothing about Ray's father.
Riding in a cab back to the airport, Ray did the math on his legal pad. For a judge like the one in Chicago, it would take eighteen years, stealing at the rate of a hundred seventy-five thousand a year, to accumulate three million. And that was Chicago, with a hundred courts and thousands of wealthy lawyers handling cases worth much more than the ones in north Mississippi. The judicial system there was an industry where things could slip through, heads could be turned, wheels greased. In Judge Atlee's world a handful of people did everything, and if money was offered or taken folks would know about it. Three million dollars could not be taken from the 25th Chancery District because there wasn't that much in the system to begin with.
He decided that one more trip to Atlantic City was necessary. He would take even more cash and flush it through the system. A final test. He had to be certain the Judge's money wasn't marked.
Fog would be thrilled.
Chapter 20
When Vicki fled and moved in with the Liquidator, a professor friend recommended Axel Sullivan as a divorce specialist. Axel proved to be a fine lawyer, but there wasn't much he could do on the legal front. Vicki was gone, she wasn't coming back, and she didn't want anything from Ray. Axel supervised the paperwork, recommended a good shrink, and did a commendable job of getting Ray through the ordeal. According to Axel, the best private investigator in town was Corey Crawford, a black ex-cop who'd pulled time for a beating.
Crawford's office was above a bar his brother owned near the campus. It was a nice bar, with a menu and unpainted windows, live music on the weekends, no unseemly traffic other than a bookie who worked the college crowd. But Ray parked three blocks away just the same. He did not want to be seen entering the premises. A sign that read
Crawford Investigations
pointed to stairs on one side of the building.
There was no secretary, or at least none was present. He was ten minutes early but Crawford was waiting. He was in his late thirties with a shaved head and handsome face, no smile whatsoever. He was tall and lean and his expensive clothes were well fitted. A large pistol was strapped to his waist in a black leather holster.
"I think I'm being followed," Ray began.
"This is not a divorce?" They were on opposite sides of a small table in a small office that overlooked the street.
"No."
"Who would want to follow you?"
He had rehearsed a story about family trouble back in Mississippi, a dead father, some inheritances that may or may not happen, jealous siblings, a rather vague tale that Crawford seemed to buy none of. Before he could ask questions, Ray told him about Dolph at the airport and gave him his description.
"Sounds like Rusty Wattle," Crawford said.
'And who's that?"
"Private eye from Richmond, not very good. Does some work around here. Based on what you've said, I don't think your family would hire someone from Charlottesville. It's a small town."
The name of Rusty Wattle was duly recorded and locked away forever in Ray's memory.
"Is there a chance that these bad guys back in Mississippi would want you to know that you're being followed?" Crawford asked.
Ray looked completely baffled, so Crawford continued. "Sometimes we get hired to intimidate, to frighten. Sounds like Wattle or whoever it was wanted your buddies at the airport to give you a good description. Maybe he left a trail."
"I guess it's possible."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Determine if someone is following me. If so, who is it, and who's paying for it."
"The first two might be easy. The third might be impossible."
"Let's give it a try."
Crawford opened a thin file. "I charge a hundred bucks an hour," he said, his eyes staring right through Ray's, looking for indecision. "Plus expenses. And a retainer of two thousand."