Dirty Money

McWhitney, having nothing to say, sipped his seltzer.

Oscar said, “You are suggesting you might have access to that poisoned cash.”

“And I know,” McWhitney said, “you do some dealings with money overseas.”

“Money for weapons,” Oscar said, and shrugged. “I am a . . . junior partner in a business trading weaponry.”

“What I’m interested in,” McWhitney said, “is money for money. If I could get that poisoned cash out of the States, what percentage do you think I could sell it for?”

“Oh, not much,” Oscar said. “I’m not sure it would be worth it, all that trouble.”

“Well, what percent do you think? Ten?”

“I doubt it.” Oscar shrugged. “Most of the profit would go in tips,” he said. “To import officials, shipping company employees, warehousemen. You start playing with those people, Nels, many many hands are out.”

“It’s an awful lot of money, Oscar,” McWhitney said.

“It would very quickly shrink,” Oscar said, and shrugged. “But since it’s there,” he went on, “and since you do have access to it, and since we are old friends”— which was not strictly speaking true—“it is possible we could work something out.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Oscar looked around at the dark wood bar. “Do you have this money with you now?”

“No, I’m on my way to get it.”

“The police theory,” Oscar said, “according to the television news, is that the thieves hid their loot somewhere near the site of the robbery.”

“The police theory,” McWhitney said, “is, you might say, on the money.”

“But you believe,” Oscar said, “you could now go to this area and retrieve the cash and bring it safely home.”

“That’s the idea,” McWhitney said.

“And are you alone in this endeavor?”

“Well,” McWhitney said, “that’s the complication. There’s other people involved.”

“Other people,” Oscar agreed, “do tend to be a complication. In fact, Nels, if I may offer you some advice . . .”

“Go ahead.”

“Leave the money there,” Oscar said. “The little profit you’d realize from an offshore trade becomes ridiculous if you have to share it with others.”

“I may not have to share it,” McWhitney said.

Oscar’s thin face looked both amused and disapproving. “Oh, Nels,” he said. “And do you suppose your partners have similar thoughts?”

McWhitney shook his head, frowning for a stressful instant at the scarred wood tabletop. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “Could be. I don’t know.”

“A dangerous arena to walk into.”

“I know that much.” McWhitney gave Oscar an impassioned look. “I’m not talking about killing anybody, Oscar. I’m not talking about a double-cross.”

“No.”

“You said it: a dangerous arena. If I have to defend myself I will.”

“Of course.”

“There’s three of us.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe three of us come out with the money, maybe one of us comes out, maybe nobody comes out.”

“You’re determined to know which.”

“Oh, I am,” McWhitney said. “And so are the others. If at the end— If at the end, I’m clear of it, and I’ve got the money, and it’s just me, I want to be able to think you’ll be there for the export part.”

“You won’t be mentioning me to the others.”

“No.”

Oscar considered. “Well, it’s possible,” he said. “However, one caveat.”

“Yeah?”

“If you come out trailed by ex-partners,” Oscar told him, “I do not know you, and I have never known you.”

“That’s one thing I can tell you for sure,” McWhitney promised. “I won’t be trailed by any ex- partners.”

4

Terry Mulcany couldn’t believe his good luck. He’d been in the right place at the right time, that’s all, and now look. Here he was in the exact center of the manhunt, hobnobbing with the major headhunters. Well, not exactly hobnobbing, but still.

Mulcany knew he didn’t belong here. He wasn’t at this level. A young freelancer from Concord, New Hampshire, he had two trade paperback true-crime books to his credit, both to very minor houses and both milking, to be honest, very minor crimes. A few magazine sales, a whole drawerful of rejections, and that was his career so far.

But not any more. This is where it all would change, and he could feel it in the air. He was an insider now, and he was going to stay inside.

If only he could remember where exactly he’d run into that robber and his moll. Outside some B and B around here, that’s all he could bring to mind. A white-railed porch, greenery all around; hell, that described half the buildings in the county.

But even if he could never finally pinpoint where he and the robber had met, what he did remember was enough. He had come to this temporary police HQ just in time to end a disagreement between two of the top brass, and since it was the top top brass his evidence supported, he was in.

Apparently, it had been the local honcho, Chief Inspector William Davies, who believed one of the men they were looking for had left this area, pulled another robbery in New York State, and then come back here with the cash to finance the gang while they were hiding out. The other honcho, Captain Robert Modale from upstate New York, had insisted the robber, having safely gotten away from this area, would never dare come back into it. It was Mulcany’s positive identification of the man that proved the chief inspector right.

Fortunately, Captain Modale didn’t get sore about it, but just accepted the new reality. And accepted Terry Mulcany along with it. As did all of them.

The woman artist had left now, to have many copies made of the new wanted poster, and the others had moved into that office. Chief Inspector Davies sat at the desk where the artist had done her drawing, while Captain Modale and Detective Gwen Reversa—there’s a picture for the book jacket!— pulled up chairs to face him, and Terry Mulcany, with no objection from the others, stood to one side, leaning back into the angle between the wall and the filing cabinet. The fly on the wall.

At first, the three law officers discussed the meaning of the robber’s return, and the meaning of the woman who’d been seen with him, and the possibility the man was actually bold enough to be staying at one of the B and