“Here’s the way I look at it,” Parker said. “If the bill you gave that guy was genuine, then you in fact paid for the merchandise, and we’ve got no beef. If, however, the bill is phony, then not only were you passing bad money, you were also committing Petit Larceny, a class-A misdemeanor as defined in Section 155.30 of the Penal Law, punishable by a term not to exceed a year in the slammer. I’m not paid to be judgmental,” Parker said judgmentally, “but why waste the city’s time and money if in fact the bill is genuine?”
Struthers held his breath.
“Let’s take a walk over to the bank,” Parker said.
“Let’s,” Struthers said confidently.
“Well, well, look who’s here,” Meyer called from the corridor. He swung open the gate in the slatted wooden railing, walked into the squadroom, tossed his hat at the hat rack, and missed. Kneeling to retrieve it, he asked, “What’s it this time, Will?”
“Walkaway,” Parker said.
“Oh dear,” Meyer said.
“Hello, Will,” Carella said, just behind him.
Struthers didn’t like all this fucking cordiality. He wanted to go to the bank, show the bill to whoever understood counterfeits there, and get on with his preparations for New Year’s Eve.
“Also he insisted on passing a C-note may be phony,” Parker said.
“I was paying for my merchandise. Incidentally,” he said, “there’s no law against innocently passing a counterfeit bill if there is no intent to deceive.”
The detectives looked at him.
Parker sighed.
“We were just on our way to the bank,” he said.
“Where’d you get that bill?” Carella asked.
Struthers didn’t answer.
“Will? Where’d you get that C-note?”
Still no answer.
“Was it part of the money you stole from Cass Ridley?”
Struthers didn’t know what he might be getting into here. He figured maybe he just ought to keep still.
“Was it?”
No answer.
“Cause I’ll tell you what,” Carella said. “We’ve got a whole pile ofotherhundred-dollar bills here. Why don’t we all walk over to the bank?”
IT WAS TEN MINUTES TO THREE when Struthers and the detectives walked through the revolving doors of the First Federal Bank on Van Buren Circle. Not too long ago—well, perhaps longer ago than Carella chose to admit—a criminal alternately known to the squad as “Taubman” or “L. Sordo” or most commonly “The Deaf Man”—had tried to rob this bank,twice. Carella still felt a faint shiver of apprehension at the memory. They had not heard from The Deaf Man in a long, long time—well, perhaps not as long a time as Carella might have wished— and he had no desire to hear from him again anytime soon.
The manager back then had been named Somebody Alton, Carella no longer remembered the first name, if ever he’d known it. The new manager was a woman named Antonia Belandres, a stately plump brunette in her forties, wearing no makeup and a dark gray suit. She looked up at the clock the moment they approached her desk.
“Little late for business, gentlemen,” she said.
Carella showed his shield.
“Detective Carella,” he said. “Eighty-seventh Squad.”
“This is the Eighty-sixthPrecinct,” she said.
Carella didn’t know what that had to do with anything. The bank was on the Circle, directly across Tenth, the wide avenue that slivered the two precincts roughly in half, north to south. First Federal was most convenient to the station house, and besides it was a federal bank. If anybody should know anything about counterfeit money, it was the Feds.
“We’re just across the avenue,” Parker explained helpfully.
“We’re investigating a homicide,” Carella said.
She looked at the clock again.
“We need some suspect bills checked,” Meyer said.
“We’re kind of in a hurry here,” Struthers added.
Antonia turned to look at him. Something flashed in her dark eyes. Perhaps she was wondering if he was in charge of this little band of Homicide detectives. He certainly looked intelligent enough. Perhaps she liked the long rugged cowboy look of him. Whatever it was, she addressed her next question to him. With a smile.
“May I see the bills, please?” she said.
They spread the bills on her desk.
$96,000 in hundreds from Cass Ridley’s safe deposit box …
