Using a grayish opaquing fluid and a fine-tipped brush, LaMonica painstakingly eradicated the signatures on the negative for the front of the traveler's check. By the time this procedure was completed, he had a stiff neck. Finally the negatives were ready. One at a time he arranged them on a vacuum-frame table and matched them to a thin lithographic printing plate that was about the size of a legal tablet. He fished around in his box of supplies and brought out a stopwatch. He flicked on an arc light and the stopwatch simultaneously and timed the plate exposures. In less than an hour the plates were completed.
After washing each of the plates in developing solution until the image of the checks was visible, he chose the ones he liked best and tossed the others on the floor. Without hesitation, he affixed the front plate onto the printing press and locked it into position. He took the time to carefully adjust the ink and water levels on the printing press, then flicked the 'on' switch and stepped back. The sound of a press starting up gave him a slight chill (as it always had ever since the day he lost his finger).
The press worked efficiently, spitting perfect copies of the purple traveler's check into its basket. As reams were completed, LaMonica gingerly refilled the paper feed. After a couple of hours, stacks of counterfeit traveler's checks were piled up all over the cabin. Although fatigued, LaMonica took special care as he used a paper cutter to trim the traveler's checks. While doing this, he would occasionally compare one of the counterfeits with the genuine item to make sure it was the right size.
By 5:00 P.m. the job was completed. Having handed the checks, he stacked them in a large black briefcase. He carried the case to the car and locked it in the trunk.
Using a shovel and pick he had brought with him, he spent the next two hours digging a hole next to a tree near the cabin. He dragged the printing press out of the cabin and shoved it into the hole. He did the same with the copy camera and the vacuum frame. He covered the hole with dirt and returned to the cabin.
Using a two-gallon can of gasoline he kept on hand for emergencies, he doused the walls and floor as he backed out the front door. He lit a book of matches and tossed it into the room. A fire jumped. Paul LaMonica climbed in behind the wheel of the rented sedan and watched the cabin as it was engulfed in flames. He remembered the sound of fire engines arriving in front of his house when he was a child … and his mother's whining, siren like voice.
Chapter 8
Kelly parked the government sedan in front of a small shop with a bright yellow awning mounted over a display window. The awning's calligraphic lettering announced 'The New Life Gallery.' Kelly followed Carr out of the sedan. They strolled to the window, which contained kaleidoscopic photographs of pasty-faced, embracing women. The photographs were flanked by a wooden box containing a pile of what appeared to be dyed red sand in the middle of a collection of kitchen knives. An artist's business card leaning against the wooden box bore the title 'Women's Work.'
Carr opened the door and stepped into the art gallery. There was the sound of a chime. A fortyish woman with close-cropped blond-streaked hair wearing a shapeless dress stood in the corner speaking softly with a pair of designer-jeaned women of similar age. Both had potbellies like half footballs, wore an excess of turquoise jewelry, and stood poised on six-inch heels. The woman in the shapeless dress acknowledged the agents with a nod and continued her conversation.
Kelly nudged Carr. He pointed to a pedestal next to the wall. Resting on it was a carved wood vagina lined with feathers and seashells. In the orifice, the artist had pasted a magazine photograph of women marching with banners. The price tag on the sculpture was $2,000. A mobile hanging above the sculpture was formed with photographs of female buttocks and love poems hand-lettered on Kotex.
After a few minutes, the potbellied women departed. The woman with the blond-streaked hair approached Carr and Kelly. Carr reached into his pocket for his badge.
'You don't have to show me anything,' the woman said. 'I can tell you're cops.'
'Are you Rosemary Clamp?' Carr said.
'Cramp,' she said. 'Rosemary Cramp. But my name is now Rosanna DuMaurier. I had my name changed legally.' Kelly continued to stare at the wooden sculpture. 'It's the artist's self-portrait,' she said.
Kelly nodded dumbly.
'We're looking for Paul LaMonica,' Carr said.
'I don't know anyone anymore,' she said. 'I haven't been arrested for over five years. Of course you've probably checked my record and you already know that. Who told you that I knew Paul LaMonica?'
'We didn't come here to cause you any problems,' Carr said. 'We have a warrant for LaMonica's arrest and we're talking to a lot of people trying to find him.' He looked her in the eye as he spoke.
'I don't appreciate you people coming into my gallery. It's totally uncalled for. I actually got a chill down my spine when I saw you walk in. It's like a reflex from my past life. I haven't been in trouble for over five years and I'm fully within my rights to ask you to get the hell out of here right now. Now, will you please
'I apologize if we've embarrassed you,' Carr said. He nodded at an amazed Kelly and sauntered toward the door. He stopped in front of a rack of crude pencil drawings and sorted through them. He picked one up which depicted two disconsolate women sitting on a four-poster bed stroking a cat. He stared at the drawing for a moment. 'How much is this?'
The woman gave him a searching look before speaking. 'Twenty-five dollars.' Carr walked toward her with the drawing. He handed it to her and reached for his wallet. He pulled out some bills and gave them to her. The woman stared at the money for a moment, then accepted it.
'A cop buying lesbian art?' she said.
'It's a birthday present for my twin sister. She lives in San Francisco. We lead very different lives, but I respect her more than anyone I know. She had the courage to come out … to be honest.' Carr turned and headed toward the door. He opened it.
'Do you remember the phony series E bonds that were cashed in the banks along Wilshire Boulevard five years ago?' said the woman.
Carr stepped back in and turned to face her. 'Three grand's worth in every bank from downtown Los Angeles to Santa Monica. I remember the case well.'
The woman tapped her chest. 'Me,' she said. 'I can tell you now because the statute has run out and I can't be prosecuted.'
'It was one of the best bond capers I've ever seen,' Carr said. 'Four agents spent weeks working on it. All we came up with was a vague description of a woman.'
'I wore different wigs,' she said. 'Paul LaMonica was waiting in the car for me outside each bank. I ended up with nothing more than a few bucks out of the deal. There were too many people that had to be pieced off. Hell, at the time LaMonica was supplying my smack habit and that's all I really cared about. It was right after that caper that I got busted for marks and ended up doing a year in Frontera. I did a lot of thinking when I was in. For the first time in my life I admitted to my true sexuality. For the first time I realized that all of life is based on sex. Admitting my true nature solved virtually all of my problems. For once, I could accept myself. After I was released I kept completely away from the old crowd. I began living a new life. That's why I named this place the New Life Gallery.'
'Have you seen LaMonica in the past few months?' Carr said.
'He stops by once in a while when he's out of the joint. He always wants me to do some phony paper for him, and I always shine him on.'
'Any idea where I could find him?' Carr said.
'What did he do?'
