CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Good morning. First American. How may I help you?"

I was using the phone in Ryder's office to make the call. Morrell must have been ordered to discontinue the surveillance; no tail had followed me to work, but that didn't mean that the phone in the apartment wasn't still tapped.

I had my story prepared. "Hi. I'm a cashier at a McDonald's outlet and we've taken in a one hundred dollar bill with a suspect serial number. Is there any way of checking it?"

"One moment please. I'm transferring you now."

A chirpy sounding woman came on the phone and I repeated my cover story. I read her the first number on Andy's list. She was able to tell me almost immediately that the serial number was not in use and never had been. She warned me that I would be committing an offence if I tried to pass the bill and suggested I phone the Secret Service and report it. I thanked her for the advice.

Over the next twenty minutes I contacted eleven more banks and received the same answer on each of the numbers. I had been right. For some reason Andy had been printing bad money. For nine months we had spent every free minute in that vault, making plate after plate. Testing and testing. The right ink and top quality paper. All that effort to end up with three thousand bills that wouldn't have made it past a bank teller on their first day on the job.

Ryder appeared when I was replacing a drum of traffic film remover in the carwash. He watched me for a few minutes, then called me into his office. I dried my hands and followed him. His breakfast, a box of doughnuts, was sitting on his desk. He took a long swallow from a bottle of cherry Coke, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched.

"Shut the door," he said. "I want to talk."

"What about?"

"I've been seeing your face a lot on tv. What's your side of the story?"

"It's like the reporter said − the Secret Service made a mistake."

"They don't make mistakes."

"Yesterday they did."

He lifted a doughnut and bit into it. "What's with you and Fridays? That's twice you've been a no show on a Friday."

"It won't happen again."

"Damned right," he said, spitting crumbs over himself. "Your ass is canned. Leave the overalls and get the fuck out of my filling station."

I was still burning over the serial numbers, but Ryder had it coming to him. I reached down and hauled him out of his seat. A smack to his gut had him choking on the bun, and a knee into his groin ruined any plans he had for the weekend. As he sprawled on the floor, I emptied the bottle of cherry Coke over him. I flung open the door and left. The startled cashier backed away from me as I stormed past.

The phone was ringing as I let myself into the apartment. It was Janene Kove. "My mother passed on your telephone number. I hope you don't mind my calling."

I assured her that I didn't.

Her voice was hesitant. "I caught the late news last night. Why have the Secret Service been following you?"

"They've got it in their heads that I'm a counterfeiter."

"Are they right?"

"Nothing could be further from the truth."

"I don't believe you. Is that why you've been trying to contact Andy?"

"No."

"Why did you rush off the other day without saying goodbye?"

"I wanted to be someplace else."

She hesitated. "I'm in Miami for a couple of days and thought we could meet."

"Do we have anything to talk about?"

"Our lawyers tell me that my mother has been pressing them for details on Andy's checking account. Since it was your idea, maybe you should hear what the bank had to say."

"Can't you tell me over the phone?"

"I'd prefer to talk face to face. I'm staying at the Coral Gables' Biltmore, or should I come to you?" she asked, unsure of herself.

"That won't be necessary. What time suits you?"

"Midday. I'll be in the Courtyard Cafe."

Ever since the time I spent on the nearby campus of the University of Miami I have been captivated by the architecture co the Biltmore hotel. Its pillared lobby and vaulted, hand-painted ceilings and ceramic tiles are fine examples of Moorish design. Renovated a few years back, the restorers had done a meticulous job. They had even reintroduced the lobby birdcages with their tropical song birds.

Janene Kove was being served coffee when I strolled in. I shook hands and sank into a chair next to her. She had chosen the table well − the temperature around the fountain was ten degrees lower than outside and the sounds of splashing water would drown our conversation.

"Coffee?" she asked, holding up a silver jug.

"No. Let's talk."

"Call me Janene."

She was dressed in a well-tailored beige suit with a thigh-split skirt. Her hair, burnished copper, was brushed back and pinned to show off her swan-like neck. Her face had been carefully made up to accentuate her eyes and cheekbones. The scent she had chosen was delicate and tantalizing. At that moment, I doubt if there was another woman in Dade County who could have matched her for beauty or grooming. The overall effect was of poise and confidence, but it didn't fool anybody. I had the envy of every red-blooded male in the place. There wasn't one who wouldn't dream that night of copper hair sweeping across his naked chest.

What had happened to the hesitant woman who had called me?

She set down the coffee jug. "Our lawyers were able to confirm that Andy opened a new account around the time that he left home eight years ago. A check from the trust fund is paid into his account every three months. Obviously the bank was adamant about not releasing details of the account, though when our lawyer pulled rank on them as one of the trustees, they were prepared to admit that, apart from the quarterly lodgments, Andy's account has been dormant since it was opened eight years ago."

"He's withdrawn nothing? No living expenses, no utility payments."

"Apparently not. He must have another checking account for day to day money management, though God knows how he's making a living. The trust income continues to accumulate, earning a pittance in interest."

"You don't think your mother could be right? That something might have happened to him."

One of Janene's eyebrows shot up. "Just because he hasn't been blowing his money? To tell you the truth, I'm not all that surprised. Andy can be very headstrong when he tries."

'What did he row with your brother over?"

"I've already told you that I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

Janene allowed herself a wry smile. "You're right of course. Money, what else? Robert had taken over the running of the business, Andy and I were still teenagers when our father died, and they disagreed over what Andy's role should be when he finished college. Robert wanted him to spend a couple of years learning the business, but Andy thought he should have an equal say straight off."

"Doesn't it now strike you as odd? Andy not touching a dime of the trust income, after having his demand for a greater involvement in the business that generated it turned down?"

"Not really. That's exactly the sort of principle I would expect Andy to adhere to."

"How much money are we talking about?"

"Andy's income is the same as Robert's and mine. Over eight years it would have accrued to a little in excess of one million dollars."

"What about the business itself? Who owns it?"

"My mother. On her death it will be divided equally between Robert and Andy."

It was my turn to be surprised. "You don't get a share?"

"My father was an old-fashioned man. He would have thought it was up to a woman to find a husband to support her."

"Nobody could blame Robert for losing his temper with Andy. For a number of years he had borne the responsibility of the entire business on his shoulders, then when Andy tires of student life, Robert's expected to graciously make room for him."

"I hadn't thought of it in that way," Janene admitted. "I had always considered Andy's demand a legitimate one."

"Is that why the family didn't make any effort to assist Andy when he was arrested?"

"Robert thought it best for our business image that we didn't become involved. We couldn't have done anything other than shell out for an expensive lawyer, and Andy would have hired one himself if he had wanted it. I don't think our mother knew until it was too late."

That made three different reasons I had been given for their failure to help Andy. "Did either of you consider telling her?"

"I know I didn't."

"Did Robert?"

"No. At least, I don't believe so."

"Why not?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"I intend to."

"Why are you asking so many questions? I thought all you wanted to do was to find my brother."

"If Andy had been my brother, I would have started to ask questions a long time ago," I growled.

"Don't be angry with me. I would like us to be friends."

"Lady, right now I have just one friend. He's close to sixty, walks with a limp, and because of me, he's hurting."

Janene reached a hand across the table to touch mine. "And what about women?"

"I haven't made it easy for them."

"What man does? Believe me; I know what I'm talking about."

"What do you know?" I snapped. "That all the men at the country club are married?"

I regretted the way I said it the moment the words were out. Something bright and lovely went out of her eyes, and left a lot of hurt in its wake. If I could have done it, I would have erased the last few minutes from her memory.

She put on a smile. "That's the second time you've spilled the wind from my sails. It's my turn now. I want you to take me to bed."

On the way to her hotel room, I came up with a dozen good reasons to turn around and walk away. I ignored every one.

It was close to midnight when I dressed and left her to the darkness. She was in a deep sleep, her red hair spread across the white linen. Janene had been a skilled and experienced lover, yet. I felt I had taken something that had not been freely offered. There was a child-like vulnerability beneath her outer shell. What gave me the right to lay my supercilious attitudes on her?

I drove from the hotel as fast as the VW could go, desperate to put miles between us. But I wasn't through with being a rotten-to-the-core bastard just yet.

Culpepper answered his door drenched in sweat, his tan sport strip stained with dark patches and clinging to him. I had interrupted a session of weight training. He didn't seem all that surprised to find me on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

"Have you found Andy?"

"Let's talk inside."

Culpepper rolled himself into the sitting room. Two dumbbells were fitted with more weight than I would have been comfortable with. The window was open and a warm evening breeze was billowing the muslin drapes. A tape deck was softly playing Nina Simone.

"I want to know why you've been sending e-mails to Andy's family," I said.

Culpepper put on a good show. Almost immediately his expression transformed into one of incredulous disbelief. I might have missed the slight hesitation if I hadn't been watching for it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Over the last three years, Elizabeth Kove has received a bunch of e-mails, supposedly from Andy in Europe. You sent them and I want to know why."

"What possible reason would I have to do that? I've already told you that I haven't heard from Andy since that Thanksgiving dinner."

I walked over and lifted the glass case of marathon medals from the wall. "You travel to European cities to compete. London, Rome, Seville. The same cities the e-mails originated from."

"What's that supposed to prove?"

I let the case drop. The glass shattered, sending shards flying. Culpepper hammered his fists against the rubber of the chair's wheels.

"Okay. Okay. I sent the e-mails."

"I want to know why."

"It was a joke. I was mad at Andy for walking out on me.

"That's bullshit. You said the Kove family had stopped taking calls from you. For all you knew, Andy might have moved back to Marion County."

"You didn't honestly believe that I would tell a complete stranger everything about us," Culpepper scoffed. "I know exactly where Andy is."

"You know where his body is. You killed him," I glanced towards the dumbbells. "It would have taken a strong man to have inflicted the wound I saw.

This time Culpepper's reactions were honest. Blood drained from his face and he had trouble spitting his denial out fast enough.

"I didn't kill him. I swear it."

"Tell that to the homicide detectives." I moved across the room and picked up the phone and started to call 911. "See if they share your sense of humor."

"Wait. Let's talk. Set down the phone."

I replaced the receiver. "If you didn't kill Andy, who did?"

"I don't know."

"But you knew he was dead?"

Culpepper nodded, fighting to regain his composure.

"Who told you? The same person that had you send the e-mails from Europe?"

"Yes, dammit. He jumped to the same conclusion as you − that I had killed Andy. He would have killed me, if I hadn't been able to convince him that I had nothing to do with Andy's death."

"Who was it?"

Culpepper found some resolve. "I can't tell you that."

"I'm not leaving without his name."

"What are you going to do?" Culpepper sneered. "Break my legs?"

"No. I was thinking more of your arms."

Culpepper's face blanched. "Go right ahead. It won't do you any good."

"Was it Salvatore Angelo?" I asked, convinced it had to be someone whom Culpepper feared a great deal more than me.

He blinked twice, betraying himself. "You're wasting your time."

He was wrong. I had found out all that I had come for.

I turned to walk away, but stopped and knelt down to pick up the guy's medals. I shook off the glass fragments from the ribbons and handed them to him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The SETV channel operated from a redbrick building near Opa-Locke airport. Four of its panel trucks were still in the parking lot when I arrived there mid-morning. I climbed out of the car and walked around to the main entrance. Standing outside was a satellite dish large enough to communicate with Mars.

I hadn't bothered phoning ahead to set up an appointment with Nicole Cantrell. I had a feeling a news-hound like her would be more than willing to see me, even on a Saturday. I walked through the smoke-glass doors and spoke to a girl on the front desk. She handed me a cup of muddy coffee and a copy of GQ and advised me to take a seat until Cantrell appeared. I made for a leather and chrome bench to the side of the foyer. A lot of young, earnest-faced men and women passed through the foyer as I waited. Above my head was SETV's logo in three foot high black lettering. Displayed on the other walls were blow-ups of the channel's main front people, flashing their on-camera grins. After a few minutes Cantrell saved me from the coffee by stepping from an elevator and heading straight in my direction.

"Steve, good to see you again," she said, shaking hands firmly. "What can I do for you?"

With more time to study her, I realized that Cantrell was older than I had first thought. "Is there someplace we can talk?"

"I'm sure I can find an empty room."

She led me down a corridor and into a square-shaped room, with one wall made from glass. It was simply furnished with a table and four chairs. A tv, VCR and telephone were on the far end of the table. Cantrell closed the door.

"Did you catch the story?" she asked eagerly. "I saw it. That's what I'm here to talk about."

She frowned and said, "You can't be considering a complaint?"

"Not at all. You did me a big favor."

Cantrell smiled as she took a seat. "Always willing to assist a member of the public. I don't appreciate the way the Secret Service wasted a barrelful of our tax dollars to turn up nothing but an empty storeroom."

The way she said it made it apparent that she would have been disappointed if they had found something.

"I want to know the name of whoever tipped you off? I take it somebody did."

The smile disappeared. "I can't give you that information. Our sources have to remain confidential. I've had Agent Morrell on my back already. I told him the same thing."

It was what I had expected. "Can you at least tell me if your source was known to you or was it an anonymous call?"

"First you have to tell me why you want to know?"

"There have been too many unexplained incidents in my life recently. I'm chasing some answers."

Cantrell thought before answering. "If I tell you, is there a story in it for me?"

"That makes a difference? You'd sell out your source for the sake of a scoop?"

"No. But if you had thought me capable of it, I would have been halfway there. I could have led you along until I found out why you wanted to know."

"I might have swallowed that."

Cantrell made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Me and my big mouth. What do we do now? Play 'I'll show you mine, if you show me yours.'"

"All I can give you is my word. Should anything come of it, you'll be the first to know. At the moment, I'm not sure what it is I'm chasing."

"My mother warned me that promises don't pay the rent."

"Do you always take her advice?"

"Hardly ever. It was anonymous informant."

"Male or female?"

"Male."

"Thank you," I said, not sure if I could believe her. A woman in her line of work had to know her fair share of hoods. She might owe some of them a favor.

"What made you follow it up? I don't suppose a film crew is dispatched on every anonymous tip off you receive."

"The informant's message contained enough detail to intrigue us. And I wanted to meet the man who had made the Secret Service look like a bunch of rent-a-cops. If had been another five minutes, I would have missed the call. I was on my way to cover another story."

"You took the call personally?"

"Yeah, at my desk here, around mid-morning. When can I expect something in return?"

"Give me forty-eight hours." The lie was easy to tell. My experiences with journalists after my arson arrest hadn't endeared me to the breed.

Leaving SETV, I drove north-west along Florida's Turnpike and Route 75 as far as Ocala, where I made my second call of the day on the media. The Ocala Sentinel allowed me use of their CD-ROM facilities to read up on the death of Norman Kove.

The co-operative research-assistant was able to recall the exact date of the accident, June 14, 1995, without having to look it up. She and her parents had felt obliged to attend the funeral as a mark of respect because her father had had a hundred and forty acres of orange groves contracted to the Sunshine Company.

The accident made the front page. Kove had crashed his car into a concrete bridge abutment on a back road late at night during the tail end of a tropical storm. The paramedics dispatched to the accident had been unable to revive him and he had been pronounced dead on arrival. There had been no passengers and no other vehicle involved. The story included a photograph of the crumpled car, taken as it was about to be towed from the scene.