Wade Turner didn't pay much attention to Teddy Angel. There wasn't any question the guy was stone-cold dead. As Turner bent down over the body, he recoiled at the stench of bourbon. And he shook his head when he removed the headphones that were still covering Teddy's ears, startled by the music blaring. The older trooper reached over Teddy's body, picked up the white iPod, lowered the volume. He put the headset on his own head now, smiled, and nodded at his younger partner.
"Stevie Wonder," he said. "Great fucking album."
Lanier, partly to get away from the dead body, partly to get away from his partner, walked away from the cab and crawled into the back of the truck. A minute or so later he heard Turner say, "Anything back there?"
"Not much," Lanier answered. "Looks like he was logging sporting goods. Baseball gloves, team shirts-shit like that." He reached into a box that had split open, picked up a leather outfielder's mitt. "How the hell'd Matt Lawton get his own glove?" he asked, but his partner didn't answer. Turner wasn't into baseball much. Just college football. He probably didn't even know who Matt Lawton was.
If it was possible, the rain seemed to be coming down harder now. It made Lanier feel claustrophobic in the back of the truck, as if someone were hammering on the walls, telling him to get the hell out.
"Ambulance'll be here in a few," Turner said from outside. "Probably catch pneumonia by then with my luck." He started to head to the Taurus, check back on the second-rate cheerleader, but he stopped when he heard Lanier call out, "Hey, Wade?"
"Yeah?" Turner said.
"I think maybe you should take a look at this."
"I'm fuckin' drownin' out here, Morgan. What is it?"
"I don't know," Lanier said, "but you better come here."
Turner sighed; felt the heavy rain pelt against his neck and down his back despite all the weather gear; and then he climbed into the back of the truck and pulled out his flashlight, pointing it toward his partner, who was crouched in the far corner.
"Check this out," Lanier said. "It's like some kind of secret compartment thing. Built-in."
Turner crawled over to the boxes, pushing aside the loose sporting equipment and clothing that had spilled out. He shone his light where Lanier was pointing. His partner was right. Some kind of wooden cabinet had been built into the paneling in the truck. Turner moved the light, saw that the cabinet went around three quarters of the space. The wood had splintered in several places, the result of the accident. Lanier reached inside, started to slide out what looked like some kind of lead weight.
"Jesus Christ," Lanier said. "It weighs a ton."
"Looks like a gold bar." Turner spoke quietly now. Almost reverently. "Like what they got at Fort Knox."
"Isn't gold kind of… you know… yellow or… gold… or something?"
"I think so," Turner said. "I've only seen it in the movies. That James Bond movie, the one with Sean Connery."
"Goldfinger," Lanier said.
"Yeah. It was yellow in Goldfinger."
"Maybe it's silver. Silver bars. It ain't yellow, so maybe it's silver."
"Maybe," Turner said. "But I'll tell you one thing. Whatever the hell it is, this nigger sure as shit shouldn'ta had it."
Two ambulances arrived, about ten minutes later. One took the blond woman to the nearest hospital, the other carried Teddy Angel's body to the nearest morgue. A local tow-truck service arrived another forty-five minutes after that and, after getting the truck upright, towed it back to Turner's and Lanier's station.
It took the Texas State Police three days to prove Wade Turner correct in his assessment. Teddy Angel sure as shit shouldn't have been carrying his cargo. In those few days, they were able to determine that Teddy's truck had been reported stolen three months earlier in Cincinnati, Ohio. It had been refitted completely-repainted and given false license plates. The name stenciled onto the side of the truck-Hirshey Sporting Goods-belonged to a nonexistent company. The permit found in the glove compartment, the one that would have allowed the truck into Mexico with its sporting goods cargo, was a forgery. The Mexican company listed as the recipient of the goods, El Sportiva Mexicana, was also nonexistent.
Teddy Angel's driver's license was not in the name of Teddy Angel. Or even Edward Anjule. It had been issued in the name of an Easton, Pennsylvania, male who had died at the age of two, just over eight years ago. Teddy's fingerprints had been "interfered with"-those were the words used by the forensic expert who worked on Teddy's body. It meant that someone had operated on Teddy's hands, cut the tips of his fingers so he could not be identified using his prints. Teddy had also clearly never had his teeth so much as cleaned, so nothing came up when a search for his dental records went through the computer. The Texas police had no clue to his true identity.
As near as could be determined, there was absolutely nothing real about either the truck or its driver. At least nothing that the police-or the FBI, who had been called in-had much hope of finding.
The contents hidden in the built-in wooden compartment of the truck were real, however. The metal bars.
Wade Turner's and Morgan Lanier's captain called them into his office four days after the truck had driven off the side of the highway. He told them that he figured they deserved to know the result of the investigation up to that point, not that the result was going to add up to much because they were pretty well stymied. But the captain told them all about the stolen vehicle and about Teddy Angel's nonexistent fingerprints. And about the bars they'd found just sitting in the back of Teddy's truck.
They weren't gold. They weren't silver.
They were platinum.
Solid, pure, unidentifiable and untraceable platinum bars.
Three million dollars' worth.
PART ONE
1
Justin Westwood was experiencing a combination of emotions he was not particularly used to, and he wasn't sure exactly how he felt about it. For one thing, he was relaxed. For another, at least for the moment, he was content. If push came to shove, he realized, he might even describe himself as happy. He was well aware this was not his normal state of mind, and he couldn't help but wonder what the hell was going on.
The good feelings came partly from the very cold Ketel One vodka martini he was sipping, his second in the past half hour, each with two spicy jalapeno-stuffed olives filling up the bottom of the glass. He'd also indulged in a few hits of a superb joint. He wondered what would happen if one of East End Harbor's young police officers happened to walk into his house sometime to find him happily getting stoned. Probably nothing, he thought. It was one of the few advantages of being the chief of police.
Things had been quiet in the small Long Island resort town for nearly a year now. And quiet was good. Teenagers had gotten drunk and turned over a few garbage cans. Three houses had been broken into: someone had stolen food out of one refrigerator; another master thief had broken a window to climb into a bedroom and had cut himself so badly he called the hospital to send an ambulance; and the third break-in was an ex-boyfriend trying to get a piece of jewelry back, an earring. It turned out the earring had cost all of forty-seven bucks-not quite the expensive diamond that had been promised in happier times-so the victim was more than willing to let it go and forget about pressing charges. And even more determined to keep the "ex" in any references to the would-be burglar.
Justin was getting used to the peace and calm. He had had enough turmoil to last several lifetimes. One of the things that had helped him put the turmoil in the past was the naked woman on the bed next to him. She was lying on her right side, propped up on her elbow, also sipping her second martini. Justin would have settled for straight vodka-he probably wouldn't have even bothered with the ice-but she had insisted on bartending. She'd shown up with the dry vermouth and the olives and even supplied the martini glasses, divining that his kitchen cabinet stock went only as deep as four or five Kmart water glasses, if that. She'd also shown up with two thick sirloin steaks, saying that if she had to settle one more time for pizza or the dreadful East End take-out Chinese food he usually ordered, she wouldn't be held responsible for her actions. She also made it clear that she provided groceries when needed, but she hadn't actually cooked anything since she was twelve years old and had no intention of starting now. Justin had looked through his cupboard and asked if spaghetti with garlic and oil and hot red pepper flakes would satisfy her as a side dish, and she had said absolutely, as long as they got to do certain things close up before the garlic took over. He was happy to oblige. They didn't make it halfway through the first martini before her clothes were off and he was putting Sticky Fingers in his CD player-he was really in the mood for the driving beat of "Moonlight Mile" and the sweaty feel of "Can't You Hear Me Knocking"-and she was pulling him onto his bed, and they were making love about as well as love could be made. No, not exactly accurate, he thought. What they had really done so far that night was screw their brains out. And that was definitely satisfactory.