“Before what?”
“We…all…die.”
“What does that mean?” Jake leaned closer to the man’s face. “How are we all going to die?”
Jake held the man’s head up off the pavement. With the man’s last breath, pink foam and bright red blood welled up and flooded out of his mouth. Jake checked for a pulse; there was none. The very worst part of my job, Jake thought: being there when people die. Jake closed his eyes, lowered his head and breathed out slowly. He fought a deep sadness rising within his chest. I hate feeling so damned helpless.
“Bus is on the way,” the Metro cop said.
Jake looked up and shook his head. The Metro cop got back on his radio. The ambulance would still be on its way, but they wouldn’t need the lights and siren.
Jake examined the watch more closely. The hours were marked in twenty-four-hour increments, like a military watch. He noticed a small clear rectangular window in the watch face with the number 35 displayed beneath. No manufacturer or brand of any kind was visible. He took the watch off the man’s wrist and examined the back. No markings there either. Jake checked the man’s pockets. He found a wallet with identification, a plane boarding pass for a flight from New York to Washington and back later in the day, and a Metro Pass card.
It’s evidence — but they won’t need the watch for identification, or cause of death. Besides, he gave it to me. Technically, it wasn’t his when he died.
As Jake moved the watch, he noticed a brief green flash from the watch face. He moved it slowly in the sunlight, looking for the source of the flash. Then he saw it: a holographic image of a large bird. It seemed to float in the air, just under the clear bezel of the watch.
“Huh,” Jake said quietly. The image looked similar to an eagle, but it wasn’t the usual shape. Jake glanced around and slipped the watch into his jacket pocket.
A Metro Police cruiser pulled to the curb just past them on Pennsylvania Avenue. A sergeant got out and approached.
“You see what happened?”
Jake gave him a description of the car and showed him the victim’s identification.
“Detectives are a little backed up. It’ll be an hour or two before they get here. We might have crime scene techs here before that, but maybe not. Can you stick around for a while?”
Jake knew how the system worked. Homicide detectives were overworked in D.C., never enough hours in the day. Same deal for the crime scene technicians.
“Yeah, I’ve got nothing else to do, anyway. You guys look like you could use some coffee.” Jake took orders and went back into the FBI building. With the early summer warmth and humidity, the inside of the Hoover Building felt cooler than it actually was. The air inside smelled unmistakably musty and stale compared to outside.
Despite the depictions in the movies and on television, cooperation between local law enforcement and the FBI was very good. Jurisdictional lines were clear. This was a vehicular homicide within the realm of the Washington D.C. Metro Police. No federal issues were involved.
When Jake returned, more Metro cops had arrived and yellow police tape cordoned off the crime scene. Gawkers collected behind the yellow tape, an unavoidable part of every crime scene. Traffic had been re-routed, which only added to the general confusion a dead body in the street caused. A deputy medical examiner had arrived to evaluate the body. Jake handed her a cup of coffee and filled her in on what he had seen, including time and cause of death.
Two hours later, a team of Metro detectives ducked under the tape: Detectives Kurt Traeger and Craig Dirksen. Jake had worked with both of them before. Dirksen confirmed the victim’s identity: Daniel Jacobson, residing in Manhattan, New York, Vice President of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.
“Really?” Jake asked. “A vice president of the Federal Reserve Bank? In Washington?”
“Yeah,” Traeger said. “We see ‘em from time to time, visiting the politicos.”
“But this guy wasn’t anywhere near the political offices. It looked like he was coming here, to the FBI.”
“Why would you think that?”
Jake cringed. He hadn’t told the other cops everything, but it was time now.
Well, except maybe for the watch.
“When I got to him, I identified myself as FBI to your patrolmen,” he said. “The vic seemed relieved and started mumbling something about all of us are going to die, and how I had to stop them. It seemed a little nuts to me, so I didn’t mention it to the sergeant.”
“Okay, we’ll run a drug panel with the autopsy. That may explain it,” Traeger replied.
Jake was now officially intrigued. A vice president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York comes to Washington, rides the subway instead of taking a limo, apparently wanting to talk to the FBI. But there’s an FBI field office in New York. Why not go there? And what about the watch, counting down the days, hours, minutes and seconds until, according to the victim, they would all die? What was that all about? And just before he gets to the front door of the FBI building, he’s killed by a hit-and-run driver. What are the odds of those things being just a coincidence?
Jake felt the sadness lifting and his pulse strengthen. He turned and headed back into the building to talk to his boss.
“Daniel Jacobson, Manhattan, Federal Reserve Bank VP,” Senior Special Agent William Briggs read off the computer screen. Jake patiently waited for his boss to continue. “He’s been under surveillance by the financial crimes division for the last year−suspicion of money laundering.”
“Anything actionable?” Jake asked.
Briggs computer pinged. “Huh.”
“What is it?”
“Inter-departmental notice. Customs is holding two Chinese businessmen at La Guardia Airport for not declaring financial documents in excess of $10,000.”
“And this concerns us how?” Jake asked.
“They were carrying a business card — Daniel Jacobson, Federal Reserve Bank. Outside of a passport and cell phones, the card is the only possession they have in addition to the financial instruments.”
“What kind of instruments?”
Briggs tapped a few more keys. “Gold bearer bonds, ten of them.”
“Denomination?”
“Hang on, there’s a graphic,” Briggs said. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Take a look.”
Jake had heard about these, but he’d never seen one before. “It says the bearer bond is in exchange for one metric ton of gold. The bonds are issued by the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. Face value is $1,120,000.”
“Yeah,” Briggs said. “Look at the date on the bonds.”
Jake leaned closer to the screen. “June 6th, 1941. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Ten tons of gold, at today’s prices?”
Jake ran the calculations in his head. “We’re at 384 million dollars, and that doesn’t include any interest that would have accrued. No wonder they didn’t want to declare them to customs!”
“I know you’re officially off duty, but their only contact was killed right in front of you. You want to take a look at the bonds and talk to these two?” Briggs asked. “I don’t actually have anybody else available.”
“What about the New York office?” Jake asked. “Wouldn’t they want to be on this?”
“Yeah, about that.” Briggs leaned forward. “If Jacobson was on his way to see us, and didn’t want to go to the New York Field Office for some reason, I’m thinking we should handle this quietly, and from here. You know what I mean?”
“At least until we have a better grasp of the situation?”
“Exactly.”
Jake smiled. He was excited to be involved in an investigation again.