Carr felt the blood rushing to his face. "You can't blame me for trying," he said in a self-deprecating manner.
Luegner smiled. "Certainly not. We're all in the same business."
Carr stood up. He finished his drink and set the glass down on the bar.
Luegner stuffed an olive into his mouth. "By the way," he said as he chewed, "seen Sally lately?"
"As a matter of fact I haven't," Carr said casually. He waved at Kelly and strolled out the door.
Carr headed down a pedestrian walkway lined with souvenir shops, which because of the hour were closed. He stopped at the entrance to a small parking lot. There were no more than ten vehicles. A silver Corvette was parked in the corner of the dimly lit area next to a commercial trash receptacle. Carr sauntered over to the Corvette. He pulled a pen-sized flashlight out of his coat pocket, flicked it on, and ran the beam of light along the interior of the vehicle. There was a gasoline credit-card receipt on the front seat bearing Tom Luegner's name. He flicked the light off and stepped to the trash bin. Using the light, he rummaged around until he found a wire coat hanger. He pulled it out and twisted it straight, leaving a hook at the end.
Carr glanced around the lot again. He was still alone. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, he wedged the wire between window and doorframe. After four or five tries, he managed to maneuver the hook under the door handle. He tugged, the lock snapped, and he swung open the door and climbed in. Frantically, he dug around behind the front seat until he found what he was looking for-a heavy briefcase. Pulling it onto his lap, he tore at the latches and it popped open. Using the flashlight to read by, Carr flipped through a stack of reports titled "Informant Contact Report" and stamped CONFIDENTIAL.
Someone was crossing the lot.
Carr flicked off the flashlight and ducked down in the seat. He held his breath. The footsteps of more than one person. They came closer. Car doors opened. Men laughed. Car doors closed. A vehicle drove off.
Carr exhaled. Balancing the flashlight on his lap, he raced through the papers as fast as he could. The report that caught his attention was the one with the most recent date. It was written in the standard FBI format:
TO: Special Agent in Charge
FROM: Assistant to the Special Agent in Charge Thomas A. Luegner
Subject: Operation Peter Rabbit
Source: 2034XD
Method of Contact: Tel/con
Info:2034XD reports that fugitive Sandra Hartzbecker aka Sandra Hill (FBI #5658940H) met recently in Ensenada with a male adult identified as Paul LaMonica (FBI #9586744L) for the purpose of planning early stages of a stateside forgery scheme. No further information. Rec checks show LaMonica subject of fug. warrant #bhk5906 for escape. Subject escaped from Terminal Island federal prison eleven months ago after overpowering a civilian employee at the institution. He used a counterfeit police identification card to facilitate his escape. Subject is a master printer, many times convicted of counterfeiting U.S. currency, various types of checks, etc. No further information. Hartzbecker is former girl friend/criminal cohort (counterfeit money passer) of LaMonica.
Undeveloped leads: Maintain contact with Source.
Carr slammed the briefcase shut and set it in the backseat exactly as he'd found it. He slipped out of the Corvette, closed the door quietly, and tossed the coat banger back into the trashcan.
Carr climbed into his sedan and started the engine. On the way to his apartment he listened to an all-night jazz station.
Chapter 16
In the morning Carr found the arrest folder in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet marked "Closed Cases." A tab on the folder read "Hartzbecker, Sandra/Passer." He carried the folder to a desk in the corner of the room and sat down. He opened the folder. There was nothing inside it except some mug shots. Hartzbecker was dressed in a well-tailored pants suit and her hair was in pigtails. Like everyone in such photographs, she wore a frown.
Carr flipped the stack of mug shots over. Each photo was stamped FIELD FILE ON THIS SUSPECT STORED IN THE LAS VEGAS FIELD OFFICE. He flipped the folder shut. There was a phone on the desk. He picked up the receiver and dialed.
"U.S. Treasury. Las Vegas Field Office, Special Agent Cecil True speaking. Good morning." The agent ran the words together as if reciting Hail Mary number twenty.
"This is Charlie," Carr said. "I need a little info."
"I hope you liked my introduction," True said. "I got written up last week for answering the phone, 'Treasury.'"
"Do you remember a passer named Sandra Hartzbecker?" Carr asked.
There was a momentary silence. "That's a roger," True said. "German broad…fifty dollar notes; the pinch went down in the Casino Monte Carlo."
"What happened?" Carr said.
"She was playing craps at one of the high stakes tables dropping fifty dollar bills for chips. The pit boss at the table takes a look at one of the bills and gets suspicious. He calls security and they try to put the arm on her. The fight is on. She scratched the shit out of one of the guards. By the time I got there it was all over but the shouting."
"Did she talk?" Carr said.
"Nope," True said. "She did the 'I cashed a check at a bank in L.A.' act. At the Field Office I poured her purse out on the desk right in front of her. There's nothing in it but counterfeit fifties and a motel key. Of course she said she'd never seen the key before. I put her in the lockup and headed down to the motel. There was about fifty grand in the same variety of fifties in a shoebox hidden under the bed as well as a couple of pairs of men's pants and shirts hanging in the closets along with her stuff. Back at the office I showed her the shoebox and she started crying. Never would cop out on her boyfriend, though. She's really a solid broad. I figured it out anyway. She had an address book in her purse. I can't remember the guy's name right offhand
"Paul LaMonica?" Carr said.
"That's it," True said. "I really pressed her, even offered her a deal if she would hand him up, but she stuck by her guns. She kept her story all the way to the joint. A solid broad.Yagotta give her credit."
"Thanks for the rundown," Carr said.
"Anytime," True said. "By the way, how's our old buddy No Waves?"
"About the same," Carr said.
"That's why I like it right here in good ol' Las Vegas." True cleared his voice. "U.S. Treasury Las Vegas Field Office, Special Agent True signing off. Have a real nice day," he said in a sarcastic tone.
Carr smiled and shook his head. He hung up the receiver.
It was almost midnight. LaMonica had been catnapping in an overstuffed chair.
The light and sound of a television set filled the hotel room, a talk show featuring a youthful cowboy actor with plucked eyebrows rambling on about the dangers of nuclear power. There was nothing else on.
Like the other cubicles on the top floor of the Tijuana Excelsior, the room was replete with fancy tile work and imitation primitive art. LaMonica rose from the chair and stretched. He stabbed his way through sheer curtains to the spacious balcony.
Sandy, resting on one of the two double beds, remained transfixed by the television.
The view from the balcony was partially obstructed by the downtown bullring, an ominous structure that loomed like some ancient ruin. To the right, American Border Patrol helicopters with powerful spotlights rattled along north of the international boundary searching for intruders. A breeze, tepid and gusting steadily, came from that direction.
"Would you like to go over it again?" LaMonica said to the wind.
"What?" Sandy said. The bed creaked. She went to the dressing table and poured a drink.
"Go over it again," he said, raising his voice.