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"I think I know who the printer is."

"Who is it?" Kelly said.

"What'll you do for me?" he said.

Nothing was said for a while. The freeway signs read "Broadway," "Los Angeles Street." Carr steered onto an off ramp and headed down a hill toward the Federal Building.

"The printer's name is Paulie and he's a friend of Teddy Mora. He lives down in Ensenada. That's what I heard."

"Have you ever met him?" Carr said.

"No. I've just heard talk."

"Thanks a lot for the tip," Kelly said.

"I guess that means you're not going to give me a break," the young man said.

"That's right," Kelly said.

"I wanna see my lawyer."

Carr and Kelly spent the next few hours on the usual processing: taking fingerprints, filling out forms, preparing affidavits and reports. It was dark by the time they booked their prisoner into the Los Angeles County jail.

Early the next morning Carr and Kelly met in the reception area of the United States attorney's office, a handsomely carpeted room decorated with framed photographs of the president, the attorney general, and the latest U.S. attorney, a former local presidential campaign manager. During the hour they spent waiting, the receptionist, a red haired woman wearing a shapeless polka dot dress, phoned her mother, painted and blew dry her fingernails, phoned a friend and discussed a television program, thumbed through a movie magazine, and painstakingly switched stations on a tiny transistor radio several times.

Finally, Reba Partch, wearing a white skirt and sweater with yellowed underarms, hustled in the front door carrying a large straw purse in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. She applied brush strokes to her dandruffyBrillo pad as she strode to the receptionist's desk. The receptionist handed her some phone message slips and nodded at Carr and Kelly. Partch glanced at the T-men as if they were mannequins. She flicked dandruff off her shoulders and proceeded to her office.

Half an hour later the receptionist's phone rang. She answered it, then set down the receiver. "You can go in now," she said.

Carr and Kelly headed down a hallway. They stepped into Partch's office. She was on the phone. They sat down. On the wall behind her was hung a USC diploma and a framed photograph of Partch and three other equally unattractive young women wearing T-shirts and jeans. They were sitting in a rubber raft next to a dock. Everyone held up beer cans.

"Gotta run," Partch said and hung up the phone.

Carr started to speak. Partch held up her hand, then dialed the phone again. "Service department, please," she said. After a lengthy discussion concerning shock absorbers and how much she needed her car by tonight, she hung up.

Carr started to speak again.

"Reports," she said as she made a "gimme" motion with her hands.

Carr bit his lip and handed her the reports. She stuffed a handful of cough drops into her mouth and rattled them around against her teeth as she read. Having turned all the pages, she handed the reports back. "Lack of sufficient evidence to prove criminal intent," she said.

"Even though he threw the counterfeit money out the window of his car when he saw us following him?" Carr said.

"In court he could take the witness stand and say that he thought the bag contained narcotics or some other such contraband. Without some proof that the defendant knew that the bag contained counterfeit money as opposed to any other kind of illegal goods, the judge would throw the case out. The counterfeiting statutes require proof of specific criminal intent. As usual, your case is weak because you won't reveal your informants." She made a smile similar to the one in the raft picture. "So you'll have to release your prisoner."

Charles Carr took back the reports and folded them. He and Kelly stood up.

Reba Partch said, "Any questions?"

Without a word, Carr and Kelly headed out of the office to the elevator. The elevator door opened and they stepped inside. Partch rushed out after them. She posed angrily with her hands on her hips. "Must you people really be so rude?" Kelly pushed the elevator button and the door closed. They returned to the Field Office without discussing the incident.

Chapter 18

There was the smell of coffee in the boardroom. The executives drank the beverage without clinking their cups. All, including Omar T. Lockhart, avoided the neat piles of sweet rolls. It was the usual Wednesday meeting, attendance mandatory, fresh notepads in front of every handsome leather chair.

Lockhart responded to the chairman's nod by sitting up in his chair. He opened a folder full of typed memoranda. "I've completed the preliminary negotiations," he said. "It's going to take sweetening the pot some from our offer of twenty five thousand, but I'm convinced we'll be able to buy the checks." He had practiced saying this.

Every eye in the room was on him. Lockhart prayed that he wouldn't break into one of his uncontrollable sweats.

The chairman uncapped his gold ink pen and scribbled on a pad. "Number one," he said, "I'll authorize fifty thousand to 'sweeten the pot,' as you put it. Not a cent more. Number two, we'll not be going to Mexico for the final transaction. It's too dangerous. They will have to come to meet us on U.S. soil. Number three, Just who in the hell are these folks?" He looked up.

Lockhart cleared his throat. "I've been able to develop some valuable information along those lines. I checked police records and visited the Los Angeles office of the U.S. Treasury Department "

"And what have you learned?" the chairman interrupted, his tone impatient.

Lockhart's neck and forehead suddenly felt damp. He referred to his memoranda. "Uh, I've learned that there was, in fact, a Freddie Roth and that Roth was a convicted counterfeiter of checks, bonds, and currency. Roth was murdered by another underworld type a year or so ago. At this point it hasn't been established whether he had a girl friend. He was married you see, and this was probably something he would try to hide from his wife. ."

The chairman of the board frowned. "I find the whole matter disgusting," he said.

Everyone at the long table gave concerned nods.

"Let's move on to the next item on the agenda," he said.

The phone rang.

Carr sat up in bed. He snatched the receiver off the nightstand.

"Why didn't you call me?" the woman said. "You said you would."

"I've been busy." He had no idea who she was.

"I've heard that one before," she said, "But please don't think that you just got lucky in the middle of the night. I don't call men. They have to call me."

Carr rubbed his eyes. He had a headache.

"You really have no idea who this is, do you?" she said. Carr didn't answer.

"The reason I called is that a dyke just got booked here for attempted murder and she says she has some information for you. Her name is" there was the rustling of papers 'Rosanna DuMaurier. Her a.k.a. is Rosemary Cramp."

Carr forced himself to open his eyes. "I'll be right down," he said. "Uh, thanks for the call."

The phone clicked. Carr staggered out of bed and into the shower. He turned on the cold water and groaned as it startled him into consciousness. Having dressed, he headed for the L.A. women's jail. By the time he reached City Terrace Drive and accelerated up the hill, it was daybreak. After parking his car in the visitor's lot, he approached a large guard booth and held up his badge and I.D. card to the glass. The gate in front of him buzzed, and he pushed it open. Carr took a familiar path along a cement courtyard toward the visiting room. He passed through another set of doors, then followed a yellow line on the floor down a corridor to a window made of bulletproof glass. A blonde in a tight fitting khaki uniform sat behind the window. She was close to his age and had a sheriff's gold badge mounted on her left breast. She made a kiss movement at him.