AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“The dogs aren’t picking up anything,” one of the bomb squad agents relayed through the transmitter. “I’m going to do a quick X-ray of the truck’s container just to be sure.”
“Ten-four, Agent Oswald,” Leslie replied.
Not wanting to wait any longer, Griffin sought out the two Secret Service agents he’d had staking out the warehouse. Mark Phillips trotted out from one of the nearby buildings, presumably the one where the sniper had fired his fatal shot.
Phillips shook his head when he saw Griffin. “Nothing. Not even a gum wrapper up there. I cordoned it off anyway. Maybe the forensics team can find something that will help.” Phillips dragged in a lungful of the night air. “That wasn’t an easy shot to make,” he said. “Whoever pulled the trigger was a trained sniper. A damn good one.”
Griffin made a mental note to check with his buddy from their days at West Point, Adam Lockett, a former army sniper who now served as a commander on the Secret Service Counter Assault Team. It was Adam’s job to know who and where the best shots in the world were. Keeping tabs on his competition was a source of pride for Adam who considered himself to be at the top of that list of the world’s best shots.
“I still can’t figure out why the shooter didn’t take more people out,” Phillips said. “Hell, he could have decimated the New York field offices of both the Secret Service and the FBI in one round.”
Griffin stared at the warehouse where the bomb-sniffing dogs sat at attention while their handlers x-rayed the truck with handheld machines. “That wasn’t his mission. This group is arrogant. Whatever we find in that truck will be sterile as the day it came from the factory. The tools can be replaced. As long as they have The Artist, they can set up shop somewhere else.” He kicked at a lamppost in disgust.
Two black sedans with sirens flashing rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop in front of Griffin. He blew out a heavy breath, having no doubt each car contained the director of both agency’s field offices. Steve Kass, the Secret Service field director of the New York office, alighted from his car first.
“What the hell happened, Keller?” he demanded as the FBI field director made his way out of his car and over to where Leslie was still trying to keep charge of the scene. “You told me this was as close to a sure thing as it gets. I’d assumed we would arrive in time to see you leading out counterfeiters in handcuffs.”
“It would seem someone didn’t want to leave behind anything that could incriminate the rest of the gang,” Griffin said. “Including the driver.”
“The truck is clean, Agent Morgan,” the bomb squad agent relayed thru Griffin’s earpiece.
“If there were something in that truck that could lead us to The Artist or this group, we’d be sifting through shrapnel right now,” Griffin told his boss. He gestured to the crowd forming at the back of the parking lot. Apparently, there were more people working late in the industrial park than he’d counted on. “Phillips, take Silva and whomever else you can grab and start interviewing those people. I want to know what they saw and heard. After you get their names, forward them to the joint operations center in DC for cross-check. Let’s make sure everyone is who they say they are.”
“You think our shooter might not have left?” Director Kass quietly asked when Phillips walked off.
“At this point, I don’t know what to think anymore,” Griffin responded. “But I’m not taking any chances. Let’s go see what’s in the truck.”
Just as Griffin suspected, the truck contained boxes of ink and linen paper used for printing money. A high-pressure intaglio printing press, carefully wrapped on shipping pallets, sat at the rear of the truck, seemingly mocking Griffin. While this kind of printing press was expensive and difficult to come by, the group had proved they could get any and all materials they needed to successfully make fake money. The Artist’s talents for creating bills that were nearly indistinguishable from the real thing were the component of their operation that was priceless.
Leslie came up beside Griffin and discreetly touched his arm. She knew how important solving this case was to him. “We’ll take the truck back to the lab and dust it for prints.”
“The only prints you’ll likely find will be that guy’s.” Griffin gestured to the kid who’d been driving the truck, now stretched out on a gurney, awaiting a body bag.
“Still, it’s worth a shot.” She gave his arm a squeeze and went to talk to her team.
Griffin wandered over to the gurney and stared down at the deceased driver whose license identified him as twenty-year-old Jamal Issacs, from Freehold, if in fact that was his real ID. Griffin wondered how a kid from Springsteen’s hometown got mixed up with a counterfeit gang made up of crooks based in Greece.
“Whoever took that shot must have been a Red Sox fan,” the medical examiner joked from behind him. With his gloved hand, he reached around Griffin and lifted off the baseball cap, gesturing to bullet hole before dropping it into an evidence bag. Having grown up in Boston, Griffin came from a long line of Sox fans, but the sight of the desecrated Yankee cap didn’t alleviate any of his disgust over the current situation.
“He had this in the front seat with him,” the medical examiner continued. “Must not have wanted it rolling around in the back.” He pulled out a three-foot-long cardboard tube; the kind used to carry blueprints.
Griffin’s interest was immediately piqued. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves out of the evidence kit and pulled them over his fingers. Gingerly, he took the tube from the medical examiner and pried the plastic cap off one end.
“They look like paintings.” Griffin gently drew the rolled-up canvases out of the tube. Leslie made her way over, and Griffin handed her the tube while he spread the paintings out on a table at the back of the bay.
“So, our artist actuallyisan artist,” she said.
“Not unless our artist is the reincarnation of Jean Paul Monet.” Griffin shuffled the canvases. “Or Paul Cezanne.”
“A forger, then?” Director Kass asked.
Griffin looked up to see both field directors had joined Leslie and him at the table.
“Most likely. That’s probably how he got drafted into designing ‘forged’ money,” Griffin said. But something wasn’t sitting right. Something about these paintings seemed familiar.
Leslie fingered the corner of one of the cut canvases. “I never figured you for an art enthusiast. How do you know who painted them?”
“My mom’s an art teacher. She’d bribe me with hockey tickets if I’d go to a museum with her.” He smiled at the memory. “The best Mother’s Day gift I ever gave her was a private tour of the White House with the curator…” His voice trailed off, and a chill ran down his spine. Griffin suddenly remembered why these paintings looked so familiar. He’d seen them all hanging in the White House.
