The Kills (35 page)

Mike
helped me with the history. "The Secret Service was created in 1865
especially to investigate and prevent the counterfeiting of U.S. currency, and
enforce all laws related to coins and securities of the government. That's all
that they were about at first. They didn't get into the protection business
until President McKinley was assassinated."

Stark
continued. "So there was my father in 1944, sitting at his desk during the
second day of the actual auction. In burst a couple of agents who announce to
him that the Flanagan coin had been stolen from the Mint, that it had
absolutely no value, and that they were going to seize it from him before it
went on the block."

Mike
wanted the facts. "So whom had Flanagan bought the illegal Double Eagle
from?"

"Precisely
what the Secret Service wanted to know," he said, seeming a bit chagrined.
"They also questioned my father about where he got the information in the
catalog entry that said at least ten of the pieces had gotten into private
hands."

"Did
he have the answers?"

"Most
certainly. He and my uncle were extremely cooperative," Stark said,
starting to smile again. "After all, they had paid the enormous sum of
sixteen hundred dollars for the coin. They had all the bills of sale, and took
the agents directly to the jeweler, who was holding it in his safe."

"So
the feds got that one back for sure," Mike said.

"I
can promise you that, Detective. It was one of the first lessons I learned from
my father. And then this lead agent spent the next few months tracking down the
other Double Eagles my father told them about. He was like a
bloodhound-Philadelphia, Baltimore, Memphis, London."

"How
many were stolen from the Mint and avoided destruction?" I asked.

"Ten.
That's what they figured when they went back to examine the assay samples I
mentioned to you, which was the only group of coins that hadn't been melted
when the orders first came down."

"And
how many of them did the feds track down in 1944?"

"Nine.
They got nine of them back. All except the one that went to King Farouk."

"Did
they ever figure out who committed the theft from the Mint?"

"Seems
to be nothing those investigators didn't figure out. There was a crook at the
Mint-a man called George McCairn-who was in charge of the Weight Transfer
Department the year the Double Eagles disappeared. After 1937, between the time
of their theft and the date of the auction, McCairn was arrested for stealing
some other valuable pieces from the Mint."

"So
he was locked up?" Mike asked.

"For
taking these later items. Never charged for the Eagles, because he never
admitted being the thief. But the feds thought the method was the same. When
the coins came in for assay-and mind you, he had sole control of the keys to
the samples-he simply took ten of them out of the bag and replaced them with coins
of the same weight and size, but no value."

"The
old bait and switch," Mike said.

"Exactly.
No one ever looked in the bags," Stark said. "Once it was realized
the Double Eagles were not going to be declared legitimate legal tender-never
monetized-they were just left to sit out their fate until the moment of
meltdown. McCairn had exclusive access to the samples, and had helped himself
to ten of the beautiful birds."

"How
did they arrive at ten as the exact number?" Mercer asked.

Stark
paused. "By the weight of what was recorded in the assay process. That's
the best they could figure."

"That
Secret Service agent worked damn fast," Mike said, making notes of the
people and dates that Bernard Stark had mentioned. "What did you say his
name was?"

"The
man who tracked down the Double Eagles? It was Strait. Harry Strait."

"Did
I say something wrong?" Stark asked, scanning our faces.

The three
of us must have reacted to Strait's name with the same degree of surprise.

Mike made
his notes and picked up the conversation. "No, no. Now this Double Eagle
that made its way to Egypt, what can you tell us about how it got there?"

Stark
pursed his lips. "Not very much. I think you'll have to get that story
from the Secret Service."

He
reached for his Rolodex and wrote down the name of the supervisor he'd dealt
with when he auctioned the great coin for seven million dollars. "Harry
Strait is dead," he said, "but I think you'll find this fellow most
helpful."

"But
the one you sold in 2002 was legal?"

"Oh,
yes. We weren't about to walk into that mess again. I can't account for the
half century that the coin was in Egypt, but a well-known British dealer
brought it back into the States in 1996. What do you call those, um, shall we
say 'rats'?"

"Confidential
informants?"

"Yes.
One of them tipped off the Secret Service, who did some wiretaps and all that,
and intercepted the poor bird on his way home. Lawsuits and depositions and
lots of haggling, but finally the government admitted a great mistake had been
made."

"Worse
than McCairn's theft?"

"A
good deal so. When Farouk bought his Double Eagle, FDR's Treasury secretary-I
can't recall his name-"

"Morgenthau,"
I said. "Henry Morgenthau."

"Yes,
of course. Morgenthau actually issued an export license to the royal legation
of Egypt, making that one lonely coin legitimate."

"Why?"

"No
one is quite sure. To avoid government embarrassment, probably. He knew it was
going out of the country to a king we were trying to keep as an ally, and there
wouldn't be much harm in letting the twenty dollars that had been promised to
Farouk before the error was caught go to the royal collection."

"So
when the Double Eagle was finally sold, you and your firm got the seven million
big ones, Mr. Stark?" Mike asked.

"In
a very agreeable split with Uncle Sam, Detective. Perfectly reasonable."

"Play
with me for a minute, sir. What if I were to turn up another stolen coin? Say
everybody guessed wrong back in the forties, say McCairn reached in the bag and
pulled out a dozen Eagles instead of ten," Mike said. "Tomorrow I
walk in your door with one more plastic evidence bag, Liberty holding her torch
aloft, 1933 and all that?"

"Without
the certificate that monetizes her-and Morgenthau very likely didn't sign two
of them-it's just one more lovely piece of gold. Carry it in your pocket for
good luck or melt it down and turn it into a ring for your sweetheart."

"So
it's the piece of paper that makes the coin worth its weight in gold?"

"Now
you've got it."

"But
how did this Englishman get the coin-the one you sold-from Farouk?" Mercer
wanted to know.

"The
depositions are all sealed. Perhaps you can convince the agents to tell you.
And then, Ms. Cooper," Stark said, standing to usher us out of his office,
"maybe when you bring me some of Ms. Ransome's coins to inventory, you all
can let me in on the full story that you get from the feds. I've been curious
for years myself."

We
thanked him for his help and waited for the assorted security devices to let us
make our way back to the reception area and downstairs to the lobby.

My cell
phone was vibrating. As we stepped out of the elevator, I took it out of my
pocket. "You call the Secret Service and make an appointment for noon
tomorrow," I said to Mike. "Let me get this."

"Alex?"

"Yes."

"Christine
Kiernan. Your trap-and-trace with the cell phone came through with the
goods."

"You
got the rapist?" I turned to Mercer and gave him a thumbs-up.
"Where?"

"Just
like you said, he was standing on the corner of One Hundred and Second and
Madison, talking to his grandmother down in the Dominican Republic."

"Reach
out and touch someone. Works every time. Fit the 'scrip?"

"As
much as she could give, including a surgical scar on his groin area. Had the
doc's cell phone and two of her ID cards."

"Track
marks?"

"Yeah,
he's a junkie. Stone-cold."

"Priors?"

"Depends
which name you run him under." She laughed. "Once the fingerprints
tell us what his real name is, we'll know more. But he's been through the
system before. He's greeting everyone in the station house like he's a
regular."

"Want
me to come up and help with a statement?"

"He's
not talking. Ponied up for a lawyer right away. Found the phone on the street,
found the doc's ID in a garbage pail. That's all he gave us and now he's not
saying a word. I'll do a court order to get a saliva swab for his DNA, and I'll
draft a complaint. I don't think I'll need to bother you till tomorrow."

"Good
job, Christine."

"Thanks.
See you in the morning."

I snapped
the lid of the phone closed.

"Where
do you get a drink around here?" Mike asked.

I looked
at my watch and saw that it was six-thirty. "Let's try Michael's, over on
Fifty-fifth Street. We can sit quietly and figure out where we are in this
maze."

"Has
the rain let up?" he said, opening the door to look outside. "Where's
your car?"

Mercer
pointed up the street to where we had parked. Mike's was closer by, so we
crossed Fifty-seventh Street in the light drizzle and squared the block on
Fifth Avenue to get to West Fifty-fifth Street.

We had
almost made it through dinner when Mercer's beeper went off. He left the table
to return the call.

"You
still going to the country tomorrow?" Mike asked.

"Absolutely.
Any chance you and Val can join me? I'd love the company."

He ran
his finger around the rim of the glass, which he'd almost emptied of his first
vodka. "Val's having a bad time of it, Alex."

Mike had
met Valerie Jacobsen after she had undergone a mastectomy. She had completed an
intensive course of chemotherapy, but the doctors warned her that it was such a
virulent strain of cancer that she had to be watched for every minor health
change.

"Want
to tell me?"

"Maybe
it's nothing. I just know how it frightens her, even when she doesn't want to
worry me about it. Mostly she's run-down, exhausted, listless. They're working
up a whole slew of tests this week. Maybe you could give her a call, cheer her
up."

"I'm
mortified that you have to ask me to do it. I haven't spoken to her in a couple
of weeks, between my vacation and the trial. Of course I'll call her. Don't you
think a few days on the Vineyard would-"

"She
can't do it right now, Alex."

"Look
at me, Mike," I said, lifting his chin to make his eyes meet mine.
"Trust me, will you? You've got to talk to me about these things. I can't
read your mind."

Mercer
stood behind me, resting his hand on my sore shoulder. "Finish your
cocktails, folks. Have to make a stop at the ER."

I assumed
that meant a sexual assault victim had been admitted and Mercer was tagged for
the interview. "A rape?"

"Nope.
Our friend Andrew Tripping is being treated for multiple stab wounds."