Lost Light by Michael Connelly Read Free Book Online Page B

BankLA-scan all the bills.”
    “Scan the bills? What do you mean?”
    “Record the serial numbers.”
    I remembered the paragraph I had circled on the newspaper clip. It had apparently been true. I started doing the math in my head. Two million divided by a hundred. I almost had it and then lost the number.
    “That would be a lot of numbers.”
    “I know. The bank balked-said it would take four people a week, something like that. So they negotiated and compromised. They sampled. They took ten numbers from every one of the stacks.”
    I remembered from the Times story that the money was delivered in $25,000 bundles. That math I could do. Eighty bundles made $2 million.
    “So they took eight hundred numbers. Still a lot.”
    “Yeah, I remember the printout was like six pages long.”
    “And what did you do with it?”
    “Let me have another taste of that Black Bush, would you?”
    I gave it to him. I could tell the flask was just about empty. I needed to get what he had and get out of there. I was getting sucked into his miserable world and I didn’t like it.
    “Did you put out the numbers?”
    “Yeah, we put out the list. Gave it to the feds. And used the robbery guys to get the list out to all the banks in the county. I also sent it to Vegas Metro so they could get it into the casinos.”
    I nodded, waiting for more.
    “But you know how that goes, Harry. A list like that is only good if the people are checking it. Believe it or not, there are a hell of a lot of hundred-dollar bills out there, and if you use them in the right places people don’t raise an eyebrow. They aren’t going to take the time to run the number down a six-page list. They don’t have the time or the inclination.”
    It was true. Recorded money was most often used as evidence when it was found in the possession of a suspect in a financial crime such as a bank robbery. I could not remember working on or even hearing about a case where marked or recorded money was actually traced by transaction to a suspect.
    “You were going to call me back because you forgot to tell me that?”
    “No, not just that. There’s more. Anything left in that little flask of yours?”
    I shook the flask so he could hear that it was almost empty. I gave him what was left and then capped it and put it back in my pocket.
    “That’s it, Law. Until next time. Finish what you were going to tell me.”
    His tongue poked out of his horrible hole of a mouth and licked a drop of whiskey from the corner. It was pathetic and I turned away as if to check the time on the television so he didn’t have to know I saw it. On the tube was a financial news report. A graph with a red line trending down was on the screen to the side of the anchorman’s concerned and puffy face.
    I looked back at Cross and waited.
    “Well,” he said, “about, I don’t know, ten months or so into the case, close to a year-this is after me and Jack had moved on and were working other things-Jack got a call from Westwood about the serial numbers. It all came back to me the other day after you left.”
    I assumed Cross was talking about an FBI agent calling his partner. It was not an uncommon practice within the LAPD for investigators to never refer to FBI agents as FBI agents, as if denying them their title somehow knocked them down a notch or two. There had never been any love lost between the two competing organizations. But the main federal building in Los Angeles was on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood and it housed the whole sandbox of federal law enforcement. All jurisdictional biases aside, I needed to be sure.
    “An FBI agent?” I asked.
    “Yeah, an agent. A woman, in fact.”
    “Okay. What did she tell you guys?”
    “She only spoke to Jack, and then Jack told me. The agent said that one of the serial numbers was wrong and Jack said, ‘Is that right? How so?’ And the agent told him that the list had wound through the building and eventually across her desk and she’d taken the