“Detective Nash,” he said, introducing himself. He opened his coat to reveal his badge, but I confess I didn’t peer closely enough to commit the number to memory. This was because his badge was attached to his belt in close proximity to his fly, and I didn’t want to seem too interested. “Sorry to barge in unannounced,” he went on.
“Not a problem,” I said. I stood and we shook hands across the desk. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”
He handed me a business card that identified him as Sergeant Detective Spencer Nash, of the investigative division of the Santa Teresa Police Department. “Actually we have. Mind if I sit?”
“Sorry. Of course. Be my guest.”
Detective Nash took one of my two visitors’ chairs and gave the place a cursory assessment while I did the same with him. He wore dark slacks and a blue dress shirt with a tie, but no sport coat. “You used to be over on State Street. The nine hundred block.”
“That was six years ago. I was working for California Fidelity Insurance in exchange for office space. Did our paths cross back then?”
“Once, in passing. There was a homicide in the parking lot. I was a beat officer and first at the scene.”
I felt a small flash of recollection and an image of him popped up. I pointed. “A claims adjuster was shot to death. I’d just driven up from San Diego and stopped by the office to drop off some files. You were manning the crime scene tape when I asked for Lieutenant Dolan. I remember you had a little divot right here in your front tooth.”
Dimples appeared as he ran his index finger across his front teeth. “I had it fixed the next week. I can’t believe you remember.”
“A quirk of mine,” I said. “How’d you chip it?”
“Bit down on a piece of floral wire. My wife was making a wreath with pine cones and one of those Styrofoam rings. You wouldn’t think a little nick would be so conspicuous, but I felt like a redneck every time I opened my mouth.”
“That’s what you get for being helpful,” I remarked. “Bet your mom told you not to use your teeth for stuff like that.”
“Yes, she did.”
I glanced at his card. “You’ve moved up in the world.”
“I work property crimes these days.”
I half expected him to take out a pen and notebook, getting down to the business at hand, but he was apparently content to take his time. Meanwhile, I reviewed my behavior, doing a quick scan of present and past sins. While I’m occasionally guilty of violating municipal codes, I hadn’t done anything lately. “Was there a burglary in the neighborhood?”
“I’m here about something else.”
“Not something I did, I hope.”
“Indirectly.”
I thought, Shit, now what?
He took his time, probably deciding how much he wanted to share. “A marked bill was passed in this area a week ago.”
I watched him, waiting for the rest of it.
“We believe it came from you.”
“Me? I don’t think so,” I said.
“Do you remember using cash for a transaction on the sixth?”
“No. You want to give me a hint?”
“I could, but I’d prefer not to color your recollection.”
“What’s to color? I don’t remember anything of the sort.”
“Take your time.”
I was getting annoyed. “What kind of bill? Five, ten, a twenty?”
He jerked his thumb upward.
“A hundred? I don’t carry hundreds. They’re useless. Too hard to change.”
I was about to go on when an “uh-oh” popped to mind. I leaned forward and squinted. “Are you talking about the hundred-dollar bill I used to pay for groceries last week?”
He pointed at me, like he was calling on me in class. “Can you tell me where you were?”
“At the grocery store obviously; the Alpha Beta market on Old Coast Road in Montebello.” I was only adding the details to show I had nothing to hide. My righteous tone sounded bogus, but that might have had more to do with the look he was giving me.
“We’re wondering how that particular bill ended up in your hands.”
“I was hired to do a job and I was paid in cash,” I said. “That bill was phony?”
“Not quite. Six months ago, the Alpha Beta chain initiated use of a device that counts, sorts, and bands currency. It’s also programmed to spot counterfeits and capture serial numbers. The machine tagged the bill as marked, and the store manager tracked it to the cashier who took it in trade. She doesn’t usually work that shift, so she remembered the transaction.”
“Suzanne,” I said, supplying her name.
“What kind of job did you do?”
“None of your business.”
“Hired by whom?” he asked, not the least bit perturbed.
I hesitated. “I’m not sure I should tell you my client’s name. Give me a minute to think about it.”
“I can do that. When were you hired?”
“That same night. So you’re telling me that bill was marked?”
“Not literally marked. We recorded serial numbers on a stack of cash that changed hands two years ago in the course of a felony.”
“What felony?”
“I’ll get to that in a bit. I have a few questions first, if you don’t object.”