“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 actually is an 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.
He sorted through the canvases again, checking their backs. “Holy shit,” he murmured. “It can’t be.”
“Can’t be what, Agent Keller?” Director Kass demanded.
“I don’t think these are forged,” Griffin said. “I think they’re the originals. And I’m pretty sure they were stolen from the White House.”
Everyone around him started talking at once.
“Are you sure about this?”
“How could someone get inside the White House and steal a painting without anyone noticing?”
“Aren’t these things rigged with some sort of alarm?”
All their questions were valid, but there was a bigger question that consumed Griffin. “How many others are missing?”
“Agent Keller, we still don’t know definitively that these aren’t forgeries,” Director Kass said. “Before we jump to any conclusions, why don’t you take these down to the forensics lab at DC headquarters and have an expert check them out. With any luck, they might be able to grab a fingerprint from these. Agent Morgan and the FBI can keep working the case from here.”
Griffin hesitated. He didn’t want Leslie and her team grabbing his collar. But this gang of counterfeiters had been methodical and thorough so far. His gut was telling him Leslie wouldn’t find anything of use in the truck. The paintings, on the other hand, just might lead to something. The Secret Service forensics lab was the best in the country at finding trace evidence on an item—fake money, in particular. The director was right; it was worth a shot. If nothing else, while he was back in DC, he could grab a beer with Adam and check out the sniper angle.
“I’ll drive down tonight.” He rolled up the paintings and carefully slid them back into the tube, except he couldn’t quite make them fit the way they had before. Griffin pulled the paintings back out and laid them on the table before turning the tube upside down and shaking it. A white cloth fell to the floor.
“What’s that?” Leslie asked.
Griffin reached down and carefully picked it up, shaking it out as he did so.
“It’s a dish towel.” His gut clenched when he caught sight of the monogram on the towel. “From the White House kitchen.”
The group was somber as Griffin shoved the towel into an evidence bag. “I’ll head out now if you don’t mind, Director,” he said.
“Be sure and brief the agency director first thing,” Director Kass said.
Nodding to the field office director, Griffin headed for the SUV he and Silva had arrived in forty-five minutes earlier.
“Agent Kellar,” Leslie called after him.
He stopped in his tracks and turned to face the FBI agent who was his sometimes lover. The stark contrast of the bright lights of the warehouse bay against the dark night left her in silhouette so that he couldn’t make out her expression.
“Don’t forget to brief me as well,” she commanded, hands on her hips.
He was pretty sure that was code for “call me.” Griffin wasn’t in the habit of calling any woman except his mother. And despite a few exerting nights in bed, Leslie didn’t warrant being added to his phone log. It seemed a trip to DC couldn’t have come at a more strategic time.