Chapter 1
H
eading to work, Max Landry threaded his way through the forgotten of the city, huddled, and shivering in thread-bare coats sprawled in the doorways of office buildings and businesses, carboard sheltering others from the rain. Passing these downhearted, displaced, disenchanted, and strung out, Max recognized the characteristic bloodshot eyes and pallid skin tone of those whom society would rather forget.
Straightening his shoulders, he pledged not to forget them and to do whatever he could to help eradicate a problem he could affect. I have to try. We must reduce the number of drug dealers and pushers from Seattle. Striding up the steps past three flag poles with their vibrant colors waving in the light breeze, he pushed open the heavy glass door to the Seattle Field Office on Third Avenue. Beads of early fall rain dripped from his wool overcoat as he entered.
The lobby looked jarringly like those in other offices, and he fixed his gaze on the logo in the center of the gleaming white marble floor. A red and white striped shield beneath the gold bar showed the scales of justice. Green stalks of wheat flanked the shield, and below, a white ribbon with the words Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. Max had seen and respected the logo since childhood when his uncle first brought him there. As with every workday for the past ten years, he clutched the lanyard around his neck that held his FBI badge. Chin held high his chest swelled as he drew in a breath.
“Landry, wait up.”
Max turned at the sound of the unfamiliar voice calling from behind him.
The man’s hand extended in a swift, determined move. Max wavered for a second before reaching out.
“I’m Joe Pickering, Forensic Accountant. I work on the sixth floor. I haven’t had the chance to introduce myself. I heard you recently transferred here from Anchorage. Seattle must be a welcome change.”
Max exhaled as he withdrew his hand and reached into his pocket, inconspicuously opening his packet of wipes, and wiping his hand. Despite the more than two-year pandemic being officially over, he maintained the germophobe tendency he had lived with since pre-teen days. “This is my second week here.”
“Your first assignment?”
“No. I spent time in Anchorage, which wasn’t too bad, but has some bad memories. Before that, I spent time in Mobile, then Monroe, Louisiana.” He grimaced. “The hot humid south.”
Pickering nodded. “I understand. It’s tough starting out knowing you’ll be situated wherever those in power say and transferred as needs demand. But you should be secure now in a field office instead of a satellite office. What floor are you on?”
“Third floor, Criminal Investigative Division.”
“That sounds like a good assignment. How do you like Seattle?”
“Seattle is home for me. I graduated from the University of Washington with a double major in Criminal Law and Information Technology. I’ve dreamed about working in this office since my childhood. Most of my family live in the area, so I hope to stay as long as possible.”
“I imagine your family was excited to have you home?”
“Oh yeah. Mom went overboard, threw a big party with all my old friends who are still around.” Max shook his head as his voice trailed off. “At least most of them.”
“Good luck. I look forward to working with you.” Joe offered a quick two-finger salute.
With a quick “thanks,” Max turned and bypassed the elevator heading for the stairs. He tapped the fitness app on his Apple watch and jogged to his third-floor office, counting steps as he went. Once there, he strode to the coat closet and hung up his drizzle-drenched overcoat, careful not to touch any nearby coats. Though he didn’t see any lint, he brushed off the collar of his navy-blue suit, smoothed his crisp white shirt, and straightened his already-straight tie. This routine always instilled the confidence and order upon which Max thrived. He thrust his shoulders back and headed for his desk, obscured among dozens of others separated by short walled cubicles in the busy office. Two dozen agents sat either pounding on keyboards or added to the cacophony of individuals with phones to their ears, a dozen conversations at once, like a flock of seagulls after a high tide.
From the cubicle across from his, Agent Amelia Knightly greeted him with her typical wide smile that showed off her ultra-white teeth, a lovely contrast to her radiant dark skin. “Director Edwards wants to see you right away.”
Midway into pulling out his chair, Max stopped. “Did he say why?”
Knightly shrugged and spread her hands. “I assume he has a new assignment for you.” Amelia’s tone sounded like a mother serving a plate of spaghetti while her child asked what’s for dinner. Max pumped his fist, ignoring her spirited sarcasm. For several days Max had been one of the agents busy at his desk pounding on a keyboard, researching any possible weaknesses in a potential cybersecurity breach. He’d joined the FBI to be in the field, not behind a desk, not working his joints into a premature case of carpal tunnel or arthritic fingers. He smiled at his co-worker, then leaned in and cocked his head. “Apple?”
“What?” Knightly scrunched her face in confusion.
“You smell like a bushel of fresh apples.”
“You’re such a nerd.” Knightly shook her head and ran her fingers through her closely cropped ebony curls.
Knightly reminded him of FBI Agent Tiffany Wallace from the TV show FBI, but with the wit of Barbara Feldon, Agent 99 from the 1960s sitcom “Get Smart,” starring alongside Don Adams who played the role of Maxwell Smart. Max never dared to ask his parents if they named him after the television character. “Not a nerd. Just observant.”
“Since I know you like to be precise, it’s not apple, it’s green apple shampoo, the only shampoo my daughter, Lucy, will use these days. She’s become quite picky about everything since she turned five, and she insists I also use it because she likes the scent.”
Max grinned. “I’ll remember.” He once more headed for the stairwell and bounded two at a time to the seventh floor, giving both his legs and his lungs a good workout and continuing one of the small routines that helped him maintain the fitness level required for the job. He hit the last one, stepped down one step, and continued up again. Forty-four. An even number. He checked his pulse on his smartwatch. Only a beat quicker than normal. He beamed. For a man over thirty, his fitness level surpassed his college days when he played basketball for the University of Washington Huskies. Max took a deep breath, turned left, marched to the deputy director’s office, rapped his knuckles on the door four times, and then, hearing a grunt to enter, pushed the door open.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Deputy Director Robert Edwards looked up with eyes that never gave away his emotion. “Take a seat, Landry. I’ve got a situation I need you to look into.” He pushed a thin manila folder across his desk.
Max settled into a brown leather chair facing Edwards. An American flag stood on a pole to the right and a navy-blue flag with the FBI emblem on the left. “What do you have?”
“Received this last month from Financial Crimes Enforcement.”
Max opened the file from the man whom the long-time agents called Topper due to his towering height of six and a half feet, as well as his high-ranking position.
He read the email from the Financial Intelligence Unit that lay atop a multi-page Suspicious Activity Report, known in the banking business as an SAR. He looked at the director. “Where’d the tip originate?”
Edwards propped his elbows on the desk. “A few months ago, the manager at the main branch of Pacific Northwest Bank, a small state-chartered bank, noticed an unusual amount of CTRs submitted over the past year from one branch location.”
Max flipped through several additional sheets inside the folder. He understood the terms of the mandatory bank report designed as part of the bank’s anti-money laundering requirements. “Currency Transaction Reports are fairly routine for banks, and most business owners who deal in large amounts of cash know that banks are required to report deposits or withdrawals over ten thousand dollars, so I’m sure whoever made the deposit is aware the deposits and withdrawals of this amount are monitored.”
“Yes, you are correct. The CTR by itself doesn’t necessarily indicate any suspicious behavior, but, in this case, the general manager contacted the local branch in Lynden and learned that most of the CTRs originated from two businesses, both located in the same strip mall.”
The phone on Topper’s desk rang, interrupting the conversation. The director lifted a finger to Max and reached for the receiver. “He’s here. Tell him I need a few more minutes then send him in.”
Topper rubbed his chin then returned his focus to Max. “Both businesses also made several significant large deposits around the same time that were just below the threshold. This prompted the bank manager to suspect some structuring might be occurring to avoid the reporting limits. Either way, the repeated pattern over many months compelled the manager to file the SAR.”
“This report clearly shows a history of cash deposits between eight thousand and thirteen thousand dollars. One business is a travel-related company, and the other is named Bud’s Joint.” Max chuckled and glanced up to see Edwards smiling.
“Yup. It’s what you’re thinking. As a cash-only business, Bud’s Joint might get a pass on the large deposits. The main target of this investigation is All About Adventures.”
“I wouldn’t think travel agencies would typically be high cash transaction companies.”
Edwards spread his hands. “That’s why we need to ensure we’re not looking at anything related to money laundering or fraud. Check out All About Adventures and see what you can learn from the owner. See if multiple customers pay with cash, or if there is one person who is buying expensive trips and paying with cash. That alone may be suspicious. Though it’s not high volume, it might reveal money laundering and maybe lead us to a larger scale operation. Not many people carry large amounts of cash, and those that do, well, let’s just say their source of income may be questionable.”
Max read the report further. “The narrative from the report indicates the gross deposits for All About Adventures jumped significantly about two years ago. None of the deposits included counterfeit bills, so either the business is simply growing or something else is going on.”
Topper tapped a pen against his desk. “Though the SAR is not targeting the pot shop, since it’s located in the same strip mall, there may be something in common between them. Check that out too.”
With renewed energy, Max’s pulse quickened at the prospect of an assignment outside the office environment. “Got it. It sounds straightforward. One quick interview with each of the business owners, and I’m sure we will have a valid explanation.”
“It may be that simple, but sometimes the simple cases have a way of becoming complicated. That’s why we need to check it out.” The director raised his finger. “There is one more thing.” Topper’s expression shifted, though Max couldn’t read it.
“After I received the SAR, I contacted the Lynden branch and I asked the manager, Myra Reynolds, to notify me when the bank received another large deposit from All About Adventures. Yesterday, Miss Reynolds contacted us regarding a deposit including several thousand in Benjamins from the travel agency. She agreed to hold the currency until we check the bills in person.”
Max wrinkled his brow as he thought. “The bank would identify counterfeit bills, so what are your thoughts?”
“I’m sure you know, one-hundred-dollar bills are the most common bill among criminals and almost no one else. Rich tax evaders, organized crime, and illicit drug dealers tend to hoard them, but not the average citizen on the street.”
“Several thousand in one-hundred-dollar bills is a bit uncommon, especially in a small town.” His heartbeat sped up. This is getting interesting now.
Edward’s head bobbed. “My thinking exactly. That’s why I want you to meet with Miss Reynolds right away and get some background on where these bills originate. And why I want you to work with a new agent for this case. I’m sure he’ll be a big help.”
Tipping his head, Max frowned. “Sir? I think I can handle this alone, as you said, one quick interview.”
The director’s gaze fixed on Max, then he got up, walked to the door, and opened it. A man dressed in khakis, with his FBI badge clipped to his waistband entered. Taller than Max’s six-foot frame, the man’s broad chest revealed muscles bulging through his black polo shirt. With his ramrod straight posture and short-cropped haircut, Max pegged him as ex-military, maybe even special forces.
Frank Nicholls, Drug Enforcement Agent, a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his free hand to Max and shook with a firm grip as Max’s gaze shifted from the agent to what stood next to him. Withdrawing his hand, the agent swept it down and to his side. “This is my partner. JD.”
Max wrinkled his face and stepped back. “More than thirty-six thousand FBI agents in the United States, and I get you and a dog for partners.”
He glanced over at the director’s smiling face. “I’m not keen on dogs, and they don’t seem to take a liking to me.”
“Bad experience with a dog in your past?” Agent Nicholls eyebrows arched.
Max looked down at his left leg and tamped down the urge to scratch his calf. “Still have the scar and twinges of pain from a Doberman bite when I was a kid and had a paper route.”
Following Max’s gaze, the agent replied with reassurance. “I’m sure that left a scar both physically and emotionally. I understand your hesitation. But JD is not only a dog. He’s a K-9, a highly trained Labrador retriever. I’m sure you two will get used to each other in time. Even before we were paired together for four months for training, JD already completed nearly a year to prepare him for his job. He has dual-purpose training. First, all K-9 dogs are trained to track and apprehend suspects, and JD is also trained as an NDD.”
Max wrinkled his brow. “NDD?”
“Narcotics Detection Dog. This dog can detect drugs including meth, cocaine, heroin, and MDMA or ecstasy. He has six years on the job and dozens of drug busts to his credit as well as countless tracking and apprehension arrests. Besides, I go everywhere JD goes, so you won’t have to face this terrifying beast on your own.”
Max couldn’t miss the slight smirk on Nicholl’s face before Edwards cut in. “Not only is JD the best qualified to detect if the bills are tied to any illegal drugs, but he graduated at the top of his class after fifteen hundred hours of training, and he obeys commands without any questions.”
Great. A dog better trained than I am. Max shifted his weight trying not to show his unease over the remarks offered with a satisfied tone. Having read Max’s files, Edwards knew from his work history that he had the tendency to question procedures. Plus, the director knew full well Max made it through his sixteen-week Basic Field Training Course, but nowhere near the top of the class, likely the reason for being assigned to hot, humid Alabama in the middle of summer for his first stint with the bureau.
None of that mattered. Max squared his shoulders. I may have started on the bottom rung, but I’m going to climb to the top, rules or no rules, dog or no dog. Questioning things and acting on instinct helped him stay alive several times and even earned him the commendations on his office wall.
“I want JD to accompany you to the bank when you check out the currency. If there is any illegal substance on the bills the bank is holding, the dog can make that determination. If we eliminate drugs then we can pursue other potential crimes like money laundering or moving illegal goods.”
“Yes, sir.” Max raised his index finger and pointed to JD. “Quick question, can he distinguish between marijuana and illegal drugs like heroin and meth?”
“Great question. JD came to the force after Washington legalized marijuana, so he’s not been trained to respond to cannabis. Agent Nicholls raised his index finger. “As for the illegal drugs, their sense of smell allows them to detect the different drugs, but since the dogs can’t talk, we don’t have any way to know for sure what specific drug they are detecting. In JD’s case, his success rate is around eighty percent.”
Hmm. I’m impressed. Max studied the dog at Agent Nicholl’s side. “So, you’re saying eighty percent of the time JD has responded correctly?”
“At least with the positive results. We can never be certain about the non-responses. Sometimes the dogs don’t respond, but that’s not to say that drugs aren’t getting past us. The traffickers are becoming increasingly cleverer in their methods and learning how to fool drug-sniffing dogs. The FBI is constantly working to improve our training.”
“Well then, I guess we’ll see what he can do.” Max offered a quick wave to Agent Nicholls and headed for the door.
“You didn’t say goodbye to JD.”
Are you kidding me? Max paused, then turned back with a glare to study Nicholls. He appeared serious. “You don’t expect me to pet that thing?”
“That thing, as you said, is a highly decorated FBI recruit, and as long as JD is wearing a vest, he is on duty. You never pet a working service dog, but you can acknowledge him.”
