Her friend said, 'You started it.'

Three pages later I came to an article that wasn't about Markov, though the headline read MARKOV ONLY THE LATEST. It was a sidebar article about counterfeiting in the Pacific Northwest, and its star subject wasn't Clark Hewitt. I sat up straight and I read the name twice, the second time aloud. 'Wilson Brownell.'

The blond girl said, 'Excuse me?'

I raised a hand and kept reading.

The article labeled Wilson Brownell as ' Seattle 's Master Printer' and described Brownell as a key figure in a funny-money ring operating in the late sixties and early seventies. The article said that Brownell had put together a printing operation in his garage and had developed a coffee-based aging process that enabled him to turn out fake currency that, except for the quality of the paper, was almost indistinguishable from the real thing. They estimated that he had placed almost ten million fake dollars into circulation before, in an attempt to acquire actual government currency paper, Brownell met with an undercover Treasury agent whom he believed to be a European paper supplier. The article finished by saying that Brownell had served eight years of a twenty-year federal sentence, was paroled, and was reputed to be living in the Seattle area, though he could not be reached for comment.

I pushed back from the table, crossed my arms, and stared at the articles. The blond girl was concerned. 'Is everything all right?'

I shook my head, went back on-line, and tried to pull up more stories about Brownell, but none were available. Too far back.

I thanked the librarian for her help, said good-bye to the tag team from UCLA, then drove to my office and phoned the North Hollywood Division of LAPD. A woman's voice answered on the third ring. 'North Hollywood detectives.'

'Lou Poitras, please.'

'Who's calling?'

'The world's greatest detective.'

She laughed. 'Sorry, bud. You're talking to the world's greatest.' These cops are something.

'Tell him J. Edgar Hoover.'

She laughed again and told me to hold on.

I hung for maybe forty seconds, then Lou Poitras came on the line. 'It's gotta be you. No one else would have the balls.'

'Hi, Louis. I need to find out about a guy in Seattle named Wilson Brownell. Got time to make the call for me?'

'No.' He hung up. I never met a cop who didn't think he was a riot.

I called back and the same woman answered.

I said, 'This time tell him I've got pictures of the goat.'

She said, 'You sure you wouldn't rather talk to me? I'll bet I could help you.'

'I'd rather talk to you, but Poitras owes me money and this is how he works it off.'

'Hold on.'

Poitras came on maybe ten seconds later and sounded tired. 'Christ, I guess it's go along or have my lines tied up the rest of the day. Beverly 's in love with you.'

I could hear Beverly shriek in the background. 'Jesus, Sarge, don't tell him that!'

Poitras said, 'What's the guy's name again?'

I spelled it for him. Lou Poitras is a detective sergeant at North Hollywood Division, married, three kids, the youngest of whom is my godchild. He's been pumping iron six mornings every week for as long as I've known him, and he is roughly the size of a Lincoln Continental. I'm pretty sure he could lift one.

Poitras said, 'You know, the taxpayers probably don't like funding your research.'

'At least they're getting something for their money.'

Poitras didn't say anything.

'Sorry, Lou. Just kidding.' Sometimes these cops are sensitive. 'Brownell did time on a federal beef, but now he's out. I need to know if he's keeping clean or if the feds think he's into something.'

'You think he is?'

'If I knew I wouldn't have to put the arm on my friends for free information, would I?'

Poitras said, 'Free?'

A kidder, that Lou.

He said, 'I'll call you later.' Then he hung up.

I pushed back in my chair, put my feet up, and thought about Wilson Brownell and Clark Hewitt, and why Clark would risk returning to Seattle where both the Russian mob and the federal marshals were looking for him. It was obvious that Brownell and Clark were more than just friends. Brownell had probably taught Clark everything he knew about printing money, which is probably how Clark had gotten involved with the Markovs. If Clark was willing to risk going back to Seattle to see Brownell, it had to be because Brownell knew or possessed something that Clark needed, and that suggested Clark 's new business plan probably involved counterfeiting. Clark might be goofy, but he probably wouldn't risk getting tagged by the Russians just to pal around with an old bud. Maybe Brownell was even going into business with him.

I pulled out the two one-hundred-dollar bills that Teresa had given me and examined them. They were older bills, well worn and used, and they looked fine to me. I rubbed at the ink and held them to the light and examined the paper. They still looked fine, but I wasn't an expert.

I put them away and leaned back again when two men came through the outer door. The first guy was tall and black, with a shiny bald head and a plain navy suit and a grim demeanor. The second guy might've been a fashion model posing as a cutting-edge corporate executive. He was in his late thirties and in good shape, with immaculate dark hair and a conservative Brooks Brothers suit. I smiled when I saw the black guy because he was the same guy I'd seen in the gray LeBaron outside Teri Hewitt's house. I smiled wider when I saw a thick bandage on the back of his left hand, and I kept smiling as I reached under my jacket, took out the Dan Wesson, and pointed it at them.

The white guy said, 'You won't need that.' He had a light southern accent, and he didn't seem concerned about the gun.

I said, 'That's up to you. We might be here a while waiting for the police.'

The black guy closed the door and leaned against it. I guess he wanted to make sure I couldn't escape.

The white guy inspected my office. He looked at the figurines, and the Pinocchio clock, and then the picture of Lucy Chenier. Especially the picture of Lucy. I said, 'None of it's for sale. You want to tell me why you were in my house, or should I just start shooting?'

The white guy turned away from the picture. Now he was inspecting me.

I said, 'Pal, it's been a rough couple of days and I'm feeling a mite testy.'

He smiled, like me being testy was just what he wanted. He said, 'This is my associate, Mr. Epps. My name is Richard Chenier. I'm Lucy's ex-husband.'

My eyes clicked from Epps to Richard Chenier and I stared. So much for Russian mobsters. So much for federal agents.

Richard Chenier said, 'The gun?'

I remembered the gun and put it away.

'We were going to meet sooner or later, so I decided to introduce myself.' He didn't offer his hand, and neither did I.

'There might've been a friendlier way to say hello.'

Richard nodded. 'Perhaps.' I guess this wasn't going to be a friendly visit.

'Tell me something, Richard. Do you have your man Epps here follow every guy Lucy dates?'

'No. Only the ones who tempt her into moving two thousand miles. And take my son with her.'

I said, 'Richard.'

He smiled, then sat in one of the director's chairs across from my desk. 'My son likes you, so I wanted to find out what kind of guy you are. You can understand that, can't you?'

'I can understand your wanting to know about me. Hiring a guy to B and E my home is stepping over the line.'

'Oh, I didn't hire Mr. Epps for you. He works for my company. We're in international oil.'

'Mm.' Maybe I was supposed to be impressed.

'He's very good at what he does, and he tells me that you seem to be a solid man. Stable. Good reputation. All of that.'

'I'm glad you approve.'