Counterfeit Love

"So you think they were there when I dropped him off," I concluded as we went into the kitchen.

I made a beeline for the coffee machine, feeling Malc's disapproval like a weight on the shoulders that refused to be shrugged away.

"Best guess, yeah. There were footprints on the dust there. Guess Finch never went in the garage to clean it out."

"He's not exactly the scouring the floors type," I told him, smelling the cup of coffee brewing.

"Everyone concluded he was knocked out with the chloroform, bound, and locked up in the trunk."

"Did your mom have any luck with the traffic cameras in the area?" I asked, knowing they were a particular specialty of hers.

"Nothing to go on, really. By the time they'd have made it to an intersection with a traffic cam, it would be impossible to tell where the cars had come from, so it would be hard to trace."

"Hard is not impossible," I insisted, dropping sugar into my mug, then taking a tentative too-hot sip.

"No. And you know my mom. She won't give up until she finds a little piece of information to go on. But I am trying not to get your hopes up."

"Was there anything else in the house?" I asked.

"Nothing to note. A couple spots of blood we missed at first. Nothing in the bedroom. Guest room was bare."

"What about... wait," I said, brows pulling together. "What do you mean bare?"

"Nothing there. A couple folding tables. Nothing else."

"No ink? Paper? Money?" I asked.

"None of that."

"A massive printing press?" I asked, feeling something start to niggle at the edges of my swirling thoughts.

"Like an old fashioned one? No. I think there was an old printer in a corner. But the normal kind."

The printing press.

That was what this came down to.

That damn press.

The one we almost hadn't gotten.

Because we'd been outbid.

We hadn't thought much about it at the time. There were a lot of uses for printing presses still. Especially the old fashioned ones that had little quirks that newer ones didn't have anymore.

Someone could have wanted it for art projects, for a card shop, for a personal collection of such things.

But no.

No.

It wasn't a normal person at all, was it?

It was someone who wanted it for the same reason we wanted it.

To print their own money.

Except, maybe, the plan all along had been to procure the equipment. And then the man himself.

Ewan O'neal was many things. An artist, he was not. He always needed someone else to do the actual work. Finch, and then a small handful of much less skilled men and women.

It made sense that, after a while of working with those who couldn't give him what he wanted, that he would take back the one who could.

And knowing that Finch would never go willingly, he devised a plan to take him by force.

"I, ah, I have to go," I told him, slamming the cup down on the counter with too much force, the burning liquid sloshing over my hand.

"Whoa, no. You're not driving anywhere when you haven't slept in twenty-four hours."

"I have to go, Malc. I might have something," I told him, turning and rushing out.

Being the closest thing to an actual giant I had ever come across, he was next to me in just a handful of strides, wrestling my keys out of my hand when I retrieved them.

"I'll drive you," he grumbled, taking off ahead of me.

When we got there, my stomach was in knots, worried the press guy might have taken off already, that he would have used the money Finch had paid him to start over like we'd suggested.

From the looks of things when the door opened, we had just barely managed to catch him. Another day, and I was sure we would be too late. Boxes were stacked around the living space, suitcases were near the door.

"Oh, you again."

"Yes, me again. I need something from you. A phone number."

"You want my phone number?" he asked, spine straightening, making Malcolm let out a snort.

"No. I want the number of the other man who wanted the printing press," I told him as he slumped.

"Why? I mean, it seems like it would be wrong to share phone numbers with you. You know... without a good reason."

He didn't mean reason; he meant incentive.

He wanted more money.

As if he didn't have a small fortune already.

"I got a good reason," Malcolm declared, slamming the door open with one giant hand, storming in.

"I... I will call the police," Roger declared, eyes huge.

"You could, but you'd have to take this from me first," Malc said, finding his phone, waving it in the air. "You're going to give me the passcode," he demanded.

"This will all be over in a few moments if you just cooperate," I told Roger.

This man was not of the brave sort. He offered the passcode, looking deflated.