Black Friday Read online

  Wisps of cinnamon spice tickled MC’s nose. She rested an arm across the back of the couch, not quite daring to touch her partner’s shoulders for fear of an awkward tea spill. They both ignored the low drone of the TV, which was tuned to a favorite crime show. Wind-whipped leaves scratched eerily at the window behind them.

  “I’m always careful in the field,” MC said, her tone soothing and carefully modulated. “It’s not like we’re investigating a murder or something.”

  Barb set her cup on the coffee table, the tiny string from the teabag straggling down the side. “Murder? Why would you even say murder?”

  MC did a mental palm smack to her forehead. “A poor attempt to allay your fears. My point is, postal inspectors don’t face imminent threats like street cops do on a daily basis. At least not normally.” She pushed the Batman mask higher up on top of her head.

  “But there are so many different agencies involved. I don’t remember you ever being involved in such an expansive investigation.” Barb finally met her eyes. “I know you’re a perfect choice for the assignment, but...”

  MC shifted to face her. “I love you. You’re my staunchest supporter. I promise I’ll do my best to stay safe. And I’ll come home to you at night. But seriously, this is fraud. Bigger-than-I-ever-imagined fraud.” MC felt her face heat up with excitement. She envisioned this was how Batman must feel every time he took down the Joker or the Riddler.

  Barb nudged her in the ribs. “What are you grinning about?”

  “Do you think Batman felt like I do right now every time the Bat Signal flashed in the sky above Gotham City? Ready to make the world a safer place?”

  The doorbell sounded and fists pounded on the front door followed by a muffled cacophony ending in, “Trick or treat!”

  Barb rose. “I’ve got ’em this time.”

  MC watched the closing credits roll as she listened to Barb open the door.

  The scent of melting candle and scorched pumpkin floated into the living room along with the tang of wet leaves.

  Deeper voices hollered, “Trick or treat!”

  Uh, oh, she thought. She knew how Barb felt about the “big kids” begging candy on Halloween.

  At that moment the little bird in the old cuckoo clock on the wall appeared nine times, each punctuated with a call of ‘cuckoo.’ Nine o’clock was the witching hour, ending their handing-out-candy ritual.

  Barb blew out the candle and shut and locked the front door of their one-and-a-half story bungalow in Saint Paul’s Highland Park. Their humble abode was eclipsed by expansive two-story homes throughout the neighborhood, some with distended appendages sprouting out the back, the coveted four-season-porch eating up the yard.

  MC loved the locale. They were close to main freeway arteries and to the Mississippi River, where she loved to run.

  Barb shut off the outside light and wandered back to the couch. “I refuse to give those big lugs candy.”

  MC raised her eyebrows and nodded toward the green plastic bowl. “I’ll take care of the leftovers.”

  “I think not.”

  The opening scene from the show Blue Bloods filled the TV screen. MC reached for the bowl, which was about a quarter full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, her all-time favorite candy bar.

  “No way. I know exactly what you’ll do.” Barb slapped MC’s hand. “You’ll start and won’t be able to stop. Then two days from now you’ll be moaning about another cold sore.” Barb held the bowl tight against her middle and sidled away.

  “C’mon.” MC stood and reached again for the bowl. “You don’t want to give them out, and I know you won’t eat them.” She knew she sounded like one of Barb’s second grade students, but it was too much fun to tease.

  Barb held the bowl aloft. “I refuse to give them to overbearing teenagers. Halloween is for young children who are excited about wearing a costume. Those older kids don’t have any Halloween spirit. I swear it’s about greed. Well, maybe not exactly greed, but—”

  “I know. After nine o’clock nothing good happens. The troublemakers are on the streets and the fun is over. So, why not hand over the candy to a responsible adult?” She maneuvered closer to her partner, eyes glued on the neon bowl.

  Barb held up one hand in the “halt” position. “You don’t need any more chocolate tonight.” Barb spun and beat feet down the hallway toward the back of the house. She was quick—MC had to give her that. Barb’s twenty years as a second-grade teacher had provided lots of practice chasing down rambunctious kids.

  MC pulled her mask in place and bolted after Barb, black cape flapping behind her. “Hand over the candy, you evil wench.”

  Barb held her black pointy hat atop her head with one hand and the plastic bowl of leftover candy in the curve of her other arm. “I’m not evil, I’m Glenda the Good Witch, and you don’t need any more sugar. You’ve already had three, for Pete’s sake. You know your limit is one a day. And you know I only say this because I love you and don’t want to see you suffer. Stop your whining.”

  “Batman doesn’t whine. He saves the day.” MC grabbed the end of her black cape and snapped it around. “And all the expended energy needs to be replaced somehow. Peanut butter cups are the perfect energizers.” MC whipped off her cape and mask. “And US Postal Inspectors need sustenance, too. Hand over the candy or I’ll be forced to take you into custody, maybe even use my handcuffs on you.” She grabbed Barb and pulled her tight. The plastic bowl went flying and candy bars skittered across the kitchen.

  Screw the candy. MC snuggled into Barb’s warm skin and familiar scent. “Give me a kiss, my lovely witch.” She pinned Barb against the counter and captured her lips.

  “Mmmm.” Barb wrapped her arms around MC. The witch’s hat fell off her head into the sink behind her. After a few long seconds she said, “Well, that’s certainly better than fighting over candy. How about we make a run to Flannel and see how Dara and Meg are holding up?”

  “You’re on, my beautiful gal.” MC loved hanging out at Flannel, the coffee shop owned by their two closest friends, Dara Hodges and Meg Daley. The foursome had been best friends for nearly twenty years. MC and Barb helped out at Flannel often and in return they never had to pay for coffee or food at the cozy shop.

  Candy bars and costumes forgotten, MC tugged Barb by the hand to the front closet to grab their coats.

  “Trick or Treat!” MC hollered at Dara and Meg as she and Barb hustled into Flannel, where only two patrons sat in the back.

  MC drew in a long slow breath, allowing the aroma of steamy java joy to tickle her senses. “Ah, the toasty goodness of caffeinated heaven. Where’s the candy?”

  The warm golden brick interior created a homey atmosphere. Framed art, all by local artists, lined the walls. Three-by-three-inch placards displayed the price and artist info. MC admired Dara and Meg’s support of locals. The art was interesting, ranging from pencil sketches to abstract oil-on-canvas paintings.

  And, of course, what tied the whole scene together nicely was Dara in her ever-present flannel shirt and cargo pants, hence the shop’s name.

  Dara and Meg bought the place a few years after college more than twenty-five years earlier and made it work through thick and thin, including during the latest recession when many small businesses sank into the economic black hole. Despite the big-name chains, Flannel powered on, anchoring the neighborhood.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Barb said. “No more candy. She’s about to change into a giant peanut butter cup.” Barb kissed MC’s cheek.

  Meg came around the counter, tossing the rag she’d been using at Dara. “It’s our two favorite people. Sorry, MC, we’re all out of candy. But we do have some biscotti. Your favorite—chocolate and salted caramel. That shouldn’t make you into a big bad chocolate monster.”

  Dara took the rag, threw it below the counter, and followed Meg. “What’s up?”

  MC gazed around the tiny cafe. “Thought we’d stop by and see if you needed any assistance corralling rowdy customer
s.” She noted the only two customers were a couple of young women in the two overstuffed easy chairs in the back corner. They were oblivious to the world, hands touching, heads bent toward one another. Two giant mugs sat on the coffee table in front of them.

  Dara did an exaggerated scan of the space. “Sure, tough gal, we definitely need some strong ass law enforcement type keeping the peace in here tonight. The customers are totally out of control. Cuff ’em all.”

  MC said, “Sarcasm will get you nowhere. However, your coffee will buy my undying love and protection forever and ever.”

  “Amen,” Dara said.

  “Dara,” Meg said, “for gosh sakes would you be nice for once?” Hands on her hips, she gave Dara the evil eye, which inevitably kept Dara in line.

  Barb laughed. “Always picked on, poor thing.” She gave Dara a squeeze. “We love you.”

  “Whatever.” Dara straightened, ran a hand around the waistband of her cargo pants to ensure her soft, well-worn flannel shirt was tucked in, and ambled toward the counter. “What can I get everyone?”

  MC followed Dara, and Barb and Meg sat at a table nearby, already deep in conversation about holiday decorations.

  MC said, “We’ll take two coffees, dark roast, if you have it. And one of those biscotti your spouse mentioned.”

  Dara glanced at Barb and Meg, clearly amused by their yammering over when to change themes from Halloween to Thanksgiving.

  “It’s a good thing they have a knack for prettifying, or this place would be an eyesore.” MC accepted the steaming mugs from Dara, balancing a biscotti on top of one. “Thanks.”

  “Always.” Dara grabbed a half-inch high stack of envelopes in one hand and two mugs in the other.

  MC and Dara joined their partners

  “So,” Dara asked, “have the two of you solved the decorating dilemma of the moment?”

  “You know we have. No one else around here can be bothered to do it.” Meg stuck her tongue out at Dara. “I’m only teasing, so don’t get your panties in a twist.”

  “What’s new with you guys?” Dara asked, peering at MC and Barb before tearing open the top piece of mail.

  Barb scooched her chair closer so she could link her arm through MC’s. “MC has been assigned to a big investigation with the FBI and some other alphabet agencies. Honestly, it makes me nervous, but I know that’s not exactly a rational feeling. They want the best and brightest, and that’s my gal in a nutshell.”

  MC felt the blush creeping up her neck. “Um. Yeah.” She wasn’t usually at a loss for words, but the pride Barb displayed in front of their friends left her verklempt.

  “Do tell.” Dara let the envelope fall to the table.

  MC glanced at the half-opened mail piece. “Dara, you do know it’s a federal offense to open mail not addressed to you, right?” She took a bite of coffee-soaked biscotti.

  “What are you talking about?”

  MC pointed to the stack of envelopes. “That envelope you opened is addressed to Meg Daley, not Dara Hodges. I could slap the cuffs on you right now.”

  “Right, but you won’t because we’re friends and anyway you have bigger fish to fry. Give us the scoop and stop with the idle threats.” Dara slid the stack of mail toward Meg.

  MC said, “Okay, but I can’t give any explicit details.”

  “We understand,” Barb said. “Just tell us what you can. You’re so amazing at what you do.”

  MC leaned forward. “The US Attorney’s office had a visit from a reliable source from this huge company, and he brought along his lawyer. The company is a local conglomerate, has worldwide subsidiaries, and this source confessed that the head of the company, the chief operating officer, and the source himself had been working a Ponzi scheme for more than five years. They hatched a plan that garnered millions for sure, possibly billions of dollars for the parties involved. They’ve bilked unsuspecting investors of their funds. We think some really big-name investors and even small-time mom-and-pop types may have risked their retirement nest eggs on this deal and lost massive amounts of money.”

  “Holy shit!” Dara’s eyes were wide. “Are you freaking kidding? But, wait. What’s the Postal Inspection Service got to do with financial stuff?” Dara’s voice was one decibel below an outright bellow. “Ponzi schemes don’t have anything to do with mail. I don’t get it.”

  “Shush! Keep it down.” Meg squeezed Dara’s arm for emphasis and peeked over the top of Dara’s head at the two women in back. They appeared unaware of the outburst.

  MC grinned. “Not kidding. We got involved because financial documents directly related to the scheme have been sent, via US Mail, to the investors. All it takes is one piece of mail to make a case like this the jurisdiction of the Inspection Service. Check this out: even if they’d used FedEx or UPS, federal statute gives us jurisdiction to investigate.”

  Dara said, “Still seems odd for the Inspection Service to be investigating an alleged Ponzi scheme.”

  MC retrieved the rest of her biscotti from Barb and finished it off. “Not at all. In fact, the Inspection Service was the investigative force in the first ever Ponzi scheme.”

  Dara whistled, “Shut the front door.”

  MC said, “I’ll enlighten you on the historical context. Post World War One, a Boston man named Charles Ponzi—”

  “Seriously?” Dara said.

  “Yes! He started a pyramid scheme using International Reply Coupons. Those coupons were a way for people in different countries to send return postage to one another. You’d purchase an IRC in one country and they would be redeemed in another for the value of that nation’s stamps. He noticed that because of the exchange rates these coupons purchased in Europe were worth more in the US than their original costs. He started buying and reselling them and convinced investors to pony up money promising them a fifty percent profit.”

  Meg set aside her mail. “Did he make them rich?”

  “At first. But then the postal inspectors got suspicious because they could see that International Reply Coupon sales weren’t high enough to back up Ponzi’s tale about trading them. They were certain he was doing something illegal. He was even using the US Mail to communicate with his investors, but the inspectors couldn’t arrest him because no one was complaining about being cheated . . . yet. Eventually, Ponzi’s luck ran out. The new investors trickled out and he didn’t have the funds to pay out to old investors.”

  Dara said, “So they arrested him and threw away the key!”

  MC said, “Not quite. It took until August of 1920 before investors cried foul and Ponzi was charged with using the US Mail to defraud and then in November he pled guilty and got five years in prison. Eventually he was deported back to Italy. But he left his mark in that the fraud he committed was named after him, ‘Ponzi Scheme.’ “

  Barb said, “I had no idea. We learn something new all the time.”

  MC swallowed a gulp of lukewarm coffee. “Anyway, back to current day. The whistleblower in our case, see, he’s agreed to wear a wire and try to get the CEO and COO to admit to everything. It’s gonna be big—I’m talking tidal-wave impact—when it hits the newswires, which could be soon. We’re moving fast. The FBI has the lead on the joint task force which includes the Inspection Service, the IRS, and the US Attorney’s Office.”

  Dara whistled. “Impressive shit. You’re gonna be famous, I suppose, and then forget about all us insignificant people in your life as you move up to the big time.”

  “You know better.” MC leaned on the table. “You’re my best friends. And I seriously doubt there’s any fame in this for me, but I’m stoked about busting these assholes. I mean, really, who does shit like that and sleeps at night?” MC stood. “Mind if I grab a refill?”

  “Go for it,” Dara said.

  “Would you top me off, too, sweetie?” Barb asked.

  “Anything for the love of my life.” MC retrieved her mug and planted a soft kiss on her lips.

  A huge smile lit up Barb’s face.
/>   Meg said, “The two of you are beyond cute.”

  Dara stood up and kissed Meg smack dab on the lips, taking her time to make sure it was a good one. Then she asked, “Can I get you anything, honey?”

  “Um. No. Oh, my.” Meg fanned herself. “I’m quite good. Thank you.”

  Everyone broke into raucous laughter.

  The clank of coffee mugs caught their attention as the couple in back stood and bundled up. They carried their empty mugs and plates to the

  gray plastic bin at the end of the counter, and ambled hand in hand toward the door with a friendly wave. The brisk night whipped into the shop as they exited.

  “Ah, young love.” Meg sighed and gazed out the window.

  Fingers of cold air swirled around their legs. “Brrr.” Barb shivered and pulled her jacket tighter. “Winter is definitely rearing its ugly head.”

  Dara asked, “Were we ever so young we were unfazed by cold, wind, and snow?”

  Barb blew into her hands. “Yes, believe it or not. And now we’re middle-aged and living the dream. And quite a lovely dream it is.”

  MC and Dara returned to the table with freshly topped off mugs. MC handed Barb a coffee. “And I’m digging it, this lovely dream.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Barb wrapped her hands around the cup.

  Dara said, “Here’s to middle-aged love.” The four clinked their mugs together and they sipped, enjoying companionable silence.

  “How about we help you close up?” MC asked.

  Meg said, “Fabulous idea. You two are the best.”

  MC and Barb arrived back home at ten past eleven, both pleasantly tired despite the late-night caffeine consumption, which they had effectively burned off cleaning up and restocking at Flannel. MC helped Barb out of her jacket and led her up the stairs to their bedroom for a romantic end to a night celebrating hobgoblins, superheroes—and major cases.

  Later, after Barb was asleep, MC left the warmth of their bed and tiptoed downstairs to clean up the Halloween mess in the kitchen. Then she went in the living room and flicked on the TV. The Last Call with Carson Daly was ending. MC stood munching a peanut butter cup, hoping this final treat wouldn’t be the tipping point to a cold sore outbreak. On the screen an as-yet-to-be-discovered band named Dolores, from Madison, Wisconsin, performed a song, “Philly’s Got a Plan.” According to the text on the bottom of the screen, the cut was from their album, Nectar Fields. The four twenty-somethings were pretty good. She tapped her foot to the beat as the credits rolled and hit the off button when a commercial for Oxy-Clean blasted from the speakers. Why did some commercials have to be so obnoxiously noisy?