“What else makes you think your pushers are amateurs?”
“Amateur,” Hackett corrected. “Ideally, a pusher is an inconspicuous type. The kind of person whose face you'd never remember. It's never a teenage girl who's blowing money.”
It was time to stare now, and Larry Woolford obliged. “A teenager!”
“We've had four descriptions of her, one of them excellent. Fredrick, the maître d' over at La Calvados, is the one that counts, but the others jibe. She's bought perfume and gloves at Michel Swiss, the swankiest shop in town, a dress at Chez Marie—she passed three fifties there—and a hat at Paulette's over on Monroe Street.
“That's another sign of the amateur, by the way. A competent pusher buys a small item and gets change from his counterfeit bill. Our girl's been buying expensive items, obviously more interested in the product than in her change.”
“This doesn't seem to make much sense,” Larry Woolford protested. “You have any ideas at all?”
“The question is,” Hackett said, “where did she get it? Is she connected with one of the embassies and acquired the stuff overseas? If so, that puts it in your lap again possibly—”
The phone rang and Steve flicked the switch and grumbled, “Yeah? Steven Hackett speaking.”
He listened for a moment then banged the phone off and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Larry,” he snapped. “This is it.”