The Mystery of the Changed Check

by Ron Katz

“Are you sure you’re ready for ‘the talk’?” asked middle-aged Daniel Silver of his younger sister, Melanie, as they sat in Daniel’s car in front of their parents’ home in a leafy cul-de-sac in Palo Alto, California. Their parents were the well-known detectives, Barb and Bernie Silver, who had met decades before, when they were doing investigations at the Alpha Insurance Company. Now the Sleuthing Silvers were semi-retired, taking cases only where, as the motto of their agency, Silver Investigations, stated, “Age is an edge.”

“Has to be done,” responded Melanie, holding up a set of Bernie’s keys she had found at her house. “Age’s edge seems to be getting duller for dad, and nobody but us is even going to suggest that to him.”

They got out of the car and trudged up the winding walk to their ancestral home. They were greeted by Barb, looking surprised at their unexpected visit. “You look like you’ve come from a funeral,” she observed.

“No,” said Melanie. “Just trying to avoid one.”

***

“What a—I hope—pleasant surprise,” said Bernie, as he joined Barb and his children in the living room. “The two of you appearing together with no grandchildren in tow means something very good or very bad.”

“Neither,” said Melanie, holding up the keys. “I found these in Jackie’s room last night,” referring to her son, “and I thought you might need them.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bernie, “I was just about to call you. “When Jackie and I were playing Nerf basketball last night, the keys were affecting my 3-point shot, so I must’ve put them down and forgotten. Your mom drove home, so I didn’t notice they were missing ‘til a few minutes ago.”

“You weren’t playing basketball when you lost them at my house last month,” interjected Daniel, “and it took us two hours to find them in the pool shed.”

Catching on, Bernie reddened, saying “And I suppose you’ve never misplaced your keys, Mr. Condescending. I was just reading an article about how it’s a mistake to suspect dementia any time an older person misplaces keys, which apparently happens to 99% of people of all ages who own keys.”

“What about keys, plus iPhone, at least once a week?” asked Melanie.

“Time out,” said Barb, with an edge to her voice. “This conversation is not going in any productive direction, so let’s try a different approach. We’re going on a family vacation next week to a beautiful condo we’ve rented in Maui. At the end of that week, when we’re all relaxed, we can try to discuss this in a more civilized way. In the meantime, your father and I will continue aging gracefully.”

“Agreed, with one exception,” responded Bernie, getting up to signal that this family confab was over. “Now that I’m in my seventies, I’m not sure ‘gracefully’ is the right word. I am aging gratefully.”

***

“Anything interesting in that AARP Magazine I saw you reading on the flight?” Bernie inquired of Barb as they were driving their rental car from the airport to the Royal Palms Resort/Condo complex on Maui.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” responded Barb. “It used to be that they ran an article on elder fraud once a year or so, but now there seems to be a feature in every issue.”

“I don’t click on anything in my email from a stranger now,” agreed Bernie. “Those phishing expeditions are getting more and more clever, involving things people really care about, like problems with social security benefits or back taxes.”

“The problems are not just on your computer these days,” added Barb. “My friend, Madeline, had her car stolen the other day by a scammer.”

“How’s that?” asked Bernie.

“Well, she was parked at the Costco lot, with hundreds of other cars, and she came out of the store with a basket full of groceries. She loaded them in her trunk and started her car, when she noticed what looked like a $20 bill stuck under the windshield wiper on the passenger side of the front seat. She got out of the car to check it by walking to the passenger side of the car, and…”

“Let me guess,” interrupted Bernie, “somebody jumped into the driver’s seat and drove the car away.”

“Yes,” Barb responded, “groceries and all.”

“Have they recovered the car?” asked Bernie.

“Not yet. According to Madeline, the police seem to think they have more important things to worry about than cars stolen from gullible elders.”

“Our detective backgrounds don’t immunize us from this sort of thing,” observed Bernie, “but, luckily, we’ve seen enough scams to know when to be suspicious.”

“Fingers crossed,” said Barb. “I think the real problem is something that’s not at all suspicious.”

“Something not at all suspicious will be OK 999 out of 1000 times,” said Bernie. “I like those odds.”

***

As they approached the resort, Barb said, “Daniel and Melanie’s families landed two hours before us, so hopefully they’ve checked everybody in to our four-bedroom bungalow. They were going to rent a large van to transport everyone.”

“There's a large blue van,” said Bernie, pointing, “but it looks like everybody’s in it.”

He pulled alongside the van and saying cheerily, “Aloha, what’s up?”

“What’s up,” said Melanie, “is that we don’t have a condo. They say they never received a deposit.”

“Baloney,” exclaimed Bernie. “It was a bit last-minute, but I sent them a $5000 check a week ago. Barb, can you find the cancelled check in our online banking records?”

“A check?” moaned Daniel. “Who under 80 sends checks these days? I was at Trader Joe’s the other day waiting in the checkout line while a little old lady slowly wrote a check. I’m not sure the teenage cashier had ever seen one before. Why don’t you use Venmo or Zelle, like everyone else?”

“Never heard of them,” responded Bernie. “Their names don’t really inspire a lot of confidence. Nothing like a good old paper check, I say, made out with indelible ink and entrusted to the U.S. Postal Service. In fact, I took this check to the post office myself and mailed it in the mailbox right out in front.”

Barb looked up from her phone search of their banking records. “Bernie, did you make out a check to John Stillman for $5000 last week?”

“Never heard of him,” said Bernie. “What’s it for?”

“The notation on the check says ‘Installaion,” which I assume means ‘Installation.’ Does that help?”

“Not at all,” Bernie answered, with some agitation. "Can I see what you have on your screen?”

What he saw was a check which still had his original signature and the original date, but on which everything else was re-written in handwriting that he didn’t recognize.

“This is the check I sent to Royal Palms,” he said, “but it’s been doctored up.”

“Probably some mix-up,” said Barb, straining to maintain her calm. “Why don’t I call our bank while you try to get our bungalow back from the Royal Palms?”

“That won’t be possible,” said Daniel. “They’ve given our room away to someone who actually sent them real money for a deposit.”

“I did send them real money,” muttered Bernie.

“Then why are we sitting in the parking lot?” rejoined Daniel.

“Enough,” said Melanie. “Regardless of the mystery of the changed check, I’ve spent the last hour trying to get us a room somewhere else, not easy in the high season.”

“Any success?” asked Barb.

“We’ve got three rooms at the Days Inn in beautiful downtown Kihei, about 3 miles from here. The good news is that no one will drown in the ocean, which is nowhere near the hotel.”

***

“I’d like to report a problem with a check,” said Barb into her mobile phone while she and Bernie were headed to the Days Inn. She had called the 800 number of Citibank, and, because it was 5 PM in Maui—and therefore after closing time in the continental U.S.—she was pleased to have reached a seemingly knowledgeable person named Kent McKinley. Too knowledgeable, perhaps, because he seemed completely unsurprised by what had happened.

“You’ve heard of this before?” Barb asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” McKinley responded. “Happens all the time. It’s called check washing. The bad guys use chemicals to get rid of the payee on the check and any other troublesome details—like a notation that says it’s a hotel deposit—and then they make themselves—or whatever alias they’re using--the payee, and get the check cashed.”

“How do they do that?”

“Not so difficult, really. For example, they can deposit the check remotely into an account they’ve recently set up, and then show up at that bank a few days later to withdraw the cash. Usually people like yourself don’t look at your checks that have been processed until the end of the month. By that time, the thief is probably back in Romania or wherever he comes from. Very few of these people are caught.”

Motioning for Barb to put her phone on speaker, Bernie inserted himself into the conversation, “This is Bernard Silver, the co-holder of this checking account with my wife. You should know, Mr. McKinley, that the check I wrote now looks completely false. The handwriting is not at all like my signature, which remains on the check unchanged. Even the notation of what the check is for—supposedly ‘Installation’—is misspelled.

“When human beings processed checks, that would have mattered,” replied McKinley. “With machines doing the check processing, not so much, even though, as you can see, the thieves are usually not very good spellers.”

“So, we’ve just had $5000 stolen from us in a perfect crime?”

“The short answer is ‘yes,’ but Citibank will do an investigation and, if and when it finds the reason a bank honored that washed check, you will probably get your money back because the bank that honored the check was negligent, or worse.”

“That’s somewhat reassuring,” Barb said. “How long will it take?”

“Six to twelve months.”

“Mr. McKinley,” Bernie sputtered, “we’ve just been robbed of $5000 through no fault of our own. Why do we have to wait so long?”

“It’s frustrating, I know,” McKinley responded, “but it’s a complicated process. First, you have to report the loss to the authorities. Then Citibank will ask you to sign an affidavit that you don’t know the check-washed payee of the check and that you’ve received no benefit from these funds.”

“What!” Barb exclaimed. “We’re the victims, not the perpetrators.”

“You know that, Mrs. Silver, but Citibank doesn’t. Your records indicate you’re a detective, so I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that sometimes there is collusion in situations like these.”

“Good point,” Barb said, “but signing and submitting an affidavit is not a year-long process.”

“No,” McKinley responded, “but investigations take time, and that’s not even the longest part of the process.”

“What’s is the longest part?” Barb inquired.

“Waiting in line. There is so much check washing now that our investigative department is overwhelmed. It may take them ten months to get to your case.”

“I mailed the check,” said Bernie, “in the mailbox right in front of the post office. How can the thieves get their hands on it?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Silver, if, as I suspect, you put the envelope in an old-style mailbox—the kind with a wide opening and a flap door that swings up and back—it’s all too easy to fish mail out of there. Knitting needles are a favorite of the check washers, or sometimes they’ll put a box inside the mailbox to catch the mail.  Then they fish out the box before the next mail pick-up.”

“Is there a new style of mailbox?” asked Bernie.

“Yes,” Mckinley replied. “On the east coast, many cities have mailboxes with just a narrow slot to receive the mail. Harder to fish mail out of those.”

“We don’t have those in Palo Alto,” said Bernie. “but it doesn’t matter. I don’t think we’ll be mailing or writing checks in the future. Once I find out about what my kids just mentioned to me—Zenmo and Velle, I think—we’ll be using those services.”

“Good idea,” McKinley said. “Although I work for a bank, I haven’t written a check in ten years. And it’s not just the oversized mailing slots on mailboxes that are a problem. Arrow keys are even worse.”

“Arrow keys?” asked Barb.

“Yes, keys that, frighteningly, can open any mailbox in your city. They are being stolen from mailcarriers more and more frequently--sometimes violently--and sold on the dark web.

“Also, at the risk of adding bad news, may I ask whether you mailed any other checks at the same time you mailed the washed check?”

“Yes,” said Barb, “a birthday check to a nephew for $25. Why do you ask?”

“That was likely stolen too, but I don’t think it will have been washed.”

“Why is that?” asked Barb.

“The amount’s too small.”

“So what?” interjected Bernie. “They can just wash the smaller amount and substitute a large one.”

“They could do that,” said McKinley, “but they wouldn’t know if you had enough money in your checking account to cover the increased amount. With the $5000 check to the Royal Palms, on the other hand, they’re pretty confident that the check is good for that amount. Check back with me in a couple of days, and, if the smaller check hasn’t been negotiated by then, you can re-write it.”

“I think we’ll just send our nephew an Amazon gift card,” said Barb.

***

Barb and Bernie arrived at the Days Inn, deflated by the check washing and the consequent downgrade from the Royal Palms. They were surprised that Daniel, Melanie and their spouses seemed relaxed and jovial in the rather dank lobby.

“Why so happy?” asked Bernie. “Don’t you realize we’ve just been thrown out of the nicest hotel in Maui?”

“The kids like it here better,” responded Melanie, referring to Barb and Bernie’s four grandchildren, who ranged in age from four to eight. They love the vending machines, next door is a convenience store that has some video games and they like the cheesy souvenirs in the neighboring stores better than the $7500 seashell sculptures at the Royal Palms.”

“Who knew?” said Barb.

“I see your point,“ added Bernie, getting into the spirit of things. “Plus, we’ll save at least $5000 by staying here.”

“So, you’ve already broken even on the check washing,” observed Daniel. “Let’s celebrate with a Mai Tai on the patio here.”

“You’re right,” said Barb. “The best chemical to counter check washing is alcohol.”

***

Although the Days Inn patio was cramped, the Mai Tais relaxed everyone. Daniel took the opportunity to broach the subject of Bernie’s increasing absentmindedness. To his surprise, Bernie was much more receptive to the conversation than when they’d last attempted it in Palo Alto.

“I’m fine,” Bernie said, “but I understand your concerns, even appreciate them. I had the same problem with my father. Tell you what, I’m willing to take one of those mental acuity tests on one condition.”

“Which is?” asked Melanie.

“That, if I pass, you’ll stop bugging me.”

“Deal,” said Daniel. “Sounds like you’ve done some research on this. Do you have a particular test in mind?”

“The most prevalent test is called the MMSE or Folstein test,” Bernie responded. It can be administered in 10 minutes by your doctor, and, if that ends discussion of this subject, it will be the best 10 minutes I’ve spent in a long time.”

“What does MMSE stand for,” asked Melanie.

“Mini-mental state examination,” answered Bernie. “I’m confident my doctor will report to you that I have a maxi-mental state.”

“Great,” said Melanie. “Do you still go to Dr. Glick?”

“He retired,” said Bernie. “I have a new one…but I’m blanking on his name right now.”

***

“Great vacation,” said Barb, as she and Bernie sipped espressos in their breakfast nook back home.

“With the exception of the check washing,” responded Bernie. “What a shock that was, especially that, as private detectives, we had never even heard of it.”

“Not really that surprising,” said Barb. “According to Kent McKinley, most of the perpetrators are foreigners who are long gone with the money before the victims even realize they’ve been robbed. Not many individuals are willing to hire us and pay our rates to go to someplace like Romania on a wild goose chase that will not get them their money back.”

“Well,” he replied, “as a very sympathetic victim, I am willing to hire myself to solve this crime, at least in Palo Alto. I’m sure the Palo Alto post office is a magnet for these thieves—lots of large checks mailed there.”

“Nice sentiments,” commented Barb, “but I’m not hearing a specific plan.”

“Don’t have one yet,” said Bernie. “Let me do a little research, and I’ll get back to you. We’re both victims and detectives, so something good has to come of that.

“In the meantime, I’ll make an appointment with my doctor to take that mental acuity test to get our kids off my back.”

“Good idea,” said Barb. “If you’re going to hire yourself to stop the check washing epidemic, you--and I--need to make sure you’re competent.”

***

Bernie visited his doctor the very next day and took the MMSE. The results were available immediately.

“100% on the test, Bernie,” said Dr. Ellis Johnson. “Congratulations.”

“I’m not sure how to react to congratulations for not being mentally incompetent,” responded Bernie, “but I will take it as a compliment. Here are the telephone numbers of my son and daughter. Without seeming too surprised, would you please report the good news to them.”

“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. It will be a pleasant break from my usual routine of reporting bad news.”

***

Having invited Barb out for a dinner to celebrate his mental competence, Bernie disclosed the results of his check washing research over dessert. “Our country needs us,” he said. “Investigating check washing is the responsibility of something called the USPIS, the U.S. Postal Inspection Service, which is woefully understaffed.”

“Just how woeful?” Barb asked.

“Well, as an example, in 2023 in Chicago, there were 16,000 reports of check washing, and only 77 were investigated by the USPIS.”

“OK,” Barb responded. “I get that we have a big target to shoot at and very little shooting competition. But I’m still not hearing a plan.”

“I’m getting there. As Kent McKinley told us, the check washers are looking for large checks, so as to insure there’s enough money in the checking account for the check to be honored.”

“I agree,” said Barb. “Exhibit A is our $5000 check to the Royal Palms. The thieves probably know that a letter to a fancy resort is more likely to contain a sizable check than a birthday card.”

“Precisely. In fact, if I were a check washer, I wouldn’t want to spend a lot of time sifting through things like birthday cards or even resort deposits. I would be looking for readily identifiable mail likely to contain checks with high dollar amounts. Do you know of any like that?”

“I see where you’re going with this,” said Barb. “For example, property tax payment day is coming soon, so, in a place like Palo Alto, thieves will know a lot of big checks will be mailed in the blue envelopes provided by the county.”

“Exactly,” said Bernie, “and property tax checks are good for this plan for another reason. The county usually takes a few days to process them, so the people who write the checks don’t expect to see them clear for a week or two.”

“Which gives the thieves all the time they need to wash and negotiate the check,” noted Barb.”

“Are you with me now?” asked Bernie.

“I think so,” said Barb, “but, if this is what you’re thinking, I’m not too keen on having our $9000 property tax check being washed and stolen for the sake of justice. What if the thieves escape our clutches?”

“I’ll answer your question with a question,” said Bernie. “What if the thieves stole and washed our property tax check but we had already stopped payment on it?”

“That would be a reasonable risk to take,” said Barb, “no risk at all. But there is the little matter of our legal obligation to pay our property tax.”

“Yes,” replied Bernie. “But we can just go to the Assessor’s Office and pay it directly. That way, we can keep the blue envelope and the form that goes with it.”

“Got it,” she said. “But what good does it do us for the check washers to steal a check backed by insufficient funds?”

“That’s where Ray Chen comes into my scheme,” said Bernie, mentioning the Chairman of Stanford’s Computer Science Department. Bernie and Barb had worked with him before on a case involving a Chinese-American computer science professor being coerced by the Chinese government to leak secret U.S. technology know-how. “I’ve made an appointment with him this afternoon, and I hope you’ll join me there.”

***

“To what do I owe this great honor?” said Ray Chen, mockingly, from behind the large, square glass table—holding three huge computer monitors--he used as a desk. He was a Chinese-American who dressed like the tweedy Stanford professor he was. His one concession to the computer world was well-coiffed dark hair that ended in a small pigtail.

“You didn’t always feel that seeing us was an honor,” said Bernie.

“More like a pain in the neck,” added Barb.

“Your field depends too much on intuition for this computer scientist’s taste,” said Chen. “What I do nicely fits on these three large computer screens, which track all my research projects. But, since you saved my wrongly accused colleague from being deported to China, I’ve realized that intuition has its place. How can I help you?”

“Have you heard of check washing?” asked Barb.

“I’ve focused more on its cousin, check cooking,” responded Chen, “but the answer is yes. We’re trying to improve the machines that now read the checks, but so far we can’t make them detect fakes as well as humans could, before they were replaced by the machines.”

“What’s check cooking?” inquired Bernie.

“Instead of washing the ink off the check,” Chen said, “the crooks duplicate the check—minus any writing on it--with very sophisticated cameras and high-tech equipment. The result is that they then have a blank check and they can fill in whatever they want. That way they can try to cash multiple checks, and the checks don’t look like they’ve been tampered with.

“Even humans can’t detect cooked checks, so we have developed some ways to defend against check cooking. For example”—he pulled out a check from his wallet—“see this little square that looks like a hologram?”

“Yes,” said Barb. “I have often wondered what that is.”

“It’s called a ‘foil hologram,’” explained Chen. “It’s applied on top of the paper of the check, not printed. Therefore, it appears as a black box on a cooked check, which makes it impossible to cash.

“The foil hologram has been very successful in slowing up check cooking, but, of course, it has had no effect on check washing.”

“Thanks for the explanation,” said Bernie. “That small, shiny square is actually why we came here. I didn’t know what it was, but, since it looks high techy, I was hoping you could implant some sort of tracking device in it.”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Chen.

“Do you really want to know why a detective would want to do something a little shady?”

“Good point,” said Chen, peering at one of his three computer screens. “We are experimenting with some microscopic tracking devices that might work for your investigation. Very hush hush, but I owe you one. If you have a couple of your checks with you, I can get back to you in a few days.”

Bernie pulled a couple of checks out of his wallet. “Here they are,” he said, “holograms and all. If this works, I might want you to do something similar with my car keys.”

“Seriously,” added Barb. “I’m glad to see that technology is helping us do our investigation, because we’ve been wondering whether artificial intelligence will be putting us out of our jobs.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Chen. “Your job is to find the bad guys; AI’s biggest problem is that it can’t tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys.”

***

Two days later, Barb and Bernie were walking toward Mitchell Park, in the center of Palo Alto. “Normally we walk Snowball here,” said Barb, referring to their white-haired terrier mix, “but you left her behind today.”

“Actually,” responded Bernie, “we’re headed there because, oddly, Ray Chen requested that we meet him near the pickleball courts. “And there he is, in athletic gear, looking nothing at all like a professor.

“What’s up, Ray?” he continued. “Where will our next meeting be, at the ice rink?”

“All due respect,” Bernie, “but you and Barb are fairly well known around our department because of the previous case, and I don’t want people asking questions after they see you coming around twice in three days.

“Also, I do have a prototype tracking device that solves your problem, but it’s top secret. No one can ever know that I set it up for you.”

“High-tech detection,” said Barb. “I love it. I hope it’s user friendly.”

“Very,” said Chen. “Can I have your phone for a few minutes, Bernie?”

“Sure.”

“Great! I’m going to take it to my car over there, where I have some other equipment, and I will bring it back shortly with a couple of new apps.”

Fifteen minutes later, Chen re-appeared and handed Bernie back his phone, plus one of the two checks Bernie had given him two days before. “Sorry,” Chen said, but the second check you gave me fell victim to our experimentation. This one, however, has tracking software embedded in the hologram and should fill your needs.”

“How do I track?” asked Bernie.

“See this app,” answered Chen, pointing on the screen of Bernie’s phone to a blue square symbol with a green checkmark in the middle of it and, underneath it, the words ‘Check me.’ “If you click on that, it will tell you the location of your check.”

“Cool,” said Bernie. “And, what’s this other new app.” He pointed to a red square symbol with a chess piece in the middle of it and, underneath it, the word ‘Checkmate.’

“I know you’re chasing some bad actors,” replied Chen, “or else we wouldn’t be jumping through all these hoops. I can’t take the chance that this technology falls into the wrong hands, so, if you think that might happen, click on the Checkmate app, which will then make your iPhone inoperable by overheating it.”

“How hot will it get?” asked Bernie.

“Let’s just say you should drop the phone immediately after you click on that app.”

“That’s not a problem at all,” joked Barb. “He’s always dropping his phone.”

***

“Now what, Mr. High-Tech Masterplanner?” asked Barb as they arrived back home.

“I think we’re good to go,” said Bernie.

“Great,” she responded. “Go where?”

“To solve the mystery of the changed check,” he responded. “The deadline to pay property tax is in three days, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That has to be the most tempting day of the year for check washers. As you noted the other day, many people will be mailing large checks in readily identifiable blue envelopes. A good number of the people will, as I did with our deposit to the Royal Palms, mail those checks at the mailbox outside the main post office, thinking, as I did, that that’s the safest place.”

“Ah,” said Barb, “and we’ll be on a stakeout to catch the check washer fishing mail out of the mailbox.”

“Exactly. And, as a failsafe, if the thief gets away, we’ll be able to follow him by tracking our high-tech check.”

“Great,” responded Barb. “Two Baby Boomer detectives going against an international check washing gang. What could go wrong?”

***

Three days later, Barb and Bernie were sitting outdoors at Café Dulce, conveniently located across from Palo Alto’s main post office. “This is my third espresso,” said Barb. “If your theory doesn’t pan out soon, I won’t be able to sleep for a week.”

“It’s a theory,” Bernie responded, “so no guarantees. But I think it’s a good one. We’ve already seen a lot of blue envelopes, including ours, go into that mailbox in this noon to 3:00 PM time slot between mail pickups. That’s when I mailed the check to Royal Palms. People are on their lunch breaks or in between morning and afternoon activities. If I were a thief, that’s when I’d go diving for dollars.”

“We’ve seen the noon pickup of mail,” said Barb, “so I’d assume that the thief will come here shortly before the 3:00 PM pickup in order to maximize his take and to avoid the mailcarrier responsible for the 3:00 PM pickup.”

“I agree,” said Bernie, looking at his watch. “It’s 2:30 now, so I would expect to catch a thief in the next fifteen minutes.”

***

Twenty uneventful minutes later, Barb said, “It was a good theory, Bernie, but it looks like it’s not working.”

“Hard to deny,” he said. “Let’s just wait for the official pickup and then we can go home. No point in staying after our envelope has been picked up and put in the regular flow of mail.”

Five minutes later, a medium-sized man, wearing a postal service cap and jacket and sunglasses, walked up to the mailbox, inserted the arrow key, put all the mail into a canvas mail basket, and headed toward the post office.

“That’s it,” said Bernie. “Not my first incorrect theory, and probably not my last either. Let’s head home.”

“Wait,” said Barb. “That fellow is wearing a post office uniform hat and jacket, but his pants are black, not gray, as they should be. Also, he’s no longer heading toward the post office. He’s turned down the side street to the left of the building.” She started running across the street toward the man, with Bernie trailing ten feet behind. 

The man noticed them, and started running down the side street. Burdened by the canvas mail basket, he started losing ground, when Barb noticed a prone figure to her right. Also of medium size, he was wearing the pants, shirt and shoes of a postal uniform, but not the jacket and hat.

She stopped her pursuit to attend to the man, who was unconscious. Bernie followed her. The thief got into a parked car and headed off.

Aided by their ministrations, the downed postal worker started to come to.

“Are you OK,” asked Barb.

“No,” the man said groggily. “Someone mugged me, and stole my arrow key, my hat and my jacket.”

Looking at Bernie, Barb said, “I hope Ray Chen’s tracking device is working.”

Checking his phone, Bernie exclaimed, “It is! You stay here to get help for this guy, and I will get our car and track this creep. We can now add assault to his list of crimes.”

***

Bernie ran back to their car, clicked again on the Check Me app, and started following its prompts. He found himself heading over Highway 101, which divided Palo Alto from East Palo Alto, a city that was slowly becoming gentrified but that still experienced a great deal of crime. As the case started to coalesce in his mind, Bernie was not at all surprised at the destination.

He also checked the glove department to see if there was anything there that could serve as a weapon. All he found was a wooden skewer from some take-out shish kabob he’d eaten months ago. Putting it in his pocket, he cursed the fact that sporty cars like his no longer carried spare tires and, therefore, tire irons.

The Check Me app guided him to a store located behind a bodega in a shabby strip mall. The sign in the window said "EZ Check Cashing" in large gold letters. Beneath that, in smaller silver letters was the slogan “Check in, Cash out,” with the ‘s’ in “Cash” portrayed as a dollar sign.

***

In some part of his brain, Bernie knew he shouldn’t enter that store. In the terminology of this investigation, he suspected that his mind was writing a check that his body could not cash.

On the other hand, he’d spent four decades chasing bad actors, and he wasn’t about to stop now, especially with one who could escape at any moment.

Some—even his own children—might question whether he was still the man he used to be, but, foolishly, that did not even occur to him. He headed toward the door, which was behind a set of bars--another bad sign--of the check cashing establishment.

He was buzzed in by a security guard, who looked Eastern European. Bernie was startled by the bouncer’s shaved head, three-day growth of stubble, and bulging muscles. The guard was equally startled by the suburban grandfather in a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and Brooks Brothers khakis, definitely not the fashion choice for a visit to a check cashing storefront.

Before they could interact, however, the thief Bernie had been chasing, who was excitedly speaking to a thin man, with shoulder-length straggly hair, behind the counter, shouted “That’s him! Grab him Bogdan.”

Realizing resistance would be futile, Bernie simply said, as he was roughly being grabbed, “I wouldn’t be too feisty, Bogdan. The police are on the way.”

“I doubt that,” said the thin man to whom the thief had been talking. He spoke with a thick, Eastern European accent and appeared to be the boss, . “Our parking lot camera saw that you arrived only 90 seconds ago and did not show you using your phone to contact anyone. The police have no idea where you are, and we’ll be out of here in three more minutes.”

“Bon voyage,” said Bernie, doing his best to sound chipper.

“No need to say goodbye,” said the boss. “You’re coming with us.”

“Heading to Bucharest, by any chance?” asked Bernie.

“Perhaps,” responded the boss, “but the first stop will be Tijuana. We have a private plane warming up now at the Palo Alto airport.”

“Kidnapping a U.S. citizen and taking him across an international boundary is not something your lawyer would probably advise,” said Bernie.

“Which is exactly why we haven’t retained counsel,” said the boss. “We are two hours from freedom, and you are our bargaining chip in case anyone tries to stop us. In the meantime, hold out your hands and shut up, mainly shut up.”

Bernie’s hands were bound, and he was hustled out to a van, where he was unceremoniously dumped in the back, next to the canvas basket containing the mail from the mailbox in front of the post office. The boss removed the phone from Bernie’s back pocket and turned it off with a flourish. “You won’t be needing this,” he muttered.

In looking for the phone, the boss also came across the wooden skewer that Bernie had taken from his glove compartment when looking for a weapon. Breaking it in two, the boss said, “Next time you play James Bond, old-timer, you would be better served using his weapon of choice, a PPK Walther.”

He slammed the van door shut, as Bernie was saying, “I wonder how tough you’d be without Bogdan." Fortunately for Bernie, the boss didn’t hear him.

***

Barb was panicked. She was trying to reach Bernie, but his phone was off. She had no idea where he was.

“You should leave these matters to the police,” said Kevin Maloney, the police captain who had come in response to Barb’s 911 call. “Now we not only have to worry about this injured mailman, but also about your husband. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I don’t,” said Barb. “But I can only hope and pray that one other person might.” She dialed Ray Chen’s number into her phone.”

“Chen,” he answered curtly.

“Thank goodness,” said Barb. “We think Bernie is with the check washers, Ray, but only his phone has the tracking app. I was hoping that, somewhere on your six feet of computer monitors, you also have the ability to track that check.”

“Just a moment,” he said. She heard computer keys clicking rapidly.

“I think he’s at the Palo Alto airport,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. 

Barb relayed the information to Captain Maloney, got in his squad car, and raced off to the airport. On the way there, Maloney requested four more squad cars to join them.

***

Palo Alto airport is a small general aviation facility, so it was not difficult to locate the taxiing plane with a flight plan to the suspicious destination of Tijuana. The five squad cars immediately surrounded it.

There was no way to resolve this standoff without communication. The boss did not want to use his burner phone to call the police surrounding the plane—there was too much incriminating information associated with that phone number—so he reluctantly handed Bernie back the phone he had recently taken from Bernie, so that Bernie could FaceTime Barb, who was standing behind Maloney’s squad car.

With bound hands, it was not easy for Bernie to make the call, but there was just enough play in the bindings that he could hold the phone and click the appropriate keys. He put the phone on speaker so that everyone in the plane could hear.

Barb answered, completely distraught. “I can’t talk, Bernie,” she said between labored breaths. “Let me put Ray Chen on the phone. I think he can offer a deal that will satisfy everyone.”

“Who’s Chen?” demanded the boss. “I want to speak with the cops.”

“He’s a friend, not a cop,” responded Bernie. “Very smart, so he may have thought of something that will allow you to get out of here while liberating me when we reach Tijuana.”

The boss nodded assent. “Mr. Chen got three minutes.”

Chen took the phone from Barb. Bernie said, “Ray, what have you got for us?”

“We have to make a deal,” replied Ray deliberately. “These fellows have checkmate.”

Hearing that, everything fell into place for Bernie. He instantly clicked on the Checkmate app on his phone, which immediately burst into flames, emitting copious amounts of foul smoke and an acrid smell.

Bernie dropped the phone, and, at the same time, the others, gagging, were forced to exit the plane in order to breathe. Even Bogdan was in such a weakened state that he presented no problem for the waiting police. It was all over in a matter of moments.

***

The next day, Barb and Bernie came to the police station for a de-briefing with Captain Maloney and Ray Chen.

Maloney began by thanking the Silvers and Chen. “We’ve been plagued by check washing cases, but have never made a single arrest,” he began. “Now we’ve got at least two of the key check washers behind bars and we have access to a trove of records they left at EZ Check Cashing in their hasty departure. As a check cashing company, EZ knew pretty much every trick in the book about getting checks cashed illicitly and surreptitiously. This will lead to dozens of arrests of the banking contacts in their network.”

“I am happy to have helped,” said Ray Chen. “I will follow through by perfecting this check tracking technology and offering it to the banking industry. In this case, however, I have to acknowledge that the technology was not enough. Creativity and bravery were needed, and my friends, Barb and Bernie, provided those in quantity.”

“We’re also glad to have helped,” said Bernie.”And, hopefully, somewhere in the EZ Check Cashing abandoned records, is evidence to help us find the trail of our washed $5000 check.”

***

When Barb and Bernie arrived back at their house, they were met by their son and daughter, who were unaware of what had unfolded and who were in a celebratory mood. They had brought some champagne to toast Bernie’s perfect score on his mental acuity test.

“That score was good,” said Barb, “but even better is that he solved the mystery of the changed check that caused us so much grief in Hawaii.”

“Even better than that,” added Bernie, “your mother used her wits—in combination with my recently proven mental acuity--to arrange my rescue from the clutches of the bad guys, and we got a nice certificate of thanks from the Palo Alto Police Department. It’s by my computer in my office, Barb. Could you get it while I refill our glasses?”

They toasted several times more before Daniel and Melanie left. Barb then turned to Bernie and said, “I didn’t want to spoil the toasts with what I found next to your computer. She handed him a copy of a document from the British Columbia Health Department. “Quite a coincidence that it’s the very same Mini-Mental State Examination test that you took to prove your mental acuity. I’m wondering whether you had an advance copy that you found on the Internet.”

“It’s possible,” he responded, pouring himself another glass of champagne. “But wouldn’t that also prove my mental acuity?”

***

Copyright 2024, Ron Katz