GPS--whose voice I had decided sounded unnervingly like Chris Teasley's, Westerfield's assistant--took me to a storefront off Connecticut Avenue. It was a used-CD store, manned by a few slow-moving clerks. The customers were mostly in their twenties, along with a few smudged, bearded music lovers about my age. I walked up to one young man behind the register, flashed my ID along with a security picture of the Asian man who'd collected the gold coins in New Jersey, a perp in the Graham forgery case. He claimed he knew nothing. I asked four or five other people. Nobody seemed to know anything about funny checks or the Asian. Finally,