by Eden Sharp
'You. You tell me.'
Zlenko turned his back and continued down the line of assembled men.
Petriv cleared his throat. 'A large amount of data is gone.' He coughed. 'Somebody got into the servers.'
Zlenko whipped his head round. 'Tell me you are fucking playing with me?'
Petriv shook his head.
'You know what's got to happen?' Zlenko asked.
Petriv nodded, guessed that everyone else was too. A line of bobbing heads.
'When you find out who has my data, remember Tselkov?'
Petriv remembered.
Screwdrivers, in his opinion, were the most exquisite of instruments. The method was not to push them all the way in for a quick kill but just to make little puncture wounds initially to inflict the maximum pain.
Tselkov's head had bobbed around. On top of the ground, it had been the only part visible after they had buried him. Mottled purple, it had bled like a sieve. Unable to squirm away from the multiple piercing jabs and with the leaves and dirt jammed into his mouth, Tselkov had made a weird little noise, one minute rasping the next high-pitched. It reminded Petriv of being a boy. Of the sound dogs made when he'd strung them up in trees.
He had filmed Tselkov's last moments on his cell phone then sent the footage to Zlenko who was having dinner with his wife. He had probably played it to her to accompany desert.
Angela McGlynn
Knox showed me into the study off the living room. It was dusty with stale air. My heart sank when I saw an old desktop PC languishing among curling paperwork.
'Just that?' It could be a longer day than I'd thought.
He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a newer-looking laptop.
'This is mine.'
'I'll take it.' I pointed to the living room. 'I'm going to start typing up some notes for a client report.'
I handed him the driving license. 'You see what you can find out about Jaime Secora. Then later we'll talk.'
I set myself up on the couch and searched through my cell contacts and hit Officer Stuart Kerpen. I had already decided to go in fast and urgent with the request, maybe get him to agree before he had time to think better of it. Certain triggers produced predictable unconscious behaviors. Giving someone a reason increased their likelihood to comply. Studies had shown only the word “because” was actually necessary, not what came after. It couldn't hurt to appeal to his cop ethics either.
'Hi, it's Angela. I was hoping you'd be able to help me out with a missing girl. I found out she went shopping using a stolen card in the name of Jaime Secora. That's J-A-I-M-E. She also had this girl's cell. I'd appreciate the phone records because I believe she may be in danger.'
On the other end of the line Kerpen laughed then cut it short.
'Do you know what a shitstorm I'd be walking into if anyone found out? You could speak to whoever's dealing with it over at Missing. Maybe they'll get a warrant.'
'You think I don't know you have equipment to track suspects with GPS? If the phone's still switched on maybe we can find her. If not and she made a call, we'd know which tower relayed the signal and could get a lead on her last known location because this girl could be in real trouble-'
'Yeah I get how it works and there is no "we." I can't farm out information just because you're . . .'
'A co-conspirator?'
I'd played it off like we'd never met when Kerpen first trained at the dojo with his cop buddies. Maybe reciprocation would work. Maybe he'd feel obligated to make a concession. Like the parent who agrees to the hamster their kid really wants after being nagged for a pony.
'Angela I'd really like to but I can't. I'm sorry.'
I decided on a change of approach. 'Look, if you don't help, I'll get the information from a broker anyway but-'
'I really don't want to know that.'
'But there's actually a fraud case in this, a big one. Now I'd like to be a good citizen so maybe you should let me know who the best person is to pass this information on to. Hey, but hold on. Didn't you tell me at Matt's birthday dinner that you were planning on aiming for the Investigations Bureau?'
I heard the sigh at the end of the phone.
'And maybe check to see if she got busted. Her real name's Amber Grigson. Thanks,' I said and hung up.
I noticed Knox standing in the doorway.
'You want a drink?'
'No, I'm good thanks.'
'What's a broker?'
Maybe he didn't get it the first time round. 'PI's are bound by the law. Sometimes we use information brokers to gain access to data that may or may not have been collected by legitimate means.'
He shrugged. 'So you have a pet cop?'
'Something like that.'
'I'm guessing they're not allowed to give you information.'
'Not strictly speaking, no.'
'So what's in it for him?'
Sharp.
'He's in a relationship with someone who happens to be a friend of mine. Someone he's not married to.'
He nodded. 'And you use that against him?'
'No. That's his business. But he's getting a divorce because of it and he may be a lot more invested in the relationship than my friend is. I figure he prefers to keep me close.'
NINETEEN
I stopped typing and looked at my watch. Nearly an hour later and nothing. Come on Stuart.
I went through to Knox. 'What's going on?'
An instantly recognizable site lit the screen of the aging PC. Hard to believe men had been sent to the moon with less computing power.
'You can pretend to be anyone you want on the internet right? So now I'm a teenage girl on Facade.'
'Go on.'
'I set up a free email account then found a picture of a girl by doing an image search and uploaded it as a profile picture on a Facade account. I clicked on the link sent to the email address to confirm the account and after skipping the Find Friends option, I was in. Then I typed in “Jaime Secora.” A few options came up but one was definitely the girl from the license.'
I was impressed. 'You're getting it right off the bat, huh?'
I peered over his shoulder, scanning down the page. Lots of information. Too much information, aired to the world without any privacy settings at all.
We now knew the kid's taste in movies, music and most other things and so did corporate America. All the validations for brands she'd shared with friends. Like a twenty-first century home-hosted kitchenware party, she'd opted herself and others in to receive targeted ads and further information. A new pulpit to preach from. A marketer's ultimate wet dream.
Knox clicked on the photo albums filled with pictures of a puppy and girls on a night out pulling faces. He scrolled down the page.
I skimmed a few posts about dogs and boys and shopping trips. All the minutiae of daily life served up for free, ignorant of the fact that information was this century's key raw material for wealth creation and power.
I had him scroll back to the profile image. The girl's face was half-obscured by shadow, perhaps an attempt at artistry or affectation. I took out a copy of Amber Grigson's picture. Same homogeneous hairstyle, similar make-up and perma-tan of every other girl her age.
'May I?'
Knox got up and perched on the desk to the side.
'When I took the case, the first thing I did was the neighborhood. That's knocking on doors and interviewing people because with runaways it's something the police won't do. No one saw anything suspicious, no unusual vehicles, nothing to indicate abduction.
Then, as a licensed investigator I also get to access certain databases unavailable to the public. These contain voter registration indices, civil and criminal court filings, the telephone book, criss-cross directories, DMV records, credit card records, social security data, and sometimes even police reports.
Next I checked the Net. It goes way deeper than most people think. Ninety-six per cent of it is hidden unless you know where to look. When I did a search I came up with information from w
eb pages, documents, social media profiles, photos, news archives, far more data than you'd find ordinarily. But there's still plenty that's readily accessible to the public. I'll show you. Let's find out about the rest of the family.'
I typed in a web address.
'I checked out her diary and social media sites to find out who her friends were. Then I got a list of relatives and checked out who lived where and with whom by going here.'
I brought up the County Property Appraiser's website and entered the address from the license and waited for the result. The details of the home loaded on the screen. A three bed, three and a half bathroom property in Russian Hill. Big money, low taste.
Knox whistled at the screen reading the details. 'Seven point five million dollars’ worth.'
'Owned by Peter Secora, forty-six, hardwood flooring importer, married to Lynett, with, as we now know, a daughter called Jaime,' I said.
'I was thinking, what about Amber's own cell phone records? You must have checked those out before right?'
'She used a pre-paid service but had no credit. Probably why she took the Secora girl's phone.'
Knox was staring at me. So I leaned back in the chair, shifting the dynamic.
'So how exactly do you go about getting licensed?' he asked.
'You need six thousand hours of experience, which took me three years of working for someone who was already qualified, then I had to sit a two-hour written exam on certain laws and regulations. After that it's just a case of passing a criminal history background check by the Department of Justice and the FBI, and there's some additional stuff for a firearms permit.'
'And what makes someone suitable, in your opinion?'
'Ingenuity, persistence, lots of persistence, assertiveness. Someone who's not afraid of confrontation, able to think on their feet. You need to have good interviewing and interrogation skills, be a good communicator. You also have to be able to present the facts of an investigation properly so that they'll stand up in court. A police or military background goes down well.'
'Was it something you always knew you wanted to be?'
Funny.
'No, not at all. To me, law and justice have always been two different things. People do righteous things and get punished for them, while others commit heinous crimes and get away with them. The opportunity arose, I fell into it.'
My cell rattled on the desk. Just in time. Enough with the interrogation. Kerpen's voice came on the line.
'There was no bust. But I can't do anything about the phone records. There are flags on the system. Anything to do with the Secora family is completely locked down.'
'Why’s that?'
'Some kind of op. Whoever's running it wants hands off. Tell me about this other thing.'
'The fraud case? I'll get back to you when I know more.' I ended the call, looked at Knox.
'Got something?' Knox asked.
'I'm not sure.'
I pictured Amber Grigson taking the phone and card. Setting off to the mall. Maybe Neiman's if she was feeling confident and dressed for it. Looking like a rich kid with money. Someone like Jaime Secora. Someone whose family was the focus of some op and strictly hands off. But why? Only one way to find out. Time to shake the tree.
'So what's our next move?'
Our.
'I'm going to call it a day. I'll put together a report for the client and get my head round everything.'
'So what do you do for fun in this town of an evening McGlynn?'
'Visit friends, go to a club maybe.'
'Dancing or drinking?'
'Either way, not your kind of thing Knox.'
TWENTY
Inspector Dean Ortiz
Jordan and Connor pulled out of the facility at Hunter's Point. They reported zero action and sounded happy to be relieved from a six-hour stint of staring at nothing.
Ortiz and Aaron drove over to a container doubling as an office and Ortiz went inside. He waited while the white-haired owner, Joseph Keelty, rummaged through various glass jars full of keys. Keelty didn't take charge cards, just cash or checks which patrons were entrusted to mail in once a month. Lewan had paid cash.
Keelty found the key he was looking for and Ortiz followed him out into the eerie quiet that was Hunter's Point at night. He held open the car door and Keelty slid into the back seat.
Aaron was up front taking a call, his mouth tight with tension. Ortiz looked him a question as he got back in then drove through the wasteland of rusting metal to Lewan's unit.
The creaking of rusted hinges overpowered the silence as Keelty popped the lock. Ortiz shone a flashlight on the contents of the locker. Several tool chests, some paint cans, and what looked like industrial machinery covered in sheeting came into view.
On top of a dusty workbench the metal fittings on the case glinted, the only item not yet dulled by a veil of grime. They thanked Keelty and he headed back to his office on foot.
'What?' Ortiz said.
'We may have a problem,' Aaron said. 'A uniform's been trying to access the files on Secora.'
Barstow
By ten, Hunter's Point felt a lot further away from the rest of the city. Barstow's headlights bounced as he pulled off the worn gravel track. The rough, toxic ground worked his suspension as it battled each rut and sunken piece of salvage.
He came to a halt next to Ortiz and Aaron's vehicle. It was obscured by an old peeling container but still had a clear line of site. The target unit's door was ajar. Ortiz was alone. Barstow looked across at Dawson. The clicks of the doors as they exited the vehicle seemed to reverberate in the night air. Both men climbed into the backseat of the adjacent car eager for an update.
'We blown?' Barstow asked.
Ortiz turned in his seat to face the back.
'We got word from Reeves. Pick up's not till 05.00 tomorrow. There was also talk among Secora's men that this might be a dummy run. Aaron's checking the contents.'
This was a breach of protocol that made Barstow uncomfortable. He looked across to Dawson. Dawson looked away and stared out of the window to his side.
'Aren't you jeopardizing the case by not waiting for the warrant?' Barstow said.
Ortiz picked an invisible piece of lint from his immaculately pressed shirt.
'You ain't in little league no more,' he said. 'You wanna blow the case by crying like a little bitch because you got blue flames coming out your ass, be my guest. Go running to Kraner and make yourself real popular.'
Aaron appeared in front of the target unit. He padlocked the door shut and walked back towards them.
The passenger door's hinges creaked as Aaron opened the door. He gave Ortiz a look and slid inside.
Ortiz turned back in his seat facing front. 'Pull it out, we got the warrant,' he said.
Aaron stepped back outside.
Barstow reached inside his jacket and pulled out the warrant, offered it forward.
Ortiz looked at him through the rear view.
'Stop by the office and run it by the owner on your way out. He's waiting for you.'
Inspector Dean Ortiz
Kraner bustled into the room. Ortiz checked his watch. Ten after midnight. He must have been more than keen to suck up the vibe. He pointed at the case lying on its back cracked into two halves on the table in the interview room and the individual bricks wrapped in clear cellophane stacked up beside it.
'What do we have?'
'Ten kilos as expected,' Ortiz said.
Kraner picked one up and passed it from one hand to the other then took a sniff at the package through the thick plastic like someone with expertise. He looked around the room smiling at everyone then replaced it.
'Okay. Well let's get them marked up and put back.'
'They're marked,' Aaron said.
Kraner nodded and made a show of making personal eye contact with each man present.
'Great job everyone.' He glanced over at Barstow then turned his attention back to Ortiz. 'Good cohesion. Especially the integration o
f the newer members of the team.'
TWENTY-ONE
Angela McGlynn
I got home late after a quiet evening at Red's, a not for tourists, private members bar off the beaten track. I hadn't been looking to party, just a couple of hours of catching up on the latest from the owner, Ruby, while she made me the best margarita in town.
I made my plan of action for the following day. I would need to set up a new bank account at Rawlings’ bank using fake ID and counterfeit documents from the Net. Later I would make a small transfer by phone from the new account to a drop account. That way I would know what to expect when I came to make the main fraudulent transfer.
Making a transfer by phone had a far higher success rate than one made online because it didn't attract so much suspicion. Also the bank would process the transfer there and then. If the phone call was successful there was a ninety-five per cent chance that the transfer would be too.
I would also need some key information about Rawlings such as his mother's maiden name and the answer to the secret questions connected to his account. Some of these such as his address and date of birth I already had. It wouldn't be hard to get the rest. Even someone without skills or access could buy the information needed for any type of transfer on Blacklist for a relatively small amount of money. Usually between three to fifteen per cent of the account balance.
Information to make phone transfers was advertised at between fifteen and fifty dollars depending on how much a buyer knew about their mark. It wasn't much different to the types of sites private investigators paid subs to use.
One popular site charged thirty-five dollars for a driving record, forty-five for a bank account balance and just over two hundred bucks if you needed a breakdown of someone's stocks, bonds and securities. All with an easy to use interface. Like shopping on Amazon. Information, the currency of the new century. Inherently inexhaustible and non-exclusive, knowledge, unlike land or machines, remained a commodity that could be used by more than one person or corporation at a time.
