Lucky Town

by Peter Vonder Haar

  I pointed to her laptop. “Off the books, maybe. But you looked at his records and there’s no indication of any of that: no rental payments, no leases or fees.”

  She frowned. “I’m not convinced.”

  “Well, no shit,” I said. “Neither am I. Not one hundred percent. Time’s running out, sis. If you’ve got a better idea, I’m game to hear it.”

  “Do you even know where he lives?” she asked.

  “No.” I smiled. “But I’m sure you do.”

  She muttered, “Asshole,” and turned to one of her laptops. “But yeah, I pulled it from some of his City of Houston emails. Can you remember it, or do I need to text it to you?”

  “Text. I recently suffered a head injury, after all.”

  My phone buzzed a second later and I took it out. “Zip code 77079. Is that Katy?”

  “Memorial,” she said.

  That was even worse. Katy was more or less the Western Hinterlands to Inner Loop denizens like us, but real money resided in Memorial. There would be actual police — not just rent-a-cops — actively patrolling the area.

  Charlie was apparently thinking the same thing. “I shudder to think how many cameras will be pointing at you on that street, or in Hammond’s house itself.”

  “Are you saying you can’t do anything about that?” I asked.

  “I can disable them,” she said. “But only the ones inside the house won’t raise an immediate alarm, unless he’s watching them at that exact moment. Shutting down every camera on the street and in the neighboring houses is bound to get noticed.”

  I thought about that. “Maybe I don’t go in the front.”

  She started typing and said, “Hang on a sec.” After another minute, “You lucky bastard.”

  “I hope you’re not being sarcastic.”

  She turned the laptop to me. The screen displayed a satellite photo. “His house backs up to Buffalo Bayou.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. Buffalo Bayou was the main west-to-east drainage canal, running from the Katy Prairie through downtown Houston and into the Ship Channel. Unless there was a storm, the water level and current would be manageable. Theoretically, it wouldn’t be that difficult to paddle upstream and insert from the rear of his house. Best of all, it would avoid prying eyes on the street side.

  She said, “People might have motion sensor lights for their backyards, but they shouldn’t reach the bayou itself. Same with any security cameras. You can paddle up behind the house, but you’ll have to cross about a hundred feet of park and a jogging trail before you get to his yard.”

  “Is there a fence?” I asked.

  “I can’t be a hundred percent certain at this resolution, but I’d count on it.”

  “Now I just need to know what I’m looking for.”

  “Deposit slips, for starters,” Charlie said. “Obvious shit like large amounts of cash or obvious contraband …”

  “What counts as ‘obvious contraband’?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Jade Monkey?”

  “Maltese Falcon?” I suggested.

  “I doubt it’s something with too much bulk, unless he’s holding it somewhere offsite we don’t know about yet,” Charlie said. “But you’ll need to be quick; there’s no telling how long it’ll take the security system to notice.”

  “We’ll stick with the cash theory, then,” I said. “How soon can you get into his system?”

  She said, “I know his address and his wireless carrier from his home email account. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours, assuming he has a standard DNS and IP setup.”

  I stared.

  “As long as he hasn’t changed the default settings on his router, it’s not too hard to get in.” She sighed. “Otherwise, it might take me longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Another thirty minutes.” She grinned.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’m going to call Don and see if he wants to be my backup.”

  “He going to go up the creek with you?”

  “Ha. He’s ex-Army. I don’t even think he knows how to swim,” I said. Which was bullshit. Mom and Dad made sure all the Clarke kids could swim before they started kindergarten. It does wonders for parental peace of mind at pool parties. Or so I’ve heard.

  “You’re going in alone?” she asked. “Is that really a good idea?”

  I said, “You said I need to be quick. I love Don,” mostly true, “but he’s built for damage, not speed. If the objective is getting in and out fast, without leaving a trace, this is a one-person job.”

  “I guess he can stand by in his car.”

  I said, “I don’t want him too close. If you’re right about all the surveillance in the area, he shouldn’t be anywhere near Hammond’s house.”

  She said, “We should talk to him about it, but I’d think having him cool his heels at a Dunkin’ Donuts or something until he’s needed — if he’s needed — is the better plan.”

  “I better go call him.” I rose with some difficulty and limped over to the counter where I’d left my phone.

  “You gonna be okay?” Charlie asked.

  I nodded, though I was gritting my teeth as I did so. “Let’s just nail this son of a bitch and I’ll sleep for a week.”

  Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT

  The plan moved quickly, which was gratifying. Don was in (because of course he was) and even promised to bring lots of black and digital camouflage clothing for us to wear. The items in his inventory were so numerous and detailed that I was afraid to ask what else he’d squirreled away after his time in the military.

  We decided on the next night, partly to give Charlie time to nail down the technical details she needed to get into Hammond’s systems, but mostly to let me get some sleep.

  I slept approximately ten hours Friday night, waking with a clear head and stiffness in just about every joint of my body. It was a nice preview of what I imagine most days would feel like when I turned 60.

  Assuming I lasted that long, of course.

  Reflecting on mortality wasn’t my style, but as I lay in my bed just then, sunlight streaming in through my window as I tried to will my knees to bend enough so I could stand up without having to roll off the mattress, I had to admit I was running low on lives. Just in the last few days alone I’d cheated death no less than three times. Any of those encounters could have gone sideways, and I still had to see this thing with Mike through.

  Perhaps a day was coming when I wouldn’t be able to keep this up. A day when my reflexes would be too slow, or my instincts would fail me, and that’d be it. Nothing left but a sparsely attended funeral and interment alongside Dad and Lee at the family plot in Washington Cemetery.

  Mom would be pissed. I got out of the dangerous police career at her behest, after all. I can just see her sternly chastising my open grave, going on and on about my being a selfish asshole while my surviving siblings nod solemnly.

  Would she be right? Was I taking too many risks trying to find Mike? Was I losing my mind debating whether my actions might lead my mother to curse me at my hypothetical funeral?

  I pulled myself into a sitting position and tested my legs: sore but functional. Standing up didn’t result in any new pain, so I shuffled to the bathroom to perform my morning rituals. I skipped shaving because I hated it and also skipped flossing. I hated doing that as well, but considering the very real possibility I’d be dying in the next 12–18 hours, it also seemed like a waste of time.

  I threw on a T-shirt and picked my way carefully down the stairs. Some flexibility was returning to my knees and ankles, and I was reasonably confident in their reliability for the evening’s planned shenanigans. Charlie wasn’t so charitable.

  “Jesus Christ in a sidecar,” she said, “who let the Crypt Keeper in here?”

  “Hilarious.”

  She said, “I guess you’ll be safe in the zombie apocalypse; they’ll just take a look at you and figure you’re one of them.”

  I walked over to the counter. “Pleas
e, go on.”

  “Eh, I’m already bored,” she said, turning back to her laptop. “You do look like shit, though.”

  “You game for a sit-up contest?” I asked, rinsing out the French press. “I’m sure the ribs won’t bother you a bit.”

  She winced at that. “Fair point.”

  I put the kettle on and turned on the gas. “So where are we?”

  “Got into the router last night, while you were unsuccessfully catching up on your beauty sleep,” she said. “I’ve got access to his home network, but there’s one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing’s on.”

  I paused the process of pouring grounds into the press. “Come again?”

  She shrugged with her hands. “His computer’s not on, so I can’t access it. He must be one of those weirdos who shuts it down every time he stops working on it.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that was good security practice?” I asked.

  “Well yeah, but hardly anybody actually does it. It’s surprising,” she said. “And annoying.”

  I resumed my coffee preparation. “Can you still get to the cameras?”

  She said, “That’s what I was trying to do, but it’s controlled from his computer, and I believe we’ve been over that problem.”

  “We’re screwed,” I stated.

  “You don’t know me very well, I guess,” she said, that annoying look back on her face.

  “Sis,” I said, with as much indignant weariness as I could muster, “you may not have noticed, but I’ve spent a good chunk of the last week getting the shit kicked out of me. Could you just cut to the chase so I can bask in your brilliance?”

  Charlie frowned. “You take the fun out of everything. Look, Hammond’s setup, like most webcams, can be controlled either via the web — which he accesses through his computer — or an app —”

  “Which he accesses through his phone,” I finished.

  She nodded. “And we know his phone number. I’ve been monitoring his calls and texts all morning.”

  I said, “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  “But,” she obliged, “I can’t operate the webcam app remotely. For the last hour or so, I’ve been trying to get into his password settings to see what his login is.”

  The water was coming to a boil. I took the kettle off the burner before the whistle could annoy me. “What good is that going to do if his computer’s off?”

  “I don’t have to log into the web app from his computer. I have his home IP address and the IP address of the cameras. I can log in from here and disable everything.”

  I was impressed, but refused to let on out of general principles. “Sounds good to me.”

  She smirked. “Don’t you want to know about the street cameras?”

  “I want to know about the street cameras.” Don walked into the kitchen unannounced.

  “Didn’t we get the locks fixed?” I muttered, pouring the water into the press.

  Don threw a black duffel bag on a chair. “All right, coffee! Oh, and locks aren’t very useful if they aren’t, you know, locked.”

  Charlie said, “My bad. I went out to get his paper and forgot about the door.”

  Don grabbed a mug from the cabinet and stuck it out to me, knowing I was loath to share my coffee.

  “It has to steep, you Philistine,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes and sat down opposite Charlie. “What’s up with the street cams? Are we dark and silent?”

  “All these houses are set back from the street far enough that I don’t believe they have coverage into any backyards,” she said. “But the bend in the bayou as you’re approaching four houses down is a little close for comfort. How long do you think it’ll take you to get there from that point?”

  She directed that one to Don, who said, “He has to make it upstream, cross the open ground, and hop a fence? Cy’s not a total pansy, so he should be able to do it in under three minutes.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I mean, you’re still mostly pansy,” he said.

  “In that case,” Charlie interrupted, “I’ll cut them out a minute before you reach that spot and leave them off for five minutes total.”

  I said, “How long before the neighborhood watch or whoever investigates?”

  “No way to be sure,” she said. “Centurion Security is the security camera contractor for the neighborhood, and I dug around some in their Twitter DMs and online message boards to see what their response times for power outages are.”

  “And?” Don asked.

  Charlie said, “It varies. Anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour. I’m hoping because it’s the weekend they’ll only have a skeleton office staff and have to bring in somebody from on call.”

  Don nodded. “Saturday night should work to our advantage. What about Hammond? Any word on what he’ll be doing?”

  “He doesn’t have anything on his calendar,” she said, “and there’s nothing in his texts or emails. You aren’t planning on going in if he’s there, I assume.”

  Don and I looked at each other, and from the look in his eyes I realized it was up to me to be the guiding hand of patience and restraint for once.

  “No, we’d have to abort,” I said. Don opened his mouth to object but I cut him off “This isn’t reacting to an attempt on our lives, this is breaking and entering. Worse, he’s a government official. If we got caught and the Feds were so inclined, they could have us up on terrorism charges.” I looked at Charlie. “Especially if any of your cyber-shenanigans come to light.”

  She placed a hand on her chest in, perhaps, mock indignation. “You wound me.”

  “Wimps,” Don growled.

  Charlie said, “Hold up.” More typing, which I was half convinced she did purely for dramatic effect. “Okay, I cracked his webcam password. I’m in.”

  “That’s it, I guess,” I said.

  “That’s it.”

  Don looked from me to Charlie and back to me. “So are we going or what?”

  I said, with a resolution I only sort of felt, “We’re going.”

  Don rubbed his hands together in a way that was both reassuring and disconcerting. “Hot damn.”

  Chapter THIRTY-NINE

  We were going into this with either substantially less or significantly more planning than your usual burglary.

  Because let’s be clear: My plan that evening was no less than breaking into a man’s home with the intention of stealing something. That the “something” in question was digital information I could download onto a hard drive no bigger than a tater tot didn’t make what we were about to do any less of a crime.

  Thoughts like that really made me feel warm and fuzzy about this wonderful technological age we lived in.

  We tied my kayak to the roof rack on Don’s Range Rover. It was a sea kayak that I’d made woefully inadequate use of over the last several years. It used to have a twin, but that one moved away with its owner when Emma and I split. In deference to the importance and secrecy of the mission, I’d spray painted it flat black. It wasn’t the most aesthetically pleasing result, but it’d get the job done. And it would make for a good conversation starter if I ever invited Emma to go kayaking again.

  The plan was to put in the water off the trail near Kirkwood, on the west side of town, about three-quarters of a mile downstream from Hammond’s place. Don would park at a Starbucks on the I-10 access road, half a mile away. If things went according to plan, he’d spend the entire time in his car without needing to come to my aid. Because if I had to call Don, then that meant shit had really hit the fan.

  Unfortunately, years of experience had taught me to assume feces would come into contact with blades eventually.

  It was go time. I rechecked my bag: wire cutters, duct tape, Phillips and flathead screwdrivers, pliers, tape measure, and my .40. I carried no ID — no point in making it easy to identify my corpse if things went tits up — which shouldn’t pose a problem, as HPD’s Marine Unit didn’
t make a habit of patrolling bodies of water you could throw a baseball across.

  I was wearing all black, down to a ski mask that rolled up to a cap. The forecast for the evening was cloudy and lows in the 60s. I’d work up a sweat rowing upstream, but with any luck joggers or casual bystanders wouldn’t give me a second look.

  “You good to go?” It was Don. I took a second to eye his getup, which made him look like he was deploying to a forward area, right down to his freaking combat boots, and chuckled.

  “Someone’s going to see you lurking in the parking lot and think you’re a mass shooter.”

  He shrugged. “I mean, they wouldn’t be totally wrong.”

  “Do I need to remind you the whole point of this is to get in and out without attracting attention?”

  “I work best when I’m in familiar surroundings.” He spread his arms. “Wearing the old kit makes me comfortable.”

  “Some woman taking her kids into the coffee place isn’t going to be when she sees your Son of Sam-looking ass.”

  “The Range Rover has tinted windows.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, zipping up my bag.

  “And I’m in much better shape than Berkowitz.”

  The only way you could tell Charlie was nervous was if she was chewing her nails. Everything else about her was nigh unflappable, as anyone who’d walked in on her as she was going through the phone of a guy she’d just shot dead in her kitchen could attest, but if her teeth were working on her nails, she was nervous.

  Judging by the whittled ends of her fingers as she talked to me and Don, she was very nervous indeed.

  “Let’s go over the timeline again,” she said.

  “Don drops me off at twenty-thirty hours,” I said. Sunset was about 30 minutes earlier. "The drop-off point is about a klick from Hammond’s, so it should take me half an hour to get there.”

  She nodded. “You hold position four houses down until twenty-one hundred regardless, because that’s when I cut the feed to the street cams.”

  “Got it.”

  “You?” She turned to Don.

  He said, “I drop him off, then proceed to the Starbucks on I-10 and Dairy Ashford. Where I hold position unless he requests assistance.” He paused. “I still think I should come along.”