“We’ve been over this,” I said.
Don replied, “I haven’t. You made the call without consulting me.”
“Mom’s already lost Lee and maybe Mike,” I said. “Now isn’t the time to go all-in on her kids.”
Charlie piped up, “Besides, Cy needs to be fast and sneaky. You may be ‘strong like bull,’ but you’re about as stealthy as one, too.”
He sniffed in a supremely petulant manner but otherwise said nothing else.
She added, “Under no circumstances are you to leave the vehicle while in the parking lot, so take a leak now if you need to.”
“I have bottles in the car,” he said.
“Ew,” she said.
I said, “Spoken like someone who’s never been on stakeout.”
“Look,” she said, “I don’t care if you drink it, just stay in the damn car.”
“Affirmative,” Don said.
“Also,” she said, “park in the middle of the lot, away from the entrances, and stay off the Wi-Fi. We don’t know how this is going to shake out, or if Hammond and his goons are even going to know we were there, but any subsequent investigation might take note of who logged into Google Starbucks while the nearby home of a senior DHS agent was being pilfered.”
“Maybe he should park farther away,” I suggested.
Don shook his head, and Charlie said, “This is the best compromise between avoiding surveillance and achieving reasonable response time.”
“If I have to make an appearance,” Don said, “we’re probably already screwed, so I might as well get there in a hurry.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I also didn’t want to end up dead because Don was stuck in traffic on I-10.
“Now,” Charlie continued, “if things go well, you’ll exfil the same way you came in, contacting Don once you’re past the bend. Cy, maintain radio silence from twenty-one hundred hours on unless you have no other choice.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
She ignored the bait, meaning she really was nervous. “Comm check.”
Don and I put in our earpieces as she spoke into hers. “Check,” she said and we both acknowledged ours were working.
Charlie nodded. “Cy, you have the thumb drive?”
“Check.”
“Your first order of business is turning on the computer,” she said. “I downloaded his floor plan from the homebuilder’s website.” She placed a blueprint on the table and we leaned over it.
“Hammond’s router shows regular connections to two computers. One we know is his work laptop, so the other must be his home PC.”
“Desktop or laptop?” I asked.
“The MAC address of the unknown computer matches to a network interface controller used in HP desktop models,” Charlie said.
“There she goes again,” Don said.
“You could have just said desktop,” I pointed out.
She said, “If I don’t make things sound complicated every once in a while, y’all won’t be impressed.”
That was encouraging, I thought. A desktop was going to be in a den or home office. A laptop could be anywhere.
“Your best bet is probably here or here.” She pointed to two likely candidates. “I’d check there first.”
“When are you disabling his home cams?” Don asked.
“Between twenty-thirty and twenty-one hundred,” she said. “I’m going to spoof a power surge so it looks like an accident. But again, if you’re detected, it’s probably not going to fool anybody.”
“I’ll turn the computer on once I’ve located it,” I said. “How long will it take you to break into it?”
She said, “Assuming his wireless hooks up automatically, not long. I already know the relevant addresses and SSID. If he has a desktop login, it might take another couple of minutes, no longer.”
“And you’re going to find what we’re looking for?” Don asked.
“This isn’t a goddamned research paper,” she said. “I’m not going to open a bunch of files and peruse them over a cocktail. It’s a data dump. I’m mirroring his entire hard drive to a cloud server hosted in Finland.”
Don looked at her, then me. “Finland?”
“Anonymous hosting service,” Charlie said. “U.S. government has no jurisdiction.”
I said, “And I’m on standby in case you need me to copy something immediately juicy.”
She nodded. “I doubt that’ll be necessary, but the mirroring process takes some time. If I see something we definitely don’t want to lose, I’ll tell you.”
“Like a document that says ‘Map to Mike Clarke,’” Don said.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
I said, “If everything works out, I should be in and out pretty quick. Once I reach the signal point, I’ll contact Don to come pick me up. Whole thing shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Tops.”
“After which I turn the street cams back on,” Charlie said. She didn’t say it, but I knew she’d leave Hammond’s off to maintain the idea a power outage knocked them out.
There was a pause as the three of us looked at each other. “Is that it?” I asked finally. “Are we forgetting anything?”
“Does he have an alarm system?” Don asked.
She nodded. “ADT. Won’t be a problem.”
“Why not?”
“His particular system is several years old,” she said. “There are several known exploits which I’ve … exploited.”
Garcia’s house flashbacked to me and I said, “They don’t have a dog, do they?”
Charlie said, “There are no pet licenses on record for them with the City of Houston, and nothing in their bank records about visits to pet stores or veterinarians.”
“Thanks,” I said. Knocking a dog out would complicate matters.
Don said, “What’s the actual plan if Cy calls for help?”
Charlie and I looked at each other. I said, “Assuming I’m not dead, I guess getting me the hell out of there as fast as possible.”
“What about the kayak?”
“Paid cash for it off a burner Craigslist account eight years ago,” I said. “Pretty much untraceable.”
“You didn’t carve ‘Cy + Emma’ on it at some point?” he asked.
“Just on my Trapper Keeper,” I replied.
“Is the GPS in the Range Rover disabled?” Charlie asked, ignoring us.
“It doesn’t have it. Bluetooth either.”
She nodded again. “Then I guess that’s it.”
I checked my watch. “Okay, about time to saddle up.”
Don grunted and rose to leave. “Seems to me I don’t get to do any of the fun stuff.”
“And I hope that doesn’t change,” Charlie said.
He left and Charlie and I stood there for a moment.
“Be careful, asshole,” she said.
“Just get the data, dipshit.” This was pretty much as close as we got to sibling affection.
Chapter FORTY
It struck me that I’d had several opportunities for self-reflection in the past few days. First there was the hospital ledge, and now I was paddling in the Houston twilight on my way to commit a felony against a government official. Maybe it also happens on nights when you're not committing a crime, but being out on the water is definitely a good way spend some time alone with your thoughts.
Said thoughts can assume a variety of forms. For example, might any choices you made as a youngster have kept you from going down this path? Maybe if I’d tried for a soccer scholarship, gone to school on one of the (other) coasts, or asked Sandra Miller out in the tenth grade … maybe then I’d have avoided this sordid turn of events.
And maybe Mike would never be found.
Anyway, I mused as the waves lapped against the kayak and grackles cawed overhead in the trees lining Buffalo Bayou, it’s not like I’d be leaving any widows or orphans behind if things went sideways. Hell, I didn’t even have a dog.
The closest non-family connection I had
was with Emma, and we’d been broken up for months.
I debated calling her before we left, but opted not to, based on both the “non-family” thing and the fact I’d already involved her to an extent that might cost her professionally. For being a bunch of soulless bloodsuckers, lawyers had a lot of rules. The hell with it, I thought; if this plan works and we find Mike, I’ll give her a call.
“Testes, testes, one, two … three?” Don’s voice crackled in my ear. “Didn’t get lost, did you, chief?”
I smiled at the expression in spite of myself. “I’m about to enter radio silence,” I said, checking the luminous dial of my watch. It was 2050 hours, ten minutes before I hit the bend and cut off active communications.
“I’m pulling into the Starbucks now,” he said.
“Try to blend in,” I said.
“Have any suggestions?”
“How well can you pull off the dead-eyed suburbanite look?”
He laughed. “How about if I just stay in the car like we discussed?
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Did we ever decide on the panic word?” he asked.
“We did not.” He was referring to what I’d say if I required his intervention. It was a worst-case scenario kind of thing, in the event I was in deep shit.
He said, “Lay it on me.”
I said, “It should be something I don’t say often.”
“How about, ‘Don is my favorite brother’?”
“Bit cumbersome,” I replied.
He thought for a second. “What about ‘poppycock’?”
“It’s always about the cocks with you,” I said.
“Gotta make the best of the situation,” he said.
“‘Poppycock’ it is,” I said.
After a pause, “Seriously, don’t do anything cute, Cy. Get in, turn the computer on, and get the hell out.”
“Ten-four.” His connection dropped and Charlie came on.
“Five minutes to radio silence,” she said, “assuming you two are done yukking it up.”
“I know and we are,” I replied. “What’s Hammond’s twenty?”
“His phone’s GPS shows him at the office,” she said. “And his wife doesn’t get back into town until tomorrow night. You should be all clear.”
“Roger,” I said.
It was a peaceful night, minus the birds and the inescapable traffic noise. This stretch of Buffalo Bayou was far enough from streetlights you could actually make out a few constellations. Rare indeed for Houston.
“Don was right about one thing,” Charlie said. “Get in and turn the PC on. Don’t fart around.”
I said, “Aw, I was thinking of rearranging all his photos just to fuck with him.”
“That would be unwise.”
“How long will it take you to mirror the hard drive?”
“Depends on the connection and how much there is to copy,” she said. “Assuming I don’t have any issues logging on, maybe fifteen minutes.”
That was a long time to cool my heels, I thought. To Charlie, I said, “Cool, plenty of time to rearrange photos.”
“I’m serious, Cy,” her tone was muted, and I realized just how concerned she was.
I said, “I know. I’ll be careful.”
“Radio silence in three, two …” she said.
That was it, I clicked the earpiece off — it wouldn’t come back on unless I was calling for help — and paddled harder. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any significant rain for about a week, and the bayou was low and moving slowly against me, without much current. I rounded the bend and was at a spot parallel to Hammond’s house in less than three minutes.
Up yours, Don, I thought, maturely.
There was no pier or anything similar on the bayou at this location, so I tied the kayak off beneath a low-hanging live oak. It would be largely invisible to any but the most diligent observer. I didn’t see anyone on the trail as I scanned the park between me and Hammond’s house (he did indeed have a fence), so I dashed across the grass, keenly aware of the exposure of running across open ground.
The fence was eight feet high but otherwise unremarkable, and I scaled it swiftly, dropping to the ground on the other side and taking in my surroundings. Like most homes backing up to a waterway in Houston, Hammond’s yard was pitched on a steep grade as it sloped up to the house. I wondered idly how he’d fared during Hurricane Harvey, when most of this area would’ve been underwater.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled the ski mask into place, strapped on my knapsack, and started up to the house.
Charlie was as good as her word, and even though I saw contact points for the security system on the door, the house remained silent after I picked the lock, put on my gloves, and opened it. I entered the house, finding myself in a small mudroom I recognized from the floor plan Charlie had downloaded. Shutting and locking the door behind me, I moved through the darkened kitchen and into the house proper.
Hammond’s house was a fairly sprawling ranch style that thankfully only had one floor. The computer was in the second room I checked, a home office (as we’d suspected) with various photos of Hammond with local dignitaries and some printed awards he’d seen fit to frame and line his wall. I hadn’t so much as hung my diploma up in my house, and the only framed picture I had was an autographed photo of pitcher Nolan Ryan famously punching Robin Ventura after the latter had unwisely rushed the mound after a brushback. The very definition of “rookie move.”
The desktop was, no surprise, on Hammond’s desk. It was an older model HP, just as Charlie had said, with a newish-looking webcam on top of the monitor. I felt around the base of the computer tower until I located the power button and clicked it on. I immediately heard the hum of the hard drive coming online and the accompanying whir of the fan.
So far, so good.
Though it would be breaking radio silence to do so, I knew Charlie would ping me if she had any problems. Still, I wanted to give her ample time to get up and running, so I decided to check out Hammond’s desk.
I glanced at the various letters and papers strewn upon it. Hammond wasn’t very fastidious, and while I doubted he’d notice if any were moved slightly, I was careful not to disturb anything.
It was mostly the usual office crap: an honest-to-god landline phone, receipts to be filed, letters both official and otherwise, pens, a checkbook. It looked like Hammond still got his bills in the mail and paid them the same way.
Paper receipts? A landline? I could almost hear Charlie’s laughter from here.
The desk wasn’t locked, so I opened the drawers to see if anything useful was in quick view. Hammond didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d leave sensitive information about the crimes he was committing in more-or-less plain sight, but people also put their passwords on Post-It notes next to their computers. It’s hard to maintain 24/7 diligence in these difficult times.
I hadn’t brought my phone, but that’s what the little camera was for. I hated calling it a “spy camera,” because it made me sound like one of those guys who tried to impress women by telling them he worked for the CIA. Then again, I’d purchased it at a place called the Spy Emporium on Bellaire, so the name fit.
I rolled the ski mask back up into cap configuration and took a few pictures. We really were putting all our hopes in Hammond’s hard drive, but it couldn’t hurt to check this stuff out later, just in case.
After closing the drawers, I went to a bookshelf situated against the far wall to check for items of interest and came up short again. There was little of interest next to the usual corporate tomes and arid businessman biographies that must be issued along with your AARP card when you turn 50.
I still wasn’t entirely convinced anyone had actually read that book about the habits of highly effective people.
It was while perusing the shelves that I heard the front door open. I checked my watch: only five minutes had passed. Checking the perimeter of the room, I saw with a sense of impending doom there was no place in his office
to hide.
I heard a set of keys landing somewhere. It was a Saturday night, I thought, maybe he wouldn’t come into his office at all.
The doorknob turned and the door began to swing inward. Shit.
I looked at the computer. The power light was on at the base, but the monitor was still dark. Fortunately, the model was old enough you still had to power each component on separately. That was also true for the webcam, a tiny blue light at its base indicating it had powered on.
I swiveled it around so it was facing the doorway, just as Hammond entered. Hopefully Charlie would be monitoring the feed and could update Don. I didn’t want to use the panic word until we had the hard drive, so I had to stall Hammond.
An idea formed as he walked in and saw me.
“Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed.
This was going to hurt.
Chapter FORTY-ONE
How to Annoy Someone into Violence, Part One: Talk Shit Disproportionate to Your Actual Tactical Standing.
“Well, look who decided to drop by.” I said.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” Hammond bellowed, with somewhat less panic than I’d hoped. This was likely due to the pistol he had pulled on me.
I looked around the room (after moving out from behind the computer in the hopes he wouldn’t notice it was booted up). “Is this your house? It’s hard to tell without any obvious signs of asshole habitation. I assume your wife cleans up after you.”
“Phone,” he said, holding his non gun-toting hand out.
“Didn’t bring one.”
He crossed the room quickly, jamming the pistol into my ribs. He frisked me and found the .40 in the holster at the small of my back. He gave me a shove after removing it, then glanced around, possibly to verify I was alone. “I could shoot you, you know. This is Texas.”
“It sure is,” I agreed.
“Cops would just slap me on the back.” He took a step forward. “Hell, you’re even dressed like —”
“Like a burglar out of central casting?” I suggested.
“Yeah, that,” Hammond still wasn’t sure how to play it. I helped him along.
Lucky Town Page 21
