by James Swain
“Do the people at your brokerage firm know about the restraining order Karissa Clement slapped against you? Or that you shacked up with a fifteen-year-old girl?”
Kenny slowed but did not stop. The words were having an effect.
“I can tell them. Or you can stop and talk with me. It’s your call.”
Reaching the entrance to the apartment building, Kenny stopped and spun around. His mouth was as thin as a paper cut, his breathing short. His clothes were expensive and so was his haircut, and he had a perfect bronze tan, courtesy of a tanning salon.
“How much do you want?” Kenny asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You want money, right? That’s why you’re here.”
“This isn’t a shakedown.”
“It sure feels like one.”
“Have you been shaken down before?”
Kenny said nothing. People with sordid backgrounds who made a decent buck were vulnerable to blackmail, and he guessed Kenny had paid for people’s silence before.
“Then what is it?” Kenny said.
“I want to know why you’re stalking Nicki Pearl.”
“Never heard of her.”
“You were watching her at the Cheesecake Factory today. You’re obsessed with her. I want to know why.”
Kenny shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person.”
“You have images of her on your cell phone. That’s why you threw it away.”
“You’re grasping at straws.”
“Then what were you just looking at?”
“Baseball. I’m a big Marlins fan.”
“Do you always throw your phones away?”
“What I do with my cell phone is none of your business.”
This wasn’t working, and he decided to take a different tack.
“Would you like me to send a copy of the restraining order to your boss? Or tell him about the fifteen-year-old runaway you kept in your apartment?”
“My boss is a she, and she doesn’t care what I do in my free time. I make millions for my firm every year. I’m entitled to have a little fun after work.”
“A little fun? Sleeping with minors is a crime.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. By the way, how did you get in here? This is a private parking lot, and you’re trespassing. If you don’t leave, I’ll go inside and call the police. I mean it.”
He was trespassing and could get himself and the guard at the front gate in real trouble if Kenny made good on his threat. He started to retreat.
“Stay away from Nicki Pearl,” he said.
“I told you, I don’t know her. Now get out of here and don’t come back.”
Kenny used a key card to enter the building, where he boarded an elevator in the lobby. Lancaster waited until the elevator doors were shut before venturing over to the concrete dividing wall that Kenny had tossed his cell phone over. It was a foot taller than he was, and he put his hands on the ledge and pulled himself up to have a look.
Sunrise Harbor’s neighbor was another luxury apartment building. It had all the trimmings, including an Olympic-size swimming pool with reclining lounge chairs. A uniformed janitor was picking up cushions and towels. A whistle snapped his head.
“Want to make yourself a quick buck?”
The janitor hustled over to the wall. He was Hispanic with a face older than his years. South Florida was filled with boat people who’d fled Cuba looking for a better life, only to discover the best they could do was menial jobs in the service industry. Lancaster pulled himself up so he was sitting on the wall.
“My name’s Jon. What’s yours?”
“Jorge,” the janitor said.
“Hey, Jorge, nice to meet you. My girlfriend and I just had a fight, and she tossed my cell phone over the wall. That will teach me to forget our anniversary. I’ll make it worth your while if you’ll look around the grounds and find it for me.”
“You want me to find your cell phone,” Jorge said, sounding pissed.
“It won’t take five minutes. Come on, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Sure you will.”
“You’re not going to help me?”
“No. I need to finish up.”
“What if I come over and look myself?”
“You can’t do that.”
His anger was palpable. Had Jorge been a doctor or professional person back in Cuba? Lancaster had met Cubans with degrees who weren’t allowed to practice in the States, and it had hardened them. Pulling out his wallet, he removed a handful of cash.
“Fifty bucks for your trouble. How does that sound, Jorge?”
Jorge stared at the money, and his eyes took on a faraway expression. Lancaster imagined him climbing aboard a makeshift boat made of tires and making the treacherous passage to Key West only to discover the promised land wasn’t so great after all.
“Make it a hundred,” Jorge said.
“You first have to find my cell phone.”
Jorge removed a cell phone with a broken screen from his pants pocket.
“I already did,” the unhappy Cuban said.
CHAPTER 17
THE SKIN CANVAS
Back in his car, Lancaster attempted to power up Kenny’s cell phone and got a dark screen for his trouble. Under the hope it was a power issue, he plugged the cell phone into the charger connected to his car’s cigarette lighter. Nothing happened. Kenny’s smashing it on the pavement had been the kiss of death.
He was getting pissed. Nicki’s stalkers were good at covering their tracks, and he still didn’t have a solid reason why they were pursuing her. Did they share a crazy fetish about teenagers belting out songs from old Broadway musicals? It was a stretch, and he had to believe something darker was lurking below the surface.
Lancaster’s cell phone beeped. The battery was dying, and he replaced Kenny’s phone in the charger with his own. His phone was new, courtesy of his ex-girlfriend tossing the old one out of a moving car. Replacing it had been a snap. A quick trip to the Verizon store and forty-five minutes later he’d walked out with a new Droid, his contacts and apps restored. Kenny’s phone was also a Droid, and he wondered if Kenny had bought it from Verizon, which had more locations than a hamburger chain. If he had, then all his data was stored in the cloud and could be easily restored. It gave him an idea, and thirty seconds later he was talking to a Haitian named Croix Tedesco.
“How’s the forgery business?” he asked.
“Those days are behind me,” Croix said in his lilting Caribbean accent. “I run a tattoo parlor these days.”
“That’s not what I hear. I hear you’re banging out fake visas for immigrants who’ve overstayed their welcome. I hear these visas are so good that they even fool ICE agents.”
Croix coughed into the phone. “What do you want, Jon?”
“I need a fake driver’s license and matching credit card,” he said.
“I see. Come by tomorrow and I’ll make one for you. My tattoo parlor is called the Skin Canvas and is on Sunrise Boulevard across the street from the Family Dollar store. My office is in the back.”
“Let me rephrase that. I need a fake driver’s license right now.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’m heading out to dinner.”
“Stay right there. Understood?”
“It’s my wedding anniversary. My wife will not be happy with me.”
“Listen, my friend, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. If I get there, and you’re gone, I’ll turn your life upside down. Am I making myself clear?”
The line went quiet. Lancaster waited him out. He’d been working undercover for the sheriff’s office when he’d inadvertently stumbled across Croix running a false passport operation. Some criminals were more useful not behind bars, and he’d used Croix to create false identities to help him catch some very bad people. Their relationship was a solid one, but at the end of the day, Croix was still breaking the
law, and could be taken down with a single phone call.
“Loud and painfully clear,” the forger said. “I’ll be here.”
The Skin Canvas was doing a brisk business, and he drove behind the building to park. Back when he was a teen, the only people with tattoos were military or worked in carnival sideshows. Now everybody and his sister was getting inked.
He approached the back door. A Mercedes 500SL was parked in a spot marked Reserved. Croix had done well for a guy who’d come to the States with just the shirt on his back. On the Mercedes’s rear bumper was a Pine Crest School sticker. He knocked, and when the door swung in Croix pretended to be happy to see him. Croix was a small man, delicate boned, and favored silk shirts with colorful patterns and fine gold jewelry.
“You mad at me?” he asked.
“Yes,” the forger said. “My wife is pissed.”
“I’ll pay you back someday. This is important.”
Croix ushered him inside, and he entered a windowless room filled with the finest 3-D printing equipment money could buy. The room’s AC was kept ice cold to ensure the humidity did not harm the equipment. From the front of the building came the steady hum of mechanical needles puncturing human skin.
“How do you put up with that noise?” he asked.
“You get used to it. Have a seat so I can take your picture.”
He sat on a stool in front of a blue screen while Croix spent a minute adjusting the room’s light. The forger was usually talkative; not so tonight. Lancaster didn’t want to ruin the relationship and decided to level with him. “Let me explain what’s going on. I’ve been hired by a family to protect their teenage girl, who’s being stalked by a group of perverts. The girl is clean. Not selling drugs or posting dirty pictures of herself on the internet. She goes to Pine Crest School. Doesn’t one of your kids go there?”
Croix’s jaw tightened. “Who told you that?”
“I saw the bumper sticker on your car. Which one?”
“Brie, my oldest. She really likes it. What did this girl do to draw this unwanted attention to herself?”
“She didn’t do anything.”
“What you’re implying is that this could be my daughter.”
“Or one of her classmates.”
“This is disturbing. What is this girl’s name?”
“Nicki Pearl.”
“That name sounds familiar. Don’t move.” Croix snapped a head shot with a camera mounted on a tripod, then removed a thumb drive from the back of the camera and transferred the image to a computer sitting on a desk. Using a software program, he mounted the photo onto the template of a Florida driver’s license while Lancaster looked over his shoulder.
“What grade is she in?” Croix asked.
“Nicki’s fifteen, so I guess she’s in the tenth grade. You may have seen her in a musical the school put on, Once Upon a Mattress. She was one of the leads.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember her. A lovely child. But what you’ve said makes no sense. Why are these men stalking her? What has she done to make them want her?”
“Nothing. Look, I’m sorry I ruined your dinner plans, but I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Nicki’s life is in danger.”
“I understand. What name should I put on your driver’s license?”
“Zackary Kenny. I’ve got his address, DOB, and Florida driver’s license number.”
“Give them to me.”
He gave Croix the information. Five minutes later, he was holding a laminated driver’s license with a shimmering security hologram that looked every bit as good as the real thing. “I also need a credit card with Zackary Kenny’s name on it.”
“Visa or American Express?”
“Whatever’s easiest.”
“Visa is easiest.” Croix pulled up another software program and went to work on creating a fake Visa card with Zack Kenny’s name. “What you plan to do with this card? A charge won’t go through. Visa makes vendors run checks on all purchases.”
“I know that. I’m betting Zack Kenny is a Verizon customer, so I’m going to visit their store and buy a new cell phone and get them to download his information onto it. He’s looking at images of Nicki, and I need to see them. I plan to use cash to make the purchase. The credit card and driver’s license are just for show.”
“Images? What kind of images?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you said this girl wasn’t posting images of herself on the internet. Then what is this fellow looking at?”
That was the $64,000 question. What was fueling Zack Kenny’s obsession, as well as those of the other sickos who were relentlessly pursuing Nicki? He’d come up with a theory and decided to test it out on Croix.
“Do you ever look at porn on the internet?” he asked.
“When I’m bored,” Croix admitted.
“Then I’m sure you’ve seen head shots of female actresses photoshopped onto images of women engaged in group fellatio and gang bangs. The images are phony, but they can still turn you on. I think that may be the situation here.”
“You think Nicki’s face has been photoshopped onto other girls’ naked bodies?”
“Yes. It’s the only explanation I can come up with.”
Croix shook his head. “If what you’re saying is true, then it could be any teenage girl who’s being victimized by these men. Even my own daughter.”
“Yes, it could.”
A fake Visa card spat out of the 3-D printer. Croix trimmed it to the proper size and laminated it with an ultrathin layer of plastic coating. Handing it to Lancaster, he said, “If you do get this man’s information, how do you plan to access it?”
Lancaster didn’t pretend to know everything. He said, “What do you mean?”
“If this man is a deviant, then I’m sure his cell phone is encrypted. Unless you know the password, you won’t be able to find what you’re looking for,” Croix said.
His shoulders sagged. He didn’t use a password for his own cell phone, and had not considered that Kenny would use one to keep his images of Nicki hidden.
“I don’t know the password. Any suggestions?”
“You will need to hack the phone. I know a man who can help you. He’s Russian and owns a strip club. His dancers get customers drunk and take them to VIP rooms, then pass their cell phones through a hole in the wall. While they’re giving blow jobs, the Russian hacks their phones and gets their banking information. The next day, he transfers a few thousand from their checking accounts to his bank. If the customer raises a stink, he threatens to blackmail them.”
“He videotapes the VIP room?”
“Correct. Do you know him?”
“I know his kind. Would he hack Zack Kenny’s cell phone if you asked him?”
“Normally, I would say no. He is a mobster and very secretive. But he has a problem that you can help him fix with your connections in the police department. In return, I believe he will hack the pervert’s cell phone for you.”
“What kind of problem are we talking about?”
“He’s being shaken down by a pair of detectives and pays thousands of dollars each month in protection money to keep his club open. Now, the detectives are pressuring him to give them a piece of the action.”
“They want to be silent partners in the club?”
“A straight fifty-fifty split. In return, the detectives will supply the dancers with cocaine, which they will peddle to their customers.”
“Are these detectives vice cops?”
“I don’t think so. I believe they work in homicide.”
“Then how are they getting their hands on the blow?”
“The cocaine is supposed to be incinerated, but the detectives have a way of siphoning off a few pounds before it’s taken away to be burned. If you can get them off the Russian’s back, I believe he will hack the pervert’s cell phone for you.”
“Can’t I just pay him to do this?”
“He won’t take your money. But if you do him a f
avor, he will respond in kind.”
The two pieces of fake ID were clutched in his hand. He stared at them long and hard. He believed in following a case down whatever road it took him. But that didn’t mean getting in bed with a mobster, and there was no doubt in his mind that this Russian was nothing less than a devil with a thick accent.
But what if he decided not to pay the Russian a visit? Then he was back to square one and would have to start over. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, only he was running out of time. By the grace of God and a lot of luck, Nicki had managed to thwart her stalkers, but that wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, a stalker would get his hands on Nicki and steal her away, and her parents would never see her again.
“What is this Russian’s name?” he asked.
“Sergey.”
“Call him and set up a meeting.”
“Consider it done,” the forger said.
CHAPTER 18
BOOTY CALL
He left the tattoo parlor with his new identity in hand and drove to the closest Verizon Wireless store. It was fifteen minutes before closing when he walked through the front doors and was approached by a fresh-faced young woman wearing a name tag that identified her as Meg. He used the story of his ex-girlfriend tossing his cell phone out of a moving car because it was funny and also true. To help sell the story, he took Zack Kenny’s broken cell phone out of his back pocket and showed it to her.
“Wow, she really did a number on it,” Meg said.
“I need to buy a new one,” he said. “Call it the price of love.”
Meg went behind the counter and got on a store computer. He handed her the fake driver’s license and Visa card and gave her Kenny’s social security number, which he’d committed to memory in case she asked for it. He held his breath as she searched for Zackary Kenny.
