by James Swain
The thin laptop sat on the coffee table, still connected to the recently purchased Droid using a USB connector cord. This allowed the laptop’s hacking software to test passwords without them having to manually type them into the Droid. Sergey picked up the laptop and the Droid and balanced the two devices on his lap. Lancaster read off the information that Karissa had given him, and Sergey entered it into the laptop.
“Excuse my ignorance, but how does this work?” he asked.
“It’s fairly simple,” the Russian said. “The software program on my laptop will test hundreds of variations of each word you give me. The program will try the word in all lower case, then the same word in upper case, and all sorts of variations. If none of those work, the program will try the same words with the number one in back of it, which is common when people are creating passwords. If that doesn’t work, the program will try the word with the numbers one and two in back of it, which is also common. This will be done with every word. If none of those combinations produces the password, the program will connect the various words and start the process over.”
“How long will it take?”
“It could take five minutes or it could take several hours; there’s no way to know. I hope you are not in a hurry. There’s no way to rush this.”
“I’m here for the duration. I’m running over to Lester’s Diner to grab some dinner. You want anything?”
Sergey grunted no. His fingers danced across the keyboard like a pianist.
“Call me if you crack the password,” he said.
“You will be the first to know,” the Russian replied.
CHAPTER 20
CASSANDRA
There were two twenty-four-hour restaurants in Fort Lauderdale where cops went to eat. The first was Lester’s Diner on State Road 84, which was known for its big coffee pours; the second was the Primanti Brothers by the beach, which had made its reputation serving mouthwatering sandwiches piled high with coleslaw and french fries. Because Lancaster had worked the beach area as a cop, he’d done his eating at Primanti, but had never tried Lester’s Diner. But he’d heard that the food was good.
Lester’s was doing a brisk business, and he stood in line to place his order. The diner was over fifty years old and a reminder of a bygone era, with a long stainless-steel counter with stools that faced a row of booths. Every seat in the place was taken. There were no TVs hanging on the walls, and not a single patron was looking at a cell phone. It was all about good food and good conversation.
At the counter sat a pair of uniformed cops. Lancaster had made a lot of friends during his time on the force, but this duo was unfamiliar. Both were pushing forty and had receding hairlines and sun damage on the back of their necks. They were engaged in a silent game of tug of war, with neither willing to pick up the check, which their server had slapped down between them several minutes ago.
His turn came. He ordered a tuna melt for himself and a corned beef sandwich for Sergey. The Russian claimed he wasn’t hungry, but there was no harm in bringing him a sandwich anyway. He paid and was given a receipt with a number.
There was a small alcove by the entrance where he stood to wait for his order. He had a clear view of the two cops and the unpaid check on the counter. Back when he’d had a partner, it was standard procedure to alternate paying for meals. It beat the hassle of splitting the cost and trying to calculate how much each owed on the tip.
The server walked by and eyed the unpaid check. She asked the cops if either wanted a refill on their drinks. Both of the cops declined.
He was starting to smell a rat. The sheriff’s office had clamped down on cops asking for free meals from local restaurants, but the practice still went on. Another minute passed with neither of the cops reaching for his wallet.
A cook came out from the kitchen and spoke to the cops. The cook had graying hair and a droopy mustache. A picture of the original Lester hung in the alcove, and the cook had the same jawline—either one of his kids or a younger brother.
The conversation was brief between the three men. The cook slid the check off the counter and made it disappear. The cops smiled and hopped off their stools. As they walked out, Lancaster read the names on their name tags and memorized them.
His number was called. He went up to the register to claim his food. The cook stood next to the cashier, talking under his breath.
“Excuse me,” Lancaster said. “I used to be a cop. What those two officers just did was wrong. I’m happy to make a phone call, and get them straightened out.”
The cook shifted his attention to Lancaster and scowled.
“That won’t change anything,” the cook said.
“Are you the owner?” Lancaster asked.
“I am. Do you know how many times I’ve had to pay for cops eating in my place? Over fifty in the past year alone. I’m not running a food kitchen here. It’s no different than if one of them stuck his hand in the till and robbed me.”
“I got their names as they were walking out. I can get them in trouble.”
“No, you can’t. We’ve complained before.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. They were back a week later acting like nothing happened. The cops stick together.”
“This time will be different.”
“No, it won’t. Enjoy your food.”
The owner turned his back and returned to his kitchen. Lancaster told himself he’d tried, and he went out to his car and ate his melt and the juicy pickle that came with it. The food was tasty, and he licked his fingers when it was gone. The conversation with the owner bothered him, probably because what the owner had said was true. The sheriff’s office internalized problems instead of airing them out in public. Cops broke the law on a regular basis and most of the time didn’t get properly punished for it. It made him wonder what would happen after he reported Vargas and Gibbons for pushing cocaine at the Booty Call. Would the department bust them, or would they limit the arrest to the canine instructor who was doing the actual stealing? By doing that, the PR department could issue a statement saying that it was an isolated incident, and not reflective of the upstanding men and women who protected Broward County.
He had to rethink this. His cell phone vibrated, and he tugged it from his pocket. The number was unfamiliar, but he answered it anyway.
“Hi, Jon, this is Karissa,” the caller said. “Can you talk?”
Her voice sounded different, less playful.
“Sure. Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine. Thanks for asking. I’m at work. Cell phones aren’t permitted in the ER, so I’m calling you from a pay phone in the lobby.”
“I didn’t know they still had pay phones,” he said.
“They do inside of hospitals. I remembered something about Zack that might be helpful. I don’t know why I didn’t remember before when we talked.”
Because victims of abuse often suppressed memories of their abusers, he thought he knew the answer, but he knew better than to say this.
“That’s great. What is it?” he asked.
“Zack was obsessed with a woman named Cassandra,” she said. “That might be useful when your hacker is trying to gain access to Zack’s cell phone.”
Cassandra was the name the Canadian had called Nicki on the phone. He’d found another link, even if he wasn’t quite sure what it meant.
“That’s very helpful. How did you find out? Did Zack tell you?”
“It was nothing like that. One night, Zack was staying over and I caught him mumbling her name in his sleep. He said it over and over. Cassandra, Cassandra, Cassandra, like he was longing for her. The next morning, I asked him and he flat out denied it. I wasn’t happy about it, you know?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” he said.
“The next time we slept together, I happened to wake up in the middle of the night. I don’t know why, but I started whispering in his ear. I said, ‘Zack, this is Cassandra. This is Cassandra.’ Hold on a second.
”
“Sure,” he said.
Karissa had a brief conversation with another nurse who was walking by. She came back moments later. “Sorry, but I need to run. We just had a group of schoolkids in a bus crash brought in.”
“Wait. Don’t leave me hanging like that,” he said. “What happened when you whispered in Zack’s ear?”
“He got aroused, big time.”
“He had a thing for this woman.”
“In the worst way. I woke him up, and asked him who Cassandra was. I told him if he lied to me, I’d kick him out. He fessed up and said she was an English professor he’d had when he was in college that he’d fallen for and never forgotten.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I believed that part about him being in love with her. There was no mistaking that. The rest of it was a fib.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Zack was obsessed with teenage girls. That was why he lusted after me. I have to think Cassandra was a young girl that he wanted, but couldn’t have. Shit, I’m being paged. Let me run. I hope this helps.”
“It helps a lot. Thank you for reaching out to me.”
“Anytime, Jon. Goodbye.”
The line went dead. He pulled out of his space and drove back to the Booty Call wondering how Cassandra played into this. Was she a youthful porn star that Kenny had become enamored with? Perhaps Nicki Pearl resembled Cassandra, which would explain Kenny’s obsession with Nicki. Or was Nicki connected to Cassandra and secretly doing porn? The secret to solving a case was to dig a hole and not stop digging until you found what you were looking for. It was a laborious process, but in the end, it usually paid off.
He entered Sergey’s office to find the Russian engaged in conversation with one of his dancers. The dancer wore next to nothing, and was distinguished by a long blonde ponytail hanging down her back. Every dancer had a gimmick that set her apart from the other naked ladies she shared the stage with. The ponytail was unusually long, and he found himself wondering if it was real.
The cell phone with Zack Kenny’s data sat on the coffee table, its screen showing. Sergey had hacked the password with his software program. Lancaster grew excited; he was nearing the finish line, and would soon know why these creeps were stalking Nicki.
“I thought you were going to call me,” he said.
“I have a business to run,” Sergey said, his eyes on the upset dancer.
Lancaster slipped the cell phone into his pocket. Before he left, he needed to talk with his benefactor. He pointed a finger at the dancer and then pointed at the office door. Sergey understood, and a minute later the dancer was gone.
“I want to know how the deal with Vargas and her partner works,” he said. “Do they give you advance notice before they bring the coke to the club? Or do they just show up unannounced and drop a bag into your lap?”
“They call me in the morning, and bring the coke by in the afternoon,” Sergey said.
“Is the deal always the same?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea why?”
“Vargas told me that the dog trainer steals the coke in the morning, and passes the drugs to them in a Mexican restaurant near police headquarters where they meet for lunch. Vargas and her partner then come straight here and deliver the coke.”
“Is it done that way every time?”
“Yes. They are amateurs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Amateurs follow a script and never deviate from it. The drugs are stolen, they meet at a restaurant near where they work, the transfer is made, and Vargas and her partner drive straight here. Professionals would never be so obvious.”
The closest Mexican joint to police headquarters was called Zona Fresca. It had a spacious dining room that was often full, and he envisioned Vargas and her partner picking up the coke without other patrons in the restaurant being the wiser.
“Give me a few weeks to get this nailed down,” he said. “In the meantime, continue to play ball with Vargas and her partner. Don’t say anything out of line and make them suspicious. And don’t talk to anyone else about this. Are we clear?”
“My lips are sealed. Are you going to screw them?”
“Yes. And the police will not be involved.”
“No police?”
“Nope. I’m going to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. They enjoy busting dirty cops. Rest assured, your name will be left out of it.”
“No blowback?”
“No blowback. On that you have my word.”
Sergey sprang off the couch, and they shook hands. It was the first time his host had stood up. He was barely five feet tall. Short men had a hard time in the criminal world, yet the vertically challenged Russian had managed to survive. His host was a smart operator, and someone Lancaster might call upon in the future.
“One last thing,” Lancaster said. “What password opened the phone?”
“Fendi123,” Sergey said.
Fendi was Kenny’s favorite cat. Karissa had given him this piece of information, and he reminded himself to thank her the next time they spoke. As he started to leave the office, Sergey stopped him.
“Let me give you advice,” the Russian hacker said. “In my country there is an expression. Sometimes, the cards play you. Be careful with Vargas and her partner. They are dangerous.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for the warning,” he said.
CHAPTER 21
VIDEOVAULT
Lancaster went home and fixed a pot of coffee. He was starting to drag and needed a caffeine jolt to get the pistons firing. Holding a steaming mug in one hand and the new cell phone in the other, he went onto his condo’s balcony and parked himself on a cheap folding chair that he’d bought online. He blocked out the sounds of moths banging against the overhead light and sipped his drink.
He slowly snapped to. The caffeine would wear off in an hour, and then he’d have to decide whether to fix another cup or hit the sack. He didn’t like working when he wasn’t 100 percent. It produced mistakes with bad consequences.
The cell phone had timed out, and he typed in “Fendi123” to open it up. Icons for dozens of apps appeared on the screen, many of which were foreign to him. He needed to look through each one and review the information stored upon it. The reason why Nicki Pearl was being stalked was stored on this device. Once he found out what that reason was, he’d be one step closer to giving Nicki and her family their lives back.
He drained his mug. He liked the Pearls and hoped he found nothing that would shed a bad light on Nicki. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case. Strange men didn’t stalk young girls for no reason. Nicki was somehow connected to these men.
He clicked on the first app. It was called Android Pay, and it let users buy things from online merchants or from physical stores. Zack Kenny had an account, and as Lancaster scrolled through his most recent purchases, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
The next app was called Arcus and was a real-time weather app. He spent a minute looking at the features before exiting out. Then came an app called Calculator, which performed simple mathematical equations. Next up was an app called Calendar that contained Kenny’s important dates and appointments, including days he worked out at a gym with a personal trainer, got his weekly pedicure, and had his biweekly haircut. The guy was a real narcissist, and Lancaster wondered if that went with being a pervert.
The next app was called Contacts and contained Kenny’s many personal and professional contacts. He scrolled through them and saw a page devoted to Karissa Clement. Zack had done a real number on Karissa, and he didn’t want him hurting her again. He erased her contact page with a few strokes on the keypad.
He got lost in the phone. The lights on neighboring buildings had gone out, as had the lights on the boats on the Intracoastal. The city had gone to sleep, and he’d hardly noticed. He decided not to quit and fixed a second cup of coffee.
An hour later found him studying a collection of photos on t
he Gallery app. Most were work related and showed Kenny and his coworkers engaged in company celebrations, while the rest were from a Carnival cruise that Kenny had taken to the Bahamas. None were sexual in nature or contained images of Nicki.
The apps were in alphabetical order. He smothered a yawn and came to the very end. An app called VideoVault stared back at him. He clicked on it, and a landing page appeared. It was a service to store videos on the cloud. Zack Kenny had an account, and it was password protected.
He sat up straight in his chair. He had looked at everything on the Droid except what was stored on this app. By process of elimination, that meant that VideoVault had what he was looking for. But what exactly was he going to find? Were there videos of Nicki besides the one of her singing in her underwear? If that was the case, then the innocent young teenager wasn’t so innocent after all.
He clicked on the password box. A keyboard appeared on the bottom of the screen. He typed in “Fendi123” and hit “Enter.” The message INCORRECT PASSWORD appeared. Kenny used a different password to protect his VideoVault account. On a hunch he typed in “Cassandra123” and hit “Enter.” The default message again appeared.
He spent a moment gathering his thoughts. Most password-protected apps only allowed a person three tries to gain access. If he typed in a third incorrect password and failed, the app would shut down, and he would be forced to go to the VideoVault website and create a new password. This would require him to answer questions Kenny had completed when he’d set up his account. He might get lucky and be able to correctly answer those questions with the information he had about Kenny, or more than likely, he’d encounter a question he didn’t know the answer to, and fail. If that happened, the videos stored in Kenny’s account would not be accessible to him.
He had one more chance. If he blew it, he was back to square one. He pulled out his own phone and used Google to find the phone number for the Booty Call. A minute later he was talking to Sergey, hoping the Russian could help.
“You have made my life miserable,” the hacker said.
