Jack did not want this. It meant having his picture taken and entered into the computer. But how could he refuse without compromising his credibility?
Damn.
4
Jensen watched Jason Amurri sit for his photograph. He appeared upbeat about it, but Jensen sensed an undercurrent of unease.
Why? This was a unique privilege—one that Jensen had been against, but he'd been overruled—so why wasn't Amurri happy?
Just one more thing about this guy that didn't add up. He was supposed to be some kind of rich loner, but he didn't move like a guy who'd grown up deciding which silver spoon to put in his mouth. And his eyes… they didn't miss a thing. Jensen was sure he'd spotted some of the video pickups, maybe all of them, but he hadn't asked about them.
Of course he might have expected them as part of the security system, but wouldn't a guy so hooked on privacy have made some sort of squawk?
Then again, maybe Jensen was wrong. Maybe Amurri hadn't spotted the pickups.
Still, he was getting an itch about this guy—no red-flashing alarms or anything like that, just a feeling that something wasn't quite what it seemed.
He wouldn't tell Brady yet. The boss saw dollar signs when he looked at Amurri and would brush off Jensen's suspicions. So right now he'd keep them to himself and have Margiotta do a little more digging. And maybe have Peary follow him again.
Scratch an itch and sometimes you find a chigger.
5
A large Dunkin' Donuts coffee in one hand, the Post in the other, Richie Cordova elbowed his office door open and breezed through the reception area.
"What've we got today, Eddy?"
"New client at two."
He stopped in mid-breeze. "That's it?"
"Afraid so."
He shook his head. Christ, things were slow.
In his office he dumped his weight into the chair behind his desk, set down the coffee and paper, and pulled a bag containing a pair of glazed chocolate donuts from the side pocket of his jacket.
He hadn't been able to resist. Damn. He had everything else in his life pretty much locked down the way he wanted. His appetite was the only thing not under control.
Maybe tomorrow.
He hit the power button on his computer and gobbled one of the donuts while it warmed up.
He'd had a dream last night about that nun. A hot one. Must've been because he'd talked to her during the day. He knew what Sister Golden Hair looked like in her birthday suit and she was nothing great—sure as hell nothing like the faked-and-baked babes in the shots he downloaded from teen-lust.com—but she wasn't bad, and she was real. And he'd been there, watching in real time as he snapped shots. Last night he'd had that pale, hot little body sweating over him instead of Metcalf.
Richie entered his password and went directly to his photo files.
Photo-wise, he was moving away from film to digital. Eventually he'd be all digital, but old habits were hard to break. Photos of any kind had stopped being worth much in court these days. Too easily faked. Hell, even negatives could be faked. But things were different in the good old Court of Public Opinion. A compromising photo could still mess up a reputation.
Even if you came out and swore on a stack of Bibles that the pictures were fakes, those images stuck in people's minds long after the explanations had faded away.
He opened the SIS folder and double-clicked one of the jpeg files within. But instead of an image of Sister Maggie in a clinch with her fundraiser pal, he found only a string of flashing capital letters.
HOPE YOU REMEMBERED TO BACK UP!
Where was the photo? He closed that file and opened the next. Same message.
"Oh, my God!"
He opened more files and felt his mouth grow progressively drier as the same words popped up time after time. He moved to other folders, but all his jpegs carried the same message. He tried a couple of doc files and they were the same! Every goddamn file on his computer had been wiped clean and replaced by the same sneering message!
He was on his feet, hands clamped against the sides of his head. "This can't be! This can't fucking be!"
Eddy poked her head through the doorway. "Something wrong, Richie?"
"My computer! Someone's been in here and sabotaged my computer! Wiped out everything!"
"How is that possible?"
He went to the two windows and checked the contacts. No sign of tampering. And both were locked from inside.
"I don't know. I—" He jabbed an index finger at her. "You must've forgot to turn on the alarm."
Eddy shook her head and looked offended. "Not a chance. I put it on as I always do. And it was still armed this morning when I opened up."
"Bullshit!" he said as he charged her way. She had to back out of the doorway to allow him through. "If that's true, how did he get to my machine?"
Same story with the sealed window in the reception area. What was going on?
"Maybe he didn't," Eddy said. "Maybe he—what do they call it?—hacked into it. I've heard they can get into government computers, so why not yours?"
Richie didn't know much about hacking, but he knew one thing for sure: "A computer's got to be turned on before you can hack it, and I turn mine off every night."
He returned to his office.
Eddy said, "Well then, I don't know what to tell you besides the alarm was set." She frowned. "And then you've got to ask yourself, why anyone would want to sabotage your computer? I keep all the correspondence and billing records on mine. If someone wanted to hurt your business, they'd go after my machine, wouldn't they? And mine is fine."
Richie couldn't answer that. And suddenly he was thinking about the envelope.
"Okay, okay, we've wasted enough time jawing about it. Get the number of that computer place down the street. Call him and tell him I've got an emergency here and need him ASAP."
"Will do."
As soon as the door closed, he went over to the radiator. The envelope was still there. He yanked it out and checked the money—all there. He dropped it back into its hiding place and stumbled back to his chair.
Maybe no one had broken in after all. That was a relief. He'd moved his computer here for the security system. Rudimentary but better than nothing, which was what he had at the house. And since it came with the rent here, a hell of a lot cheaper than installing one.
He grabbed the Post and fanned to the horoscope page.
Gemini (May 21-June 21): Win points by accepting additional responsibilities. Extra hours ensure future financial security. If you are in negotiations, you know by now that the other side may not be taking things as seriously as you are.
Well, he was always in financial negotiations, and that nun bitch didn't seem to be taking things as seriously as she should, but nothing here about bad luck or watching your back. Cusp guy that he was, he read on to the next.
Cancer (June 22—July 22): Being in the right place at the right time is your style today. You get recognition for a job well done. Balance job responsibilities with social ones. Celebrate, even if you have to invent a reason.
No warning here, either. But he liked the being in the right place at the right time part. That never hurt. No help, though, on what had happened to all his files.
He glanced at the screen where the words still flashed:
HOPE YOU REMEMBERED TO BACK UP!
Richie jabbed the off button and the screen went dark. "Fuck you!"
He had remembered to back up. He had a copy of every file in a safe place.
6
Jack found a small neighborhood no-name bar and earned a lot of stares as the only white face in the place. The available drafts were various Buds and Millers so he ordered a bottle of Corona—no lime—and a bar pie. He took it to the front window where he had a good view of Cordova's office across Tremont.
Traffic was thick on the sidewalks as well as the street where every third car seemed to be a black Lincoln Continental or Town Car with a livery sticker.
&
nbsp; The Corona was good, but he barely tasted the pie. Good thing, because the backroom microwave oven had left the crust as gummy as the stingy layer of cheese. Hard to tell where one left off and the other began.
Not that he cared. He was eating simply to keep from being hungry later. Knowing that his face now resided in the Dormentalist computer had filched his appetite. Didn't want his photo anywhere.
But he hadn't been able to do anything about it. He'd considered pushing the privacy-nut persona a little further but had had a feeling that wouldn't wash with Jensen. The big guy was no dummy, and Jack sensed he could be trouble.
Maybe he was already trouble. He'd had him followed again. The same guy who'd tailed him yesterday had tried to dog him again today. Jack had lost him easily in the Rockefeller Center mob and then headed straight up here to the Bronx.
Jack read the tail as a sign Jensen might not be completely sold on his Jason Amurri persona. Maybe just his nature: He didn't seem to be a trusting guy in the first place, and no doubt a big part of his job was sniffing out trouble and heading it off at the pass. But beyond that, he appeared to have a chip on his shoulder where Jack was concerned. Probably hadn't liked looking bad in front of his boss.
So Jack had let them take his picture. Now what to do about it? He'd have to think of something. Maybe Russ could handle it, although Jack sensed he might be leery about serious hacking, considering how it could screw up his parole.
Checked his watch. Almost noon. Cordova had probably fired up his computer by now. Jack wished he could have been a fly on the wall when he'd opened his first file, then watched the growing horror on his face as he realized he'd been wiped out.
He was halfway through the pie and three-quarters done with his Corona when he spotted Cordova sidling out onto the sidewalk with his computer tower cradled against his big belly. As he started moving uphill, Jack gulped the rest of his beer and headed for the door.
It took him longer than he liked to weave through the lunchtime crowd—it looked like Sidewalk Sale Day, with more clothes and electronics and miscellaneous merchandise displayed outside the stores than in—and when he got to the street, Cordova was gone.
"What the—?"
Had he jumped into a cab? Jack was about to launch into a litany of self-excoriation when he noticed a sign just a few doors to his left: Computer Doctor.
"Let's hope," Jack muttered as he dodged across the street.
He stopped before the front window and pretended to be looking at the display of monitors and keyboards and various gazillion-megabyte hard drives. A quick glance up showed Cordova standing at the counter, waving his arms at the white-coated clerk.
Jack let out a long breath and retreated to the far side of the street to watch and wait.
7
"I've got your diagnosis already," said the clerk after Richie had explained what had been happening.
Richie wanted to wipe that smug grin off his pimply face—preferably with a barbed-wire washcloth. His white coat hung loose on his narrow shoulders; he had a shaved head and lots of earrings. Lots. Richie stopped counting at six.
"Yeah? What?"
"Your computer caught a cold."
What was this asshole up to? "How do you know that? You ain't even hooked it up yet."
A wider smile as the geek hooked his thumb under the name tag of the white coat. It said Dr. Marty.
"The doctor knows. And you've come to the right place. Where better to take a computer with a virus than to the Computer Doctor?"
"Virus?" Richie had heard of those. "How'd I get that?"
"Do you have antivirus software?"
"No."
Dr. Marty rolled his eyes. "Do you go on the Internet?"
"Well, yeah." This clown better not ask where.
"Ever download anything—programs, patches, files?"
"Yeah, sometimes."
Lots of times. Richie didn't know what a patch was, but he'd downloaded a ton of picture files of tight young bodies going hot and heavy at—
"Then that's where you probably picked it up. That or through e-mail."
"So it doesn't mean someone came into my office and put this in my machine?"
"You mean physically uploading it into your machine?" Dr. Marty laughed. "Hardly! This is the twenty-first century! You opened your computer's door and it breezed right in off the Internet."
Well, that was a relief. Sort of.
Dr. Marty then went on to explain something called the HYRTBU virus that causes exactly what had happened to Richie's machine.
"Can you fix it?"
"Of course. I'll install some antivirus software and run a diagnostic."
"How long's that gonna take?"
"Give me a couple of hours. Leave your number and I'll call when it's cleaned up." He shook his head. "Won't be able to retrieve any of your files, though. They're dead and gone. HYRTBU takes no prisoners."
"That's okay. I've got backup."
Dr. Marty gave him a thumbs-up. "My man!"
"Hey, no chance of this HYRTBU thing messing up my backup?"
"Can't. Not if you're backed up on CD. That's ROM and you can't—"
Richie had heard all he needed to hear.
"Great. I'll be waiting for your call."
8
Jack straightened as Cordova came out. Instead of returning to the office, though, he began walking in the other direction.
A good sign. Jack was pretty sure Cordova's backup wasn't in his office; maybe he was heading for it now.
Keeping to the opposite side of the street, he followed—a whole three blocks to the local Morgan Bank branch. He followed Cordova inside, saw him pick up one of the clerks and follow her back into the rear section.
Jack nodded. Heading for a safety deposit box.
He noted the bank hours: the lobby locked up at three. Great. It would take time for the Computer Doctor to clean up Cordova's machine—too long to allow him to retrieve it, hook it up, restore all his files, and get back to the bank before closing.
So a good chance he'd leave the disk in the office overnight.
And then? Jack would break in again tonight and reintroduce HYRTBU, but what about the backup disk? He could simply steal it, but that would tip Cordova to the fact he'd been invaded.
Jack decided he could live with that if he had to, but he much preferred to leave fatso raging at the gods, believing it was all due to the dumping of the truckload of bad karma he'd been amassing.
Which meant another trip to Russ to find out how he could wreck the backup CD with no one the wiser.
But first he had to visit Beekman Place.
9
"You've seen him? He's well?"
Maria Roselli's dark eyes danced in her puffy face as she beamed at Jack.
Esteban had announced him and Benno the Rottweiler had greeted Jack at the door. She'd offered tea again but he'd declined.
"He looks healthy," Jack said. Couldn't say he'd looked clean, but he hadn't seemed malnourished. "Looks like he's working on a beard."
She frowned. "Really? He tried that once before and said the itching drove him crazy." She waved her hand. "But that's neither here nor there. What did he say when you told him to call his mother?"
"I didn't get to that. It seems he's, um, being punished."
"What?" Her hand fluttered to her mouth. "Whatever do you mean?"
"I don't know what he did, but he's not allowed to talk to other Dormen-talists and they're not allowed to talk to him."
"Isn't that silly? I can't believe Johnny allows himself to be humiliated like that. He should just get out of that place."
"That would be up to him. Since I'm pretending to be a Dormentalist wannabe, I can't talk to him in the temple. So I'm working on finding out where he lives. I'll catch up to him outside the temple and give him your message."
"How long do you think that will take? Another day, perhaps?"
Jack shrugged. "I'd like that, but don't count on it."
"But
you've accomplished so much so soon."
"Pure luck."
A lucky coincidence. There it was again: the C-word. Was this situation being manipulated? It didn't seem so, but one of those old ladies with a dog had told him there'd be no more coincidences in his life.
He rose and looked down at Maria. "Are you sure you don't know Anya Mundy?"
"That woman you mentioned the other day? 1 believe 1 told you no."
"Yeah, you did, didn't you." He sighed. "If I'm lucky again, I'll catch sight of Johnny and follow him home. In case that doesn't happen, I'll work on getting a peek at member records."
Jack liked the former course better. Tomorrow he'd try hanging out on the Communing level at about the same time he'd been there today. If Johnny Roselli was a creature of habit, Jack might be able to create his own coincidence.
Out front, Esteban smiled and held the front door open as Jack exited. As he started walking toward First Avenue he realized he hadn't seen Gia all day. He had a few minutes. Why not pop in?
10
Gia smiled as she glanced through the peephole. Jack. Just the tonic she needed.
She pulled open the door. "Howdy, stranger." He grinned. "Hey, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours."
"I know." She pulled him inside and threw her arms around him. "But it seems like a week."
As they hugged she felt some of the day-long tension uncoil within her. It had been a long, long morning and she was only partway through the afternoon. She'd intended to work on her latest painting today—a new angle on her Fifty-ninth Street Bridge series—but had found herself too weak to stand at the easel for any length of time. Still feeling that blood loss, she guessed.
But even if her energy had been at its usual high level, she doubted she could have done much. She felt too down in the dumps to paint, and not just because of the blood loss.
She'd almost lost the baby. Dr. Eagleton had reassured her that everything was fine, but that didn't mean it wouldn't happen again. She'd miscar-ried her first pregnancy, the one before Vicky. Who said this one wouldn't wind up the same way?
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