Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  80

  Comm unwrapped the Sausage McMuffin. Scarfed it down, drained his coffee, and polished off the hash browns. Then he looked across the table at Stevens and Windermere. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

  He was clear-eyed this morning. He seemed to have slept. There were shadows under his eyes, and he smelled like diesel fuel, sweat, and a night in a holding cell, but he held Stevens’s gaze and set his jaw and sat at the table, lucid and ready to talk.

  “Killswitch,” said Windermere. “How did you find him?”

  Comm looked around the interview room. Exhaled. “First things first. I don’t want this bastard coming back for me.”

  Windermere nodded. “Of course.”

  “I’m no snitch. I’m no rat. I’m just—” He looked at Stevens. “You had to see this guy, man.”

  “You’re safe,” Stevens told him. “We’re here to protect you.”

  “My mother, too. She’s the only family I have. I want someone watching her until you guys catch this psycho. Understood?”

  “He’s not coming for your mother,” said Windermere.

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s a contract killer,” said Stevens. “He probably wasn’t coming back for you, even if he did make the connection. You paid him. The contract was done.”

  Comm shook his head. “My mother gets protection or I’m not talking.”

  Windermere swapped a glance with Stevens. “Fine,” she said, sighing. “What’s the address?”

  Comm recited the address. Windermere wrote it down. Ducked out of the room and handed it to Ojeda. Comm watched her. When she was back inside the room, he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You guys have a computer?”

  OJEDA BROUGHT IN A LAPTOP. Logged in to the CID wireless signal and opened an Internet window. Then he turned the computer toward Comm.

  Comm typed in a Web address. “Killswitch-dot-com,” he said. “Easy.”

  It was a generic-looking website. A stock image at the top, a soldier with a rifle. A couple of articles beneath, a long row of links. It didn’t look like much more than a collection of news clippings, all of them related to guns. There wasn’t anything to suggest it was a front for a hired killer. Windermere frowned. “This is how you found him?”

  Comm nodded. “Looks pretty simple, right? It’s not, though.” He clicked on a link that said CONTACT and a pop-up form appeared. There were entry fields for name, e-mail address, questions. There was a drop-down menu. Comm clicked on it and scrolled.

  “Contracting,” he said. “That’s what you select. And you have to be pretty damn crafty with your request. There’s a code.”

  “A code,” said Windermere. “How the hell do you know the code?”

  Comm laughed at her. “Same way I know about Killswitch,” he said. “It’s not hard, if you know what to look for.”

  “And what do you look for?” said Stevens.

  “People.” Comm shook his head. “You look for people. Listen, I’m not exactly a choirboy. You saw the cocaine. I know people who have bad connections. Maybe I told my dealer I was looking to put out a hit. Maybe my dealer gave me Killswitch.”

  “Your dealer,” said Windermere. “Who is he?”

  “Nice try. I told you I’m no snitch.”

  “You’re giving us Killswitch.”

  “I’m trying,” said Comm. “You guys keep asking questions. Who my dealer is doesn’t matter. Killswitch is out there. People just know about it.”

  Stevens cleared his throat. “So you typed in the code. You asked for contracting help. Then this guy got in touch and asked who you wanted killed?”

  Comm shook his head. “It’s not like that. First the guy has to vet you. Make sure you’re clean.”

  “How?”

  “The hell if I know. Wasn’t like he came to my house.” Comm picked up his empty cup of coffee. Glanced inside, and set it back down. “Not that I know of. Anyway, I guess he liked what he saw, because a week after I got in touch, he invited me in.”

  “Invited you where?” said Windermere.

  Comm smiled to himself. Punched in another URL. “Killswitch-dot-com,” he said, “slash special projects.” He pressed ENTER and a gray page loaded up. There was a user name field and a password prompt. The rest of the page was blank.

  “Special projects,” said Stevens. “The murders.”

  Comm grinned wider. “Exactly.”

  Windermere glanced at Stevens. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked Comm. “Get us in.”

  81

  Parkerson was in the middle of his presentation when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it for a minute or two. Then he froze.

  His BlackBerry was on the long boardroom table with a stack of files and his coffee. That meant the buzzing in his pocket wasn’t work calling, or his wife. The phone in his pocket was the Killswitch phone.

  Parkerson stumbled through the rest of the presentation. The board stared at him, impassive. He rushed through his conclusion and sat down quickly. Drank his coffee and fought the urge to look down at the phone. Sat on his hands for ten minutes, wanting to burst.

  There was a pause in the action. The lights came on, and Parkerson stood. “Excuse me,” he said, gesturing sheepishly to his coffee cup. “Drank a little too much java. Be right back.”

  He hurried out into the hall and down to the men’s room. Found a stall and took out the Killswitch phone. A text message. Someone had logged in to the Killswitch database. Parkerson scrolled through. Then he stopped. Comm.

  Comm had returned to Killswitch. He’d logged in twenty minutes ago, was still in the database now, but he hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t written a message. He was just lurking inside.

  Parkerson studied his phone. The job was done. The target was eliminated, and the fees had been paid. There was no reason for Comm to return. Comm, he thought, frowning. What the hell are you doing?

  82

  Comm scratched his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Everything was right here.”

  Windermere glanced at Stevens. Then back at the Killswitch database. Comm had entered his password and logged in to the Special Projects page. But the page had come back empty. There was nothing in the database.

  “What were you expecting?” she said.

  Comm looked at her. “Everything,” he said. “My correspondence with Killswitch. My application.”

  “Job was finished,” said Windermere. “No sense leaving the evidence kicking around. Especially if he figured there’s a chance you’d tell the cops.”

  Stevens stared at the blank screen. “So what do we do?”

  “Guess we try and trace the website.” Windermere walked to the door. Poked her head out. “Hey,” she called. “Ojeda.”

  PARKERSON RUSHED BACK to his office, board meeting be damned. Jamie stood up as he passed. “Mr. Parkerson?”

  “Just a minute.” He hurried past her and closed the door behind him. Logged on to his computer and turned on the virtual network. Booted up the IP cloaker for good measure. Then he brought up the Killswitch database.

  This was dangerous. He’d never used Killswitch during work hours. He’d certainly never ditched on a board meeting to tend to the project. This was panic behavior, irrational. This would attract attention from the chairman, from Jamie. But Parkerson had to know.

  He waited as the database loaded, drumming his fingers on the desk. When the page was fully loaded, he searched through until he found Comm. Still online. Parkerson clicked on his name.

  Logged in from Miami, the database told him. Spat out an IP address. Parkerson copied it down and ran a trace. Felt his heart stop as he read the results. Comm was logged on through a federal government server in Miami. Parkerson checked the address, knowing already what the search would find. A moment later, his fears were confirmed
. Someone in the FBI’s Miami office was inside the Killswitch database. Somehow, they’d logged in as Comm.

  83

  Ojeda shook his head. “Can’t get a fix on him,” he said. “His location keeps moving. Boston. Houston. Moscow. Beirut. He won’t stay in one place.”

  Stevens peered at the screen. “How can he do that?”

  “IP blocker,” said Ojeda. “It keeps moving his IP address. Hiding it. He’s not in those places, but we can’t break through and find him.”

  Windermere looked at Ojeda. “Is there a way to beat this?”

  Ojeda shook his head. “Not quickly,” he said. “We give it to a techie for a few hours and he’ll crack it, probably. Depends how good our guy on the other end is.”

  “This cybercrime stuff,” said Stevens. “I feel like a goddamn barnacle.”

  Windermere grinned at him. “It’s not your fault you’re old, Stevens. And computer illiterate.”

  Ojeda grinned at them. Then he looked back at the laptop and his grin disappeared. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, shit.”

  Windermere looked over his shoulder. “What’s the deal?”

  Ojeda clicked the mouse. Pressed a couple of buttons. “We’re out of the database,” he said. “Killswitch just kicked us out.”

  “He can do that?”

  “Why would he boot us?” said Windermere.

  “Must have figured out it’s the FBI and not Comm,” Ojeda replied.

  “Well, shit.”

  Stevens studied the screen. “Can your tech guys still trace this guy’s IP address?” he said.

  Ojeda frowned down at the laptop. “I don’t know.”

  84

  The tech was a young guy named Kam. He copied the Killswitch IP address into his own tracer. Pressed a button and studied the screen. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “I’ve dealt with this program before.”

  Windermere grinned at Stevens. “Finally,” she said. “Something’s going right.”

  “What’s your bet?” said Stevens. “Where do you think our guy’s located?”

  “Who, Killswitch?”

  Stevens nodded. “I figure O’Brien’s a Philadelphia local. That’s the kid. But what about our mystery accomplice?”

  Windermere thought about it. “His plates looked like Virginia,” she said. “And Triple A Industries has a P.O. box in Richmond. Guess that makes sense to me.”

  “Sure,” Stevens said. “As long as we’re guessing, I’m saying San Diego.”

  “San Diego?” Windermere frowned. “We have no evidence whatsoever that Killswitch has ever seen San Diego.”

  “I know, I just figure this guy’s unpredictable. I’ll give you whatever odds you want we don’t find him in Richmond.”

  “You’re on. What are we betting?”

  “Dinner.”

  “If he turns up in Richmond, you buy me dinner?”

  “That’s right. Anywhere else, and you’re buying.”

  “I thought you said San Diego.”

  “Just a wild guess,” Stevens said, grinning. “He turns up in San Diego, you’re buying me the whole restaurant.”

  Kam swore behind them. Stevens and Windermere turned to find him staring at his computer screen, shaking his head. “What’s the deal?” said Windermere. “Where’s our IP address now?”

  Kam held up his hands, palms skyward. “I beat the IP cloaker,” he said. “Traced the address to a virtual private network. Beat the VPN no problem, but now this.” He gestured at the screen. “I don’t think I can beat this.”

  Windermere looked at the screen. Found a very angry-looking message from the Department of Defense. Confidential, it read. Password protected. Access denied. Windermere frowned. “What the hell is this?”

  “Defense Department,” said Kam. “Either your guy’s an elite hacker or this IP address is originating from somewhere inside the DoD network.”

  “Shit.” Stevens rubbed his face. “Can you beat it?”

  Kam snorted. “If I could, I wouldn’t be working here,” he said. “I’d be on a beach somewhere or in jail.” He paused. “Probably in jail.”

  Windermere looked up and met Stevens’s eyes. “Nothing’s ever easy,” she said. “Not with this case.”

  “So, what?” said Stevens. “We get in touch with the Defense Department. See if they’ll let us look around.”

  “And if not?”

  He shrugged. “We turn off the computers,” he said. “Find this guy the old-fashioned way.”

  85

  Parkerson sat back in his chair. “There,” he said. “That’ll teach you.”

  He studied his computer screen, trying to make sense of what had happened. The FBI had found its way into Killswitch. And they’d done it from Miami, through Comm. How?

  Parkerson opened another Internet window. Did a Google search for the Cameron Ansbacher murder. Found what he was looking for on the Miami Herald’s home page: “FBI Questions Suspect in Marina Shooting.”

  No names. But it had to be Comm. The Feds had caught up to him somehow, and he’d told them everything. Even logged them in to the Killswitch database. So the FBI knew. What did that mean?

  They wouldn’t be able to trace Killswitch to this office. He’d made damn sure of that. No way they could connect him to the project at all. They’d accessed the database, but he’d made sure to wipe out every one of Comm’s records immediately after he’d received final payment. The FBI agents would have found themselves staring at a blank screen.

  Security was compromised. It was a scary notion. But ultimately the FBI couldn’t have gained much from Comm’s little bird act. They knew about Killswitch. Knew that it existed. But they wouldn’t know where it came from, or who it planned to target next.

  Jamie knocked and looked into the office. “Hey,” she said, frowning, “the board’s looking for you. Everything cool?”

  Parkerson logged out of the database. Disabled the VPN and turned off his screen. He smiled at Jamie. “Everything’s fine. Just a little emergency. Kid stuff.”

  Jamie’s frown softened. “Oh,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Is now.” He grinned at her and stood. “I’d better get back to that meeting.”

  86

  You picked up Killswitch from your dealer,” said Stevens. “We’re going to need his name.”

  Comm stared across the table at him. “You know what they do to snitches in prison?” He shook his head. “Hell no. I’m not talking.”

  “You’re already talking,” said Windermere. “You’re already a snitch. The question is whether you’re going to talk enough to convince us to protect you, or clam up until we throw you in a cell with the baddest ese in D block and let him make you his girlfriend.”

  Stevens leaned across the table. “Look,” he said, “you lead us to Killswitch, hell, that’s a serial killer you’re helping us catch. Nobody’s going to let you get hurt, Phillip.”

  Comm shook his head again. “I’m not talking,” he said. “I gave you all I could give you.”

  “What about Spenser Pyatt? What do you know about him?”

  Comm stared at Stevens, blank-faced. “I’m supposed to know something?”

  “What about Mickey Pyatt?”

  “I never heard of the guy.” Comm looked at Windermere. “Look, whatever your boyfriend’s on about, I have no idea. I paid an Internet zombie to kill Cameron Ansbacher. That’s all I got for you. I don’t know shit about anybody named Pyatt.”

  Stevens swapped glances with Windermere. Windermere rolled her eyes. It had not been a very productive afternoon. The Department of Defense had categorically refused to allow Stevens and Windermere access to the Killswitch IP address. Then Derek Mathers had called Windermere from Minneapolis, his investigation into Mickey Pyatt both exhaustive and fruitless.

  “Nothing,
” he told Windermere. “He showed me everything I wanted to see. Bank statements, financial records. For the rest of the family, too. No strange six-figure payments. No extra life insurance policies. I asked him about Killswitch and he just stared at me. He doesn’t know, Carla. I think he’s clean.”

  “Damn it.” Windermere sighed. “I was kind of getting that feeling myself.”

  Now she followed Stevens out of the tiny interview room. Comm wasn’t talking. Mathers had hit nothing but dead ends. Killswitch was slipping through their fingers.

  “What the hell do we do now?” she asked Stevens when they were out in the hall. “How do we find this guy?”

  Stevens rubbed his eyes. “We break Comm, we can follow his dealer back to someone who knows Killswitch.”

  “We’re not breaking Comm, Stevens. You saw him.”

  “So we work around him. Talk to his friends. They give us his dealer, and we move from there.”

  Windermere sighed. “That’s a lot of pounding the goddamn pavement.”

  “What if we trace the main Killswitch website?” said Stevens. “Not the special projects database. Just the front page.”

  Windermere shook her head and looked out the window. “It’s the same IP address,” she said. “The same DoD firewall.”

  “What about the credit card? Triple A Industries? O’Brien’s used it for three jobs now. Rented Liberty every time. We follow it backward, find more leads.”

  “Mathers had the same idea.” Windermere shrugged. “Liberty has no sign of anyone with a Triple A Industries card before Saint Paul. I figure he’s too smart to use the same card for long. Different shell companies, and all of them leading to the same place.” She paused. “How the hell do we catch up to these guys, Stevens?”

  Stevens shook his head. Gestured into the interview room. “I guess we keep working on Comm.”

  AS IT TURNED OUT, Comm didn’t provide the answer. Roman Ojeda did. The Miami agent poked his head into the interview room about an hour later, grinning wide.