by Tom Fowler
“That’s probably fair,” Danny said.
I leaned in. “What I want to know is this: if Chris told your brother to piss off, would your brother have killed him?”
“I don’t think so,” Danny said after a few seconds. He shook his head to emphasize the point. “He’d’ve been pissed, sure. But he wouldn’t jump right to killing someone.”
“You’re sure?”
“I know my brother.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
Chapter 7
When I got home, Gloria had left. She dropped by more and more but still spent most of her nights in her house. I understood; her house was far larger and fancier than mine. I enjoyed the great Federal Hill location; she enjoyed everything else. She didn’t keep any clothes or random supplies at my house—a good thing as her bathroom supplies would have consumed much of my second floor. It would have been a step too far for both of us.
The last couple of times Gloria left, I missed her. I would have thought such a thing impossible a month ago. Our relationship of fun and convenience inched toward something more serious. For now, neither of us expressed any interest in wanting to formalize anything. I didn’t expect the situation to change. I knew I wouldn’t be the one to bring it up. If Gloria did. . . .
I tabled those thoughts and got back to work in the office. Chris Sellers’ ransomware merited another look. Having skimmed it before, now I took the time to study it. I complied it onto a VM and really poked at it. Chris did a fantastic job writing it. I already infected a test VM. After reviewing the code until my eyes begged for relief, I saved the VM as it was. You never know when something like cutting-edge ransomware will prove useful.
With work done for the day, I went into the kitchen to make dinner. I again lamented the state of my refrigerator and pantry, but I found enough for what I wanted to do. I sautéed red peppers, green peppers, and onions in a skillet. While they cooked, I set the oven to low and put two wheat sub rolls in to get warm. In a smaller skillet, I fried two large Italian sausages. Once they cooked, I lowered the heat and added marinara sauce.
I took the rolls out of the oven, split them down the center, and added onions and peppers to each. Then I poured in a little sauce, added the sausage, and then topped it with more sauce. These would be messy but good. I ate in the living room in front of the TV while catching up on Netflix.
After dinner, I pondered going into Federal Hill but stayed home. In my younger days, I would have ventured out. Now I was happy to stay home with a full stomach and a good movie. I wasn’t even thirty yet, and I was already morphing into a homebody. By forty, I might be a hermit with a beard down to my waist.
After the movie, I got back online and checked to see if Chris Sellers got back to me. He hadn’t. Making dinner became the most productive thing I did since Gloria left. With those successes in the rearview, I called it a night.
After waking the next morning, I made coffee in a travel cup and drove to the grocery store. My cart got heavier, my wallet got lighter, and at the end, I purchased enough to make a bunch of meals. I put it all away and made a simple breakfast of a bagel and bacon. An hour of shopping made me hungry.
I unwound and digested while watching SportsCenter, then ran about four miles in the pleasant morning air. After a shower and another cup of coffee, I sat down in front of my computer, ready to work. It occurred to me I was all-in on trying to reach Chris Sellers. If he went dark and never responded, I didn’t have a plan B. At the moment, I couldn’t come up with one. If I failed to reach Chris Sellers and couldn’t find a usable trace of him online, I would need an alternative.
I logged in on Coding Chat. The envelope icon at the top of the screen showed a red “1” atop it: I had a new message. It could have been the generic welcome-to-our-community crap, or it could have been a response from Chris Sellers. I opened the message.
Chris had gotten back to me.
You’re right. I don’t know you. I know that phone number belongs to a local private investigator I’ve read good things about. I hope it’s you. Tell my brother I’m OK. He doesn’t need to worry.
It was something, at least. Chris Sellers was alive. Or someone pretended to be him. I hoped for the former. He had sent his message an hour ago. Maybe I could catch him online. I fired off a reply.
Chris,
It’s good to hear from you. I’ll tell your brother you’re OK. I need more, though. More importantly, he needs more. We have to know this is really you. I need to meet you. You can pick the time and place. Let me confirm you’re alive and OK, and if you’re in trouble, maybe I can help you. Reply or text.
After I sent the reply, I puttered around on the coding site for a while. A few people asked easy questions. I thought about answering them but decided my account was best used talking to Chris. In college, I offered to help someone with his code. It turned into helping multiple people for longer than I intended. I didn’t need to go down that rabbit hole again.
As I looked at a couple of competent programs, Chris got back to me.
It’s really me. I know I’ve put some people out. Unfortunately, I had to. I’ll be at the Starbucks in Abindgon this afternoon at 1. Don’t bring my brother with you.
This afternoon at one gave me plenty of time to get there, and I could even go to Z Burger for lunch afterwards. I could tell Brian I found his brother. Where he went and when he might come back would be for them to work out. It counted as a win for me.
Why couldn’t all my cases be this easy?
Years ago, I heard it’s acceptable to be up to fifteen minutes late to a social function. I have applied this maxim to everything over the years, taking great liberties with the intended meaning. Today, however, I sat at a table, iced vanilla latte before me, at five minutes to one. I knew what Chris Sellers looked like, so I would see him when he walked in. This Starbucks had two doors, one on the north wall and the other on the east. My table afforded a good view of both.
A pair of girls in University of Maryland tank tops and tiny shorts walked in. I found their clothes quite appropriate for the weather. About a minute past one, Chris Sellers walked in via the rear entrance. He wore a nondescript T-shirt and shorts and an Orioles cap pulled low over his face. The patchy beard growth gave me a moment of pause in identifying him. As he scanned the room, I raised my drink toward him. He started toward my table.
The other door opened. Alberto Esposito and a goon entered. Esposito saw me; his goon had eyes only for Chris. How the hell did they know he would be here? Once Chris saw them, he bolted back out the rear door. Esposito’s man went after him, dodging around tables and patrons. I got up and ran after him.
The Abingdon Starbucks is in a small strip mall on a street dominated by fast-food restaurants and big-box retailers. There's also a Lowe's a quick sprint away. Chris took off in the direction of the retail stores. By the time I got outside, I was chasing the goon down Tollgate Road. Chris enjoyed a comfortable lead on the goon, who gained no ground as the pursuit wore on. Chris cut a hard left at the Chick Fil-A. His pursuer slowed. I dashed ahead of him and looked around for Chris Sellers.
He had disappeared.
I didn't see him in a parking lot or even in a car in a parking lot. No one I could see inside the Chick Fil-A looked like him. He could have gone in, run out another door, and taken off in another direction. If so, good for him—he would avoid Esposito's man, who wasn't built for a protracted chase. I eased my pace, then stopped and turned. The goon jogged toward me, then slowed to a walk.
Like most in his profession, this fellow was big, about six-five and built like a defensive lineman. The barbed wire tattoos around his biceps told everyone he had nary an original thought in his head. I knew he could bench-press me about thirty times but also knew I wouldn't give him the chance. He stopped about ten feet from me, sucking wind and glowering. Any fear factor the glare may have held got undone by the gasping. "If you're going to try and intimidate people," I said, "you might want to mix in
some cardio."
"Go to hell," he said, the last syllable trailing off. He looked around.
"You're not going to find him," I said.
"I might."
"If you saw him, I'd get there before you."
He took a couple steps forward and glowered again despite its lack of success the first time. "What if I just beat your ass right now?" he said.
"Brilliant," I said. "Look around, you moron. It's the middle of the day on a major road. I'm pretty sure it’s the kind of attention your boss doesn't want."
He stood and pondered my words. "Fine," he said after a moment. "But I'm sure we'll see each other again." His breathing returned to normal.
"I'm counting on it," I said. I walked past him and back toward Starbucks. How the hell did Esposito learn Chris was going to be here today? Esposito had been in my office but neither he nor his driver touched anything. Their mobile jammer would have prevented any kind of wireless attack. I received no suspicious emails or texts. They couldn't have found out with my unwitting help. The alternative meant they had electronic eyes or ears on Chris Sellers. They didn't know where he was, but they knew where he would be thanks to the message he sent me.
I needed to discover how Esposito pulled it off. Chris Sellers struck me as too savvy to be a common malware victim. Esposito wasn't a code writer—why else would he be looking for one? I wondered if he kept someone like Chris on retainer, a cyber person who could go after fellow coders and hackers. I made a mental note to check all my systems and their security logs when I got home.
When I walked back into the Starbucks, Esposito sat at my table, sipping an iced coffee. I took a seat, and he smiled at me. I didn't return it. His man came in behind me. He joined us at the table.
"Matty, why don't you wait in the car?" Esposito said.
"Boss, I don't think—"
"You're right; you don't. I don't pay you to fucking think. Now go wait in the car. I need to have a conversation."
Matty looked at his boss, then glared at me. I winked at him. He tried to add menace to the glare, then got up and stormed out. "Hard to get good help these days?" I said.
"You have no idea," said Esposito.
I drank my latte. It grew watery during my sprint down Tollgate Road. I didn't say anything. Esposito was a hotshot who returned to town with designs on running the show. He had to be impressed with himself. I knew he would talk if I gave him the chance. It didn't take long for him to prove me right.
"You must be wondering why I'm here," he said.
"I figure it's more than just the coffee," I said.
Esposito smirked. "I'd forgotten how funny you think you are." He paused and looked at me. "I'm a man of many parts."
"You're trying to be."
"And I'll get there. Without your help, it seems, and I'll remember your slight."
"It's good to be remembered," I said.
"Not this time."
"None of this tells me how you ended up here today."
Esposito took another drink of his coffee and lapsed into silence. He was enjoying himself. I wanted to know something only he could tell me. A prick like Esposito needs to drag these things out and savor them. I had done it a few times, too. Being on the receiving end of it wasn't fun.
"You're gonna have to keep wondering," he said.
"How anticlimactic," I said.
"Get used to being disappointed."
"I never have. I'll figure it out sooner or later."
"You think so?"
I gave Esposito a patronizing smile. "I do.”
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because I'm smarter than you."
Esposito chuckled and sipped his drink. "You're smarter than me?"
"If you were a savant, Tony wouldn't have sent you to Cleveland."
"Is that a fact?" Esposito looked at me over the top of his plastic cup. "Maybe I'm smarter than you're giving me credit for.”
"Maybe," I said, "but I'm still smarter than you."
His face twisted for a moment. Good. If I made Esposito angry, he might tell me something he otherwise wouldn't. Even if he didn't, he was a prick, and I liked pissing him off. "I have an interest in Chris," he said.
"I figured as much."
"Right, because you're so smart."
"Didn't need to be for something so simple."
"I came to you for ransomware. You weren't the first to turn me down."
"Why the obsession with Chris, then?" I said. "He writes good code, but this area is lousy with people who write good code."
"My interest in him goes beyond just code."
It meant money. I could ask to confirm, but I knew Esposito wouldn't divulge it. I probably pushed him as far as I could, and farther than I should have. "Fine," I said, finishing my watery latte, "but I'm going to keep looking for him."
"Because of his poor brother?"
"Yes."
"Be a shame if something happened to the kid."
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't."
Esposito held my gaze for a moment and laughed. "Relax," he said. "I ain't interested in the kid. Just Chris." The humor faded from his face. "I don't think you should keep getting in my way."
"It'll take more than Matty to discourage me."
"I have more," Esposito said with a thin, mirthless smile.
Why did all my cases have to be this complicated?
Chapter 8
I stopped at home long enough to change into workout clothes and pack a duffel bag. At the gym, I attacked the treadmill, pushing it harder than normal. After a half-hour there, I drank some water and recovered my wind before going to the heavy bag, the real reason I came. There are times everyone needs to hit something. This afternoon had been one of those for me. I put on my MMA gloves and went at it hard.
Matty’s face filled my head, superimposed on the bag as I wailed away with fists and elbows. Esposito took a few good shots to the noggin, too. I went back and forth between them as I pummeled the leather. Fifteen minutes later, my arms felt like jelly and my gym gear was covered in sweat. I took a shower, put on the clean clothes in my bag, and got a smoothie from the juice bar.
Back at home, I finished the smoothie and sent Brian Sellers a text, telling him to call or stop by when he had a chance. Then I got online, went back to the coding forum, and sent Chris Sellers another message.
Chris, I don't know what happened today. I don't know how he knew. It wasn't from me. I can help you with him, and I can help your brother, but you'll need to trust me. Before you get back to me, make sure you're not infected with anything.
I decided to take my own advice on the last point. With all the malware sampling I did, my systems incurred a chance of infection. I destroyed all of the VMs I made in the last couple days, took the rest of my systems offline, and fired up the malware scanners. My phone could have been an attack vector, too, but I didn't want to take it down in case Brian called. It would have to wait.
I watched some of the malware scans run. It wasn't like there was anything better to do. Chris Sellers was in the breeze, Alberto Esposito plotted against him (and likely me, by this point), and I didn’t accomplish much besides stirring the pot. So far, this would not go down in the annals of superior sleuthing performances.
The malware scans churned. I made a big pot of sweet tea to refrigerate. While it cooled, someone knocked on the door. After the impromptu meeting with Esposito and Matty earlier, I walked to the door with a 9MM behind me. Brian Sellers stood on my doorstep. I tucked the gun into the back of my jeans and let him in.
In my office, Brian saw me reholster the gun and frowned. "You can never be too careful in this city," I said.
We each sat on our respective sides of my desk. "Is that all it is?" he said.
"Let me worry about it. I saw your brother today."
My news got him to sit at attention. "You did? Where? How is he?"
"He's fine," I said. "I saw him in Abingdon. I reached out to him online at a coding site he poste
d on."
"So where is he now?"
"No idea. Unfortunately, someone else showed up, too, and your brother took off. I don't know where he is now."
Brian slumped in the chair. "Who was the other guy?"
I didn't like the look in his eyes. I would have worn the same one at his age, so I wanted better for him. "I can see you're angry," I said. "I would be, too. The other guy is a . . . gangster, I guess is the best way to describe him."
"You mean like a mob guy?"
“More or less.”
"What's Chris doing with a mob guy?"
"I don't know. The mob guy wouldn't tell me."
Now my news made Brian frown. The anger hadn't left his eyes yet. "Wait, you know this guy?"
"I wouldn't say I know him," I said. "We met a few times several years ago."
"Is he dangerous? What does he want with my brother?"
"Yes, he's dangerous. It’s why you need to get the wild look out of your eyes and let me deal with him." I waited while Brian took a couple of deep breaths. The anger on his face faded. Now he looked like a stressed-out high school kid, which counted as a small improvement. "I don't know for certain what he wants with your brother, but I can make a good guess."
"My brother's not a criminal," Brian said.
"I know. With his job, he couldn't be."
"You investigated him?"
"I had to. He was missing. I needed to know everything I could about him."
Brian nodded. "OK, so what's your guess?"
"Do you know what your brother did for a living?" I said.
"Sure, he was a programmer."
"It’s what he told you?"
"My brother isn't a liar." I saw the anger bleed back onto Brian's face.
"You want a water or anything?" I said.
