by Mia Marlowe
Silence answered him for the space of several heartbeats.
“Hello, Rede.”
It was only two words, but Neville recognized the voice and it froze his gut. He didn’t fear many people, but Nicholas Garibaldi was one of them.
“Some disturbing things have come to my attention,” Neville’s occasional employer said smoothly, his tone as even as if he were commenting on the weather. “Things which offend me deeply.”
“Look, Mr. G. I don’t know what you—“
“Shut your mouth and listen.” The connection crackled. Garibaldi was undoubtedly using a burner phone. He was probably in the back of one of his cars, moving between cell towers. “A young woman died this afternoon in Cambridge. Cerise Keep.”
How had Garibaldi found out about that? And so quickly? Rumor had it that Nicholas had informants in every police precinct in the state. Now Neville didn’t doubt it.
He sat up in bed. His hand was on the lamp before he thought better of it, but he caught himself in time. If Garibaldi was truly angry and had someone positioned to do him from a nearby rooftop, why should he make it easy for them?
“Seems she took a tumble over a railing in a stairwell at MIT and landed badly,” Garibaldi said.
“Accidents happen,” Neville said.
“Yes, they certainly do. Since the young lady in question worked with Mr. Valenti, I thought perhaps you’d had some…contact with her.” His voice was velvet, but with a dagger sheathed within its folds.
“Look, Mr.—”
“No, you look. Nothing was authorized.”
“But—”
“The police are already looking harder at Valenti,” Garibaldi said. “Didn’t it occur to you that the death of another member of the same MIT department could not possibly be construed an accident?”
When Neville tailed Sara Kelley and her new boyfriend to MIT, his only thought was to make it harder for someone to connect the dots once he did away with the annoying Ms. Kelley. If Cerise Keep heard later that Sara Kelley was dead, she might ask questions, since she’d given her something in a backpack and might want whatever it was back.
“I thought it necessary to—”
“You are not allowed to think. Is that understood? Your usefulness is dependent on your invisibility and you have been less than invisible of late.” Garibaldi’s tone sank to a disembodied whisper. “Take care, lest your usefulness ceases altogether.”
Garibaldi let that threat simmer in the air for a few moments.
“There is another matter which is even more disturbing to me. You have made attempts to…contact another woman as well. Sara Kelley.”
I’ve only been trying to cover your client’s ass, you smug sonofabitch, Neville wanted to say, but then Garibaldi would learn Neville knew who had really ordered the Valenti hit. If Garibaldi had his network of informants, Neville had his as well.
But Mr. G. prided himself on protecting the identity of those for whom he did ‘favors.’ It would really fry Garibaldi to know Neville had the numbers to reach Harold Fortis, both at home and in his election commission office.
And when Mr. Garibaldi got angry, people got dead. So Neville modified his tone. “I consider Sara Kelley a risk we cannot afford.”
“You mean you cannot afford. I have no reason to harm Ms. Kelley. When you attempted to…contact her when she was out of state recently, you also narrowly missed my nephew. You are fortunate to have been singularly inept.”
Neville’s gut writhed like a ball of snakes. The guy Sara Kelley was shacked up with was Garibaldi’s relative. Nothing about that had turned up in Neville’s recon. Ryan Knight had evidently taken pains to cover up his association with the Garibaldi family.
“I…” his throat constricted painfully. “I didn’t know.”
“I am certain you didn’t,” Nicholas said. “Which is why you are still above room temperature. However, now you do know. So I will take it badly if anything else should go amiss. Do I make myself clear?”
Neville swallowed hard. “Perfectly.”
“Good. I’m glad we had this talk. If another is needed, it will be in person.”
The dial tone sounded in Neville’s ear.
He’d been warned off Sara Kelley.
How could Garibaldi do that? Kelley’s portrait was already finished. It was unthinkable that Neville would not complete the work.
Now that Garibaldi was no longer on the other end of the line, anger welled in Neville’s chest as he rolled out of bed. Didn’t the crime boss realize that everything Neville did was for his stinkin’ benefit?
Even that Keep girl today. She was damage control. No telling what Sara Kelley had told her about Valenti’s death. Neville couldn’t take any chances.
Besides, the bespectacled Cerise Keep inspired quite a nice little watercolor. Neville drew the Venetian blinds and chanced a light so he could gaze on the newest work in his collection.
Soft colors in bold strokes. It required a much different technique than oils. Faster, less forgiving. There was no way to correct mistakes. Either a watercolor was perfect or it wasn’t.
Exactly like the accident he arranged for Cerise Keep. He’d had very little time to plan and only one chance to get it right.
He admired the watercolor, stepping closer to inspect his creation. The muted vision he’d captured of Cerise Keep’s broken body had a minimalist quality to it. Pure. Clean. Simple.
It was a deeply satisfying kill. And a work of art.
The rushed quality of the painting was stimulating. Everything pared down to primal elements. Blood pounded in his ears just looking at it.
Perhaps he’d have to do that sort of thing more often.
His gaze strayed to Sara Kelley’s portrait. She looked good in the medieval garb of Mona Lisa. Instead of the mild glance of the original, Neville had managed to capture the moment when the whites showed all around Sara’s green eyes. But her mouth, drawn up in that enigmatic smile, seemed to mock him. He hadn’t finished the work and she knew it.
Who did Nicholas Garibaldi think he was, trying to tell a genius like Neville not to create?
This was something he needed to speak to his mentor about. He didn’t consult him often any more. After all, Neville had eclipsed him quite some time ago, but the man’s wisdom was undeniable.
Neville strode to the kitchen and opened his refrigerator. From the bottom shelf, he drew out a wide-mouthed two-gallon pickle jar. He hefted the item and placed it on his kitchen table.
The liquid had darkened to an amber color over the past few years, but once the contents stopped swirling, the face of Solomon Veach floated into view.
“Hello, Sol,” Neville said. “You look pretty good for a dead head.”
Neville laughed. That always cracked him up, no matter how many times he said it.
He’d first met Solomon Veach the day after the art institute denied him admission for the third time. Neville was past feeling hurt about it. Now he was angry.
His gut was in flames.
He tried to put the fire out with 80 proof whiskey in a dark corner of the Green Dragon, reputed unofficial headquarters of the American Revolution. His mentor found him before he was too far gone with 12 year old Glenlivet.
Perhaps Solomon Veach had keyed off his foul mood or, as like recognizes like, knew instinctively what Neville was before he knew himself. Anyway, the old man struck up a conversation with him over the aged oak trestle that had been worn smooth by the hands of countless conspirators over the centuries. Neville unburdened himself and Sol commiserated.
Then he asked the question that would change Neville’s life forever.
“If you could kill the dean of that art institute without getting caught, would you?”
Neville was understandably intrigued, but he knew the man was just joking. “In a skinny minute, but that’s never going to happen.”
“Why?”
“Because murderers get caught,” Neville had argued.
“Not always.”
What would it be like to make others feel that?
“I suppose you’ve done it,” Neville said cautiously. “You’ve killed someone.”
“Many someones.” Solomon bared his teeth in a smile. “I stopped counting years ago.”
Maybe the old guy was shining him on. “So why weren’t you caught?”
“Because not all deaths are ruled a homicide, my young friend.”
In hushed tones, Solomon gave Neville his first catechism on the art of the accident.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I wish to retire to a country with no extradition treaties and spend my last years sipping margaritas and chasing young women,” Sol said. “But my primary employer has asked me to train a replacement in my methods before I do. He was…most insistent and I can’t disappoint him.” Solomon spread his hands before him in a gesture of self-deprecation. “Even if the government cannot touch me, nothing can protect me from him.”
That thought tantalized Neville as well. An even bigger fish than the amoral shark before him. What if Neville could become a man such as that, someone even a cold-blooded being like Solomon Veach would fear?
“And I won’t get caught?”
“Not if you do as I say,” Solomon promised.
So began Neville Rede’s transformation from wannabe artist to the real thing, but in a creative medium he’d never dabbled in before. He gave himself over to Sol’s tutelage and followed his instructions without question. Neville learned to blend into the crowd, to track his prey unseen, like a tiger in the tall grass. He mastered surveillance technology and studied the dean, made him the object of his obsession. The man couldn’t take a dump without Neville smelling it.
And he learned patience.
The first kill took the longest. But the day after it was finally accomplished, when Neville read in the paper that the dean of the art institute was dead, he decided it had been worth it. Marvin Harris, dean of the Art Institute of Boston, was a dedicated oarsman, but he’d drowned tragically in a freak skulling accident. Neville thought the warmth of satisfaction in his belly would never go away.
Unfortunately, it did.
Yes, Sol had admitted, there was something of an addictive quality to this line of work and nothing would serve but to kill again. But another contract was sure to materialize soon. Since Neville had been ‘blooded’ with the dean’s death, Sol felt confident about including him in his next assignment.
And the next.
Neville took to the work like a natural and Sol began to make his plans for retirement a reality.
Neville made his plans as well.
What better way to show he’d really graduated than to administer one last test to himself?He’d learned all he could from his teacher. Now all that remained was to take out old Solomon before he boarded the plane for that South American beach.
There was no animosity in the decision to do it. Neville owed Sol a great deal. But once the idea popped into his head, it took firm root. As a challenge it would be without equal since he’d have to improvise something entirely fresh, something Sol wouldn’t see coming.
How better to show Neville’s originality?
In some ways, it was even more satisfying than killing the dean.
If there was no body recovered, there was no crime. Solomon hadn’t taught him this, but he knew it instinctively. Everyone who knew Sol knew he was leaving anyway, so no hue and cry would ensue.
Currents being what they are perhaps part of old Sol did make it to that beach, but most of him was weighed down and sent to the depths of the north Atlantic.
Neville kept his head for sentimental reasons. He still enjoyed talking with Sol now and then. Of course, the conversations were usually pretty one sided, but now and then, Neville heard his mentor’s voice quite clearly.
Like now.
Neville pulled a paper and pencil out of the junk drawer and started taking notes.
After a couple hours of frantic scribbling, a plan began to form in his brain. Neville would take care of Sara Kelley and her cop ex-husband at the same time. And for good measure, he’d tweak Nicholas Garibaldi by adding his nephew to the list of the dearly departed in one bold stroke.
But what of Mr. G? Old Sol’s hiss was nearly audible. Even if the cops can’t touch you, he’ll know. And nothing will protect you from him.
“The dead feel no pain, Sol,” Neville reminded him. It was part of what made his work so supremely satisfying, to know that ultimately his victims were better off. “So I will have to be dead, too. But as far as anybody else knows, you’re still very much alive.”
Neville had Sol’s passport, which fortunately wouldn’t expire till next year. He even had the PIN for Sol’s bank account in Nassau. The balance had done nothing but grow since Sol ‘retired.’ Neville had tagged the money as his rainy day fund.
The clouds were certainly gathering.
Neville strode into the bathroom to study his own face. Sol was 15 years his senior, but if he grayed his hair and accented the natural lines on his face with a little stage make-up, Neville could pass. Besides, now that he knew Sara Kelley could identify him, he needed a disguise anyway.
He smiled at his reflection. “Hello, Sol.”
Chapter 25
Ryan had been staring at the computer screen for the last half hour, his blue eyes flicking back and forth as he scanned the pages and pages of code. Sara refilled his coffee cup. He took a sip and made a grimace which she took to mean ‘thank you.’
“More pancakes?” she asked.
He shook his head without looking up.
“More sausage?”
He frowned at the screen, oblivious to her question.
“More sex?” She thought it was worth a shot.
He blinked as though he’d just regained consciousness and removed his glasses. “What did you say?”
“So, you are still on planet Earth.” She settled beside him. “I was just checking.”
He cast her lop-sided grin. “Sorry. When I’m working, I tend to zone out.”
“I noticed.” She put her arm around his broad shoulders and kissed his cheek. “What have you found?”
“Well, if I’m right, it’s bad.”
“Define bad.”
“Wicked bad,” he said. “As you might suppose, ALICE is a system that requires unusually high levels of inaccessibility—over and above the call of duty type of security.”
“If it’s recording and tallying votes in an election, I’d certainly hope so,” she said, a little distracted by the way his hair curled behind his ear. It looked like a sweet spot to kiss. “So how do they make it super secure?”
“The best way is to use Extreme Programming Methodology,” he explained.
“English please,” Sara said as she ran a fingertip around the shell of his ear.
“No one person codes it all. Or even entire segments. In fact, they’ll usually have the system broken down into small subroutines and assign two programmers to work on the same thing without any collaboration or even knowing who their shadow might be,” Ryan said as he leaned slightly into her touch. He kept looking back to the code every few words or so. Sara wondered if she could lure him away from the computer if she put her mind to it. “Each day the programmers are given a new task by the project manager and no one knows which code is actually used in the final product.”
“Sounds pretty redundant.” She squinted at the computer screen, but the program seemed like random gibberish to her. She let her fingertip stray down his neck to trace his collarbone. “What good does that do?”
“It keeps someone from building a back door.” He leaned toward her and buried his nose in her hair. “Mmm, you smell so go
od.”
She succeeded in distracting him a bit, but now she was curious about Valenti’s program. “What’s a back door?”
“An undetectable entrance into the code to alter it at a later date without anyone being the wiser.” One of his hands left the keyboard and settled on her knee, massaging her flesh with gentle insistence. “Most people think hackers are the greatest danger, but a back door is much worse. A back door gives access to everything and it’s usually used by someone who knows the system intimately, so—“
“Oh, so they can sabotage the system with viruses and such,” she said, enjoying the warmth of his hand on her bare skin. She let her own hand slide down his chest and teased the fine hairs around his belly button. “But no one can build a back door if they use that Extra super secure—what did you call it?”
“Extreme Programming Methodology. And I can’t imagine ALICE wasn’t done that way. MIT is always on the technical edge,” Ryan said, his eyes glazing slightly in response to her hand’s movement. Apparently women weren’t the only ones with ‘buttons.’ He cleared his throat and forced himself to finish his thought. “But it seems your ‘cousin Tony’ has designed a way to lift random bits of code from multiple sources, code writing code. I knew MIT was pushing new boundaries in artificial intelligence, but this is a totally original use for it. Looks like Valenti has even given his back door a nickname.”
She arched a brow at him in question.
“What else?” He shrugged. “The Rabbit Hole.”
“But now Anthony Valenti is dead, so no one will be using it.”
“I wish that were so,” Ryan said. “It looks like it’s already been used.” He pointed to a spot on the screen. “You see these numeric values?”
She nodded. “Just ones and zeroes.
“If I’m right, it’s an embedded date. Someone has made an alteration to the original code, but it’s in stealth mode now, set to trigger on that later date so no one running quality control checks will spot it.”
Sara stared at the numbers. “What date is it?”
“Early November. Election Day. Looks like we’ll be getting the finest government money can buy.”
