Black Swan (A Sam Acquillo Hamptons Mystery)

by Chris Knopf

  "I can put everything else together, but I can't figure out why you'd abandon him like that."

  "Maybe it wasn't about him. Maybe it was about you," she said.

  "Maybe."

  She put out her hand.

  "Please give me that back."

  "No. You've got the original. This belongs to Grace Sanderfreud, assuming she now controls Subversive Technologies."

  "You're speaking like a crazy person," she said.

  "I probably am crazy, but that comes in handy around you people."

  She backed further away from me, her eyes narrowing with unease. I sat down on the desk chair and dangled the flash drive from the end of the severed tether.

  "Axel's not the only savant in the family, is he? Only your genius comes in a much more colorful package."

  "I think you're about to disappoint me," she said.

  "Synesthesia. Your brain perceives numbers and letters as colors. That isn't a painting, it's a formula."

  She sat down on the bed and crossed her arms, looking equal parts frightened and defiant.

  "That's the silliest thing I've ever heard," she said.

  "Your brother called you color head, which was a confirmation of sorts, but I suspected it since you told Amanda and me that you assigned numbers to the flowers in your garden. And then there's your tattoo."

  "Even if something like that is true," said Anika, "you can't prove it."

  "I can't prove anything," I said. "I bet your brother is the only person who knows. Synesthetes often don't reveal their abilities, and considering your gift for conspiracy, you'd never give up such a powerful advantage."

  "Gift for conspiracy? Now that's insulting."

  "You didn't drop programming to take up painting. You took up painting to help you code. It was better and safer than backing up on storage media. Plus, what a hoot for you. Your cleverness out there for all to see, yet no one had a clue what they were looking at."

  "A secret's not a conspiracy," she said.

  "No. A conspiracy takes at least two. During the day, while your brother worked on N-Spock inside Subversive, you took over your father's computer in the basement. You'd trained Axel and worked together as a team since childhood, so your development style, your signatures, are so similar they're indistinguishable. But naturally, the attention was all on Axel. And that's how you wanted it, what you reinforced at every opportunity, even distorting the facts to portray him as more fragile and dissociated than he truly is. It was your shield. Always keep the focus on Axel and away from you."

  "Axel loves me," she said.

  "Yes he does. Not like your mother, who abandoned you, who so hurt you that you killed her off in your mind. Or your father, who neglected you when you needed him the most."

  "You must know a lot about neglect," she said. "You're good at it."

  "I was. I'm trying to reform."

  "Not with me you aren't."

  "I've been paying a lot more attention to you than you think. Just not the kind you want. That work of art is a synesthete representation of the algorithms that cause N-Spock 5.0 to crash itself during data transfers. You wrote the original code, and have kept it alive from here, continually changing its characteristics and thwarting all efforts to save the application. Why?"

  A bolt of sunlight came in through one of the gable windows and tossed a splotch of yellow on the dark wooden floor. The air inside the attic felt clean, freshened by the cracks between the roofers and the hurricane-washed atmosphere beyond. Anika flopped down on the bed, rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling.

  "I'm not going to tell you anything about anything," she said. "You know that."

  "Fair enough. So I'll tell you. You wanted to bring down your father's company. It was a hated thing, an obsession so consuming that he lost all sense of boundaries between work and home. Programming was the only game his kids knew how to play, his software colleagues their only playmates. But revenge isn't only better served cold, it's best cooked over decades. You kept your synesthesia and coding skills secret from your father, and held your brother completely in your thrall. Not hard to do when you're his surrogate mother. You and Axel have had the run of Subversive's servers and enterprise systems since you were kids. You've got back doors and secret passageways all over the place. When Subversive made the big gamble on 5.0, you were ready. A golden opportunity to both destroy the company and have your father all to yourself on the equivalent of a deserted island."

  She rolled back up to a sitting position and waved a finger at me.

  "For a stuffy engineer you have an amazing imagination. And what did I do next, create global warming and crash the world economy?"

  "No, but you did use the crash to cover another gambit," I said. "Your father never touched the company's assets. It would have never occurred to him. You're the one who hacked into accounting and finance and started playing around, learning the ropes. And making a little money in the bargain. You left bread crumbs around that led somehow to your father, in case you got caught. But eventually, when the timing was right, you hung Subversive's cash and working capital on a collapsing investment fund. It was perfect. Your father gets blamed, but they can't prosecute him for fear of revealing a financial catastrophe to go along with the catastrophe that 5.0 was turning out to be. And he can't fight back, because he sees Axel's handiwork all over the caper. Only it wasn't Axel, it was you. As Hammon said, clever, clever techie."

  Anika gathered a thick strand of black hair in her hand and began to run it through her fingers, stopping momentarily to wipe her nose and rub tears off her cheeks, which I hadn't noticed until that moment. She bounced her feet on the edge of the bed, as she'd done before. I suddenly remembered it was something my daughter would do, especially when the threat of punishment was in the air.

  "You kill people and get away with it," she said. "I knew you would kill Derrick Hammon. And you did. So there."

  "You must know a lot about killing people," I said. "You're good at it."

  I had to endure another wag of the finger.

  "Talk like that will get you nowhere, Mister," she said, and then jumped off the bed and ran down the staircase. I followed her, unhurried. I heard her go down the next flight of stairs, her footfalls heading through the lobby toward the ruined back of the hotel. I went that way and found her out on the docks, at the end of the central walkway where we'd tied up the Carpe Mariana. She embraced herself as if warding off the cold, though the temperature was near perfect, as the weather reverted to glistening autumn, the deep blue above reflected in the rippling surface of the Inner Harbor, the storm now a mirage, a forgotten disturbance in an otherwise temperate continuum.

  I wrapped my arms around her from behind, the side of my face half buried in her hair, where the smell of her, the dense feminine smell invaded my consciousness.

  "It was inevitable," I said. "A vulnerable, motherless kid, ignored by her father-secretly brilliant, but bored-adrift, with adolescent hormones in full bloom. A powerful figure takes an interest, someone who filled the lonely vacuum, who seemed to understand, who lavished fatherly attention, kindness and good humor. Irresistible."

  Anika let her head fall to my arm. I gave her a gentle squeeze.

  "But something happened, didn't it? It went too far. You were betrayed. Another adult, someone you trusted, whom you admired, maybe even loved, had proven yet again to be merely selfish and cruel. Interested only in his own fulfillment the gratification of his own sick obsessions. Maybe out on his boat, where you learned how to tie bowlines. Again, the clever conspirator that you are, you waited patiently for the opportunity to set the matter straight, to bring the world back into harmony."

  She started to rock back and forth, and I rocked with her.

  "You suggested he take an outdoor shower, something you knew he liked to do. You turned on the water, and while it heated up found the nylon line and rigged it so you could slip it over Sanderfreud's neck from above, and because you needed the extra wei
ght, you recruited Axel to jump off the step ladder with you, each with a foot in one of the loops, which made for just enough weight to counter Myron's bulk. From there it was a simple matter of cleating off the line and waiting for Grace to discover the tragedy."

  "You tell such beautiful stories," she said languidly, pressing back into me. "You should be a professional storyteller. People will come from all over the land and sit at your feet to be mesmerized. I'll handle concessions. Popcorn and Diet Coke and T-shirts."

  I gave her one more squeeze and let go, then turned around and headed back down the docks toward the hotel.

  "No two color heads see numbers the same way," she called. "The painting is worthless to anyone but me."

  I turned around, but kept walking.

  "It's just a code," I said. "They'll break it. Maybe in time to hit Q1, maybe not. It's worth a go."

  "I don't hate you," she yelled to me as I moved relentlessly out of earshot.

  My backpack was where I'd left it in the hall. I slipped it on my back and headed west toward the ferry dock. Along the way I tossed the .38 Smith & Wesson in the bay, along with a handful of ammunition. A pair of sea gulls landed on the water's surface, curious over what had just gone kerplunk. Wisely, they quickly flew away, in search of less treacherous prey.

  I spent a few hours with Ashton Kinuei, telling him everything I knew, suspected, guessed or imagined about Derrick Hammon, Subversive Technologies, Anika Fey and her family, and what probably happened to Myron Sanderfreud and why. I said I'd gladly give unwavering support to any subsequent investigation and prosecution. Kinuei had the look of a man ready to take on a crusade, and I didn't try to dissuade him, but for me, I was done.

  The woman at the ferry ticket counter exuded curiosity, but her Yankee reserve kept her questions to herself. Exhaustion, of all kinds, pulled at my limbs and hung around my neck. I rode over to New London unmolested and mostly asleep, lulled by the gentle rock of the boat. One of the ferry crew woke me when we arrived and helped me to my feet.

  "I bet you want to get off," he said. "Unless you want to take a ride back."

  "That's the last thing I want to do, brother," I told him, groaning to my feet and stumbling off the ferry.

  A cab took me to the marina that served the mooring field where I'd left the Carpe Mariana. I could see her from the outer docks, rocking calmly at the end of the two mooring lines. Nearby, men were loading gear, ice and long, limber poles onto a small fishing boat. I asked them if they could drop me off at my boat and they readily agreed. Helping one another was the common law of the sea. You never knew when it would be you who needed the help.

  On board the Carpe Mariana, I flicked on the batteries and ran through the electronics, all of which checked out perfectly. I started the motor and turned on the freezer, which was woefully short of ice, the only depletion in resources I could categorize as grave.

  I dropped down on one of the settees, and in the womb of the big cruiser, let my body finally come to rest, and closing my eyes, allowed my mind to drift airborne into the soothing void of deep, unaccountable sleep.

  I'd been in cell phone contact with Amanda and Burton Lewis during the time it took me to launch from the mooring in New London and make my way across Long Island Sound, through Gardiners Bay and into the middle of the twin forks of the East End, finally coming to rest against a floating dock at a tiny private marina off the Shinnecock Canal.

  Eddie got there first, having been released from the car well in advance of his human escort. I barely had the bow cleated off when he jumped up into my arms, lathering me with his long, rough tongue and making strange, anxious dog noises.

  "Knock it off, you're embarrassing me," I said, gently lowering him to the grey dock, where he bounded off, looking to retrieve the rest of the party.

  Amanda wore sunglasses, a long dress that nicely defined her contours, and a huge woven hat, decorated with a fluttering, feathery plume and welded to the side of her head. Burton was all in whites, as he often was, his weathered, tired face alight with glee as he beheld his sensuous new yacht, her recent sea trials invisible to the eye.

  I hugged Amanda, shook Burton's hand and officially relinquished command of the Carpe Mariana.

  "Permission to take a shower and stick my face in a vat of vodka," I said to Burton.

  "The shower most definitely," said Burton, leaning back. "I'd be surprised if the health department wasn't on the way."

  "So I guess Axel Fey is on his way back to Fishers," I said.

  "With an escort," said Burton. "The fellow who's been watching over him. They've grown close."

  "Must be an interesting fellow."

  "Sometimes opposites attract," said Amanda.

  "So you're sure it's safe for the boy?" asked Burton.

  "The only people who might do him harm are dead. The hired help have already moved on. 't Hooft's got the girl, a dubious prize, though the only one he cared about. The only threat to Axel now is Ashton Kinuei."

  Burton drove Amanda, Eddie and me over to our peninsula jutting into the Little Peconic Bay in the North Sea area of Southampton. The unexpected freshness of such a deeply familiar place clutched at my chest. We bypassed the cottage and walked across the uncut lawn to three Adirondack chairs stationed above the breakwater, strategically placed to allow observation of the infinite variety of natural wonders that played across the mercurial bay.

  Eddie broke into a full-out run across the lawn and leaped down to the pebble beach, appearing moments later, legs wet and tongue unfurled, only to race off again for another pass. I was struck by the realization that, being a dog, he had no way of knowing that he'd ever be back home again. For all he knew, his life was now centered on a big custom sloop, which meant long periods underway, punctuated by visits to foreign locales. That this turned out not to be the case was reason enough for an extra display of rapture.

  Once settled, the need for refreshments became immediately apparent, a void promptly filled by Amanda, who drew the goods from a secret cache held in deep storage.

  Burton had politely ignored the cuts and bruises covering my face and the Ace bandage wrapped around my right hand until it seemed impolite not to ask. I said I'd gladly tell him the whole story, in relatively short order, but right at that moment, I really just wanted to sit and stare slack-jawed at the Little Peconic Bay.

  "Fair enough," he said, turning his attention to the halfdecayed tennis ball Eddie had dropped unceremoniously in his lap.

  So we idled for the next few hours, relishing the waning afternoon, for the moment unencumbered by earthbound attachments or obligations. It was a lovely interlude, utterly violated by the arrival of Jackie Swaitkowski, whom I was nonetheless happy to see.

  "Oh good," she said. "You're all here. Maybe we can have an adult conversation."

  Jackie was a midsized woman with an unruly mass of kinky red hair and a freckled face that rarely expressed anything short of relentless determination. Nearing forty and the victim of an unforgiving excess of natural energy, she still looked a little like the fallen captain of the cheerleading squad.

  I told her if she wanted to sit with the grown-ups she'd have to drag her own Adirondack out of the storage shed at the other end of the property, which she did with surprisingly modest complaint.

  "I've been back and forth with the Con Globe attorneys a few times and I think we're close to a final figure," she said, clenching a bottle of white wine between her thighs and pulling out the cork. Amanda handed her a glass which she filled to the brim.

  "Nice to see you, too," I said.

  "Oh, right," said Jackie. "Hi, Sam, how're you doing? Fine? Good. How about you, Amanda? Okay, too? Great. I've written up the papers, so all I have to do is drop in the end figure. Which won't be insubstantial. Burton's been involved throughout the whole process, so you know the legalities will be bombproof. Please feel free to weigh in at any time," she said to Burton. He lifted his glass in acknowledgment.

  Entranced by Jackie's
arrival, Eddie generously offered her the next chance to toss a sodden, mangled tennis ball. She knew there'd be no refusing.

  "Okay," she said, wiping her hands on her tan jeans, "these are Sam's instructions. Are you ready for this?" she asked Amanda.

  "I'm never ready for anything," said Amanda.

  Jackie read from a piece of legal paper she'd taken out from the inside pocket of her leather jacket and unfolded on her knee.

  "'Eighty percent of the proceeds from the settlement of the intellectual property class action case against Consolidated Global Energies and its successors shall be put in an irrevocable trust. The trustee shall be Burton Lewis. The sole beneficiary of the trust is Allison Acquillo. At the sole written direction of Ms. Acquillo, the trustee may also make such disbursements as shall be specified by Allison Acquillo to her father, Sam Acquillo.' I've got to work on the legal language a little, but you get the gist," said Jackie.

  It took Burton and Amanda a bit to absorb the gist, but after a respectful lapse of time, Burton said, "Interesting."

  "It's nuts," said Jackie. "He's put no stipulations on how the money's to be spent."

  "However, it is specified that she may spend whatever she wants on Sam," said Burton, "if she wanted to."

  "Or not," said Jackie.

  "That's the point," said Burton.

  "If he did that to me, I'd kill him," said Jackie.

  "I'm familiar with the impulse," said Amanda.

  "I love it when people talk about me in the third person when I'm sitting right here," I said.

  "What about the other twenty percent?" asked Burton.

  "Sam wants to keep ten, and make another foolish gesture with the other ten," said Jackie.

  We sat in silence, waiting for Jackie to explain what she meant.

  "He wants to give it to me," she finally said, relenting.

  "Not give, compensate," I said. "For all the legal help over the years. The dollar retainer was generous, I agree, but I think it's only fair to clear the rest of the ledger."

  "Nuts," repeated Jackie, an assertion neither contradicted nor endorsed by the others.