Seventh Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “How did you get in?” Dora asked curiously.

  Pinchik gave her his bright smile. “If you want to know the truth, lady, most bankers are morons. This was the case of a brand-new integrated computer system installed in an old bank that had more than twenty local branches. There were seven top bank executives who were given private access code words to the entire system. All right, you have seven guys who can tap into the system and move it any way they want anytime they want. Now you guess what passwords those seven guys selected.”

  “Days of the week?” Dora suggested.

  “Try again.”

  “The Seven Deadly Sins?”

  “Try again.”

  Dora thought a moment. “The Seven Dwarfs?” she said. “From ‘Snow White’?”

  “Now you’ve got it,” Pinchik said approvingly. “They thought they were being so cute. It’s easy for hackers to break into so-called secure systems. It took me about ten minutes to get into this bank’s records, using the password ‘Dopey.’ I was just looking around, reading all their confidential stuff, and I got this absolutely brilliant idea.”

  “And that’s what put you in jail,” Dora said.

  “Yeah, lady,” the expert said ruefully, “but it wasn’t the idea; that was a winner. I just screwed it up, that’s all. Here’s how it worked.… The bank I invaded, like most banks everywhere, carried a lot of what they call dormant accounts. These are old savings and checking accounts that haven’t had any action—deposits or withdrawals—for years and years. Maybe the depositor forgot he had money in that bank. Maybe he died and his heirs didn’t know he had the account. Maybe he’s in jail and doesn’t want to touch it until he gets out. Maybe he’s hiding the money from his wife or girlfriend. Or maybe he stole the money and parked it in a bank until the statute of limitations runs out. For whatever reason, these are inactive accounts that keep getting bigger and bigger as the interest piles up.”

  “But don’t the banks have to advertise the accounts?”

  “Sure they do, after a period of years. Then some of the depositors come forward. In most states, if the money isn’t claimed after a period of X years, it goes into the state’s general funds. So I saw all these dormant accounts on the records of that bank I invaded in upstate New York, and I thought ‘Why not?’ So every month I’d have Dopey transfer my alimony payment electronically to my ex-wife’s account in a Hilo bank, making withdrawals from a large dormant account. The depositor didn’t scream; no one knew where the hell he was. Maybe he was dead. And my ex didn’t object; all she saw were those monthly payments coming in. The bank’s books showed legitimate withdrawals with no evidence that they were being made by Dopey, who was me.”

  “You were right,” Dora said, “it’s a brilliant idea. What went wrong?”

  “I did,” Pinchik said. “Every month I would get into the computer as Dopey and instruct the New York bank to transfer the alimony payment electronically to the Hawaiian bank. What I should have done was feed instructions into the New York bank’s computer telling it to make those payments automatically every month. It would have been an easy job, but I had other things on my mind and never got around to it. So one month I forgot to tell the New York bank to transfer the alimony money.”

  “Oh-oh,” Dora said.

  “Yeah, oh-oh,” Pinchik said disgustedly. “It was my own stupid fault. My ex-wife didn’t see her payment show up on her statement that month and asked her Hilo bank to check up on it. They contacted the New York bank and asked where the alimony money was. New York said, ‘What alimony money?’ Naturally my ex gave them my name—she wasn’t ratting on me; she really thought it was my dough she was getting—and the New York bank discovered I didn’t have an account there. One thing led to another, and I ended up behind bars. But it was a sweet deal while it lasted.”

  “You don’t seem bitter about it.”

  The superhacker shrugged. “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”

  “Is there a lot of computer crime going on?”

  Pinchik rolled his eyes. “More than you and everyone else realizes. Want a rough estimate? I’d guess a minimum of two or three billion dollars a year is being siphoned off by computer thievery, fraud, and swindles. And most of it you never hear about.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the victims—mostly banks—are too embarrassed by their idiotic carelessness to make public their losses. In most cases, even when the crook is caught, they refuse to prosecute; they don’t want the publicity. They let their insurance companies cover the shortfall.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Dora said. “That makes me feel great. Tell me something else: Is there a national list somewhere of all the computer thieves and swindlers who have been caught, even if they’ve never been prosecuted?”

  “No, lady, I don’t know of any data base that lists only computer felons. But I imagine the FBI’s computerized files are programmed so they could spit out a list like that.”

  Dora shook her head. “The people I’m interested in aren’t in the FBI files.”

  “Ah-ha,” Pinchik said, trying to comb his tangled beard with his fingers, “now we get down to the nitty-gritty. You got people you suspect of being computer crooks?”

  “It’s a possibility. The NYPD has done a trace on them, and they have no priors. The Company’s data base of insurance swindlers also shows nothing. I thought maybe, with your contacts, you could do a search and see if these people have ever been involved in computer hanky-panky.”

  “Sure, I could do that,” the expert said, and then gestured around the littered loft. “But you caught me at a bad time. All that stuff in crates and boxes is my hardware, disks, files, and programs, packed up and ready to go. It’ll be at least a week, maybe two, before I’m really back in business.”

  “I can wait,” Dora said.

  “Good. Meanwhile, if you give me names and descriptions, I can get started calling hackers I know on the phone. When I’m set up and functioning in my new place in SoHo, I’ll be able to make it a more thorough worldwide search. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds fine,” Dora said. “Please keep a very accurate record of the time you spend on it and your expenses. I’ve got a tightwad boss.”

  “I meet them all the time,” Pinchik said. “Now let me turn on my handy-dandy tape recorder, and you dictate everything you know about these people. Be as detailed as you can, lady; don’t leave anything out.”

  So Dora spoke into his notebook-sized tape recorder, stating and spelling the names of Turner and Helene Pierce, mentioning their roots in Kansas City, MO, describing their physical appearance, and what little she knew of their ages, habits, Turner’s occupation as computer consultant, their style of living, their accents, their connection with Starrett Fine Jewelry, their home addresses and phone numbers.

  “And that’s all I have,” she finished.

  “Enough to get me started,” Gregor Pinchik said, switching off the recorder. “The names mean nothing to me, but maybe one of my contacts will make them.”

  “I’m staying at the Hotel Bedlington on Madison Avenue,” Dora said. “Can you give me weekly reports?”

  “Nope,” Pinchik said. “A waste of time. If I come up with something, I’ll let you know immediately. But there’s no point in sending you a weekly report of failure.”

  “How long do you think the search will take, Mr. Pinchik?”

  He considered a moment. “Give me three weeks to a month,” he said. “If I haven’t nailed them by then, they’re clean—guaranteed. Trust me.”

  “I do,” Dora said, rising. “Send your bills to me at the Bedlington—all right?”

  “Oh sure,” he said. “Those you’ll get weekly. Depend on it. Nice meeting you, lady.”

  21

  THE DECORATOR STEPPED BACK to the office door, turned and examined her work through narrowed eyes. “Well, Mr. Starrett,” she said, “how do you like it?”

  Clayton, standing alongside his new stainless st
eel desk, looked around the refurbished office. “That painting over the couch,” he said, “shouldn’t it be a bit higher?”

  “No,” the decorator said decisively. “You’re a tall man; the painting seems low to you. But it’s actually at the eye level of the average person. The proportions of the wall composition are just right, and a Warhol over a Biedermeier lends a certain je ne sais quoi to the room.”

  “Yeah,” he said, grinning happily, “that’s exactly what I wanted—a certain je ne sais quoi. I think you did a beautiful job.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and discreetly placed her bill, tucked into a mauve envelope, on a corner of his desk. She took a final look around. “I just adore the ambience,” she breathed, and then she was gone.

  Clayton thrust his hands into his pockets and strutted about the office a moment, admiring the black leather directors’ chairs set at a cocktail table with a top of smoky glass. The entire office, he decided, now reflected the importance and prosperity of the occupant. As the decorator had said, the ambience was right: a wealthy ambience; good-taste ambience; up-to-date ambience.

  He opened the mauve envelope, glanced at the statement, blanched, then smiled. His father, he knew, would have had apoplexy at a bill like that for redecorating an office. But times change, as Clayton well knew, and if you didn’t change along with them you were left hopelessly behind.

  And he had changed, was changing; he could feel it. He had lived in the shadow of his father so many years. He had been a follower, a lackey, really nothing more than a gofer. But now he was living his own life, he was doing. In the midst of his glittery office, he felt a surge that made him take a deep breath, suck in his gut, stand tall. Now he was creating—there was no other word for it.

  He used his new phone, a marvelous instrument that had been coded with frequently called numbers so he had to touch only one button to call home.

  “Charles?” he said. “This is Clayton Starrett. May I speak to my mother, please.”

  While he waited for her to come on the line, he slid into his “orthopedically correct” swivel chair that cushioned him like a womb. It was a sensual experience just to relax in that chair, enjoy its soft but firm comfort, close his eyes and drift, savoring the rewards of his creativity.

  “Mother?” he said. “Clayton. Are you going to be in for a while? Good. Has Eleanor gone out? Also good. There’s something important I’d like to talk to you about. I’ll be home in twenty minutes or so. See you …”

  He hung up briefly, then lifted the handset again and touched the button labeled H.P.

  “Helene?” he said. “Clayton. Will you be in this afternoon? Oh, in about two hours. Good. I’d like to stop by for a few minutes. I won’t be able to stay long; my advertising people are coming in later. Fine. See you …”

  When he arrived home, Mrs. Olivia Starrett was in her flowery bedroom, seated at a spindly desk, working on correspondence. Clayton leaned down to kiss her downy cheek.

  “I’ll never get caught up,” she said, sighing. “All the letters of condolence after father passed. And then Christmas and New Year’s cards and letters. It’s just too much.”

  “You’ll answer them all,” he assured her, pulling up a cushioned armchair too small for him. “You always do. Did Eleanor say when she’ll be back?”

  “I don’t recall,” his mother said vaguely. “Something about planning a dinner-dance on a cruise ship. Does that sound right, Clay?”

  “Probably,” he said. “I want to talk to you about Eleanor, mother. Eleanor and me.”

  Olivia removed her half-glasses and turned to him. “Oh dear,” she said, “I do hope it’s not a quarrel. You know how I dislike quarrels.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,” Clayton said, and plunged right in. “Mother, you know that things haven’t been right between Eleanor and me for several years now. Since little Ernie died, she’s been a changed woman. Not the woman I married. You’re intelligent and sensitive, mother; you must have realized that things weren’t going well between us.”

  Mrs. Starrett made a fluttery gesture. “God’s will be done,” she said. “We must learn to accept pain and sorrow as part of the holy oneness.”

  “Yes, yes,” Clayton said impatiently, “but I can’t go on living like this. It’s—it’s hypocritical. My marriage is a sham. There’s just nothing to it. It’s putting up a front at charity benefits and everything else is empty. I can’t live that way anymore. It’s tearing me apart.”

  She stared at him, her big eyes luminous. “Have you spoken to Eleanor about the way you feel?”

  “Eleanor and I don’t speak about anything. At least nothing important. We’ve become strangers to each other. Mother, I’m going to ask for a—for a divorce.” The word caught in his throat.

  He was returning her stare but had to turn away when he saw her eyes fill with tears. She reached out to put a soft hand on his arm.

  “Please, Clayton,” she said. “Please.”

  He stood abruptly and stalked about the room, unable to face her. “It’s got to be done,” he said roughly. “Got to be. Our marriage is a great big zero. Eleanor has her charity parties, I have the business to take care of, and we have nothing in common. We just don’t share. I want a chance at happiness. At least a chance. Don’t you think I deserve that? Everyone deserves that.”

  “Have you considered a marriage counselor?” she said timidly. “Or perhaps you could talk to Father Callaway; he’s very understanding.”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t a temporary squabble. It goes deeper. We’ve just become incompatible, that’s all. I know this is a shock to you, mother, but I wanted to tell you what I plan to do before I spoke to Eleanor about it. I wanted to get your reaction.”

  “My reaction?” she cried. “Another death in the family—that’s my reaction.”

  “Come on!” he said heartily. “It’s not that bad. People get divorced all the time and survive. Sometimes it’s the healthiest thing to do. A loveless marriage is like a wasting disease.”

  She lowered her head, looked down at her hands, twisted her wedding band around and around. “What will you do then?” she asked. “Marry again?”

  He had not intended to tell her. He had planned to take it a step at a time: inform her about the divorce at an initial meeting; then, after giving her time to adjust, he would tell her about Helene in another intimate conversation.

  But now, because she did not seem unduly disturbed, he suddenly decided to go all the way, get it all out, thinking that she might be mollified if she knew that he wanted to remarry and would not be alone.

  He sat down alongside her again and clasped her hands in his. “Mother, the first thing I want to do is end an impossible situation and divorce Eleanor. Believe me, she’ll be well taken care of; she won’t have a thing to worry about for the rest of her life. I’m talking about money worries. You know I’ll make certain she’s financially secure.”

  She nodded. “Yes, you must do that.”

  “Of course. And when the divorce becomes final”—he took a deep breath—“I want to marry Helene Pierce—if she’ll have me.”

  Olivia raised her eyes to his, and he saw something that surprised him: a kind of peasant shrewdness. “How long has this been going on?” she asked.

  He concealed his guilt by feigning bewilderment. “How long has what been going on? You’ve known Helene as long as I have. She and her brother have become good friends to all of us. I think Helene is a lovely, sweet, sensitive person—don’t you?”

  “She’s awfully young, Clayton—for you.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Perhaps she does. Naturally I haven’t even hinted to her about the way I feel. Maybe she’ll turn me down.”

  “She won’t,” Mrs. Starrett said, the peasant again. “She’s not that foolish.”

  He shrugged. “But that’s all in the future. I just want you to know that I hope to remarry. I have no intention of living the rest of my life as
a bachelor. When I remember how happy you and father were for so many years, I know that marriage—the right marriage—is what I want.”

  “Yes,” his mother said.

  He leaned toward her, serious and intent. “I know this must come as a shock to you, and a disappointment. I’d do anything in the world to keep from hurting you. I love you, and I know you love me.”

  “I do, but I love Eleanor, too. What you’re doing to her seems so—so unkind.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “You know what they say: Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Eleanor will be happier without me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Mother! She’ll still have her life: her friends, her charities, her benefits. And perhaps she’ll remarry, too. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Starrett said.

  He straightened up, trying to keep anger out of his voice. “If you don’t want me to divorce Eleanor, I’ll continue that miserable marriage the rest of my life. Is that what you want? Doesn’t my happiness mean anything to you?”

  Then she did weep and bent forward to embrace him. “Yes,” she said, sobbing, “oh yes, I want you to be happy. I’d give my life to make you happy.”

  “I know you would, mother,” he said in almost a croon, soothing her, stroking her wet cheek. “What’s most important to me is that this doesn’t come between us. I don’t want to risk losing your love, and if you tell me not to do it, I won’t.”

  “No,” his mother said, “I can’t tell you that. It’s your life; I can’t control it. Clayton, please let’s not talk about it anymore. Not now. I’m so shaken I can’t think straight. I think I’ll take an aspirin and lie down for a while.”

  “You do that. And try not to worry about it. I know it’s hard for you to accept, but things will work out—you’ll see.”

  He said again that he loved her and then he left. On the way down in the elevator he thought of additional arguments he might have used, but generally he was satisfied with the way things had gone. On the way to Helene’s, he had his chauffeur stop at a florist’s shop where he ordered a dozen roses to be delivered immediately to his mother with a signed card that read: “I love you most of all.”