The Shadow Broker (Mr. Finn Book 1)

by Trace Conger

  No one can become invisible. They can only make it more difficult for people like me to find them, and hope that I give up. But Bishop gave me twenty thousand reasons not to give up. Twenty thousand and one, if you count the implied threat against my life. And honestly, I didn’t have much else to do anyway.

  All I needed was something small to get a ping on my radar. From there, I’d start building a profile until I had everything I needed. A name. An address. An employer. A license plate. It’s all out there. I just have to connect it all. But it starts with something simple.

  Next to criminals in some sort of federal protection, hackers are hard as fuck to find. They use the same tricks that I use to create multiple layers to protect themselves.

  Silvio1053 is already proving to be a challenge. I had an e-mail address for him, but it’s worthless. With e-mail addresses, I can drop the IP information into a program and find the origin or location of the e-mail. Pretty simple, but he used an anonymous e-mail account, same as me, so that’s out.

  He also had Bishop wire funds through an online service that used an encrypted payment method. Even if he did use a traditional bank, I couldn’t get much. Thanks to Uncle Sam, anonymous banking is nearly impossible, and without a federal warrant, the bank isn’t going to give up any information. Plus, since Bishop isn’t going to the law, that’s also a dead end.

  This find looked as complicated as it got. But the same rules applied. Get something simple. A ping on the radar. A slip-up. But sometimes it took time to slip up. So the next best thing is to make Silvio1053 slip up. Given the time, I could remove each security layer, build a profile and pinpoint whoever is on the other side of those e-mails, but that might take forever. And I didn’t have forever. I had thirty days. So I went with a more direct approach and e-mailed Silvio1053 using the encrypted address Bishop gave me. I hoped whoever this guy was, he’d give me something to work with.

  I sipped my coffee and typed out an e-mail I thought would rile up Silvio1053 enough to show me a glimpse of his hand.

  From: finderskeepers@dbzmail.com

  Sent: September 4, 9:49:28 AM EDT

  To: silvio1053@uymail.com

  Subject: You’re Fucked

  Hi Douche Nozzle. Bishop doesn’t want to pay you anymore, so he hired me to find you. I’m pretty sure I can locate your sorry ass because it’s kind of what I do. I know you’re taking measures to stay in the dark, but you’re an idiot if you think I can’t get to you.

  So here’s the deal. You pay me $25,000, I go away and you can continue to fist Bishop’s ass until he hires someone else to find you. I know he already paid you $50,000, so you can float it.

  If you don’t pay me, I’ll find you and then I’ll turn you over to Bishop. He wants to do all sorts of nasty shit to you, and he’s got a 450-pound sidekick who looks like he could rip a polar bear in half, so there’s that.

  If you’re smart, you’ll take my deal. This offer expires tomorrow at 9am ET.

  Ta.

  I wanted to establish some communication with Silvio1053 to let him know I was looking for him. That ups the anxiety level, and when people are anxious, they don’t think as clearly as they should, so there’s a higher likelihood he’d make a mistake. All I needed was something to start with, because right now, I had shit. I’d almost drained my third cup of coffee when he replied.

  From: silvio1053@uymail.com

  Sent: September 4, 9:53:34 AM EDT

  To: finderskeepers@dbzmail.com

  Subject: RE: You’re Fucked

  Nice try, asshole. You aren’t finding shit. If Bishop wants to stay in business, he’ll just have to keep paying. Call it a monthly business expense. Otherwise his customer list goes public and the Feds shut him down.

  Oh, and Sam gets winded taking a piss, so the idea of him doing anything that requires effort is laughable.

  Bottom line—Go fuck yourself.

  Cheers!

  I didn’t expect to get anything significant, but Silvio1053 gave me more than he probably thought he did. It wasn’t much, but it got me started. Whoever was blackmailing Bishop could finger Fat Sam, so hopefully that narrowed down the list.

  I opened the orange folder, found the number Bishop wrote on the inside and dialed. A minute later I asked him for a list of buyers or sellers he’d met in person, anyone who could identify Fat Sam. Bishop explained he conducted most of his business over e-mail, rarely in person, but he said he’d get me a list as soon as possible.

  I WAS STILL BUILDING OUT Silvio1053’s profile at the coffee shop when my daughter, Becca, vomited on her first-grade teacher. The nurse called to tell me a stomach bug had been making the rounds at school, and Becca’s number came up.

  “Becca’s mother is the primary contact on our call list, but I keep getting her voice mail,” said the nurse. “You’re listed as the alternate contact. She’s been lying down for a half hour and says she feels better, but it’s policy to send students home if they get sick in the classroom. Can you pick her up?”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

  “Great,” said the nurse. “Just show your ID at the main office. They’ll call me and I can bring her in.”

  “I’m on my way.” I tossed my empty cup into the garbage can on my way out the door.

  MY EX-WIFE, BROOKE, DECIDED BECCA should attend the Cincinnati Catholic Academy, not because she was Catholic, although I think we faked it pretty well during the interview, but because she had zero faith in the public school system. I didn’t argue at the time, but at ten grand a year for first grade, I wished I’d put up more of a fight.

  The brick building reminded me of something from Vatican City. Large domes, archways and a thick stone cross that could take out a low-flying plane. I stopped at the main entrance, expecting a valet to run out and park my car. That didn’t happen, so I parked in a visitor’s spot and headed through the heavy doors. Inside, I passed a line of elementary students all wearing white polo shirts and khaki pants and plaid skirts, walking single file down the hall. They looked at me like I was the only person in the entire zip code who hadn’t tucked in his shirt. I dodged their judgmental glances until I found the office.

  Behind the glass office door stood a large oak counter. The room looked like a five-star hotel lobby, but the heavy pine smell reminded me of the night I spent in the delivery room when Becca was born. The short, pudgy woman behind the reception desk, who also wore a white polo shirt, took my ID and called the nurse a moment later.

  I stood in the office, staring at the large oil portrait of someone who must have been the school’s founder, when my daughter came through the office door and wrapped her arms around my waist with a force that almost knocked me backwards onto the red-and-gold carpet. A tall blond nurse, who also wore a white polo shirt, but who looked much better in it than the woman behind the counter, followed my daughter. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five and looked more like an ESPN sideline reporter than a school nurse. If the school administrators knew anything about marketing, they’d slather this woman all over the admission brochures.

  The nurse smiled as I tried to pry my daughter from my legs. “I bet she’s already feeling better,” she said.

  “Looks like it.” I patted Becca on the head. “So what happened?”

  “She got sick in Mrs. Daniels’ classroom. She’s not running a fever, but she said her stomach hurt a little. I gave her some ginger ale to help settle it, and she kept that down. I’m sure she’ll be fine after some rest.”

  “I hope so.” I finally dislodged Becca’s death grip and hoisted her up in one arm, determined not to tear a rotator cuff in front of the nurse. “Let’s get you home.”

  I thanked the nurse and carried my daughter through the office doorway, turning enough to glimpse the absence of a ring on the nurse’s left hand. I cracked my own smile and carried Becca to the car.

  “So are you feeling better, sweetheart?”

  “A little,” she said.

 
; “We’ll get you home and in bed so you can rest. I’ll bet you’re back to one hundred percent by tomorrow.” Becca smiled. “Any other casualties? Take out any of your classmates with friendly fire?” I imagined her covering Mrs. Daniels or a random classmate with the remnants of whatever they served in the gilded cafeteria.

  “Daaaad,” she said and giggled.

  I buckled Becca into her booster seat, pulled out of the parking lot, and put Saint Exorbitant in my rearview.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER WE ARRIVED at Brooke’s house. I carried Becca through the front door, up the stairs and helped her into bed. Her favorite stuffed horse sat next to her, and she picked it up, smashed it into her face, and then clutched it to her chest. I set a glass of orange juice on her nightstand, kissed her forehead, dove back into Vanilla Ride and waited for her to fall asleep.

  Once she was out, I crept down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. There was one of those fancy single-cup coffee brewers on the granite counter. One with the digital display and two steam wands that made cappuccino and café au lait and all those other French-sounding drinks I didn’t like. It must have been new because I hadn’t noticed it before. Not that I spent a lot of time in Brooke’s kitchen. The stainless steel rack next to the coffee machine held a selection of single-serving coffee packs. I found the strongest blend, popped it into the machine and followed the instructions on the digital display. A minute later I sipped one of the best cups of coffee I’d ever had.

  I sat down at the kitchen table, opened my laptop and resumed my search for Silvio1053. Halfway through my coffee, my phone rang. Brooke.

  “Is Becca with you?” her voice rushed.

  “Yes, she’s sleeping upstairs.” I heard a heavy exhale.

  “I just got off with the school and they said you picked her up.”

  “She got sick. They tried to call you but couldn’t reach you, so they called me.”

  “One of the surgical nurses couldn’t come in and they needed me to assist,” she said. “I didn’t have my phone with me.”

  “No worries,” I said. “The nurse thought it was probably just a stomach bug. Apparently it’s going around.”

  “I just got off my shift, so I’ll be home as fast as I can.”

  “No need to rush. I can stay here as long as you need me to.”

  “Thanks, but I want to see her. I just need to change and then I’ll be out of here.”

  “Wait,” I tried to catch her before she hung up. “Where did you get that coffee maker? The one with all the buttons?” The line went dead.

  BROOKE BURST THROUGH THE FRONT door a half hour later. She dropped her bag on the floor and jogged up the stairs before I could say anything. I kept digging into Silvio1053 until she came back down the stairs.

  “She’s still asleep,” she said coming into the kitchen. “Did you give her anything?”

  “Just the orange juice. The nurse said she didn’t have a fever.”

  “That’s good,” Brooke swiped her thumb across her eye, wiping away a tear.

  “It’s just a stomach bug,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “It’s not that.” She paused. “Becca hasn’t been herself lately. She’s been really depressed over this whole thing. Over us.” She picked up my empty coffee cup and set it in the sink. When she turned back toward me, she caught a glimpse of the .45 tucked in my leather messenger bag. “Do you have to bring that in the house?”

  “I’m on a case,” I said. “It hasn’t been out of my bag. Becca didn’t see it.”

  “A case?” She turned and washed the coffee cup in the sink. “What about your PI license? I thought you couldn’t work without a license.”

  “The people I’m working for don’t care if I have a license or not.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Better you don’t know.”

  “Are you doing something illegal?” It looked like she’d scrub the color off the cup.

  “No,” I said. “Just looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Do they ever want to be found?”

  “If they did, I wouldn’t have a job.”

  “Well, just be careful.” She dried the cup with a dish towel and placed it back on the cup rack next to the coffee maker. “I never liked you carrying a gun.”

  “It’s just a precaution. I doubt I’ll ever have to use it.”

  “Just keep it away from Becca. I don’t want her to find it at your place or anything.” Brooke looked at her watch. “You should go. Daryl will be home soon, and it’ll be weird if you’re here.”

  “Weird? What’s so weird about me picking up my sick daughter from school?”

  “I don’t know.” She hesitated. “He’s just ... He’ll ... It’ll just be better if you’re not here right now. It’s just the way he is. It’s complicated.”

  “It’s always complicated,” I said. “If you ever need to talk ...”

  “No offense, Finn,” she cut me off. “But you’re the last person I need to be talking to right now.”

  “Fine.” I closed my laptop and shoved it into my bag on top of my holstered .45. She wiped her eyes with the dish towel. I stepped forward to hug her, but she sidestepped me.

  “You should go.”

  “Okay, I’m not here to piss anyone off,” I said. “Let me know how Becca is feeling.” I left the house, climbed back in my car and headed to my slip in Manhattan Harbor.

  DR. DARYL JENNINGS ARRIVED AT THE brick house at 5711 Tangerine Court. He eyed the green Range Rover on the street before pulling into the driveway. He walked through the front door and found Brooke sitting on the couch next to Becca, watching a cartoon. Daryl kissed Brooke’s cheek.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  “Good. I got to assist with a surgery today. Appendectomy.”

  “Sounds fun,” he said as he looked out the living room window at the Range Rover. “Why did you park on the street?”

  “Finn was parked in the driveway when I got home. I took the street so he could get out.”

  “Why was Finn here?”

  “Becca got sick at school and he picked her up and brought her here.” Brooke stood up and walked into the kitchen. Daryl followed her.

  “Why did he bring her here? Why not take her to that damn boat of his?”

  “I don’t know, Daryl. He probably thought she’d feel better being in her own bed.” Brooke placed a coffee cup underneath the coffee maker, dropped in a single-serving cup and pushed a few buttons on the display. The machine whirred.

  “Why didn’t they call me to pick her up?” said Daryl.

  “Because you’re not her father. They called me, but I was in surgery. When they couldn’t reach me, they called him. It’s no big deal.”

  “How’d he get in?”

  “He has a key.”

  “Has a key? Since when?”

  “Since for a while, I don’t know. I gave him one in case of an emergency. Like today.” The machine spit a stream of steaming coffee into the cup and then beeped. “She’s feeling better, by the way.”

  “Who?”

  “Becca. She’s feeling better. Thanks for asking.”

  Daryl took the cup from Brooke’s hand and set it on the counter. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “I’m sorry. I should have asked. I’m glad she’s feeling better. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” He released his grip, walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, next to Becca, as Brooke sipped her coffee in the kitchen.

  I PULLED INTO THE MANHATTAN Harbor parking lot on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River. Only a few cars dotted the lot, so I got a choice parking spot near the iron stairs that led to the docks. The slips were full, but most boaters only took their boats out on the weekend. It was the calm before the beer-fueled storm. In twenty-four hours the harbor would be filled with men pissing off the side of their boats and women who, after a few beers, would be more willing to lose their tops than they first
thought.

  My rental was a forty-foot Playbuoy houseboat at the end of Dock B. It had seen its best days in the eighties. White paint flaking off in several places allowed the previous color, a pale blue, to poke through. As houseboats go, it was on the shorter side, but more than enough room for me. The first level had two small bedrooms, a salon with a foldout futon, television and workspace, full galley and a bathroom the size of a closet. The second level had the pilothouse and an open-air deck. It was the only live-in boat in the harbor, and a good deal at three hundred a month.

  I headed to the sun deck on the second level, kicked open the deck chair on my boat, grabbed my laptop and went back after Silvio1053. Bishop didn’t have much to go on, and I was no closer to Silvio than when Fat Sam plunked the bulky envelope into my lap this morning. So far, all I had was that my guy knew what Fat Sam looked like. It’s possible they met in person, or perhaps Silvio1053 worked with someone else who knew him and had described Fat Sam. Maybe they chatted on a webcam or maybe he had Fat Sam and Bishop under surveillance. It wasn’t a lot to go on, so I tabled the personal connection and moved on.

  PIs can access any number of databases to dig into someone’s life. For a few bucks I can pull criminal records, motor vehicle registrations, driving records, property reports, concealed-weapons permits, credit reports. They’re all a few keystrokes away. But running all those database searches requires basic information. Name, Social Security number and the like. I didn’t have any of that for Silvio. Yet.

  My first approach was to work with the handle “Silvio1053.” I plugged it into Google and got twenty-seven pages of results. It looked like it’d be a long night, so I brewed a pot of coffee and got to work. Most of the results were in Italian, which was as helpful as a tinfoil condom, so I prioritized the English results. The top results included city council meeting minutes from Shreveport, Louisiana, a Volkswagen tribute page, a user posting yoga studio reviews in Los Angeles, and an eye doctor in New Jersey, among a slew of other nonsensical garbage. Nothing stood out, and I thought I was careening toward a dead end, but I poured another cup and kept sorting through the results.