The Shadow Broker (Mr. Finn Book 1)

by Trace Conger

  Most sites on the deep Web managed transactions with bitcoins because of the anonymity, a bank account with no names attached. But I’d thought bitcoins were only a digital currency, so I couldn’t figure out why I was staring at a heap of coins on Banks’ floor.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Bishop.

  “What you got for me?” said Bishop.

  “Are bitcoins only digital? You don’t actually have anything physical? You can’t put a bitcoin in your pocket?”

  “You can exchange the digital currency for physical coins, if you want,” said Bishop. “I’ve converted them before as a precaution against hackers. But most people just use the digital currency.”

  “What do you mean protection against hackers?” I said.

  “Digital currency is stored on your computer, and even though you can encrypt the shit out of things, a hacker can still get through and liquidate your account. One day you’ve got a few million in coins, and the next day you’ve got dick. Anything online is at risk. Someone might want to get the physical coins and put them in a safe-deposit box or whatever. Just an added level of protection.”

  “Or a closet,” I said. “But you paid Silvio in digital currency, right?”

  “Right. People don’t exchange the physical currency. You take the digital currency and convert it to physical coins. Some banks even have ATMs that accept bitcoins for deposit. It’s just not that widespread.”

  “So if Silvio had the physical coins, it’s because he’s protecting them from hackers.”

  “Probably. I can’t think of any other reason why he’d have them.” Bishop paused. “What makes you think he has them?” Bishop’s voice quickened and went up an octave. “Did you find something?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’ll know more soon and get back to you.” I hung up the phone and clicked over to my phone’s camera to snap two photos of the coins before putting them back into the bag and returning them to the closet.

  I pulled the elastic band off the accordion file, opened it and removed a dozen pieces of paper. I fanned them out in my hands and scanned them. The first few pages looked to be a list of usernames, account numbers and passwords. The next few pages included screen shots of Bishop’s website, followed by what looked like an inventory list of items for sale on the site. I laid them out on the floor, snapped more photos and stashed them back in the file cabinet. Justin Banks was our guy.

  I closed the closet door, turned off the computer and headed back downstairs. As I walked past the kitchen, I noticed several keys hanging on a hook attached to the side of the refrigerator. I flipped through them, wiping away a layer of dust, and found a set with a paper label marked “Spare” attached to the ring. Two of the keys looked identical. I checked them in the front door’s deadbolt and they worked. I relocked the door from the inside, slipped one of the keys off the ring and put it in my pocket, and then returned the others to the hook. From the dust, I knew Banks hadn’t used the keys in some time. He wouldn’t miss one.

  I walked back through the living room, slid open the back patio door enough to fit through it and propped the dowel at a forty-five degree angle in the track, wedging it between the wall and partially open door. I picked up my new golf club, walked out, closed the door and watched as the dowel eased back into the track.

  Everything except the lock on the sliding-glass door looked exactly as Banks left it. Even if Banks did notice the unlocked door, he’d see the dowel set in the track and assume he’d forgotten to lock it.

  A sprinkler on the fairway activated while I was inside. It sprayed water across the manicured green grass, moving from side to side and clicking like a machine gun. I pocketed my gloves and checked the adjacent fairway to make sure no one would see me leaving the back of the townhouse. Clear. The old man and woman had moved on farther down the course, far enough away that they wouldn’t notice me. I watched as the man settled in for another shot. He swung and sailed the ball across the fairway and into the trees on the other side.

  “Goddamnit!” he yelled as he slammed the club head into the ground, lifted it high and slammed it again. Then, he hung his head and walked across the fairway, dragging his club behind him.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS back on my boat, polishing off my bacon, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich and downing a tall glass of water while I waited for the coffee pot to stop dripping. I called Bishop and told him I was ready to sit down to show him what I found.

  He was eager to get it, because he told me to come right over to his home and that he’d clear his schedule for the afternoon so we could review the information. I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve met a client at their home. It’s usually a coffee shop or bar or some other public place, but protocol goes out the window when you’re hungry for information, and I was serving it up on a silver platter. I went to great lengths to hide my home address, but if Bishop wanted to open up his front door to me, so be it.

  I downloaded the photos from my phone to my laptop, printed them out and put them in a folder for Bishop. I didn’t like paper trails, but Bishop needed proof, and my proof was on paper. Banks proved easier to find than I thought. Hackers are always unpredictable, but it turned out that Banks didn’t fit the hacker mold. It was odd that a person who deals in finding and exploiting the weaknesses in websites would be so careless in his own security. No password prompts on his office computer, no security system, bargain locks, no safe. But then again, criminals aren’t always the smartest breed, and Banks probably thought he had no reason to be paranoid. That he was safely hidden behind his anonymous persona. Now that assumption would likely get him killed.

  I grabbed the folder with the photos, poured a to-go cup of coffee, climbed off the boat and headed for my car.

  BISHOP LIVED NEAR THE END of Fort View Place in Mount Adams, an older neighborhood on the east side of Cincinnati. It’s a small neighborhood, real small. Parking was a bitch because someone decided to build the neighborhood on a steep hill, but I managed to find a spot on a side street less than a block from Bishop’s three-story home.

  Bishop’s home stood out from the others like a dick in a cake. Very modern. Lots of grays and whites and sharp lines. All the other homes were brick; old brick with lots of chips, like they had been there for centuries. Bishop’s second-floor balcony overlooked downtown Cincinnati. It was close enough to enjoy the view of the city’s skyline, but far enough away that you didn’t hear the sirens at night.

  I hated it. Too artsy for me, but I didn’t live there.

  Fat Sam was on the balcony, something silver in his hand. As I got closer, he raised it to his face and I saw it was a camera. He slipped it in his pocket, waved and disappeared into the house as I approached the front door. A minute later he opened the door, glanced both ways down the street and ushered me in. The Glock 30 tucked in his waistband looked like it was trying to escape. The only thing holding it in was the immense outward pressure from Fat Sam’s midsection, which crippled it against the inside of his waistband. I resisted the urge to lift up his shirt to see if the logo and model information from the Glock’s slide left an imprint on Fat Sam’s gut.

  He slapped me on the back as I walked into the foyer and my breakfast sandwich threatened an encore.

  “Bishop’s upstairs,” he said.

  I climbed the spiral staircase and found Bishop sitting in his office. Another man sat on the couch. He wore a black mock turtleneck, gray slacks and black leather shoes that looked fresh out of the box.

  “Come on in,” said Bishop. He pointed to the man on the couch. “Mr. Finn, Little Freddie. Little Freddie, Mr. Finn.” Little Freddie nodded without speaking.

  “You got good news for me?” said Bishop.

  “I do.” I handed him the folder and took a seat next to Little Freddie. Bishop opened it and rifled through the photos of the documents I took from Banks’ townhouse. “Silvio1053 is really Justin Banks. He lives in a suburb of Columbus. Northeast side.”

  Bishop didn’t spea
k as he studied the photos. He went to his safe in the corner of the room, opened it and pulled out a short stack of papers. He compared the photos I gave him with whatever he yanked from the safe.

  “It’s the same information he sent me,” said Bishop. “Proof that he had it.” Bishop paused again to compare the goods. “And he’s in Columbus?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s convenient,” said Little Freddie.

  “Makes perfect sense, actually,” I said. “Bishop, you mentioned meeting with someone who worked for Blue Horizon Consulting in Columbus. I looked into Banks and he worked there during the same period. My guess is during the consultation, he figured out you were working on something illegal and kept an eye on you. Eventually, he tied you to the Dark Brokerage, hacked his way into your system and got whatever info he needed to hold over you.” I pointed to the IT article I’d printed out. “That’s an article he wrote on website penetration testing. He’s trained to break into systems like yours.”

  Bishop tossed the papers on his desk. “It didn’t take you long to figure this guy out. Have to say, I’m impressed,” he said.

  “A lot of luck, really. Banks fucked up and used the Silvio1053 handle in an IT forum a few years ago. That led me down the trail and I eventually tied it together. Had he not used that handle, I’d probably still be looking for him.”

  “And you went to his house?” said Bishop.

  “Townhouse. Yeah. He lives in a two-bedroom. On a golf course. From the photos in his home, it looks like he’s a loner. No kids. No evidence of any roommates.”

  “Security?” said Little Freddie.

  “None. Even got a key for his front door. Assumed you might want it.” I pulled the key from my pocket, wiped it on my shirt to remove my prints and tossed it on the coffee table. Little Freddie snatched it up before it stopped spinning.

  “I thought this guy would be impossible to find,” said Bishop. “I had two others look into him, but they didn’t get dick, and you served him up in a few days. Even gave me a key to his house. Nice work.” Bishop went back to the safe and returned with a stack of cash that he plopped down on the coffee table. “There’s your other ten.” He stopped for a minute, went back to the safe and returned again with another shorter stack. “Fuck it, here’s another five for the fast work.”

  “Thanks,” I said, standing up.

  “You want to double that?” said Bishop.

  That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. What I wanted to hear was, “Here’s your cash and have a nice day.” I knew where Bishop was heading. The next logical step after finding Banks was putting a bullet in his head. I’m in the location business, not the killing business, and while I don’t care what people like Bishop do behind closed doors, I don’t really want to be in the room. The only reason I was working for Bishop was the money. I needed it and I needed to make it quick. Regardless of what Bishop said, there is no such thing as long-term employment in this business, because people like Bishop don’t stay in business that long. You get the money as quickly as you can and you get the fuck out. But the idea of doubling down still widened my eyes. Bishop had me on the hook.

  “How’s that?” I said.

  “Go with Little Freddie to Columbus and take care of our friend Banks.” He pointed to Little Freddie, who squinted back at Bishop. “He’ll do all the dirty work, but I’d like to have someone there for backup. Just in case. All goes well, you make thirty grand for a car ride to Columbus and back.”

  Working in this business is just like running a con. You find your mark, make your play and get out as quickly as you can. You don’t stay for drinks. Everything in my head told me to walk out that door, but the money wouldn’t let me. Bishop was dangling a thirty-thousand-dollar carrot in front of me. All for a four-hour road trip. And money was hard to come by since losing my PI license.

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  Little Freddie was still squinting his eyes. I got the feeling Bishop caught him off guard with his suggestion that I tag along. It seemed like everyone was out of his comfort zone.

  “We’ll need to do it at night,” said Little Freddie. “Pick me up at six tomorrow evening. Since you’ve already been there, you can drive.”

  I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST time I slept in. Something always woke me up. Phone, alarm clock, assholes screaming on the dock. Always something. This morning it was Brooke. I couldn’t remember if I’d given her a key to the door or if I’d forgotten to lock it, but either way, she’d come aboard and nudged her stiletto into my calf at 8 a.m.

  I rubbed my eyes until the fog cleared, and then I took her all in. Long, wavy red hair down to her lower back, freckles in just the right places, a white scoop-neck sweater dress, long legs that disappeared into a pair of black heels, and a necklace that dangled perfectly between her breasts. Every guy’s sexy nurse fantasy in the flesh.

  “How in the hell do you push gurneys in those heels?” I said.

  “I change into sneakers when I get to the hospital. Did you drop your phone overboard?”

  “What?”

  “Your phone. I left you three voice mails yesterday. If you’d return my calls, I wouldn’t have to stop by. I hate this place.”

  I rubbed my eyes again. “That makes two of us,” I said.

  “Then, why don’t you move?”

  “It’s temporary.” I got out of bed and slipped on the slacks from yesterday.

  Brooke walked through the cabin, looking around, searching for something. “Who lives on a boat anyway?”

  “You always said boats were romantic.”

  “Sailboats, Finn. I said sailboats were romantic. This place is creepy. And it’s kind of sad.”

  She was right. Boats suck. This boat really sucked. Crockett and Tubbs convinced me it would be glamorous to live on a boat. But Cincinnati isn’t Miami, and the Ohio River isn’t Biscayne Bay. And it smells like shit.

  Brooke ran a lean finger across the wall. “It’s not very homey,” she said. “No pictures or anything. Why is that? No pictures? I get that you wouldn’t have pictures of us, but what about that framed photo Becca gave you for your birthday? The World’s Best Dad one? You could at least put that up. Might make Becca feel more comfortable when she’s over here. Or that photo of you with your brother and your dad in Maine. I always liked that picture. The one with the three of you on the dock, holding that big fish.”

  “Maybe I’ll call in a designer. Get the place made over,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I mean it. You should do something. Add some personal stuff, some zing or something. It’s too sterile now. No personality.”

  Brooke didn’t know the real reason for the lack of photos and personal items. Throw those on the wall and I invited trouble. Anyone could walk onto this boat and instantly determine who lived here. Not to mention identify me, my daughter, brother and father. It’s the same reason my name doesn’t appear in any utilities or DMV database. My utility bills go to the marina. Only my slip number appears on the invoice. Run the plates on my secondhand Navigator and an ambiguous LLC turns up. It’s the same company that appears on my credit card statement and checking account. My cell phone is prepaid, I use a P.O. box registered under another name, and I have an encrypted and anonymous e-mail address. I’m fucking invisible.

  “Like I said, it’s temporary. No need to go to a lot of trouble decorating. I’ll save the effort for someplace more permanent.”

  “Living on a boat just screams mid-life crisis,” she said, still looking around for something that wasn’t there.

  “If I could afford a Porsche, I’d have a more proper mid-life crisis. Maybe Dr. Dickhead could buy me one.” I always wondered how long it would take a doctor to convince her that she was better off with him than with me. Then, I found out. Seven and a half years.

  “Stop it.”

  “Isn’t this where you tell me he’s really a nice guy and if I spent some time and got to know him, I’d really like him and we’d become good friends and ma
ybe I’d forget the fact that he’s sticking his dick in my wife?”

  “Ex-wife. And no, it’s probably best if you guys stay as far away from each other as possible.”

  “Why’s that?” I poured a cup of day-old coffee and headed to the microwave.

  “He doesn’t like you. Thinks you’re a bad influence on Becca. And he’s leery of people who live on boats.”

  “It’s temporary.”

  I grabbed a new shirt from the closet and slipped on my canvas shoes.

  “Weren’t you going to tell me why you’re here?” I said.

  “Becca, that’s why. Daryl and I want to get away for the weekend. We’re having…” she caught herself. “Just to get away. To recharge. Can you take Becca for the weekend? Next Friday?”

  My schedule wasn’t as consistent as most peoples’ schedules. My hours were unpredictable when I worked as a legitimate PI, and now they’re downright impossible to gauge. It’s always tough to schedule time with your daughter in between tracking down blackmailers and riding shotgun while a guy in a mock turtleneck bats cleanup.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “Don’t know. It’s a surprise. He’s planning the whole thing.”

  “A surprise? How do you know what to pack?”

  “Yes, a surprise. I don’t ever remember you whisking me away for a weekend. Handling all the details. It’s romantic.”

  “Sorry, I was too busy trying to earn a living to keep the lights on. But I guess Dr. Dickhead doesn’t have that problem.”

  “I don’t want to have this conversation, Finn. Can you watch her or not?”

  “If I said no, would you still go?”

  “Yes. Daryl already made the reservations. Becca would just have to stay with someone else.”