A Touch to Die For

by Brian D. Meeks

  "Yes, about five minutes ago. I cleverly anticipated your snarky comments. You've become predictable."

  "I'll work on that. Now, what do you need me to do?"

  "First, I need you to get a hold of Amber-Lee Dibble at Pioneer Outfitters and tell her it's me. She knows me from comments, and I think she has read a book or two of mine. I've talked about coming up there for a long time. Tell her I'm bringing a friend and that she means the world to me. I want to have a photography adventure of a lifetime. I'm sure that is right in her wheel house."

  "How long is your adventure to be?"

  "A week, but ask her if there is any flexibility at extending it by a day or two? I would imagine that with supplies and such, they probably need an exact length of stay, but I don't know. All I know is I'm very excited."

  "I can tell. You are bordering on adorable...well...aside from that hair. I'll add schedule an emergency haircut to the list."

  He pointed at Kate and said, "Good call. I like it. Okay, we will also need to know what sort of clothing we will need. I don't know the typical temps, but Amber-Lee can probably give a suggestion."

  "I'm sure."

  "I'll need you to book a flight to San Francisco and then two round trips to...You'll have to ask where we fly into, too."

  "Got it."

  "Ask Amber-Lee if it would be okay to ship my camera gear ahead. It is such a bother on commercial flights."

  "You don't need to fly commercial."

  "You make a good point. As a woman who has been wooed on more than one occasion, how do you think chartering a plane would play?"

  "From what you've told me, she has probably been on her fair share of executive jets, so it won't be a first, but it will make the trip easier."

  "Book it! You are on fire, Kate. What else am I forgetting?"

  "The start date?"

  "The day after the Columbia thing."

  "I was worried for a minute. Will do. Does she have any dietary concerns, allergies, et cetera?"

  "I have no idea."

  "I'm probably over-thinking things. How do you want me to pay for this?"

  "You are doing great. Put it on the company credit card as I'm considering writing a travel book."

  "So this is a romantic write-off?"

  Mitch blushed and said, "Does that ruin it? If you think I should..."

  "I'm teasing. It's fine. It's all your money anyway, and, if you use the photos and write a book, well then it is far more legit than that trip we took to Vegas in 2008 for the 'convention.'"

  "Hey, I thought we agreed to never speak of that again."

  "I'm just saying."

  "It wasn't my best outing, but I did like the bartender...not as much as you...but..."

  "Hey! Okay, moving on. I'll take care of everything."

  "You are an angel. Scone?"

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paul's house, gated, Spanish Mediterranean in design, with a stunning view of the Golden Gate, felt comfortable and safe. At least, that was the impression from the outside. The interior had been completely redesigned into post-modern, computer geek chic with over 140 servers buried in a shipping container under the spectacular rock garden.

  The family room, which Paul never imagined having a need for, contained a desk, a chair, and a computer with nine screens; that is, nine Bang and Olufsen 65-inch screens that were always on to surround him in a glow of nerd-dom. The computer was the least impressive tech gadget in his home.

  The master computer, named CINDY, his acronym for his Central Intuitive Neuro DYnamic system, made HAL look like a first grader. CINDY could prepare 230 different types of coffee drinks, 35 soft drink beverages, and an assortment of juices that could be delivered to any of ten drink nodes around the house. She cooked, too, and could deliver a Coney style hot dog with any condiment imaginable in less than two minutes. A full 1000 square feet of living space had been lost during the redesign to accommodate the food and drink system throughout the walls.

  CINDY could handle other tasks, too. She monitored the cleanliness of the air and arranged for maid service. Each of his suits was tracked and, after being worn, was taken from the walk-in closet via a robotic conveyor to the External Services Port where it was picked up by one of three local laundering services - CINDY was programmed to bargain shop.

  Between his freshman year at ISU in Ames and his move to Cambridge, Massachusetts, Paul had an idea. It led to a financial windfall. Paul's first fortune was made writing an algorithm that handled randomness in a way that revolutionized encryption. At most, only ten or twelve people in the world could truly understand the significance. One of those people was the head of the C.I.A and the other was the head of the NSA. It led to a bidding war that resulted in his million-dollar idea fetching close to a billion, tax free and off the books, and it required Paul to agree to an NDA. He turned twenty the day he signed the deal.

  Without much warning he had gone from poor college student to secret billionaire in the span of a few months. It was scary. He couldn't drastically change his lifestyle lest people start questioning where he got the money, so he had to create something else, something that would make him rich again.

  It was strange having wealth beyond what he had ever imagined and only being able to buy a new X-box 360, but he came to grips with his reality. The agency that won the bidding war even promised to buy his next project, regardless of whether it worked, for enough money that he could start living more lavishly. It hadn't been necessary.

  By the time he graduated with his Masters from MIT, he held nine patents and had achieved rock-star status in the tech world.

  "CINDY, double mocha latte and call Daryl Jepsen's cell," Paul said as he got out of bed.

  "Right away, Captain," CINDY said, using the formal response and respect due a star fleet officer. She put Daryl on speakerphone.

  "Hey, Paul, how have you been?"

  "Good. How did things go with those twins at SXSW?"

  "Don't make fun of my future wife."

  "Which one?"

  "Who cares."

  Paul laughed and said, "I need some components."

  "Sure, anything you need. What are you working on?"

  "I had an idea last night, mostly outside my area of expertise, but I thought I'd tinker around some and see if anything comes of it..."

  "That was exceptionally vague, which makes me think you're onto something."

  "I might be, but, really, I'm pretty far out of my depth here. I think I've gotten bored and want to try something new."

  "I've been there. Email me a list of what you need, and I'll send it over."

  "Thanks, hitting send now. Say 'hi' to either or both of the twins for me."

  "Will do, buddy."

  Paul hung up and said, "CINDY, show task lists."

  A notepad document appeared on the screen from a file behind a firewall that the NSA working with God couldn't crack.

  1) Call Daryl

  2) Hack Mitch's

  - Twitter account

  - Facebook account

  - LinkedIn account

  3) Find his home and work computer and install key logging software

  4) Map his daily routine

  5) Capture his IP addresses

  6) Research handguns

  Paul typed "check" next to "Call Daryl" and thought about the list. He might not know anything about guns, but he had seen enough movies to know that he would need to be careful to never leave fingerprints on the rounds in the magazine. He started a new list.

  Gun Ideas

  1) Always wear gloves when handling the rounds

  2) Research gunshot residue

  - Is it possible to build something to address GSR?

  3) Don't forget to police your shell casings

  4) What is the most popular handgun on the market?

  5) Does Mitch have any guns?

  6) How hard is it to swap the barrel of a handgun?

  7) How do gun shows wor
k and where are some close ones?

  He reread both lists and smiled.

  The next three hours he hacked. One by one each item came off the list. Mitch's idea of passwords was so lame that it ruined a lot of the fun. Paul dedicated a screen to each social media platform, and, by the time he was ready for CINDY to make him hot dogs, Mitch's online life was an open book.

  There hadn't been a credit card transaction in over two days. Paul didn't like not knowing where Mitch had gone. There was a lot to do, though, so he tried to put it out of his mind.

  The hot dogs were good. While he ate, it occurred to him that he might as well do the search on handguns from Mitch's office computer. He hadn't found his home computer, but the office one was on.

  The next few hours were spent learning about the Sig Sauer P229, Glock 23, Smith & Wesson M&P 340CT .357, and Kahr PM9. The Walther PPQ and PPS .40 caliber also looked interesting, and Paul liked the company's logo the best.

  The gun forums were helpful. One person from Montana described how she had gone through handgun training and what she considered when making her choice. He never imagined gun owners were so articulate.

  Paul learned about the importance of grip comfort, magazine size, conceal carry laws, different types of ammo, and how to shop. By the time he went to bed, he had found a half dozen gun shows.

  He woke up at 2:45 am after having relived the day he was humiliated in class. The dream had the habit of lingering for hours. He couldn't work until it passed nor could he sleep, so he did what any normal person would do: he played an FPS and killed zombies until 5 am.

  First person shooters were one thing but actually shooting a gun would take practice.

  For a few years he had been thinking of an investment in real estate, and now he had a good reason. It took less than five minutes to find three that looked promising. It was well before normal business hours, so he called and left a message indicating a sincere interest in the twenty million dollar properties.

  He went back to the game until 9:05 am when the phone rang.

  "Hello, this is Paul."

  "Hey there. This is Wayne with Montana Life Real Estate. You left a message."

  "I did. I actually wanted to hear a little about the three properties: ACX 340, ACX 355, and ACX 380."

  "Those are all fine little tracks of land. ACX 340 has two lakes, 5712 deeded acres, and Yellowstone River frontage."

  "That was actually my favorite. How motivated are the sellers?"

  "That property has been on the market for almost a year, but they have not been willing to budge on the price of 23 million. Would you like to set up a time to check it out and maybe meet them?"

  "Tell me about the buildings on the property?"

  "There is a 5,000 square foot log cabin, though that doesn't really describe it very well. It has all the modern comforts that people have grown to expect. There are three outbuildings, and all the equipment is included: two tractors, three ATVs, and a lot of other stuff. Would you like me to send you a complete list?"

  "How soon could I take possession?"

  "They no longer live on the property, so as soon as the paperwork is done, it would be all yours. Shall we set up a helicopter tour?"

  "No, I'll take it."

  "What?"

  "Yes. Twenty-three million, right?"

  "You don't even want to see it?"

  "You have 30 pictures on the site; it looks like exactly what I want."

  "This is highly unusual, but..."

  "Have you googled me?"

  "As a matter of fact, I did."

  "I don't want to come off like an ass, but 23 million isn't such a big deal. How long will it take to get the paperwork to me so I can sign?"

  "I can get the 'i's' crossed and the 't's' dotted in a week or two."

  "I'm not a patient man. Can you get it done by tomorrow if I throw in a quote, unquote processing fee of say $500,000?"

  "Are you bullshitting me?"

  "No, I'm not. My attorney will be calling within the hour, assuming you are able to push those papers around your desk and get it all figured out by this time tomorrow."

  "I'll get right on it."

  Paul sent off two emails. The first one went to his attorney. The second, to his computer guy, was a detailed description of the machine he wanted built.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alexis sat at the bar and drank soda. She was in a foul mood, and people knew it. Nobody was messing with her. Antonio had been distant, and they hadn't found anything that pointed to a suspect. That wasn't why she was pissy, though; it was that every time her phone rang, she caught herself hoping for another victim.

  Her phone started to buzz. "Hello."

  "I thought I should call and let you know we've made an arrest."

  "You caught the bastard?"

  There was an uncomfortable pause. "That's what I've been told."

  "What's going on?"

  "I don't know, but I'd like you to give the video of the interrogation a look."

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm at the Guardia di Finanza offices."

  Alexis grabbed a cab and was at the security station within twenty minutes. She was wanded and found to be threat free. Alexis hurried up the stairs to Antonio's office. She knocked three times.

  "Come in," Antonio said.

  Alexis didn't have anything snarky prepared; she was too preoccupied. "How did they catch him?"

  "An anonymous tip. They found him passed out at his home."

  "Any evidence at his place?"

  "Why don't you just watch the video and then we can talk," Antonio said as he hit play.

  "Turn down the volume, please."

  "Why?"

  "We'll watch it twice. I want to focus on his face more than his words."

  "It's in Italian, so I was going to translate, but sure I'll turn it down."

  Antonio watched Alexis. She pulled a pad of paper from his desk, grabbed a pencil, and made a note. When the video finished, Antonio asked, "You want the volume this time?"

  "Please."

  Antonio turned up the volume and hit play. He translated as the men on the video spoke.

  At the 1:20 mark she said, "Could you pause it a second?"

  "Sure, what do you see?"

  "You think he did it?"

  "I want to know what you think."

  "He's a drunk and seems like a lamb. Why would he drive ten hours for a second victim? What did he just say?"

  "He asked if the officer really believed he was the killer. The exact words were, 'Do you really think I killed these men?'"

  "Look at his face. He is pleading, and I believe it. Now back up and look at your man's face."

  "He's not my man, but okay."

  "See that," she said, pointing to the screen.

  "What am I looking at?"

  "Look at that flash of anger. What did the officer say next?"

  "He said that he knew they had the right man and then said he was the one asking the questions."

  "See how he looks away."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Let's keep going."

  Antonio hit play and continued to translate. Umberto asked questions; the man answered. His last question was about where the man was at the time of the first murder. He asked the same thing about the second and wrote down the answers. The man said he was home both times. The interview ended.

  "The officer conducting the interview doesn't believe he has the right man. He lied when he said he did. The anger and his inability to keep eye contact were the first clues. At the end, if the officer really believed the suspect was lying about where he was, a good interrogator would have repeated the questions to see if the story stayed the same. How long has he been with the department?"

  "A long time, probably twenty-years plus."

  "So this wasn't his first interrogation?"

  "No."

  "Do you have the financials from the suspect?"

  Anton
io handed the bank records to Alexis. She flipped through a few pages. "It is pretty consistent, and the account never gets any higher than 300 Euros. This guy lives from paycheck to paycheck. Between the first and second victim there weren't any withdrawals."

  "So?"

  "How did he pay for the gas to drive across the whole country and back?"

  "Alexis, you are a bright woman. I don't believe he is the guy, either, but I couldn't make a case for letting him go."

  "So why drag this guy in?"

  "I have a theory, but it borders on paranoia."

  "Those are the best kind."

  "They are the kind that can end a career. I think I'll keep it to myself for now."

  "What about the poor schmuck they're trying to pin this on?"

  Antonio didn't have an answer.

  #

  Anne Marie had been playing hard to get; at least, that was how it seemed to her. An entire week had gone by and she hadn't asked about Mitch once. She hadn't asked about the red dress date, either. The flower deliveryman pushed her over the edge. She decided to abandon her "ignore it, and she will eventually cave and dish all the good details" plan.

  "You have a dozen red roses," Anne Marie said with a hint of triumph in her voice as she set them on the desk.

  "That's nice, thanks."

  "If you think I'm leaving before you read the card, well, you'll need to call security to make that happen."

  "Security is seven, right?"

  "Very funny. Now open it. I bet they're from Mitch."

  "I'm sure they aren't."

  "How can you know?"

  Anne Marie leaned in as her boss opened the card and read out loud, "Looking forward to tonight. XOXO, Nigel."

  "Nigel! Who in the heck is Nigel? And seriously, 'XOXO?' What, is he ten...and a girl?"

  "He is accompanying me to the opening of the show."

  "Is he the guy you wore the red dress for?"

  "I wore the red dress because I thought it looked nice."

  "It looked too nice, if you ask me. Have you heard anything from Mitch?"

  "Have you finished that report about the Spanish sculptor I asked for?"

  "I'll assume that our answers are the same then," Anne Marie said and shook her head. "What do you think went wrong? I mean, you seemed so happy when you got to work after the two of you..."