by Devon Scott
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
The door closes behind them. Jason returns to his chair and steeples his fingers in front of him.
“So?”
Damian can see that Jason wants to get down to business.
Good.
He’s not here to socialize.
Damian begins. “About a month ago you asked me here to discuss your potential run for the governorship of this state. You’ve been a well-known business leader and philanthropist to many charitable causes here in the Tampa area. No one knows of your serious consideration to run for office, although many local politicians have asked that you enter the race. At this time your desire to run is a closely guarded secret. And you asked me to look into the security aspects of your candidacy for governor. Specifically, what is known or what can be found out about Jason Corcoran that can damage you.
“The issue is a timely one. As you are aware, several high-profile cases have involved politicians whose illegal or unethical dealings came to light—only to serve as their undoing. In the case of the mayor of Detroit, a series of text messages showed that he was indeed carrying on an extramarital affair with his chief of staff and lying about it to the public. In the case of the governor of New York, cell-phone records, text messages, and other electronic data proved that he was frequenting high-priced escort services.”
Damian shakes his head.
“Mr. Rein,” Jason says, “I know all of this. Tell me what you’ve uncovered. Just how vulnerable am I?”
Damian nods.
“You are a well-respected businessman. You are known for your charities. But this is what I discovered.”
Damian recites what he knows from memory, without the benefit of notes.
“You routinely transfer money to an account in Cuba by way of the Virgin Islands and have done so for the past three years. It appears that you have fathered a child there and are paying a young woman for her silence.”
“How did you—”
“May I continue?”
Jason nods solemnly.
“Furthermore, it would seem that you are addicted to porn. Perhaps addicted is the wrong word, but the hard drives of your four computers are littered with gigabytes of movies and pictures. Your fetish is bukkake—the practice of having female subjects ejaculated on by numerous men—in particular the Japanese bukkake variety, not the fake stuff they manufacture in Southern California, and you’ve spent a good deal of time and money to purchase it.”
Jason’s face has turned chalky white.
“You have several credit cards that are not in your own name, which are used for these purchases. Those cards have been used to pay for travel to Japan twice—once last year and once the year before that—where you participated in your own bukkake sessions that were videotaped. Those sessions are on your hard drive, but unfortunately, at least several copies are also floating around the Internet.”
“Oh my God.”
The words come as a whisper.
“Mr. Corcoran, please understand. I am not here to judge you. Your indiscretions are yours alone. I am here to help you. To eradicate any evidence of illegal, improper, or seemingly immoral activity. And that I can do.”
Jason Corcoran swallows hard.
Damian continues.
“My fees are one hundred thousand dollars and will buy you absolute discretion and secrecy. It will take approximately two months of work, primarily due to the fact that we have to hack into American Express and All Nippon Airways to delete the records of your transactions. The Cuba situation is much simpler to deal with. Then there is the question of the videotapes. I can’t be sure of how many copies exist, so that will take some additional time. In the end, no one can guarantee that all digital copies are destroyed. But I’ll do what I can. If the copies exist on a computer, we’ll find them and get rid of them.”
Damian sits back, quite satisfied with himself. He can see that he’s damaged the fuckwad Jason Corcoran to the core. This is the part that he absolutely adores. Knocking down powerful men and their companies with half a minute’s worth of information.
Information is true power.
What you know can alter lives.
It can ruin men.
Make them slaves to another.
Damian wants to grin uncontrollably.
LOL!
Instead, he issues a tight smile and says with his hands held open, as if he were Jason’s own priest, “Mr. Corcoran, relax, please. Rein Security is here to protect your secrets.”
Chapter 60
Happy as a clam.
Isn’t that the expression?
That’s how Damian feels right now.
Happy as a clam.
Whatever the hell that means.
Heading back to the office, Damian feels great. He’s just landed an account that will net him close to a hundred grand for a few months’ work. Best thing about it? Damian doesn’t even have to get his hands wet.
That’s what is so fantastic about this gig.
Damian is not a hacker. Or even a security guru.
But, as with all great businessmen, the key to his success has been surrounding himself with talented people who know how to get the job done.
Rein Security is built on the premise that Damian, as the CEO, goes out and gets the clients. His “employees” are freelance hackers—brilliant yet socially inept computer science graduates or dropouts. These guys will work for cash, and are totally discreet—Damian has made sure of that by having them sign ironclad nondisclosure agreements. Their work can’t be traced back, and if it does come back to them—well, fuck them, they’re on their own—they get paid well enough to protect themselves.
Damian communicates with them over a highly encrypted link, where the 512-bit symmetrical keys are changed once a week. Shit, even the Fed doesn’t change their encryption that often.
It’s a perfect arrangement.
He gets the jobs, they perform the work. He pays them cash, pockets 70 to 80 percent of what each job has been bid out as.
Today he just made easy money.
And his thoughts are transported back to her.
Too bad she’s not around to share in the wealth.
This is what he means about women.
If she were still around, he’d be making arrangements to pick her up and take her to dinner at the best restaurant in all of Tampa.
Where do you want to go, baby?
It’s on me.
Wanna fly to Miami for dinner?
Or Jacksonville?
Wherever you wanna go, baby, whatever you wanna do, we’ll do it. My treat!
I do all of this for you.
He can imagine it right now, and the thought is sobering.
Let’s take a trip—spur of the moment—to Paris or Milan. Can’t take off that much time from work? No problem. How about a quick jaunt to the islands? Trinidad, Tobago, Aruba?
Blue-green seas, white sands. Flowing libations and the tastiest vittles your palate has ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
All for you, baby.
I do this all for you.
For a moment, the pain had simply vanished.
Gone.
Like it had never even existed.
He had been thinking about her, his ex-wife, about the good old times, and the terrible hurt was no longer there. But then, just like that, Damian’s back to the present—to reality—and the ache is a dull throb in his neck and temples.
Fuck her!
Damian swats the thought from his mind as if he were whisking away annoying flies.
He reaches his building and takes the elevator to his floor. The office is quiet. His assistant is at lunch.
Good.
He doesn’t want to talk to her anyway.
He unlocks his office and shuts the door quickly behind him.
Goes to his desk, fires up his Mac Pro. Checks messages.
Nothing of interest.
So Damian switches gears and thinks about them.
<
br /> Dude and Mocha.
Wondering how life’s treating them.
How they are getting by since Damian came into their life and wreaked fucking havoc.
All the pieces are coming together.
He’s tying up all the loose ends.
He’ll be done soon.
Hopefully, once and for all, the pain will cease to be an issue for him.
Hopefully, soon, he’ll silence his pain.
Forever.
Then begin to live again.
The phone rings.
Damian glares at the screen.
Sees a 202 area code.
Strange.
He lets it ring again.
Then remembers that his assistant is at lunch.
So he reaches for the receiver.
“Rein Security, Damian Rein speaking.”
He says it pleasantly enough. And why shouldn’t he? He’s still feeling good.
Not post-orgasmic great, like a few minutes ago, before his mood was clouded with thoughts of her.
But still good.
“Mr. Rein. This is Detective Joe Goodman of the Metropolitan Police Department. Do you have a few moments?”
All of a sudden his cheerfulness has evaporated.
Just like that, it’s gray skies. Cold, unfamiliar terrain.
Storms on the horizon.
The pain assaults him at the base of his neck. He reaches for the Tylenol, grabs a fistful of Gel Tabs and chews them angrily, washing them down with lukewarm bottled water.
“Mr. Rein,” Joe says again.
“Yes . . . I’m here.”
Control yourself, Damian commands. Be cool.
Goodman. The cop from D.C.
Ex-husband of Mocha.
Shit . . .
He had not expected this.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your ex-wife, Lindsey Rein,” Joe says.
Damian clears his throat.
“I’ve told the Hillsborough deputies all I know.”
“When was the last time you saw your ex?”
“I don’t know. It’s been at least five, six months. Perhaps longer.”
“And when did you last speak to her?”
“We have had very few conversations, Detective. We’re no longer married.”
“So you can’t recall the last time you two spoke?” Joe asks.
“Nope.”
“Don’t recall what you talked about? Or the nature of the conversation?”
“No idea.”
“You don’t seem overly concerned about Lindsey. You do know she’s missing, right?”
“Should I be concerned?” Damian grunts. “Lindsey’s no longer my problem.”
“Interesting attitude, Mr. Rein.”
“Look, Detective, she left me, not the other way around. She moved away, took a new job, didn’t want to be found. So I’m not sure what you expect from me. My sympathy? Nope, you won’t get that. Not where she’s concerned. That’s not against the law.”
“Nope, you’re absolutely right.”
“Do you know a Michael and Kennedy Handley from Washington, D.C.?”
That stops Damian dead in his tracks.
Careful.
Be extremely careful.
“No. Never heard of them,” Damian replies.
“Really? Perhaps your wife might have mentioned them to you. Michael? Kennedy?”
“Ah, no.”
“Been to D.C., Mr. Rein?” Joe asks.
“Well, sure. Long time ago.”
“Nothing recent, though?”
“Nope.”
He realizes the mistake as soon as the words escape him. Nothing he can do about it now.
“Hmm. Okay. You’re in the security business, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Meaning, you know how to break into people’s computers, steal data on hard drives, that sort of thing?” the detective says.
Damian is silent.
“That is your business, right, Mr. Rein?”
“I’m sorry. What exactly is the nature of your investigation, Detective?”
“So you don’t deny being a hacker, capable of stealing data from other people’s computers?”
“This conversation is over, Detective. If you have further questions for me, I can put you in touch with my attorney.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Rein. For what you and I have to discuss, our conversation has just begun.”
The line goes silent, and Damian sees nothing but red.
He sits in his chair, very still, the hammer in his skull driving him to near unconsciousness.
Detective Joe Goodman is a dead man.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
Chapter 61
It’s after eight on a Wednesday night and Kennedy is just getting home.
She drops her bag on the kitchen counter along with the mail that she does not have the energy to examine. Her keys hit the countertop with a metallic thud. Other than that, the house is quiet.
Too quiet.
Zack is spending the evening with his father.
Per the draft visitation agreement.
She can’t get used to this . . . this new arrangement.
Her and Michael not together.
Zack not here with her every single day, as it should be.
She’s told no one. Not her family. Not her friends. Because she can’t even believe it herself.
Denial.
Hoping she’ll wake up from this terrible nightmare.
Praying everything will go back to the way it once was.
When they were a family.
A happily married couple.
Not a care in the world.
Kennedy moves to the couch in the family room and sits, unzipping her boots and removing them from her weary feet. She closes her eyes and leans back, taking a moment for herself.
She’s been keeping herself so busy that she won’t have to think about her situation. But now, with the house dead quiet, she has no choice but to listen to the silence.
Kennedy opens her eyes.
Stares about the quiet room.
Her vision finds the plasma on the wall.
Silver frame, black screen.
Naturally her thoughts go to her son.
A few weeks ago, Zack would have been in this very room, sitting where he always does on the floor in front of the television, playing his Xbox 360. The screen would have been alive with colors and sounds. And as much as those video games drive her crazy, Kennedy realizes she has grown to love the noise, because it means her son is home, and is happy.
She glances around.
Considers pouring a glass of Merlot.
She’s been drinking every night.
Lately like clockwork.
It’s a way to relax.
Calm her nerves.
Should she tonight?
She doesn’t want to become a lush—relying on her drink as a crutch. On the other hand . . .
Kennedy rises from the couch, cutting off the thoughts as quickly as they came.
She moves toward the kitchen, then changes her mind.
Back to the couch, taking a seat again.
Leaning back, head resting on the cushions as she closes her eyes.
The ringing of her BlackBerry brings her out of her reverie.
Zack’s cell.
“Hello. Zack?”
Soft crying on the other end of the phone.
“Baby, what’s wrong? Zack, are you there?”
Rustling. Then more tiny sobs.
“Zack, are you okay?” she asks while getting to her feet.
She glances down at her phone.
Presses a few keys, enabling the Chaperone feature to locate Zack.
A few moments later an address displays on her screen.
A Northern Virginia address.
She hits the Map button to display his location.
Alexandria, VA.
Less than eleven miles away.
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“I miss you, Mommy,” Zack says between sobs.
“I miss you, too, honey. What’s wrong?”
“I want to sleep with you. But Daddy says I can’t. He says I need to go to sleep here.”
His voice pulls at her heartstrings.
“I know, sweetheart. I wish you were here. I would let you sleep with me. Guess what? Tomorrow, when you’re home, I promise you can sleep in my bed. How does that sound?”
“All right.”
Kennedy smiles.
She moves toward the fireplace.
On the mantel above the hearth are four picture frames.
Photographs of her family.
Happier times.
“You’re my little man, Zack. Now go to sleep. It’s late, and you don’t want to be tired for school in the morning.”
“Okay. G’night, Mommy.”
“Goodnight, Zack. Mommy loves you.”
Kennedy ends the call.
And stares at the photographs above the hearth.
She stops nearest the one on the right.
Her and Michael.
On their wedding day.
Michael in his smart tuxedo.
She in her pretty veil and wedding dress.
And the next one.
The three of them—her, Michael, and Zack, taken last year on vacation at Disney World, the spires of the Magic Kingdom rising in the background.
That one makes her smile.
And the next one.
Her favorite.
Zack in first grade.
Dressed in his blue polo shirt, hair cut like his father’s.
Smile a mile wide, save for one missing tooth.
Kennedy reaches for the black frame.
Her eyes are beginning to water as she clutches it to her chest.
She wipes at the tears.
Stares down at the photo.
Her little man.
And the skin on her forehead furrows.
Something is . . . off.
The picture frame.
Black frame, narrow edges of wood around the four-by-six photograph.
But on closer inspection it’s not wood, but smooth, polished metal.
Kennedy turns the frame over.
Strange.
Doesn’t recall this particular frame.
She lowers the latch that secures the back cover.
Flips it open and stares openmouthed at what’s inside.
A tiny circuit board with a shiny circular watch battery.
