by Mike Cooper
Early speculation assumed a disgruntled investor had taken the law into his own hands—a Bernie Goetz for the new Gilded Age. Later events revealed a more banal motive, albeit one fully in tune with the Wall Street mindset: Ganderson had allegedly been setting up trades against the victims’ various positions, profiting handsomely when their deaths kicked the last props out.
Although the investigation into Ganderson’s murder has only begun, sources inside the Old Ridgefork Police Department have described strong similarities to the sniper killing of Tom Marlett, the third domino in Ganderson’s hit parade. “Tripod marks, .338-caliber rounds, even a half bootprint—it’s the same guy, all right,” one person told me. “The FBI is full of shit.”
Federal authorities are apparently more focused on Silas Cade, a mysterious figure who uncovered the first evidence of Ganderson’s financial interest in the killings and halted a murderous shooting spree during the Grand Plaza Clusterfuck. The FBI is refusing to comment—to me, at least, and on the record—about their interest in the only person who was on top of the situation from the beginning…
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Customs at JFK was shabby and unimpressive, the walls of the holding pen stained, the floor scuffed, and the armorglass shields at the booths already scratched. But the officials were cheerful and efficient. Mine even smiled briefly as she banged an entry stamp into my passport and passed it back.
“Welcome home,” she said.
On the way to baggage claim I tucked the documents back into my jacket. I won’t say I was flooded with relief, but I felt good. Walter might have retired, but he was willing to do me a favor, and these papers were top class. When I’d picked them up at poste restante in Lisbon, I’d compared them millimeter by millimeter with the real thing, and I couldn’t find a single flaw.
Outside I found an express bus, paid the fifteen bucks, and sat for half an hour inside the vehicle, waiting, before it finally got under way. Sure, a taxi would have been faster, but the bus is the simplest path back into unrecorded anonymity. No cameras, no driver’s curiosity, no trip receipt. I had a new name now, and it was going to stay unknown as long as I could manage.
A new name.
My sixth, in fact.
There’s no Silas Cade in the Pentagon records. Or the SSN databases or anywhere in the vast Equifax-Acxiom credit-data archipelago. On a birth certificate, somewhere, yes—filed long after the date on it, backfilled by Walter’s magic. But “Silas” was as imaginary as any of my other identities, all assumed, used up and shucked over the years.
Sure, it’s a nuisance, recreating myself each time. But I operate without the long tail of official existence: no credit cards, no bank accounts, no W-2s, no tax filings, no property registration. No nothing. Most people need a four-drawer file cabinet to keep track of their paperbound lives. For me, a few memorized passwords and a safe deposit box are good enough. In that light, it’s not so hard to start over.
At Port Authority I exited the bus and walked down 42nd Street. Late March, and bright sunshine wasn’t having much effect against the cold air. I bought a hot pretzel from a vendor, eating it quickly before it cooled. Men went by in topcoats, women in fur. Young people walked briskly, glancing up occasionally from their smart-phones. Kids scuffled and laughed and poked each other, oblivious of any other pedestrian over the age of eighteen.
At Bryant Park I pulled out my new cellphone, purchased a day earlier in Copenhagen. I also had a store of fifteen fresh SIM cards. I chose one, snapped it into the phone, and clicked the on button, waiting for a signal.
Yes, I was still tied to disposable technology. But at least the chipcards were more compact than multiple handsets.
“Hello?”
I heard her voice for the first time in half a year. It was a moment before I could speak.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“Hey, Clara,” I said. “I’ve got a story for you.”
