The Brummie Con (Sunken City Capers Book 4)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice steadying, “that’s kinda the point—not to be in the center of any outward facing cameras.”

  Margaret Tillery is not your common digital artist. First, she’s the middle daughter of the very wealthy Tillery family, a target in her own right under other circumstances. Second, the computer security on her system is some super-powered industrial grade, according to Puo, way above par for a digital artist. And third, Ty trusts her.

  It’s that last one that is of particular interest. Is Margaret to Ty the way Puo is to me? It was Margaret that confronted me in the elevator and then pushed me out when Ty wanted to keep me. Margaret’s version of the group contract contained a reward distribution clause, when other’s didn’t. But Margaret is wealthy, and Ty is in bad need of startup funds. So what’s going on there? Another angle we can exploit?

  Puo continues to scan the outside of her studio and the surrounding area. “Nothing,” he says under his breath as he works.

  I don’t rush him, using the time to take steady deep breaths. I wasn’t able to access the back room of her studio when I was there, so I’m not sure what to expect. I do know the front show space had a camera hidden in the recessed lighting and that her computer is overly protected. All of which points to either a paranoid or someone who has something worth protecting. Both are not to be approached lightly.

  “I’m ready,” Puo says.

  “Fly away first,” I say. “Then work your way back at a higher altitude and drop vertically down from the top and glide in.” The drone has an articulating arm to plant an audio/video bug on the glass facing into the studio.

  “There should be a delay,” Winn adds.

  Good idea. “How much battery do you have?” I want the drone back after this is over—I’m thinking of rewrapping it.

  “Six hours,” Puo says.

  “Good. Fly away, park it somewhere for three hours—”

  “Three hours?” Puo asks and turns to face me. “That’s three a.m.”

  “Yup,” I say with shrug and a yawn. I suddenly feel unbelievably tired, my nervous system is completely shot, and I can’t even remember how long I’ve been awake. Puo’s a night owl anyway.

  “I’ll wait up with you,” Winn offers. “Or get up with you to keep you company.”

  Puo’s quickly flicks his gaze between us.

  I have an inkling of what just ran through Puo’s mind—mostly about Winn working to ingratiate himself, and how ultimately that’s directed at me. Fifteen years of being partners will do that for you.

  “Sounds good,” Puo says and turns back to his computers without looking at me.

  Great. I’ll totally be hearing about this the next time Puo gets on one of his corner-store psychology rants about my psyche—the Winn part, not the staying up late part. That is what fifteen years of being partners will do.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A FULL DAY LATER (the second morning after the drone flight) the flat is quiet at seven forty-five. Silence has settled onto the flat like a warm comforting blanket. The early morning light chases shadows back into their daytime nooks and crannies. The jackknives have faded to the background.

  The kitchen is picked up from the night before and smells faintly of quinoa and chicken. The oatmeal raisin cookies are still laid out on the cooling rack from when Winn made them thirty-six hours ago (only four are left at this point). There’s still a day-old note on the oatmeal in Puo’s neat handwriting. “Turn to channel 124. Archived. Zoom. Boom!” And then scrawled under that, in different color pen added last night, like an afterthought is, “Don’t wake me up.”

  Don’t wake me up—yeah, right. I smile at the note thinking of how best to wake Puo up this fine morning. I let him, and myself, sleep at will yesterday with nothing else to do. An entire day off, except for sleeping. Except sleep proved to be elusive for me. I crashed hard after the drone excursion, still in my clothes, but couldn’t stay that way. The bastard holding his foot down on my adrenalin gland wouldn’t let up. I’d pop awake, lying there, staring at the ceiling off and on. Last night I took a sleeping pill—take that you adrenalin-stepping rat-bastard. The jackknives still threaten this morning, but at least I’m hungry again after a decent night’s sleep.

  I quietly go about making my morning bowl of oatmeal. The quiet is more about not wishing to disturb the serenity of the morning than letting the boys sleep. I’m not normally up this early—I much prefer to sleep until I wake up naturally than to be jerked awake by an alarm—but I like the peacefulness of early morning when I do have to be up. It’s fresh, private, an unopened present that contains infinite possibilities, none of which contain violence to you or the people you care about.

  The oatmeal container seems light. Has Winn been eating it? I add walnuts and bright red raspberries to my oatmeal, and then drizzle some golden honey over the top. Once I’ve settled into the dark-gray couch with the lime-green throw pillows, I turn to channel 124. Margaret’s empty art studio pops on the float screen.

  The white walls of the studio are lined with zero-edge shelves and filled with books and software reference manuals. There’s a drafting table shoved in the corner formed by the wall that divides the back workspace from the front, and a yellow armchair sitting in the opposite corner. Hand sketches are intermingled with pieces of printed computer code spread on the table, and Margaret seems to use a system of colored sticky notes. I zoom back out and then hit the rewind button. Nothing so far.

  I finish my oatmeal and then spend some time looking up the most obnoxious, annoying alarm sounds according to my good friend, the internet. I can’t stop giggling as I listen to them on the lowest volume setting. God, it feels good to be laughing again. Puo’s going to freak.

  I pass by the drone on my way to the sink to drop the bowl off. It’s nested under the kitchen table that’s littered with Puo’s equipment—tucked behind a mess of cords running down over the side.

  I burst out laughing and nearly choke trying to stifle myself. Oh, yes, Puo my friend, I’m totally about to get even.

  Don’t wake me up—pfft. He knows he needs to run support for me this morning. Don’t wake me up. It’s like he’s asking for this.

  ***

  Puo is passed out on his bed diagonally, a thin stone-colored sheet wrapped around him. Early morning light bleeds through the edge of the shade pulled down over the window. A ceiling fan twirls, providing a measure of white noise.

  I start the drone, barely containing my snorts and giggles. It whirls aloft, a soft whirring filling the bedroom over the fan. I check Puo—still passed out.

  My pocket tablet is held in the drone’s reticulating arm and is set at the loudest setting to the most obnoxious sound I could find, a mix of submarine klaxon, ambulance, and baby crying. I can’t stop grinning. It’s set to go off in thirty seconds.

  I position the drone over Puo and lean up against the doorframe holding a second cup of coffee. Don’t wake me up—pfft.

  The alarm hits like a shrieking primate. Puo flops awake like a startled dog. The thin covers confusing and terrifying him further as he struggles against their collusion.

  My stifled giggles have turned into outright laughter.

  He comes to stand on his bed, the middle sagging under his concentrated weight. His head barely misses the ceiling fan (the drone moving aside of its own accord). His shoulders are hunched and he holds his arms out to his sides like he’s waiting for the starter pistol to start running. His dark brown eyes are wide and alert looking all around and behind him until he finds the drone and then sees me leaning up against the doorway, a mug of coffee in my hand.

  “Mornin’,” I say with the biggest smile I’ve had in a long time.

  “You,” he says heavily.

  “Me.” I toast him with my cup and enjoy the spectacle while the alarm continues to shrill. “Is you computer ever going to conveniently update again when I’m free-falling towards my death?”

  Winn comes rushing out his bedroom wearing on
ly his pajama pants. His muscled chest is flexed, his shoulders wide to create that “V” shape and not a body hair on him—some eye candy for Isa and a fun trick on Puo. The morning is looking decidedly up.

  Winn stops short when he sees me and peeks into Puo’s room. He nods to Puo. “Mornin’.”

  Puo scowls.

  “C’mon,” I say to both of them. “Time to run support.”

  ***

  Ty runs his security consulting business out of some rented office space just off Lister Street, a thoroughfare through downtown—which is not a cheap area to run a business. It’s quite a gamble for him.

  The city is a congested mess on the last workday (second-to-last shopping day) before Christmas. The sidewalks are choked full with busy worker bees scurrying off and shoppers carrying bright red and white bags in the crooks of their arms hurrying to find their last gifts. There’s a constant hum of hovercars dropping down and the slamming of opening and closing car doors. A clear clanging bell from a Salvation Army donation station cuts through the general cacophony of people scuffing along, heads buried in their pocket tablets. I’m continually getting bumped into on my walk to Ty’s business—it’s a perfect situation for a pickpocket, but I behave myself.

  A whoosh of cold air from a passing bus buttresses up against me causing me to shudder as I spot Ty’s nondescript green door with gold numbers “828” on it. It looks like an entrance for flat tenants, set back into a stone façade and lonely from the lack of foot traffic.

  “I’m approaching the door,” I say through my comm-link back to Puo and Winn running support at the flat.

  “Roger that,” Puo says, and then grumbles, “We need to set some ground rules if we’re getting into a tit-for-tat war by the way. Your response this morning was not at all commensurate with the perceived offenses.”

  “What are you talking about? By my count, I still owe you one.” For not telling me Ty was gay and laughing at me the whole time.

  “Heart attack, Queen Bee,” Puo cuts in. “Heart attack.”

  Gah! I had momentarily forgotten about Puo’s coronary heart spasm, and I think, with the alarm shrilling midair above his bed, so had he.

  “Fine,” I say with some effort, tossing my first and second response to Puo being a wet blanket, and then because I can’t help myself I add, “Coronary heart spasm.”

  “Heart attack,” Puo maintains.

  It was more than two weeks ago now, and he’s had his own personal doctor monitoring, attending, and administering medicine to him ever since. Winn says Puo’s physically fine, he just needs to readjust and process what happened.

  “Coronary heart spasm, but either way,” I say cutting Puo off, “it’s really staring to crimp my style.”

  “Heart attack,” Puo shoots right back, and then more dryly adds, “and my apologies. I thought a heart attack might annoy you so I decided to go ahead with it—”

  “Ringing the bell and divesting,” I say. I pull the comm-link out of my ear a bit early so I don’t have to listen to Puo’s snark. I keep the device on and slip it into my pocket.

  I stand in the recess of the green painted door and push the little black button on the side labeled “Silver Consulting”—the generic name of Ty’s business, no doubt meant to be discrete on billing statements. I can hear a ringing within the building—quaint. My guess would be that the rent is cheaper in such an old building without proper amenities and tech.

  A siren passes by overhead as I wait for a response. Ty’s voice comes in over an old crackly intercom, “If it isn’t the misbehaving prodigal daughter. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit,” I say looking directly at the little black bulb of a camera above the ringers. “You need me and I need you. Or do you like running a failing security business trapped in the 1970s?” I gesture toward the old building.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he defends himself.

  I stare at the camera and cock an eyebrow at him. No doubt that’s what he tells himself. But no high-end client is going to come to this shabby building and feel good about it. “Yeah? And how many clients have you had?”

  There’s a second hesitation and then the door clicks open.

  Greed—all cons always come back to greed.

  ***

  “How exactly do I need you?” Ty asks, his voice is stuffy from a broken nose. He sits with his fingers steepled in front of his purpled nose studying me from behind his sleek glass desk. The clear desktop is bare except for a float screen and keyboard projector; frosted glass runs down the sides of the desk to the floor. Ty leans comfortably back in his thin black leather office chair wearing an expensive cream-colored buttoned shirt with a matching gray sweater and slacks, a man on his throne.

  But it’s all a façade.

  “You’re bleeding money,” I say.

  “Oh?” he asks.

  I point at the white wall covered with pictures, plaques, and certificates from his military days. “The newer certificates are framed in store-bought frames, while the older ones are custom. Your conference room table we passed is layered in dust, and while I’m sure you’re willing to turn the heat up for clients, I didn’t give you enough warning to warrant such a luxury.” It’s cold in here. “I can see your space heater under the desk.” Not really, but it’s a solid guess that’s what that black blob is behind the fogged glass.

  He rests his forefingers on his lips and shifts his gaze to the wall of pictures, plaques, and certificates. “Do you know where that picture was taken?” he asks me pointing to one, in the lower right, of him and his military buddies in full gear.

  “Nope.”

  “It was taken about five clicks north of Abu Hamam and about two hours before enemy forces cut us off from our battalion. We spent the next forty hours surrounded until we fought our way out.” He turns his attention back to me. “I know about adversity. And this—” he waves around him. “—is nothing. Lean times, that’s it. So I repeat. How can you help me?”

  I consider in the intervening silence if I had misread him, but I decide no, no I haven’t. And that’s exactly how I should I play it.

  “That was pretty good,” I say, nodding at him like we’re both in on a secret joke. “Not bad at all with the sacrifice and self-righteousness stuff. Not bad at all. But you want to know where you went wrong?”

  His eyes narrow on me. His lips press together.

  “You’ve already let me in.” I let that sink in before continuing. “You need the cash, but even more, you need the notoriety of solving the British Museum heist to drum up business. That’s what the lock picking event was all about. Recruiting. Fresh blood brings fresh ideas. You’re stuck. And I know what you need to do next.”

  “Then why not do it yourself?” Ty asks.

  “If I could,” I say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world (because it is), “then I wouldn’t be here.”

  Ty wheezes through his broken nose, his lips still pressed together as he studies me. He’s already decided he’s going to play, and now he’s weighing his options on how to best to play it. He has to think I’m CIA based on me trying to plant a bug on him coupled with the conversation with Winn and the references to “the farm” and to Zagreb.

  “I don’t trust you,” Ty pronounces.

  “Doesn’t change the fact that you need me.”

  “So you say—”

  “Do you know what a Cleaner is?” I ask, unsure if the term translates across the Atlantic. He nods once that he understands. “That’s how the thieves cased the job and why nobody saw it coming. But they made a mistake—”

  “Wembley Island,” Ty fills in for me.

  I nod, pleased he’s taking the bait so well. “That’s right. They made a mistake, but didn’t get caught. It’s the Cleaners’ code that let them sniff around without being noticed.”

  “So they used the Cleaners’ code to pull of the heist?”

  “Nope,” I answer.

  Ty just stares at
me, the question plain on his annoyed face.

  “The air-gap sensors,” I explain. “Simple, analog alarms are sometimes the hardest to fool. Those alarms were going to go off as soon as the thieves opened the vault no matter what they did. So instead of a covert theft, they went with an orchestrated series of events designed to dictate and control the authorities’ response.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “This is where your part comes in,” I say, shifting forward in my seat. “I know what Cleaner you need to talk to.”

  “Again, how do you know this?”

  And here’s where that CIA story is really going to play dividends, providing me cover. I shake my head no. “Some things are better left unanswered for both our sakes.”

  Ty starts rubbing at his goatee. He thinks he already knows the answer: my CIA connections. He thinks he’s one up on me, that he understands the lay of the land better than I’m giving him credit for.

  “And how do I know you and this Cleaner aren’t the thieves having a dispute?”

  Because you already think I’m CIA. “You don’t,” I say. “More importantly, you’re never going to. I can show you my CitID logs—I was in the states when the theft happened. But then you’ll just wonder if I doctored those. Any proof I provide will be suspect. You’re welcome to do your due diligence, but you’ll never be fully satisfied.”

  “I will do my due diligence,” Ty answers. “But let’s say I accept that for the moment, what do I need to talk to this Cleaner about?” Ty asks.

  “That’s not the hard part,” I say. “The hard part is finding him.”

  “Then how am I supposed to find him?”

  “He’s somewhere over here, in hiding.” I pull a small photo of the pudgy, oily face with a terrible comb-over out of my pocket and hold it up—we had to use facial drawing software to make it (which was disturbingly easy to use), but it’s pretty dang close. “Give this to the local Cleaners and let them find him for you.” This is the gamble—the only one we’re left with. Namely, that Ham chose a spot to hide in which the Cleaners in the States have no influence or organization. This is at least loosely supported by Ham’s oily and cunning survival nature, and the reasonable fact that we’ve haven’t been harassed since arriving.