Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  Time to get out and handle real crime. Dog butchering vs. drunken bar fight. Tough call.

  Steven could appreciate this was going nowhere fast. It’s not like they could call in satellite footage of the area and isolate who entered between the hours of six and eight-thirty.

  “He was such a gentle dog. You should have seen him. A teddy bear.” Steven was choking up. God damn whoever did this.

  “Call Doug at 24/7 Locks in Costa Mesa. He’s in the book. He’ll fix you up and won’t charge an arm and a leg. Try to get some sleep.” He took a few steps towards the door. “I have a chocolate lab. I’d want to kill the son of a bitch if it happened to me. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just I can’t do anything. I’m really sorry. Honest to God.” He seemed sincere, and Steven recognized he was right. There was nothing more to be done.

  “Thanks for spending the time, Sergeant. I’ll call if anything else comes up.”

  “I’ll have a car drive by every hour or so tonight just to keep an eye out. It’s a little slow – you’re lucky it isn’t Saturday night.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Peter was having a hell of a time figuring out why most of the Griffen data was inaccessible to him. He’d been doing the PI thing long enough and knew enough people on the inside of various law enforcement agencies to usually get all the info he needed within a few hours. Not this time. He was running into a lot of brick walls. And that set off his alarms.

  This smelled different, and dangerous. He kept hitting roadblocks, dead ends, sanitized reports, stonewalling. He’d never encountered anything like it before, outside of the top-secret, clandestine world of international espionage. But this was a money manager, not the undercover station chief in Uzbekistan, so why all the subterfuge?

  Peter was developing a nagging sense of something far larger than what appeared on the surface. An iceberg of shady dealings, of carefully crafted secrecy, of influence and access far beyond what he’d expected. And that worried him. Why had Steven taken on something this dangerous? Why invite a street fight with unknown adversaries? Who needed this kind of grief?

  But that was Steven for you. Ever since a boy, he’d been stubborn as a mule. Peter could still remember times when they’d butted heads, Steve no more than twelve or so, with that look of determination in his fierce little eyes; a look that said, ‘Talk all you want, I’m still going to do it my way’. That had been one of the primary reasons he’d steered Steven into martial arts. The combination of discipline and physical demand was perfect for his temperament and offered positive ways to channel and develop his energy. If he didn’t figure out a way to get it under rein, that quality could easily have gone down a more destructive path. Steven liked to play by his own rules, and that could turn criminal if he wasn’t guided correctly.

  Peter got up and walked over to the coffee maker, pouring another cup into the oversized mug that was his perpetual companion when he was working. His eyes absently roved over the plaques, the awards lining the walls of his study, a tribute to his skill and professional dedication. He’d been good at his job, and responsible for a lot of twisted examples of humanity getting locked up. He paced a little, then slid back into the worn high-back chair that had been one of his few luxuries when he set up his home office.

  Peter had always wanted a son, but fickle chromosomes had conspired against him. That had been a regret for years, but he’d mellowed with time and eventually made peace with his lot in life. He was successful at a career he enjoyed, with enough money to do anything he felt like, within reason. He had a wonderful marriage, their union blessed with two beautiful daughters, now long out of the house and through college, making their own ways in the world. There were no complaints.

  Steven represented the son he would have wanted and Peter reveled in his every success. Over the years he’d developed from a gangly, slightly rebellious kid into a strong, confident alpha male, capable of anything he set his mind to. He couldn’t have been prouder, although he’d never said the words out loud to Steven. He didn’t have to. They knew each other too well.

  So it wasn’t a comforting thought that Steven’s conflict had put him at odds with a group that all preliminary signals flagged as dangerous. Peter knew Steven would never back down, and further, that he hated crooks. He’d gotten into trouble in school a few times for confronting bullies, always defending less capable classmates; it was in his hardwiring. This had all the elements that would make for a cage fight for Steven. Powerful interests screwing little guys, abusing the system, breaking the rules.

  He needed to quickly get to the bottom of whatever was going on, so he could understand the malevolence he was sensing, and persuade Steven to stand down if this was an un-winnable battle. Peter had been around long enough to understand life wasn’t fair, and it didn’t surprise him that bad guys did bad things all the time and got away with it. He was all for moral outrage, but it was foolish to take on an enemy who had you outgunned.

  He hoped against hope that wasn’t the case here. It seemed like Steven was already in deep water, and as smart and resourceful as he was, he wasn’t bulletproof.

  Peter leaned back in his chair, stared at his computer screen, then made a few notes on the ever-present yellow legal pad on his desk. Old habits died hard, and he’d never gotten used to substituting his pads for a computer file; he did his best work writing longhand. There was something cathartic about the flow of ink upon paper. And you couldn’t doodle on a word document…

  He jotted down several names and numbers and picked up the phone. Time was wasting. It was late, but he knew a lot of home numbers and had collected a lot of favors over the years. He hammered out the first set of digits – and resigned himself to a late one.

  ~ ~ ~

  The house took on a hanging emptiness once the police left. Steven called the locksmith the cop had recommended, to be told that two hundred dollars would get the locks changed. Jennifer came down the stairs and perched uneasily on the couch furthest away from the blanket covering the bloodstain.

  “I know how much you loved him. I loved him, too.” She had tears streaming down her face; her body language turned inwards, defensive, borderline shock setting in.

  “He was such a good dog.” Steven choked up, he didn’t know what else to say.

  “Why? Why would anyone do this?” she asked.

  Steven debated telling her about his concerns, then thought better of it. There was no evidence the break-in was anything but a nutcase on a meth binge. He had his doubts, but after the last few hours tonight wasn’t the time to start the sharing-fest.

  “It doesn’t make any sense, honey. Listen, I called a locksmith, he’ll be here in a few minutes. I’m going to get the locks changed and set the alarm.” She needed to see he was doing something to safeguard them. Against what or whom…well, that was a more difficult question. “The cop felt this was some crazy, or a drug-induced crank gone wrong. I don’t know what to think.” He looked over at the blanket.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not stupid, and I know you well enough to know you’re worried. You were agitated over the Gas Company visit, and now this happens. Have you done anything that would make you a target? Could it be something to do with your website?”

  Jennifer was smart, and sensed his unease. He didn’t know what to tell her. It all sounded so far-fetched, and he’d been so painstaking...

  “I’ve been extremely careful. Am I concerned? Yes. Do I think it’s really possible? No. These guys aren’t psychic. The site’s tied to a dummy e-mail account using a phony name. I use an alias on the boards. No one knows who I am. If they’re looking for somebody, they’re looking for some guy named Stanley living in New Orleans and working in a bar. I don’t want to get all paranoid and see boogie-men everywhere. There’s no chance at all they could trace me.” It was all true, but it sounded hollow to him.

  “I don’t know, Steven. I hear you, but I have to tell you I never liked what you were doing – it just seems like you’
re asking for trouble. I hope you’re right.”

  “Jen, I appreciate the sentiment, but tonight’s really not the night. We’ve both been through a lot, I’m beat, and nothing I say’s going to make any of this better. So can we just agree you don’t like me doing the site, and leave it at that for now?” It came out sounding terse, which isn’t how Steven intended it, but it was too late.

  She pouted. “Sure. You know best, right? I’m going to go to bed, Steven. I agree we’ve both been through a lot, and this conversation isn’t helping.”

  “Jen…” Too late. She was already on her way up the stairs, fear easily replaced by anger. He should have expected it, but what was done was done. He’d deal with it tomorrow.

  Doug showed up a few minutes later, and true to his word, had the locks changed in twenty minutes flat, and was gone in twenty-five. Once he'd departed and the house was at least superficially safe again, Steven took the time to log on and check his e-mail. A quick scan showed eighteen messages; most of them suggestions from the Group for additional security, mirroring, etc. for the site. He realized as he read he was fading in and out; exhausted, but still jittery from adrenaline.

  When he got up to the bedroom, Jennifer was asleep, out cold. He envied her. Steven went back downstairs and set the alarm, checked all the locks again, and finally gave in and took a sleeping pill. It did little good. Eventually he drifted into an uneasy slumber. Bad things were happening was the last thought he had before he went under.

  Chapter 13

  The next day was surrealistic for Steven, in no small part due to the residual effects of the pill. He felt like someone had thrown a wet blanket on his senses. He barely made it through his morning run, as much from a lack of will as from exhaustion; this was the first time he’d ever done it without Avalon by his side. He found himself choking up with emotion as he passed places where he and Avalon had paused while Steven ritualistically tightened his shoelaces, and several times he had to wipe away tears. The whole episode seemed like a bad dream, and a part of him kept hoping he would wake up at any moment, and Avalon would be lying in the floor, gazing at him expectantly. It seemed impossible that his constant companion of years was suddenly and permanently gone forever. And yet he was.

  Back at the house, Steven halfheartedly checked in on the stock and the boards; volume was low, and there was little action today. He put off dealing with the cleanup issues presented by Avalon’s untimely demise, unwilling to confront the gory reminder of that reality, and instead went upstairs to wake Jennifer. He stood over her in the soft morning light and watched as she slept, her face untroubled and looking all of eighteen years old. She really had been put through the wringer in the last twelve hours. He debated letting her sleep, but then remembered she had a job and couldn’t just fan all her obligations due to a late night.

  Steven slipped into bed next to her, kissed her.

  She jerked awake, opened one eye and peered at him. “God, Steven, you scared me. What time is it?”

  “About 7:45.”

  “I’m going to call in sick again and help you deal with the house. I feel like shit. How about you?” She opened both eyes and appraised him.

  “I’ve had better days. The run was hard. You don’t have to stay home, you know. I can deal with things.”

  “I’ll be useless today in an office. Let me catch another hour or so, and I’ll be up and around. Try not to piss anyone off while I’m asleep.” She apparently wasn’t going to let up on him.

  “All right. I’m gonna go get some bagels.” He pulled on a baseball cap and grabbed his sunglasses off the dresser. As he made his way down the stairs, he was again confronted by the area still covered by the blanket. Sickened, he grabbed his keys, wallet and cell phone and climbed into the car.

  Steven considered the events of the previous day as he drove. The break-in was hugely disturbing, the hacking only mildly troubling, the Gas Company visit ultimately noise. He thought about taking the website down, but rebelled at the thought. He’d be damned if he’d intimidate himself by jumping to conclusions and throw in the towel when he’d just started; Steven had absolutely zero logical reason in the cold light of day to believe Avalon’s murder was related. It would serve no purpose to get overly suspicious and assume everything that happened was caused by Griffen’s invisible hand.

  Even if he was inclined to take it down, which he wasn’t, would that change anything? Griffen’s problem was that the information was now out there. That damage was done. You couldn’t stuff the toothpaste back into the tube.

  And there was the ultimate issue, namely that Steven was plain old stubborn. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, and didn’t like being controlled or told what to do by anyone.

  He’d started his own company for the same reason. Building his business before successfully selling it reinforced his conviction in his own abilities. Losing money by depending on others taught him to only depend on himself. Self-sufficient and confident by nature, backing down wasn’t in his makeup.

  He pulled up to the bagel place and got a couple of still-hot cinnamon raisins, and then stopped to fuel up. That sucked the last of his cash, so he hit the ATM at his bank to pull out a few hundred bucks. He inserted his card, punched in the PIN, and after a few seconds a screen he’d never seen before flashed at him: Access Denied. That was weird.

  His card ejected, so he re-inserted it and re-entered the PIN, figuring he must have flubbed it the first go around. Access Denied. The bank was just opening, so he went in, the only customer, and approached the teller. Her nametag said Linda, and she looked sleepier than a narcoleptic. He explained what had happened and handed her his ATM card, asking if she’d look into the problem and help him withdraw $300.

  “Sure, mister, uh, Archer. Let me swipe the card and I’ll see what’s going on.”

  Nice girl, helpful. So far, so good.

  “Uh, that’s strange. Let me go to another screen.” She typed in more data. Punched at things. Clicked things. Swiped the card again. “Uh, just a second. I, uh, need to get a manager.”

  Great. Where had he heard this before?

  A few minutes went by. A rather rotund woman approached him while his original teller hovered in the background.

  “Mr. Archer, I’m sorry for the confusion. I’m afraid we can’t help you with any withdrawals at this time.” She stared at him. He stared back. Her porcine face was shiny with perspiration, no doubt caused by the effort of moving across the floor to meet him.

  “Come again?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you with any withdrawals today.”

  “I don’t understand. I have over a hundred fifty thousand in my account. I want three hundred dollars. What’s to help?” He felt his anger rising, but also the anxiety was creeping into his stomach again.

  “Sir, we value your patronage, but at this time we are unable to allow any withdrawals from your account. Perhaps you should speak with Ted, the manager?”

  Like a robot. A fleshy, sweating robot.

  “You have my money,” Steven began, arms now folded, “which I gave to you for safekeeping, and now you’re telling me, the owner of the money, that I can’t have it? Am I hearing this correctly?” His blood pressure rose, bit by bit. “You’re damned right I want to talk to Ted. He was more than happy to help me when I was opening accounts and referring friends.” Enough of this horseshit. Time to get into someone’s face who would do something about the situation.

  “One moment, please.” She departed to the rear office area, returning a minute later.

  “Ted will see you now.”

  Great, sounded like a doctor’s visit. He’d see me now. You bet your ass he’d see me now. They proceeded to Ted’s hallowed office.

  “Steven, I’m so sorry for this. Sit down. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll get to the bottom of it.” Ted exuded bankish conviviality. “Let’s see now, here’s the account, blanket hold placed, see file notation A(6), hmmmmmmm, A(6), A(6)…oh…hmm
mmm…I see…” Ted looked decidedly paler than he had two minutes earlier. He was also uneasily avoiding Steven’s gaze.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Steven, I can’t really say anything due to banking regulations, but because you’re such a high value customer, let me ask; are you in any kind of dispute with, say, the IRS?” Ted inquired. “Maybe being investigated for something, no doubt all a big mix-up?”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I called the cops because my dog was killed last night, but that’s it. What’s going on? What are you trying to tell me?” Now the blossom of anxiety was turning into a full-fledged incipient panic attack. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in...

  Ted pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dog. No, according to my screen, your account has been frozen by a law enforcement agency. I can’t go into more detail. Shouldn’t have even said that. Didn’t…if you take my meaning.” Ted was not having a good start to his day. That made two of them.

  “That’s impossible. It’s a mistake.” What the hell was going on here?

  “It’s not the bank. It’s actually out of our hands. I’d suggest if you have an attorney, you get in contact and have him talk to our headquarters to see about clearing this up. I’m really sorry we can’t do more.” Ted was ready to conclude the meeting.

  Steven walked out of the branch in the fog of a daze. Account frozen? A hundred and fifty grand inaccessible? He looked in his wallet. Three one-dollar bills. Fucking just great. The bagel had completely lost its appeal now. His mouth tasted like tin.