Bounty

by Michael Byrnes

  “Tell us what kind of threats,” Rooney encouraged.

  She pursed her lips. “You know. Like death threats, I suppose. Pretty much the same message over and over again. Just that each time, the numbers would change.”

  “Numbers?” Rooney asked.

  “The dollar amount. The bounty.”

  The word “bounty” drew everyone’s attention. Novak exchanged quizzical glances with the detectives.

  “I figured I’d just read you the most recent message,” she said, unhinging the laptop with quivering fingers. “It’s so strange. I kinda thought it was a joke at first, you know? But the messages kept coming. As you might imagine, Mr. Lombardi was getting plenty of hate mail. Those poor people…after what he’d done to them? They’re just so angry.”

  Indeed, there was no shortage of people who’d love to see Lombardi dead, thought Novak. The banker had engineered a complex financial scheme that used high-frequency trading, secretive trading platforms called “dark pools,” and exotic derivatives to shield losses in his clients’ accounts while paying his firm fat commissions and fees regardless of its results. In the throes of a nasty market downturn a couple of years back, the perilous nature of those bets had been exposed, leaving dozens of charitable trusts, nonprofits, and universities with billions in losses. Plenty of ordinary folks got stung, too, including a hardworking union guy, mid-sixties, wife and two kids, who’d been left with nothing but life insurance. He figured he was worth more dead than alive and drove his car into a tree at 110 miles an hour.

  The case presented by the FBI and the Justice Department had seemed airtight, delineating a textbook breach of fiduciary responsibilities. But in a surprise twist, the judge had acquitted Lombardi of criminal wrongdoing, on the basis that the algorithms and financial instruments he’d employed lacked clear regulatory oversight and were not expressly restricted in client contracts. Everyone knew it was bullshit, because a guilty verdict would have opened the floodgates for lawsuits at all the big Wall Street investment houses. So once again, Novak watched Wall Street trounce Main Street. Short of the punitive fines levied by the SEC, the bastard had walked away virtually scot-free. Until today.

  “But this message…it was different, you know?” Vickie began tapping nimbly at the keyboard. “I even tried blocking the sender, but it didn’t work. The messages kept spooling new addresses, and they didn’t have any file attachments or malicious code. So, like, it wasn’t a virus or Trojan or anything like that. But they kept sneaking through our firewall. Honestly, this kind of stuff is a bit out of my league, so after Mr. Lombardi told me he’d received another message this morning on his phone…” She choked up, took a few seconds to compose herself. “Well, I was getting ready to call our cybersecurity vendor to see if they might figure things out. Even considered calling the police. I guess it’s too late for that.”

  Mileto asked for the name of the security vendor and jotted it down as Dill confirmed the spelling.

  “Not much you could have done about it,” Novak said, lightly patting Dill’s shoulder.

  “So you have this email there on your computer?” Mileto said.

  “Yes,” Dill replied.

  “All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “It’s short, but…Well, you’ll get the idea.” She directed her eyes back to the screen then read slowly and distinctly: “As of ten A.M. EDT, your current bounty is five hundred twenty-nine thousand, seventy-two dollars. Current status: guilty.” She read them the next line of the message, which directed Lombardi to a link for a website named bounty4justice.com. She looked up at the detectives and was met by blank stares.

  “That’s it?” Rooney asked.

  Her lip curled down. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a threat,” Rooney said. “Could have nothing to do with him being killed. Could be a prank.”

  Vickie Dill shook her head gravely, making the diamond speared through her nostril wink in the light. “It’s not so much the email, you see. It’s this website linked in the message. Let me show you. Agent Novak, could you please turn on the projector?” She pointed to the device at the center of the table.

  “Sure.” Novak clicked it on, and an image of a Web browser flashed up onto the wall in a five-by-six-foot luminescent rectangle. The detectives sat forward in anticipation as Ms. Dill typed the mysterious URL into the address bar.

  When the Bounty4Justice Web page popped up in the projection box, Rooney shot up out of his chair and leaned in for a better look at the image streaming on the right half of the screen.

  Ms. Dill let out a whimper, cupping her hands over her mouth and averting her eyes.

  Detective Mileto slowly sat back, hands gripping the armrests as she stared at the screen.

  It wasn’t the large X superimposed over Lombardi’s slick photo or the jaw-dropping final bounty figure that riveted them. It was the looping video clip to the right of the dead banker’s photo. And what it showed kicked Novak’s heart into overdrive.

  PRIZE PAYOUT NOTIFICATION

  TARGET: CHASE LOMBARDI, investment banker, USA

  FINAL BOUNTY: $532,814

  VIEW PROOF OF CLAIM @

  http://​www.​bounty4justice.​com/​CHASE.​LOMBARDI

  URGENT:

  All available agents report to FP crm4 @ 16:00 for mandatory debriefing on Chase Lombardi and a related cyberthreat. Please advise if you are unable to attend.

  —Tim Knight, ASAIC

  # 05.01

  On the approach to Federal Plaza, Novak flipped off his Chevy Impala’s siren and LED light bars, then steered into the underground garage. He parked, took the stairs to the lobby, and rode the elevator with a group of chattering newbie agents he didn’t know. Knight’s assistant, Jennifer, was there to greet them when the doors opened.

  “This way, people,” she said, pointing left down the hall. “We’ll be starting in five minutes. Go ahead and get comfy.”

  Before Novak could follow them, Jennifer hooked him by the arm. “Roman, Tim wants to see you before the meeting.” She tipped her head in the direction of his office.

  “Sure thing.”

  Novak went to Knight’s office and rapped his knuckles on the door frame.

  “Get in here, Novak,” Knight said. “Have a seat for a sec.”

  Novak eased into the guest chair. “Everything check out with this website?”

  “Oh, it’s legitimate all right,” Knight replied. “The video matches up perfectly to that rooftop. Even the distance measurements are spot-on. No way anyone but the shooter could have gotten that right.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. “You know, I was looking forward to being done with this Lombardi case. What should’ve been a slam dunk turned out to be a black eye. All those months wasted for a crap outcome. I gotta tell ya…” He placed a hand over his heart and peered out the door to make sure no one was within earshot. “When I got that call this afternoon, I figured Lombardi got what he deserved. Even thought there might just be a God up there. But now? Feh. This character’s more trouble dead than alive.”

  Jennifer leaned in through the doorway. “Hartley and the chiefs are on their way.”

  “Good. Thanks. Be there in just a minute,” Knight told her. He turned his attention back to Novak. “Here’s the thing. This website is everything in one package: cybercrime, money crime, violent crime, God knows what else. I need to put together a task force. And I need a point man, a deputy with a broad skill set, who can help the specialists and NYPD connect the dots. At least until we better understand what we’re dealing with. You get along with everyone, including Agner and his crew, and you’ve got a heckuva brain when it comes to finance and computers. Think you can handle it?”

  Novak nodded. “Whatever it takes. I’m on board. You know that.”

  “Good.” Knight stood and snatched his blazer off the chair back. “For now, I want you reporting directly to me. I’ll work out the details with the brass, and we’ll re
assign your current cases. Now let’s get in there and ruin everyone’s day.”

  # 05.02

  “All right, people,” Knight said to the keyed-up agents and technicians crowded into the conference room. Standing at a lectern emblazoned with the FBI insignia, he raised his palms high. “Let’s cool it. It’s getting late, and we’ve got a lot to cover.”

  Novak settled into a seat at the end of the third row.

  “By now, you all know the fate of our dear friend Mr. Lombardi.”

  Some clapping and whistling.

  Grinning, Knight said, “All right. A little respect, please.” He eyed the doorway, anticipating the appearance of the triumvirate of bigwigs at any moment. “Though he won’t be missed, Mr. Lombardi is now considered a homicide victim. And as much as this office would like to bury his case in a very deep hole, we now face a whole new problem. This isn’t a crime of passion we’re dealing with here. This is a premeditated, meticulously calculated murder committed by a highly trained killer. A marksman who perched himself on a rooftop nearly half a mile from Lombardi’s window”—he pointed off in the distance—“and executed a flawless head shot with a high-caliber weapon. Who then disappeared like a phantom, thus far leaving not a trace of evidence.”

  He scanned the audience to make sure everyone was focused.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, despite Lombardi’s highly flawed character, let’s not fool ourselves into thinking this won’t be viewed by many as an act of terrorism. And once you get a look at what Agent Novak uncovered earlier this afternoon,” he said, tipping his head to Novak, “you’ll realize the gravity of the situation and why our office will continue to work closely with the NYPD on this investigation. We can’t—”

  The door opened partway, and Jennifer popped her head inside. She signaled to Knight like a catcher cueing the pitcher, then opened the door wide and stepped aside. Assistant Director in Charge Patricia L. Hartley, supreme commander of the New York field office, entered the room, followed by her special agents in charge: James Cooper, head of the Special Operations/Cyber Division, and Bonnie Karasowski-Fowler, head of the Counterterrorism Division. The three sat in reserved seats to the side of the lectern.

  Their presence immediately intensified the mood.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” Hartley said. “Please…go on, Tim.”

  “We all know that the Internet is the Wild West without borders: child predators, porn and piracy, hackers who target our private and public institutions, you name it. Well, now there’s this…” He plucked a remote off the lectern, aimed it at the projector mounted to the ceiling at the room’s center, and clicked a button.

  On the large viewing screen behind him, the Bounty4Justice Web page came up, with its rubber-stamp-style title banner and catchy slogan: IF THE LAW SHOULD FAIL, LET JUSTICE PREVAIL. Superimposed over Chase Lombardi’s X’d-out picture were the words FINAL BOUNTY PAYOUT: $532,814. A pie chart to the right of the picture was colored mostly red with the label GUILTY: 92%; a thin wedge marked in green was tagged NOT GUILTY: 8%.

  “First, let’s focus here,” Knight said. He aimed the laser dot at the image to the right of Lombardi’s picture and spun it around the static shot of an office building’s sleek exterior as seen through a circular high-powered lens overlaid with crosshairs. “And we’ll take this live.”

  A digital marquee flashed and scrolled the bounty payout at the top of the screen. At the same time, a pirated version of the A-Team theme song began to play over the sound system. Cheesy, thought Novak, but on par with the website’s simplistic production values. As the video initiated playback, he couldn’t help but watch Hartley’s face. Along with most in the room, she would be seeing this for the first time.

  The simple duplex crosshairs of the reticle—four fat lines starting at the points of a compass that tapered to thin lines intersecting at the exact middle of the video frame—tightened over tall windows, looking in on a brightly lit, stately office set high up on the building. The sixteenth floor, to be exact, thought Novak. A neon digital readout at the bottom of the display held steady: 2360.16’—719.38m / SSE 11 mph. Tighter still and a portly silver-haired businessman came into focus, sitting at a desk with his back to the camera. The man swiveled in his chair to face the window, beady eyes flicking side to side and up and down. In one eerie instant, he even stared directly into the camera.

  Everyone instantly recognized Chase Lombardi, and the chatter began.

  “That isn’t legit,” the guy behind Novak whispered in his ear. “Is it?”

  Novak nodded.

  “Jesus,” the guy muttered, easing back into his seat.

  “Please, people,” Knight said.

  Novak watched Hartley more intently now. Her unblinking eyes were alert, but her face was involuntarily turning away from the screen.

  Lombardi’s chubby face now filled the circle, the crosshairs tickling his brow. As the A-Team theme song hit its crescendo, the image jumped for an instant, presumably from the shooter’s recoil. Lombardi’s face came back into crisp focus for a half second before collapsing inward as if sucker-punched by an iron fist, his head snapping back violently over the chair, fleshy chunks spraying onto the computer monitor directly behind him. In the same instant, the monitor spat electric sparks and belched wisps of black smoke.

  Hartley’s thin lips drew tight, and she held the back of her hand up to her face, as if the gore might somehow spatter out from the screen. Beside her, the chiefs squirmed in their seats.

  A collective gasp echoed through the conference room, along with some choice expletives, as the video player’s window faded to black and displayed a static message in blood-red lettering:

  OUR MISSION:

  Global network advantage to tactically combat elitism and tyranny, so as to advance collective freedom and liberty.

  At any cost.

  The only sound in the room was the ticking of the wall clock.

  Novak gauged the stunned expressions on the faces around him.

  Message received.

  Occupy Wall Street @OccupyWallStNYC • 10m

  Chase Lombardi = GREED…Wake up regulators and do your job! Don’t let

  @Bounty4Justice dictate punishment!!!

  Fab Eddy Wonderboy @Fab_E_Wonderboy • 2m

  OMFG! Just watched that banker get his f—ing head blown off and puked in my beer.

  @Bounty4Justice is TWISTED! :~{

  # 06.01

  “As it stands now, we don’t know where this website came from,” Knight said, “or who might be behind it. What we have learned today is that shortly after Chase Lombardi’s acquittal was announced last week, he began receiving threatening texts and emails from Bounty4Justice. Walter and his team have performed a preliminary analysis of the website, so I’ve asked him to help us understand how it all works.”

  The pencil-thin cyber investigations squad leader approached the podium with stiff strides, his goatee and frizzy blond Afro a stark contrast to his mostly clean-cut colleagues. Knight passed the clicker to him.

  Walter Koslowski cleared his throat and attempted eye contact with the audience, then quickly directed his attention to the screen behind him instead. “Uh, well, we haven’t had much time to get under the hood of this thing, but I’ll share with you what we’ve figured out so far. As you’ve just seen, it’s a pretty straightforward concept: a sniper uploads his kill-shot video to claim the bounty on his designated target. At face value, it seems like some murder-for-hire 2.0 gimmick. But to really understand it, we need to look at the website’s mechanics, starting with this button here, labeled PROFILE.” He worked the remote and the screen refreshed, now filled with data packed into neat tables, categorized under simple headings.

  “Everything, and I mean everything, the killer needed to know about Chase Lombardi could be found here. Under the heading VITAL STATISTICS we’ve got his date of birth, Social Security number, home and work addresses, driver’s license number, phone numbers, vehicle and motor-craft license p
late and registration numbers, passport number, email addresses, bank account numbers, credit card numbers, and so on. This violates practically every privacy law in one fell swoop, and I’m sure that at this very moment some enterprising cybercriminals are having a field day with Mr. Lombardi’s personal data.”

  Some nervous laughter gave Walter the courage to glance out at a few friendly faces in the audience, including Novak’s.

  “Lombardi’s favorite restaurants, hangouts, vacation spots, clubs, and extracurricular activities are listed under INTERESTS AND HOBBIES,” he said, navigating to the next screen.

  Skimming the bullet points, Novak learned that Lombardi had been an avid angler who’d gone fly-fishing at an exclusive Utah lodge every Labor Day weekend, which would have been a useful tidbit for a would-be predator.

  “By clicking this ADD WHAT YOU KNOW button”—he underscored it with the laser dot—“anyone could post confidential information. And under FAMILY AND ASSOCIATES we find detailed photos and contact information for Lombardi’s parents and siblings, spouse and children, and known business associates.”

  Scary stuff, thought Novak, eyeing the photos of Lombardi’s thirty-one-year-old trophy wife, Pam, and their four beautiful children. Some crazed vigilante could easily have abducted one of them as a roundabout way to get to the banker.

  “The next button is CASE HISTORY. Here we find a super-detailed description of why Lombardi was a really, really bad guy. Lots of links to news articles, as well as third-party sources that validate the allegations, allow visitors to perform due diligence, weigh it all out, and rate the material on a qualitative five-point star scale, sort of like an Amazon customer review. There’s this whistleblower feature, too”—he aimed the laser dot at a button labeled SUBMIT YOUR EVIDENCE NOW—“where participants confidentially upload incriminating documents, videos, or images.” He brought up the next screen. “And as you can see, Chase Lombardi’s evidence file is quite extensive. Lots of juicy stuff here.”