Bounty

by Michael Byrnes

  “Morning, Novak,” Agner said. “Jeez, this website is downright vicious. Never cared for all this technology to begin with. I’ve seen some crazy stuff in my years, but that tops it all. It seems anything goes these days.”

  “Sure does.”

  “Knight says you’re our go-to from here on out. Really pleased to hear it. Don’t need to tell you that our guys and your guys don’t always play nice.”

  That was putting it kindly, thought Novak. When it came to jurisdiction, the FBI and Manhattan municipal authorities interacted like a bitter divorced couple in a custody dispute.

  “I told Knight he’s got our full cooperation and that I’d be giving you updates as new information comes in. On that note, wanted to let you know that my detectives hit a roadblock with Lombardi’s attorney. This Waverly fella is quite the asshole,” Agner said. “Completely ignoring our calls. If anyone would’ve known about threats Lombardi had been receiving, he’d be the one. You get along with him, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Would you mind saving me the runaround and see if he has anything useful to tell us?”

  “Sure thing,” Novak said.

  He left a no-nonsense voice message for Waverly, informing the lawyer that he’d be dropping by around 8:30 to ask a few questions, with no request for a callback confirmation. He’d learned over the past months that it was best not to give the man an opportunity to decline a meeting. Then he showered, dressed, and grabbed his Glock and badge from the safe.

  Before heading to his car, he stopped in at the deli downstairs, as he did most mornings.

  “Morning, Roman,” said the old Polish proprietor behind the counter, flashing a tobacco-stained Cheshire-cat smile.

  “Morning, Piotr.”

  He scanned the newspapers. As expected, Chase Lombardi’s picture was plastered over all the front pages. The Post had lifted his photo with the big X over it from Bounty4Justice, with large white block letters reading, BOUNTY FOR BANKER. The Wall Street Journal headline declared, SNIPER COLLECTS $532K BOUNTY FOR LOMBARDI HIT. The New York Times featured a photo from Lombardi’s trial where the grinning banker was shrugging contemptuously at the judge; the story was titled LOMBARDI VERDICT OVERRULED BY INTERNET ASSASSIN. The Daily News memorialized him with BIGOT BANKER GETS FINAL HEAD SHOT below a gritty morgue photo of his cratered face. Novak assumed that someone at the coroner’s office would soon be in hot water for releasing that photo.

  He plucked a Journal off the rack and placed it on the counter next to the to-go cup of black coffee Piotr had ready and waiting.

  “You involved in that mess?” Piotr pointed his chin at the cover story.

  “Come on, now. You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “One day you’ll slip up. You’ll see.” He held up a finger and winked. “Someday I’ll know your secrets.”

  “I’d better stay on my toes, then.”

  From: Rosemary.Michaels@ic.fbi.gov

  Sent: Tuesday, October 24, 2017 at 8:21 AM

  To: Roman Novak, Timothy Knight

  Subject: Re: Operation CLICKKILL

  Good morning Tim & Roman,

  Judge Greenwald did grant our emergency request to have Bateman moved to the Suffolk County jail. I picked up the writ a few minutes ago and I’m on my way to Sag Harbor now to arrange transport.

  I’ll be in touch later this morning to let you know how things go.

  Thanks.

  Rosemary Michaels

  Resident Agent

  FBI New York / Long Island Resident Agency

  135 Pinelawn Road, Suite 350S

  Melville, NY 11747

  Phone: (631) 555-0082

  Fax: (631) 555-0911

  @NewYorkFBI | Email Alerts | FBI.​gov/​newyork

  # 11.01

  @ Beaver Street

  Waverly remained seated, no handshake offered. “Nice to see you again, Novak.” A slight, smug smile. Pointing to the chair on the opposite side of the desk, he said, “Have a seat.”

  As Novak settled in, Waverly’s new assistant glided into the office. She was a doppelgänger for a famous swimsuit model, just like her predecessor.

  “Coffee or juice?”

  “Black coffee would be great, thanks.” Novak took a moment to admire the spectacular thirty-second-floor corner view of the sparkling Hudson River and Lady Liberty poised above her tiny island like a cake topper. His gaze drifted north along the opposite shoreline to the sleek, beguiling buildings in Jersey City, where one could enjoy lower taxes and cheaper rent. But Manhattan’s Financial District, or FiDi, was a mystical realm completely disassociated from bridge-and-tunnel frugality. Here, proximity to the world’s capitalist heart was sacrosanct. And Waverly was as close to it as one could get.

  The attorney checked his watch. “I’ve got to be at the courthouse by ten.”

  “I won’t keep you long.”

  “The verdict’s been delivered, Novak. Case closed.”

  “It’s a new case now. Homicide. And I’d appreciate it if you’d cooperate with the NYPD.”

  “I’m a busy man, and I don’t take kindly to redundancy. You know that. Figured I’d skip the bullshit and wait for you to drop by.” He spread his hands. “And here we are. So fire away.”

  “Do you know if anyone wanted Lombardi dead?”

  “Come on, Novak. Everyone wanted him dead. He wasn’t exactly a likable fellow. Especially after what he’d gotten away with.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  Waverly’s smile flattened. He cocked his head sideways and studied Novak. “Oftentimes a rout is the only way to effectuate meaningful change. Let’s skip the moral thumb wrestling, shall we?” He tapped his watch. “I have no idea who shot him, Novak. Scout’s honor.” He held up a three-finger salute.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen the website.”

  “I have. I bet half the world has by now. You watch Jimmy Kimmel last night?”

  Novak shook his head.

  “Uhhh. Pull it up on YouTube later. It’s a friggin’ riot.” Waverly shook his head and smiled. Novak wasn’t amused. “All I’m saying is, it’s easier to laugh at a monologue than dwell on those nauseating snuff videos.”

  The assistant returned with a steaming mug, handed it to Novak with a smile, and withdrew. The coffee was nutty and rich. “Did Lombardi say anything to you about Bounty4Justice or the threatening messages it’d been sending him?”

  The attorney wove his fingers into a basket, shook his head. “Not a word. Though let’s be real. Threats meant nothing to Chase Lombardi. He’d have ignored them. You know that. Like I said, nothing malicious came through this office, I assure you. I’m just as surprised about all this as you are. If I had something, anything, you know that even with attorney-client privilege, I’d have to bring the authorities into the loop.”

  Notwithstanding the attorney’s habitual poker face, Novak had interacted with him long enough to know that he was being truthful.

  “Besides, Lombardi wasn’t the only one on the hit list. So I’d say that in the order of things, the website should be the FBI’s first priority. Let the cops beat the bushes for the shooter.”

  Novak sampled more coffee, waiting for Waverly to expound. And, as always, he did.

  “The way I see it, assassins kill for money,” the attorney said. “The website provides the money. As Al Franken says, ‘It’s easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world.’ ”

  Waverly was quite proficient with computers. His office was virtually paperless—no small feat for an industry notorious for laying ruin to forests. And his internal forensic-records team had proved capable of recovering virtually any digital document the world had ever created. “From the looks of it, this website isn’t going to be easy to trace,” Novak acknowledged.

  It was a major understatement. Last night, Novak had witnessed Walter’s reaction when Knight asked for information about the results of the WHOIS inquiries on Bounty4Justice’s IP address. Walter’s face h
ad tightened into a pained knot. “Nothing comes up, Tim. No registration, nothing. It’s like it doesn’t exist. Makes no sense. I mean, how can it show up on Google if the IP can’t be resolved? It’s impossible. It’s like it’s operating its own anonymity network or something.”

  “Really,” Waverly said incredulously. “Come on, now. I’m sure your guys will figure it out. They’re some of the best talent in the world.”

  “In time, sure. But our fear is that more targets might be killed in the interim.”

  “A lot of Chase Lombardis, Novak,” Waverly clarified.

  “That’s today. Tomorrow it could be the president. Or just some ordinary person who happened to rub someone the wrong way.”

  “You mean ordinary good guys, like me or you?”

  “Sure. That, too.”

  “You’re being a bit melodramatic.”

  “Am I?”

  Waverly grinned. “You’ve got to hand it to whoever came up with the idea. Brilliant stuff. Preys on everyone’s weakness.”

  “What weakness might that be?”

  “The need for vengeance. The grudge. It’s in our DNA.”

  Waverly was an expert on that subject, too, thought Novak. His firm’s business model was built on it. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain the downside of vigilante justice to you,” Novak countered.

  “No. No, you don’t. All I’m saying is that it just goes to show that when the system repeatedly tromps the little guy, it doesn’t take much for him to regress back to his caveman roots. Particularly when there’s half a million bucks on the line.”

  Novak sipped his coffee and gave Waverly another thoughtful look.

  Waverly expounded further: “Assuming people are getting paid huge money to take potshots at douchebags like Chase Lombardi, if I were you, I’d do my best to avoid a repeat performance. Nip this enterprise in the bud the old-fashioned way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning people built that website. And people talk and people brag. People fight. You can always count on the fact that someone will get sloppy and leave clues.”

  Despite Waverly’s confident stating of the obvious, the weight sitting on Novak’s shoulders didn’t feel any lighter.

  “Look, Novak…” Waverly snatched a canary-yellow Post-it note from a dispenser on his desk and jotted down a name and number. “As far as the technology’s concerned…if your team does hit a roadblock, there’s this vendor I use over in Jersey for offsite backups, archives, and so on. Big operation. From what I’ve seen, his people could teach the NSA a thing or two.” He passed the Post-it across the immaculate granite desktop. “Name’s Mike DelGuercio. Company’s called Digital Vault Technologies. Maybe he’s good for a tip or two. Never hurts to get another outside opinion. Tell him I referred you.”

  “I’ll do that,” the lawman said, plucking the Post-it off the desktop. “Much appreciated.”

  “No sweat. And cheer up. You’ll figure things out. Oh, and whatever you do, when you see Big Mike, don’t say anything bad about the Yankees.”

  From: Joseph.​Varanelli@​ic.​fbi.​gov

  Sent: Tuesday, October 24, 2017 at 8:44 AM

  To: Roman Novak

  Cc: Timothy Knight

  Subject: Paul Garrison—status report

  Gentlemen:

  I received your EC regarding CLICKKILL. I’ll be your contact here in Chicago. Look forward to working with both of you.

  TSA shows that last night Garrison boarded Qatar Airways flight QTR1144 bound for Doha, final destination Bangkok. He’s in clear violation of his parole agreement, and we’ve corroborated the allegations of child solicitation posted on Bounty4Justice. We’ve notified the Qatari authorities and issued a red notice to Interpol. He’s expected to land in Qatar in the next hour. We’ll have the marshals bring him back to Chicago and keep him locked up while you figure things out with the website.

  Be in touch soon, hopefully with some good news. Enjoy your day.

  Supervisory Special Agent Joseph Varanelli

  FBI Chicago

  2111 W. Roosevelt Road

  Chicago, IL 60608

  Phone: (312) 555-0150

  Fax: (312) 555-5732/38

  @FBIChicago | Email Alerts | FBI.​gov/​chicago

  # 12.01

  Novak exited Waverly’s building and headed to his car. He thumbed his BlackBerry to read the emails that had begun trickling in, responding to the EC he’d disseminated the night before. From the looks of things, the field offices were taking Bounty4Justice in stride, and the scavenger hunt for the live targets was under way. He placed a call to Agner to pass along the underwhelming news from the attorney, and the captain picked up on the second ring.

  Agner sighed through the receiver. “You believe Waverly’s telling the truth?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Damn. Well, I appreciate your help. Not much to report here, either.”

  Through the receiver, Novak could hear him flipping through paperwork.

  “Coroner says Lombardi was killed somewhere between ten-fifteen and eleven-fifteen. They ruled out a full-blown autopsy. Cause of death: trauma resulting from a gunshot wound to the head.”

  “That’s why they pay her the big bucks.”

  “Tell me about it,” Agner chortled. “Ballistics confirmed the round was a three-thirty-eight Lapua Magnum. That’s the business end of an enhanced cartridge built for accuracy and distance. The groove marks are consistent with an Accuracy International AWM sniper rifle. It’s a British design, but since it’s the Cadillac of weapons, the Marine Corps, SEALs, Delta Force, and other Special Ops all use ’em. Or you could just buy one at a gun shop or expo. It’s the same weapon used for the longest confirmed kill on record, which was just about a mile and a half.”

  “Still,” Novak said, “even a half-mile head shot takes a lot of practice.”

  Agner fell silent for a moment, no doubt spooked by the idea of a military marksman using Manhattan as a shooting gallery.

  “Anyway,” the captain said, “I’m emailing this stuff to you so you can look it over for yourself. My detectives are canvassing again this morning, interviewing folks in the vicinity surrounding that rooftop. Got lots more tenants to talk to inside the building. That music studio provided a list of everyone who showed up to the audition. Forty-something names with phone numbers. We’ll need to hunt each of them down, question ’em. It’s gonna take time.”

  “How about the video from the lobby security camera?”

  “Useless, in my opinion. Really grainy images, like watching footage from the first Apollo missions. One thing’s for sure, though: a parade of people went in and out of there all morning, and just about every one of them was carrying a guitar case. With all the long hair, bandannas, and sunglasses, they might as well have no faces at all.”

  Novak rounded a steaming hot-dog cart and doglegged left onto Broadway to the assault of street noise and the raucous chants of Occupy protestors congregated near the mammoth Charging Bull bronze out on Bowling Green. A spokesman was shouting through a megaphone, “WHOSE streets?!” to the crowd’s rejoinder: “OUR streets!” A middle-aged bearded man paced the fringe with a sandwich board hung over his chest that showed Chase Lombardi’s enlarged head shot with a big red X over it; the caption said, A GOOD START.

  “Forensics find anything on the roof?”

  “The techs collected some DNA samples,” Agner replied. “But none of it corresponds to anything in our databases. Only way they can make a match is for us to catch the guy.”

  Novak double-timed it across Broadway to avoid a yellow cab gunning directly for him.

  “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Agner went on. “Stay in touch. And look for my email.”

  “Will do. Talk to you soon.”

  Garrison, Paul Lawrence

  IDENTITY PARTICULARS

  Present family name: Garrison

  Forename: Paul Lawrence

  Date of birth: 12/12/1973 (43 y
ears old)

  Place of birth: Chicago, Illinois, United States

  Language spoken: English

  Nationality: United States

  PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

  Height: 1.71 m / 5 7

  Weight: 162 lbs.

  Color of hair: Brown

  Eye color: Hazel

  CHARGES: PUBLISHED AS PROVIDED BY REQUESTING ENTITY

  Unlawful flight to avoid prosecution

  Violation of stay order

  Solicitation of a minor

  Possession of child pornography

  Sexual assault of a child

  # 13.01

  @ Persian Gulf / Doha, Qatar

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some water?” the stewardess said.

  “No, thank you.” Leonard Albanese dabbed sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “The turbulence just made me a bit queasy. How much longer until we land?”

  “About forty minutes.”

  “Great. Thank you so much. I’ll be fine.” A complete lie.

  Twelve hours out from Chicago O’Hare, and he’d plunged even further into the depths of his tainted mind, feeling like a raving junkie with inexorable itches that could not be scratched. He’d kept the memories—those nights—at bay for longer than he had thought possible, but now they were back with a vengeance, replaying over and over and over again in his mind’s eye in a never-ending loop. The helplessness. The pain. The terror. The terrible threats of death—both to him and his family—whispered in the dark.

  Despite decades of intensive talk therapy and an ever-changing cocktail of anxiety and depression medications, even now, at thirty-three years old, decades and thousands of miles away from that hellish summer camp where his childhood—his life—was destroyed, he remained isolated and alone, grappling with the accumulated devastation of a lifetime of opportunities lost and relationships forgone. The cold truth was that his detachment from joy—the severed tether of his very sanity—was permanent, never to mend.

  Enduring that kind of physical abuse at such a young age, when the brain’s complex circuitry was still developing, could do irreparable damage, violating a human being so completely that his sense of safety and trust was utterly annihilated.