by Tom Fowler
An obvious fact finally hit me—he paid for Denise Murray’s cancer treatment. She told me she'd been to Hopkins for her program. The Johns Hopkins Hospital was a national and world leader in many areas. It attracted people from all across the globe who came to Baltimore for advanced treatments from renowned specialists. However Denise’s payments were resolved, the hospital would keep a record of it.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Did I really want to try and hack Hopkins? It wasn't a question of skill. I never doubted my abilities. When I lived in Hong Kong, my hacker friends and I broke into the biggest bank in China. The police only found us because of a rat in our ranks.
The issue was really one of time. I'd need to be very careful going after a major institution. The hospital could afford top-tier security and countermeasures. It wouldn't be easy. I missed having a small team working alongside me at times like these. If it took hours and hours to get in, find what I needed, and get out without detection, was this the best use of so much time? Eddie and Calvin seemed to be at loggerheads about the latter’s basketball future, and my money would be on Eddie to win. By playing dirty if he needed to.
I needed a shortcut.
I pondered who I might know at Hopkins. The dreadful shrink my parents forced me to see after my sister's death might still be there, but I'd rather heave him out a window than ask him for help. I didn't know any doctors well enough to ask them, and I didn't know if they'd be able to access the records anyway. If Hopkins set things up well, they'd only be accessible to the oncology staff and the billing department.
An idea sprang into my head. My first client, Alice Fisher, worked as a patient coordinator--I still didn't know what this actually meant--for Upper Chesapeake Health. Maybe she knew a colleague at Hopkins who could help. I sent her a text to find out. A few minutes later, she replied.
C.T.! It's great to hear from you. I'm doing really well. I left UCHS just after you wrapped everything up for me. Needed a new start. Funny you should ask, but I’m actually with Hopkins now.
Bingo. I would take any lucky break I could get.
I sent her a response, telling her I needed a favor and didn't want to discuss it over the phone. A half-hour later, we met at a tiny place called JC Romero's Neighborhood Cafe. I'd never heard of it, nor the road it sat on--Cornwall Street, which lay just off Eastern Avenue. It would be a short walk from the Hopkins Bayview campus.
Like most people who meet with me, Alice was already there when I arrived. The café was a brick end-unit rowhouse. This made the inside pretty small, but the place possessed a definite charm. People sat at every table. Before I could order from the counter, Alice stood and hugged me. "It's great to see you," she said.
"You, too." She looked good. The time away from her husband's death and the loan shark hounding her made a difference. Her color had improved, her hair held more shine, and her smile looked sincere. Alice was a pretty woman then and remained so today.
I ordered a latte and joined her at the small table. She nibbled on a wrap of some sort and paired it with a fruit smoothie. I sipped my drink and let her eat. She probably ventured out to see me over her lunch break, and I didn't intend to monopolize her time with chatter. For her part, Alice seemed content to eat.
A few minutes later, with the first of half her wrap gone and a nice dent made in the second, she said, "What did you need help with?"
I cast my eyes around the room. The older man behind us left, but an Asian couple replaced him. The place was still packed. I lowered my voice and hoped Alice would follow suit. "I need some information. I could probably get it, but it would be . . . time-consuming."
"What kind of information?" The cozy nature of JC Romero's created a constant din, making it hard to converse in sotto voce. Note to self: don't meet a potential hitman here. "You have anything to write on?"
"Uh . . . sure, I think so." Alice fished a small piece of paper from her purse. "You need a pen?"
I shook my head and pulled one from my jacket pocket. She handed me the paper. I wrote Denise's name, a few other identifying details, and what I wanted, which was the name and other info of who paid for the treatment. I folded the paper in half and slid it back across to her. She frowned before picking it up.
Alice's eyes widened as she read it. "I'm not sure I can do this." She shook her head. "I don't think I should."
"I wouldn't ask if it weren't important," I said. Her frown remained. "Alice, I can get the information on my own. I'm . . . let's just say I'm good with computers. But it would take time to do it right, and I'm not sure how much of it I have." Institutional pride was a factor, too—I didn’t want to do anything to damage Hopkins’ reputation. Even a small data breach could harm their name. Alice didn't say anything. "The woman on there . . . her son plays college basketball. He's getting squeezed by someone who reminds me of Vinnie."
She scowled as I mentioned the name. "I hate him." Vinnie Serrano, a former classmate of mine, put the screws to Alice a little over two years ago.
"Then help me stop someone who's a lot like him. The player has a young daughter. I'm worried about all of them but her the most. I don't know what kind of enemy we're dealing with yet. This is where I need you." I paused while she stared at the paper in her hand. She held it as it if might burst into flame at any second. "Can you help me?"
Her eyes flicked from the folded note to me. "Yes. I don't want to see anyone like Vinnie ruin someone else's life."
I smiled. Alice didn't reciprocate, but her expression softened. "Thanks. Let me know when you have something."
"What's your timeline?"
"Sooner the better."
Alice nodded. "All right." She stood, leaving the rest of her wrap uneaten along with a quarter of her smoothie. "I need to get back to work. I'll contact you later."
"Great. Thanks again." Alice hustled from the restaurant. I knew she didn't want to do this, and I hated putting her in this spot. Alice was a good person doing a questionable thing. What tipped the scales was the mention of Vinnie. I didn't want to drop his name, but I did it to maximize my odds of saving Calvin and his family from Eddie.
Now I needed Alice to come through.
A few hours later, Alice called back. “I think I have something for you,” she said, sounding hesitant.
“You’re doing the right thing,” I told her, doing my best to be reassuring.
“I hope so.” I heard papers shuffling in the background. “I don’t know the best way to get this to you.”
“I suppose giving me the physical file is out.”
“Of course it is,” she said, her voice hushed but firm. “I can’t have something like this go missing for long.”
“All right . . . I have an idea. What kind of phone do you have?”
“An iPhone Eight.”
“Good,” I said. I recommended a scanner program which would allow her to take pictures of each page of the file and send the whole thing to me as a PDF. “I’m going to setup an email address specifically for this so it looks as official as possible on your end. Text me when you’re ready to send.” She said she would, and we hung up.
I setup a temporary email account which sounded like it dealt with HIPAA compliance. The American health records law required much overhead and effort from doctors and hospitals to remain compliant. A patient coordinator—or whatever title Alice currently held—emailing a file to such an address wouldn’t raise suspicion.
Fifteen minutes later, Alice said she had everything ready. I sent her the email address, and she followed with the file a minute later. Once I confirmed I’d received the PDF and I saved it, I sent her a text. You’ve been a big help. Thanks.
She wrote back quickly. I hope so, but please don’t don’t tell anyone what I did. At the very least, I’d never work in this field again.
I couldn’t blame her fear, and in fact, I felt a bit like a jerk for involving her in the first place. She shouldn’t have the impression my helping her two years ago came with strings a
ttached, because it didn’t. I assuaged my guilt with a freshly-brewed coffee, deleted my temporary address, and opened the PDF.
Alice sent everything, including specific details of Denise’s cancer and treatment. I didn’t need to know any of it—and probably didn’t understand much to begin with—so I flipped past those pages. Billing information resided near the end of the file. The entire sum, which was a little cheaper than my initial guess but still in the ballpark, got billed to a man named Edward Ferrugia.
“I got you, Eddie,” I said to my empty office.
Chapter 12
Edward Ferrugia ran a data mining business, according to my initial searches. It didn’t look like a shell company, either. Both Google and Yelp posted client reviews, and the business received high marks from a few current and former employees on Glassdoor. If this were a con, it would rank among the best I’d seen.
The company listed an address in Towson. The man himself tried to make his residence harder to find. It took a minute or two, but I uncovered it. After days of working this case, I finally knew the identity of the mysterious Eddie. I wished I knew what to do with the information. Storming the man’s home or office didn’t seem like a good plan. I figured I’d encounter more resistance than one could reasonably expect from a data company.
So I kept digging. Like most young entrepreneurs, Eddie Ferrugia maintained a LinkedIn profile. He had few connections, however, and none of them jumped out as me as someone to exploit to get closer to Eddie. I looked at his personal information. Ferrugia earned a bachelor’s in data analytics and an MBA. He listed his home town as St. Paul, Minnesota. His pictures showed a black-maned fellow who wore his hair slicked back and looked like he just stepped off the set of a Jersey Shore reunion.
I frowned as a recent memory of seeing the city flashed into my head. I saw a profile for a man named Ed Fells who hailed from St. Paul. A minute later, I learned he ran Fells and Son, a gaming company still based in his home city. A quick online search found no such business. I stared at the screen. Something was here . . . something I wasn’t seeing.
Fells and Son. Gaming. Minnesota.
“Son of a bitch,” I said to the empty room. If this case continued for a while, I’d be having full-blown conversations with myself. In the meantime, I figured out what was bothering me. Eddie Felson, AKA Fast Eddie, was the main character in the movie The Hustler. His antagonist at the billiards table was the fictitious Minnesota Fats.
Did Eddie Ferrugia maintain an identity as Ed Fells? I dug into both and found a few similarities. Both allegedly attended the same college, though about thirty years apart. Fells’ Facebook page listed an email address of [email protected]. I brought up Yahoo and tried to sign into the account. It failed as I expected.
I clicked the link to reset the password. If Fells, or whoever set the account up, required two-factor authentication, this wouldn’t work. I caught a break: only a security question. What was the name of your high school mascot? I scanned Fells’ profile. He didn’t list a high school. I took a shot in the dark and went with the most popular.
Eagles.
No dice. I tried again. Tigers.
The site asked me to set a new password. I went with a strong and obnoxious one Ferrugia wouldn’t guess and couldn’t reasonably assemble the resources to crack in time. Once I finished, Yahoo presented me the account homepage.
Eddie Ferrugia’s LinkedIn picture stared back at me.
I called Gonzalez and asked to meet him. He offered a Dunkin’ Donuts near the police station, and I agreed. When I arrived, he sipped some ridiculous chilled beverage through a straw. I ordered a dark roast coffee, added some creamer, and slid onto the seat opposite his. “What’s the sugary mess?”
He shrugged. “Chocolate something or other. Sounded interesting.”
“How’s it taste?”
“You called it—a sugary mess.” He frowned at the drink and set it aside. “What’d you want to talk about?”
I kept my voice low. The place was about half full, and without a ton of real estate, all the tables sat close together. “You heard of Eddie Ferrugia?”
“Should I have?”
“Depends,” I said. “What’s your opinion on point shavers who threaten college kids and their families?”
“Name’s not familiar.” Gonzalez picked up his drink again, narrowed his eyes at it, and set it back down. “You think we should look into him?”
“On the surface, he runs a data mining business. Seems like it’s legit, too, not just a front for the shady parts of the operation.”
“Probably why he hasn’t been on our radar.” Gonzalez snatched his drink off the table. “Hang on. I gotta replace this shit with something edible.” He spiked the offending beverage into the closest trash can, ordered a coffee, and returned to the table with it black. After taking a sip, Gonzalez said, “Much better. What were we talking about?”
“You were expressing the department’s gratitude at me putting you onto a numbers racket.”
“Doesn’t sound like something I’d do.” He paused for some more java. I was several drinks ahead at this point. “This guy has his hooks in the Hanson player, right?”
I nodded. “And potentially his sick mother and infant daughter. If Calvin doesn’t cooperate, I’m worried about all of them.”
“Is Calvin worried?”
“I can’t get through to him. Maybe you guys could. Roll up with the lights flashing, and maybe he’ll start taking this seriously.”
“This Eddie can’t hurt him,” Gonzalez said. “Not directly, at least. Calvin’s the meal ticket, and he knows it.”
“It’s cause for concern.”
“I hear you. Twenty-year-old athletes ain’t exactly the smartest people on campus.”
The two people behind us cleared out. A young professional woman in a very tight gray skirt entered the café and got in line. Black hair spilled down her back, and she stood close to six feet tall in heels. Gonzalez and I fell silent for a moment. “I didn’t know who Eddie was until now,” I said. “Maybe it’ll be different the next time I talk to Calvin. Eddie’s already told him he can’t turn pro after the season.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have my methods.” I drank some coffee as Gonzalez glared at me. “I know . . . you do things the right way in the county.”
“We do.”
“I’m sure you’ll turn down the commendation when this case is over, then. Wouldn’t want to strain your principles.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Gonzalez said. “We gotta get Calvin away from this asshole first. Then, pinning something on Eddie would be nice. What’s he done besides allegedly fix some basketball games and make vague threats?”
“Sounds like something the BCPD would be great at finding out,” I suggested.
“We gotta have some place to start. Some of us actually do things like talk to judges and get warrants.”
“Here we go. The system lets down more people.”
“Look, I’ll do what I can. But if what you said earlier is true, and a lot of this stuff happens online and offshore, I don’t know how much we’ll be able to pin on this guy.”
“As long as you try. I’ll let you know what else I uncover.”
“Make sure you do.” Gonzalez picked up his coffee, took a swig, and stood. “I gotta get back to work.” He walked toward the door without waiting for me to bid him adieu. I finished my drink and drove back to my office.
Once there, I checked on the BPD’s network for Eddie Ferrugia or Fells. Neither returned a hit. Eddie kept his nose clean. It made sense; if he’d stepped over the line, Gonzalez would’ve recognized the name. Of course, I’d neglected to mention Eddie Fells to him. I added this info to a text and received a curt thanks in return.
I couldn’t count on Gonzalez and the BCPD to be much help. As usual, I was on my own here.
A few hours remained before tipoff in JHC’s quarterfinal game. I checked the Vegas lines
and saw they were favored by seven and a half. If Eddie wanted to keep Calvin in college through next season, he’d probably want to fix this game, too. I wondered at the wisdom of it with more eyes on the game than normal, but this was still a small conference tournament. If Hanson made the big dance, the temptation and the difficulty would get ratcheted up again.
I sent Calvin a message. If he were deep in practice and preparation at this point, he wouldn’t answer, but I still wanted him to know. It might make him more amenable to working with me and getting out from under the man who pulled his strings. I know who Eddie is, and I can help you with him. I’ve dealt with bigger and tougher before, but you need to work with me. There’s more at stake than just where you’re playing next year.
Calvin seemed like a decent kid, so he probably realized his mother, Iris, and Tamika were all at risk if the point-shaving scheme turned sour. A reminder couldn’t hurt, however. I’d played in a major college sports tournament more than once. You get tunnel vision. Everything becomes about the next practice, the next game, the next pass. Winning makes it all worthwhile, but it’s a pretty tough road to navigate, especially when you’re young and without a lot of your support network.
I’d moved on to figuring out how to use my time before the game when Calvin got back to me. How’d you find out who he is?
I responded. I’m really good and really smart. Let me help you, Calvin . . . you and your family.
His reply came quickly. I’m willing to listen. Can’t talk now, though. Maybe in a day or two.
It was a start.
Chapter 13
With a couple hours remaining before tipoff, I drove into Little Italy. Cars lined the streets as early arrivals for dinner filed into the various restaurants. I valeted the S4 and walked into Il Buon Cibo. I usually got a knowing nod from the maitre d’, who’d seen me come in and out a bunch of times. Today, his expression was inscrutable.
