“I only really started getting into some detail yesterday,” Chris replied. “And a guy like Carl does a hell of a lot on the computer in a day, let alone four weeks.”
He signalled the waitress to indicate the end of their meal as he went on.
“But the sooner I get back to it, the sooner I’ll finish. I should have a good idea by tomorrow morning, maybe before then. Come on, let’s go.”
He rose to his feet and hurried towards the exit, waving to their waitress on the way out while a puzzled McCall trailed behind him to the parking lot.
Once outside, the lieutenant uneasily enquired. “Uh, Chris? Do you always run out of restaurants without paying the bill?”
“Oh, I thought that cops ate everywhere for free,” Chris seriously responded before breaking into a smile. “House account, my friend. This one’s on CSS.”
“Quite the comedian,” retorted Dave, realizing he had been had. “Thanks for lunch. I’m going home. I haven’t seen Cathy in close to two days and I really need some sleep. But I want you to call me as soon as you have something.”
“You’ve got it,” Chris promised. “Like I said, this may take a little while but you’ll hear from me as soon as I’m done.”
* * * *
5:17 p.m. Following much thought and careful consideration, Carl Denver had made a decision.
This would be his last scam for a while, maybe forever, and an extra $1,000,000 could always come in handy when one retired. This being the last day of the month meant that tomorrow would be the day that financial institutions everywhere made the monthly interest payments to their accountholders.
With the systems layout of Century Bank still fresh in his memory Carl intended to make tomorrow an excellent pay-day indeed.
‘One more to go,’ he thought with a smile on his lips as he prepared to leave the office for the evening.
* * * *
6:48 p.m. Jean Picard finished the long, laborious climb to the third floor and shuffled slowly to the door of his apartment. Setting down the six pack and frozen dinner he had just purchased, he reached into the pocket of his worn jacket in search of his keys.
Overall, his had been a relatively miserable life. He had not been a hard working man, much preferring laziness over effort throughout the years. His employment history had therefore consisted of drifting from one odd job to another, most of which he had ended up getting fired from. Often, a hiatus of several months had separated his extremely short periods of employment.
There was one and only one pastime which he had always particularly enjoyed. Jean Picard liked to drink. As he had often joked to anyone who would listen, if drinking was a job, he’d have made it rich a long time ago. Privately however, he had frequently wondered how he would have gotten through the drudgery of life without his sweet alcohol.
Having been somewhat attractive in his younger days, he had lived with several women over the years, although he had never married. He’d usually stayed with them until they no longer wished to support him and kicked him out. As he had grown older, the women had been harder to come by and he had now been alone for quite some time.
He had recently turned sixty-five, which meant that the government sent him a monthly cheque for which he had no effort to exert. Although this was the kind of job which suited him best, he wished the cheques were bigger.
He found his keys and entered the apartment, closing the door behind him and making sure it was securely locked. There had been many break-ins in this neighbourhood in recent years, older people usually being the prey to the young punks.
He headed into the small kitchen, leaving the frozen dinner on the counter to thaw before turning his attention to his primary interest, the six-pack.
Ripping open the small carton, he quickly extracted a beer, twisted off the cap and took a long gulp, emptying a third of the bottle. Sighing with satisfaction, he proceeded to store the remaining beers in the near-empty refrigerator. As an afterthought, he pulled one back out before closing the door, this to avoid his having to get back up in five minutes.
Armed with his two bottles, he shuffled contently towards the tiny living room, taking another healthy sip along the way. As he rounded the corner of the short corridor which connected the two rooms, he froze in his footsteps. A familiar looking man, about half his age, was seated on the old couch in the living room.
“How are you doing, Jean?” the man asked softly.
Jean squinted at the man, suddenly recognizing him. “Holy shit, Is that you, boy?”
The man smiled and nodded. “It sure is, Jean. It sure is.”
‘Whatcha doing here?’ Jean asked, the uncertainty clear in his voice. “H-howdya get in here anyways?”
“The door was unlocked, Jean,” his visitor replied. “You should always lock your door. There’s some bad people out there, you know.”
The old man shifted uneasily, still standing. He was certain that he had locked the door.
“Have a seat, Jean,” the man invited, motioning to the couch as he stood. “This is your place, after all. Make yourself at home.”
Jean obeyed and trudged slowly to the couch, his discomfort growing.
“Y-you’re looking good, boy,” he commented, making a feeble attempt at small talk.
“I’m doing fine,” the man confirmed. “Got myself a good job, in computers, you know. Nice house, nice cars, wonderful wife. Yeah, I’ve done all right so far. How about you, Jean? How have you done?”
“This is it, I guess,” Jean mumbled with a shrug. “But I’m good. I don’t need much.”
They lapsed into silence, Jean’s anxiety increasing with each passing second. He spoke, if only to break the silence.
“I-I’d offer you a beer, but what I got has to last me the night.”
“No problem, Jean,” the visitor soothingly replied as he rose and started to pace nonchalantly around the living room. “I’m not really thirsty.”
Another soundless moment passed before he stopped pacing, standing directly behind the older man.
“Do you remember my sister, Jean?” he questioned, his tone soft, almost nostalgic.
“Y-yeah. Sorta, I guess,” Jean stammered, a quiver of fear in his voice.
The small apartment filled with a deathly quiet as the younger man stood motionless behind the couch, wishing to make the elder one suffer. Without a doubt, the old bastard deserved it but, would it change anything?
‘Not really,’ the younger man thought as he quietly pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
Jean sat stiffly on the couch in silence, staring directly ahead of him. He did not dare turn to look at the man behind him for fear of seeing the hate in his visitor’s eyes and confirming his fate.
“Good-bye, Jean,” the younger man whispered suddenly as he gently placed a gloved hand on each side of Jean’s head, fingers spread across the old man’s cheeks.
With a sudden firm and violent twist, he snapped the elderly man’s neck with an audible crack. Letting the limp body slump down to one side, he circled the couch and removed the beer bottles still clutched in Jean’s hands, placing them on the battered coffee table.
He left the apartment without a sound, closing and locking the door behind him as he went. He descended the three flights of stairs to the street below and was thankful that they were deserted. Naturally, he preferred the absence of any possible witnesses.
Outside, it was warm, the sun was still shining and as he strolled the several blocks to where he had parked, he felt good, at peace. He had no intention to claim credit for this one; there would be no messages. This one was personal in honour of his sister whom he dearly loved.
It was time to retire. His step-father was dead.
Chapter 33 - Thursday, August 1, 1996
7:12 a.m. Carl was in the office early, ready for Century Bank which ran their interest transfer programmes at precisely 7:30.
Once he had gotten home the previous evening, he had reviewed the required programming changes and was
now confident that he could pull this scam off without a hitch. He had been tempted to alter the systems before going to bed but, in the end, had decided to wait until morning to proceed with his modifications. The last thing he needed was for some bright night operator at the bank to discover something abnormal in the systems.
But now it was time, he was ready and in just over fifteen minutes, he would have a total of $6 million in the Cayman account.
His wife was waiting at home, bags packed, ready to go. He planned to stick around the office until lunch, scanning the systems and erasing any unwanted records. Then, he would disappear. Their flight was scheduled for departure at 1:35 p.m.; their tickets and passports were under a bogus name. By the time anyone realized he was missing, they would be long gone.
Carl was very excited, for this was his final day.
* * * *
Exhausted, Chris had finally taken a break at two-thirty in the morning, dropping on the couch in his office for a couple of hours of sleep.
By five-thirty, he was showered, shaved and back to work on his final analysis of the activities which had take place on Carl Denver’s personal computers.
At 7:22, he was done and convinced that he had enough evidence.
It was time to call Dave, who was no doubt up at this time. And if he wasn’t, Chris was certain that the lieutenant wouldn’t mind the call.
* * * *
Dave had been up and waiting for news from Chris since 1:15 a.m. On several occasions, he had picked up the phone and started dialling Barry’s number, but had not completed any of the calls, for fear of waking his friend. After all, Chris had said he would be in touch as soon as he had something. But what was he waiting for? What was taking so long?
He had endlessly paced back and forth in the living room, the cordless in his hand, waiting for it to ring. At three-thirty, Cathy had come downstairs to ask him what he was up to and why didn’t he get some sleep. He had responded with a silly grin and not much else. She had shrugged and stumbled back upstairs to bed, muttering something about ‘nuts’ on her way.
As he had done many times before in the preceding hours, he checked the time on the clock on the mantle; 7:22. The phone suddenly rang in his hand, startling him.
“Hello?” he whispered, his heart still pounding in his chest.
“Dave? Chris. Did I wake you?”
“Shit, no! I’ve been waiting for your call all night,” replied McCall. “But you just scared the crap outta me.”
“Sorry,” Chris chuckled. “Had I known you were up, I’d have asked you to come give me a hand. I’ve been up working on this all night.”
“So?” asked Dave, trying not to sound too anxious. “Anything?”
“Lots,” Chris replied with determination. “I’m sure it’s him, Dave.”
“What have you got?” McCall insisted, his heart pumping again.
“He’s been sending the messages; and erasing them,” Chris excitedly announced. “Transmission times, message ID codes, everything matches. I haven’t finished yet, but I definitely have enough for now.”
“What time does Denver come in?” McCall demanded as he headed to the hall closet for his jacket.
“He’s in now,” Chris replied. “I asked Steve, our morning guard, to let me know when Carl showed up. He came in a little after 7:00.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” said McCall, scrambling into his jacket as he spoke. “Chris, don’t do anything. Wait until we get there.”
“Don’t worry,” Chris promised. “But hurry. This place is gonna start filling up pretty soon. I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”
Chris suddenly realized that he was speaking to a dead line. Dave McCall was already on his way.
* * * *
7:27 a.m. Gina Harris rolled over in the bed and shook her sleeping husband.
“Tim, wake up,” she mumbled. “Dave’s on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”
Tim sat up in the bed and picked up the receiver as his wife headed for the bathroom.
“Yeah, Dave,” he grunted, still half asleep. “What’s up?”
“Get your ass out of bed and meet me at CSS in twenty minutes!” ordered McCall from the cell phone in his car. “You were right about Denver. Move!”
Gina returned from the bathroom, curious to know what the emergency was with Dave but she was too late. Her husband was already gone.
* * * *
7:39 a.m. The transmission was complete; Carl had just transferred $1.35 million dollars to the Cayman account. As long as everything went according to schedule, he would be in the air in six hours, forever off to paradise.
Outside, the cloudless sky was a dazzling shade of blue, further accentuated by the brilliant sun which shone through the floor to ceiling windows of his tenth storey office.
‘Today will be a beautiful day,’ he thought, trying hard to contain his joy.
* * * *
At 7:54 a.m., Dave McCall drove through the open gate of the main entrance of CSS headquarters, stopping at the lowered barrier by the guardhouse. He was greeted sombrely by the guard who acknowledged that Mr. Barry was expecting him. When he informed the guard that Harris as well as a few other detectives would be arriving shortly, the man responded with a nod. Mr. Barry had given instructions to fully cooperate with the police.
After parking his car in the visitors’ area, Dave headed for the building’s main entrance. As he neared the doors, he saw Harris pull up, followed by another car with two more of his men.
While he waited for the three to join him, he scanned the street and noted that two other cars, both unmarked, were parked outside the main gate, on either side. He watched as Joanne Nelson got out of one of the cars and hurried over to speak to the guard. Following a brief conversation, the latter picked up a phone and after a moment, hung up, nodding to Joanne. As she returned to her car, the electronically controlled gate silently closed behind her.
A mini-van, with the Gazette logo emblazoned on its side, pulled up and parked across the street, some fifty yards from the gate. He recognized Henderson, as well as the photographer who had accompanied the reporter at Lake Sawin and the Devil’s Delight bomb scene. The stage was set.
Dave entered the building, followed by Harris and the two others, where they were immediately greeted by Chris who quickly ushered them into a side elevator. They rode up to the twelfth floor, all remaining silent until they were safely into Chris’ spacious office.
“He’s still in his office, door closed,” Chris informed them. “I have Willy Cobourne, a trusted employee, chatting with the department secretary not far from Carl’s office. He’ll let me know if the man moves. So, how do we do this?”
“First of all,” replied McCall, “I’d like to get as many people away from that area as possible. He may go nuts on us. I don’t want any hostages or people getting hurt.”
“No problem,” Chris responded as he picked up the phone and punched a few numbers. “Sherry, is Willy around? Could I speak to him, please? Thanks. Willy, how many people in the department you’re at right now? Okay, I’m going to call Eddie and Joel, and have them block access to the tenth floor. I’ll see that the other half of the floor empties. I want you to casually inform the dozen people around you to go get a coffee downstairs and to drink it slowly. You’ve got five minutes. And Willy, don’t bother letting Carl know.”
He cut the connection and punched three more digits. “Joel? Chris. Fine, thanks. Listen, is Eddie there? Good. I want you two to get your butts to the tenth and turn away anyone who tries to get onto that floor. Thanks.”
He made his last call. “Al, Chris. I want you to get everybody out of your department. Tell them to use the stairs. Tell them to hurry. Tell them to be quiet. I want everyone in the cafeteria in four minutes.”
He hung up and looked up at McCall. “Now what?”
With a tight smile, the lieutenant responded. “We wait four minutes and we go.”
“I’m going with you,” Chris
informed him.
“I don’t think so. This could be dangerous, Chris,” McCall argued. “I’d rather you stayed out of the way.”
“That piece of shit’s been working for me for five years,” Chris shot back with fire in his eyes. “I even involved him in this case. I intend to see the bastard go down. It’s that simple, Dave.”
“Okay,” McCall hesitantly agreed. “But you stay clear and let us take care of this. I sure as hell don’t want you getting hurt either.”
“Don’t worry,” reassured Chris. “If it gets crazy, I’ll stay out of the way.”
Glancing at his watch, he added, “It’s time. Let’s go.”
* * * *
Carl suddenly had the strangest feeling that something was wrong.
Usually, even through the closed door, he could hear the hum of activity from beyond. Moments earlier, the faint ‘Good mornings’ and the muffled chattering of the people out in the office had been present. Now however, everything seemed to have grown deathly silent.
Puzzled, he got out of his chair and headed towards the door of his office to investigate. Before he could reach it however, the door opened and Chris entered, followed by four other men, two of whom Carl immediately recognized; McCall and some other cop who had been at that Saturday meeting in Chris’ office. Once inside, they closed the door behind them.
“Morning, Carl,” Chris quietly greeted.
“M-morning, Chris. What’s going on?” Carl asked nervously, eyeing the four others warily.
“It’s over, Carl,” Chris responded coldly. “All over.”
“W-what are you talking about?” Carl challenged, his voice shaking. “What’s over? W-why are the cops here?”
“We’ve been monitoring what you’ve been doing on the system for a while now,” Chris replied, his tone ominous. “It’s all been recorded. The programming changes, the erasing of records, everything. It all traces back to you.”
Vigilante Page 20
