The teenager smirked. “Is there a difference?”
Starsky nodded. “Why not shut off all the cameras?”
“I wondered about that.” She worked her hands together. “MM12 said not to. Might trigger some sort of emergency response in the park.” She chewed on a fingernail. “But I don’t think that’s why. Not anymore. If all the cameras go off at the same time Zachary dies, it looks too suspicious.”
Amara scribbled a few notes. “Everyone would make an immediate connection between the death and the outage. No way law enforcement doesn’t get involved immediately. But once you knew we were looking, how come nobody deleted the video?”
“Wouldn’t matter,” she said. “The footage backs up locally and off-site. We’d have to break the other company’s network too. Could do it but didn’t have the time. If we’d known up front this was going to happen, then sure.”
“Has there been any contact with MM12 since Zachary died?”
She nodded. “We met him in the game the night of the funeral and told him what had happened. If Liam and Matias had suspicions about him, they never said anything. He said he was sorry to hear about our friend, but nothing needed to change. Keep doing what we do. Take a break and we’ll start back up in a little while. Contact him when we’re ready.”
“And, assuming we didn’t get involved, that was your plan?”
“Our plan?” She frowned and looked around her. “Our plan is to do what he tells us to do.”
Starsky put his hands on the back of his chair and leaned closer. “You’re afraid of him.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” The teenager scooted away from the table. “He owns us. We’re not anonymous anymore.”
“We can help,” Amara said. “There are worse things than losing your anonymity.”
“No, Detective. There are not.”
40
Amara sat on the edge of her bed trying to gain the energy to get the day started. Last night’s interview with Haley had gone about as well as could be expected, and the investigation should continue to pick up steam. Despite that, sleep had come in fitful bursts. Fifteen minutes of dozing followed by chasing feelings for a random amount of time. Repeat for seven hours.
The guilt had arrived. As she’d settled into bed the prior evening, she’d congratulated herself on a productive day. Stayed busy. Got things done. Made progress.
And barely thought about Mama.
That her mother wanted it that way made little difference to Amara’s conscience. Easy for Mama to say not to worry or don’t feel guilty. She wasn’t the one who had to do it.
Great, Amara. Mama has cancer and you’re justifying how your life is now harder than hers. Throw another brick on the mound of guilt.
She trudged to the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. What she wanted to do today was continue her investigation. What she needed to do today was go see her mother. In a matter of minutes, those two options would switch places as they had throughout the night.
In a way, the guilt was a relief. Having it meant she didn’t have to feel guilty about not feeling guilty. The fact that she put that in the plus column meant she needed guidance. A way to balance things so everyone’s demands were met. Including her own. Maybe.
The morning called for a therapy session.
Forty-five minutes later, a stack of pancakes sat in front of her, barely touched. After taking a taxi to the station—no smartphone meant no Uber—to get her car, she’d arrived at the Breakfast Bodega later than usual and the crowd was thicker. She’d waited until her usual booth became available, smiled at the waitress when she brought coffee, and watched the other customers as her breakfast grew cold and thoughts chased each other around her mind like a cluster of hummingbirds fighting over a feeder.
That booth—the one right there—was where she’d first met the Reyeses and stumbled into the Cotulla investigation. Life had transformed in the short time since then. Better and worse. She watched Ronnie, the weekend-slash-third-shift manager, head her way, slide across from her, and thunk his empty coffee mug down. He studied her plate and his rotund belly pressed against the table as he exhaled.
“What’s wrong with the pancakes?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just trying to watch what I eat.”
“Then why did you order them?”
“I always order them. You know that.”
He studied her for a moment. “There are other things on the menu.”
She nodded. “But I always get the pancakes.”
The waitress walked by and Ronnie motioned toward his coffee cup. “When you get a chance, please. No rush.” He turned back to Amara. “This isn’t about pancakes, is it?”
She pushed the plate to the side. “No. Well, sorta. Ever feel like there’s not enough of you to go around?”
He patted his stomach. “Not lately. Wanna talk about it? Might help.”
“Not really. I just need to figure out where I’m going with all this, you know? It was complicated enough before Mama’s cancer and—”
“Wait, your mother has cancer? Honey, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to pry but, uh, how is she?”
“Breast cancer. Just diagnosed and started treatment. We have to wait and see how the cancer responds.” She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“You’ll tell me what I can do to help. We have a room in the back we can set aside whenever your family needs it. Food’s on us. Anything we can do. I mean it.”
She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Thank you, Ronnie. I’ll let you know.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she said. “Anyway, Mama doesn’t want us to act any different. Can’t say I’m surprised since I’d do the same thing.”
“If you even told anyone.”
True. “So here I am trying to do my job and focus on my investigation while that’s going on, and then feeling guilty because I’m doing what Mama wants. And forget any personal time, right? All I do is think about my case and my mother.”
The waitress arrived and refilled both their cups. “Pancakes no good this morning?”
“They’re fine,” Amara said, “but I think I’m done with them. Thanks.”
Ronnie waited until the waitress left. “You’ve still gotta pay for those even if you didn’t eat them.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. But at least I don’t have to work them off. Oh, that’s the other thing. When am I supposed to exercise? Go for a run? Sleep? There’s not enough time in the day.” She plopped against the back of the bench. “And don’t tell me to cut something out, because if you do, it’s got to be my personal life. Everything else is too important.”
His chest rose and fell several times before he answered. “More important than you?”
“Of course. Don’t you feel the same way about your family and job?”
“This is where I work. Where I earn a paycheck. I do that for my family. And for me if I’m honest. I like a few luxuries in life. And before you say that your job is not the same as mine, I know that. Just like you knew what you were getting into when you switched over to Homicide. Can I give you a piece of advice?”
“Sure.” She held the coffee to her mouth and let the steam flow across her lips. “Something your daddy’s daddy told you a long time ago?”
He chuckled. “Not likely. But when I get overwhelmed like you are now, there’s a thing I do to help me stop worrying so much. See, you don’t have to figure it all out. Don’t have to wonder about how to pull it all together or what the future holds. You only have to answer a single question. What should I be doing right now? Not tonight or tomorrow or next week or next year. Right now. And when that’s done, ask the question again and again as many times as you have to.”
“Hard to keep things organized when you do that.”
“Not really,” he said. “Turns out a whole lot less things need organizing than you think. So, Detective Amara Alvarez of the San Antonio Homicide Division, what should
you be doing right now? After paying your check, I mean?”
“Going to visit my mama. Then going to—”
“There is no ‘then.’ Go visit your mother.”
Ronnie’s simple concept seemed sound. Workable. And would last about five minutes. Her mind didn’t work that way, and she had no desire to try to rewire her brain. But she did feel better and, if nothing else, knew where her next stop would be. “Thanks, Yoda.” She smiled at him and dropped a twenty on the table as she stood.
“No problem. I’m just sorry you didn’t want to talk about what was bothering you.”
Her grin widened. “Same time next week?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Be on time. Don’t like to keep the other patients waiting.”
41
The visit with Mama lasted barely twenty minutes. She’d played the fake-annoyed routine that her daughter had better things to do on a Saturday morning than stop by to see her mother. Amara followed suit with the fake-annoyed routine that her mother should show some appreciation for her daughter stopping by on a Saturday morning. Both knew the game well enough that it was over in a few seconds. Amara tried to bring up the cancer treatment but was quickly tsk-tsked into silence.
“Not now,” Mama said. “I feel fine.”
Amara nodded. Don’t waste the good days. There would be plenty of time later to dwell on chemo and radiation and whatever else was headed their way.
The goodbye hug lasted longer than usual, or at least seemed so to Amara. A tighter squeeze too. As if the gesture was an understanding that, cancer or not, one of these hugs would be the last they ever shared. When they separated, a tear made its way down Amara’s cheek, slowing long enough for Mama to wipe it away and tsk-tsk her again.
As she drove off, she pondered her next move. Exercise could wait. The interview with Haley had opened new areas for investigation. Whichever route she went, they’d all end up in the same place. Mighty Mouse 12. She probably had enough now to go to a judge for search warrants for the three teenagers’ homes, specifically their computer equipment. What good would that do though? The drives would be encrypted and useless. Nothing there would help point to a killer.
And if she went to the LT about a possible deal for Haley, he’d want her to lay out the whole case before he’d go to the DA. And right now, that consisted of little more than the ME’s suspicion combined with the chatter of a teenage girl. Neither of those added up to the stack of cash found at the Coleman house. Didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Just meant that she was a long way from proving it. And the LT wasn’t going to go to the DA with smoke. She needed fire.
First thing was to get her hands on the rest of the security footage from the water park the day of Coleman’s death. All the videos that didn’t show any of the four teenagers. If nothing else, she was a hundred percent sure the killer was on there somewhere. Maybe she’d spot someone paying a little too much attention to the group of teenagers, particularly the victim. Still didn’t explain how MM12 knew what the four looked like, but one step at a time.
“Call Eduardo Sanchez.”
No response from her cell.
She ground her teeth. Of course not, because her phone was from the 1920s. She grabbed the device off the passenger seat and flipped it open, alternating her view between the road and the cell. Texas law said she couldn’t do that, and if she was in uniform or a marked car, she wouldn’t. Not because of the statutes, but the new reality for cops. Some random, uh, citizen, with nothing better to do than snap a photo of an officer doing something wrong and splattering it all over social media.
A horn sounded behind her and she glanced in the mirror. What? The vehicle swerved and eased past her, slowing to give a stare. Oh. Thirty in a fifty-five zone. She frowned and pulled into a strip mall parking lot. Quicker to do it this way anyhow. After trudging through too many button presses and squinting at the tiny screen, she found Sanchez’s number and dialed him. As head of security at the water park, chances were he’d be at work on a Saturday in July. Had to be one of their busiest days.
He answered halfway through the third ring. “Ah, Detective Alvarez. I’m glad you called. I have you on my list for today.”
“That mean you’ve got some news?”
“Yes, but not sure how helpful it will be. You asked what the financial impact would be if the park were shut down. The numbers I got said somewhere between twenty-five and fifty thousand per hour. Depends on the weather and the crowd size. On the day the Coleman boy died, I’d expect a figure on the upper end of the range. And that only counts lost revenues. There’d be ancillary expenses to add to that number.”
“Such as?”
“Dealing with potential refunds, increased marketing to cover any bad PR, probably a dozen other things. It would be a nightmare scenario for us.”
Perfect way to generate a huge payday for TOXICftw. “Any thoughts on whether or not the company would pay a ransom to get their systems up and running?”
“Absolutely they would. Hold on a sec.” His voice muffled as he spoke to someone in his office. “Sorry. Busy time of the morning. Anyway, yes, we’d pay and we’d do it quickly. Turns out that two years ago, our legal team added an amendment to the park’s insurance to cover—let me make sure I have this right . . . here it is. ‘To cover costs and fees associated with the intentional disruption of the insured’s network with the specific purpose of disabling the insured’s operations, to include all monies required to bring the network to a functioning status within a reasonable amount of time.’”
“So the insurance company would pay the hackers to bring the system back online?”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “A lot of variables would come into play, but basically, the insurance company is going to do whatever is cheapest for them. If that means paying the ransom, so be it. And let’s be honest here. Not like they won’t get their money back in the long run by raising the rates they charge.”
She stared out the windshield as an old Toyota parked near a Pizza Hut at the corner of the strip mall and a middle-aged man stepped outside, yawned and stretched high enough for his T-shirt to expose his belly, and wandered inside the restaurant. Ransomware insurance. Too perfect. The whole thing was a business, everyone said. Build credibility. Make a name for yourself. Follow through on what you say, whether that’s releasing the data upon payment or abandoning the customer to their fate if they refuse. An insurance company is going to take the path of least resistance. Pay now, raise their rates, recoup their losses, and go about their day.
And someone smart, like Mighty Mouse 12, would understand the best way to get the biggest, quickest paydays would be to know who has the insurance. Take the personal out of the transaction. Let it be an issue between the hacker and the insurer. Why not? The customer has the policy in case this happens, and guess what? It happened. Now pay up so I can get my business back online.
“Detective?” Sanchez said. “You still there?”
The man strolled out of Pizza Hut, his arms loaded with three boxes and a couple of two-liter somethings. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m still here. Can you email me the name of the insurance company? And sorry to ask, but I need all your video from the park on the day Coleman died.”
A low whistle echoed through the phone. “That’s a lot of data,” he said. “I already gave you everything I have with the teenagers on it. If you’re looking for someone else, maybe you could give me a photo and I could have someone search for them.”
“No.” Now that she finally had a string to tug, no way she was going to risk someone else getting their hands on it. “I’ll make it simple and get a subpoena. That work for you?”
“Detective, I meant no offense. You must understand we have an obligation to protect the privacy of our guests. I will happily provide other items you need as long as they don’t jeopardize that concern. And I am only trying to help.”
Don’t. “Mr. Sanchez, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll be in touch about the subpoena. In the meantime
, please ensure none of the video from that day is destroyed.”
“I will have a copy available.”
His tone had stiffened. Did she hurt his feelings? Did she care? Didn’t feel like it. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” She snapped the phone closed and tossed it into the passenger seat. Felt kinda nice. Not like tapping a button to hang up. Skip the “goodbye,” click the cell shut, and move on. Not as much fun as slamming down the receiver on one of those old rotary dials, but close enough. An expression of emotion. A reaction to events.
Not sterile, like tapping a button on a screen.
Maybe the old ways weren’t so bad.
42
After exchanging the usual pleasantries and head nods with a few other detectives, Amara settled in at her card table. The place was relatively quiet. Either everyone was out chasing bad guys or gone to lunch or didn’t have a case that demanded weekend work.
She scribbled three names on a notepad.
Barstow, Indiana
lawyer/Unity Legal?/Phoenix
Cannonball Water Park
The first two were the options given by MM12. If both of them had ransomware insurance, that would be a strong lead. And if all three had the same insurer, that’d be a giant arrow pointing the way.
If Haley was being truthful.
Amara tapped her pen on the pad. The girl seemed sincere enough, but that didn’t mean much. She’d been genuinely upset about her dog. Or was a really good actress. None of that was relevant anyway. Not yet. Even if she was being honest, her truth may not equal reality. The world was filled with examples.
Facts mattered. They could be proven. Hold up in a court of law. Convict the guilty. All she had to do was get enough of those facts together to convince a DA to prosecute. Easier said than done when you had to assume everyone was lying to you.
No one could be trusted.
Even Sanchez seemed suspicious again. Not because of anything he’d said or done, but because she’d found a new focus. A spot she could pry into and peel back until facts revealed themselves and accelerated toward Zachary Coleman’s killer. Find the first absolute, undeniable truth and the rest would follow.
Network of Deceit Page 23
