She circled “Barstow, Indiana” on the paper and looked up the city. Small town, around twelve thousand residents as of the last census. Farming community. No one famous ever born there, apparently. Their surprisingly modern website displayed panoramic drone footage as the machine swept over downtown into the surrounding fields. A message at the top of the page reminded everyone it wasn’t too early to register for this autumn’s Miss Soybean pageant, being held in the Methodist church this year. The town’s mayor, chief of police, and volunteer fire department captain each had their own page, along with a generic “here’s everybody else you might need to contact” list. All in all, nothing popped out as special. Nothing that made them a target for hackers.
But maybe that was the idea. Haley said they were supposed to demand thirty-five thousand in ransom. Sure, it was a lot of money, but barely a blip to an insurance company. Might make more sense to do a bunch of small jobs rather than a few big ones. Keep a low profile so the insurers didn’t catch on. And thirty-five k would be low enough that any town would jump at the offer, especially if they had coverage. Anything was better than having the city’s computers shut down. Customers couldn’t pay their water bills. Tax records would be offline. The mayor and cops and whatever other workers Barstow employed couldn’t get their paychecks.
She clicked back to the mayor’s page. Powell Vandenberg. Might as well start at the top. She dialed the number and he answered almost immediately.
“Mayor Vandenberg?” she asked.
“Yes?” The voice was clear and alert. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, sir. My name is Amara Alvarez and I’m a detective with the San Antonio Police Department. In Texas.”
“Is there another San Antonio?”
“Uh, no, sir. Not that I know of.” Great. He thinks that I think he’s some backwoods—
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I’m working on a case and was hoping you could give me some information about an incident that occurred in Barstow recently. Your computer network was attacked and, I guess, the town’s insurance took care of things?”
“Well, there was a bit more to it than that, but you’ve got the gist. Why? Happening to you in San Antonio?”
“No, sir. At least not that I know of.” She drew a star next to the town’s name on her pad. “Can you tell me what company handles your insurance?”
“Carbonis.” He spelled it for her. “Specialize in that area. Our normal carrier wanted too much, and we want to be careful how we spend tax dollars. Still cost us ten thousand for the deductible, but Carbonis paid out the other twenty-five. Just glad they didn’t ask for more.”
“Why is that?”
“That’s all our policy covered. Insurance would pay the twenty-five k max. Anything over that came from the town’s budget. On top of the deductible, of course.”
She wrote $35k and circled it. Convenient that the hackers asked for the exact amount insurance would cover. “Whose decision was it to pay the ransom?”
“Mutual, I guess. They were clear that we could refuse, but no telling how long it would take them to get our systems back online. And even if they did get things fixed, they couldn’t promise we wouldn’t lose data. Quickest and cheapest thing to do was pay and hope the people who did it would provide the key to unlock everything, which they did.”
She jotted Carbonis and a dollar sign on the pad. “What would the company’s responsibilities be if you didn’t agree to the payment?”
“You’d have to talk to Mitch Conrad, he’s the city’s legal counsel, for the details, but as I understand it, they’d be on the hook for all expenses associated with getting things back to normal. New computers, any lost revenues, extra labor costs because of working overtime to fix things, even potential lawsuits. I’d say they have a pretty strong reason to pay.”
“Uh-huh. Why did Barstow purchase the insurance? Forgive me, but that doesn’t seem like the type of thing a small town would even think about. Did Carbonis initiate contact?”
He chuckled. “No, ma’am. Actually, it was Drew’s suggestion. He handles most of our technical stuff. Did a great job on our website if you get a chance to look at it. Anyway, I guess it’s been almost two years now, Drew gave a presentation at one of the city council meetings and answered a few questions. He does his best to keep us up-to-date with technological issues that might affect the town.”
“And did he recommend purchasing insurance?”
“Not really. That’s kind of beyond his scope.”
“Got it. Can I get Drew’s last name for my records?”
“Vandenberg. Same as mine. Drew’s my eleven-year-old son, so that would make him, what, nine when he gave the presentation. Earned him a merit badge for Scouts, though don’t ask me which one. At the next meeting, we decided to purchase the coverage. Premiums were cheap enough, though we still had a couple of hours of arguing. Don’t suppose there’s much debating going on now, but I suspect we’ll see a hefty jump in the premiums next year. That’s all insurance is. A gamble, but the company always wins.”
True enough. No company was in business to lose money. “Do you happen to know how much your premiums are now?”
“To the penny? No, but it comes out to somewhere between two and three thousand a year.”
She wrote the number on the paper. “Thank you for your time, Mayor. If I have any other questions, would it be okay to call you again?”
“Of course,” he said. “And if you’re ever out this way, be sure to stop in and say hello. Be a pleasure to meet you.”
“Will do.” A sudden image flashed in her mind of her standing in front of a church wearing a Miss Soybean sash and a tiara. She grinned and hung up the phone. No visits to Barstow anytime soon.
But the mayor’s comment about insurance did stir some thoughts. Was it a gamble? For the customer maybe, but for the company? Not really. If it wasn’t profitable, they wouldn’t be selling it. Say Barstow pays three grand a year for the policy, and they’ve had it for two years. That’s six thousand the town has paid, and if their network is never hacked, the insurance company pockets the money.
But they were attacked, so Carbonis is out twenty-five k, minus the six Barstow paid them. Nineteen thousand dollars out of pocket, while the town is out the cost of the premiums plus another ten thousand for the deductible. If the ransom amount was typical for towns and companies that size, Carbonis would have to . . . She scribbled the numbers.
19000 / 2 years = 9500 per year cost to Carbonis
If the premiums were three grand a year, the company needed to sell the same policy another three times to recover the money they’d spent. And they most likely had thousands of customers, the vast majority of whom would never experience a ransomware incident. And that didn’t include the increase in premiums everyone knew was coming. Oh, and the more attacks, the more publicity, the more sales of cyber insurance.
A win for the criminals. A win for the insurance companies. And the customer thinks they came out on top too. Almost seemed like a victimless crime, so why not pay the ransom? It was good business, which meant the crime would continue to grow until enough people refused to pay or the risk to the hackers increased dramatically.
But this crime wasn’t victimless. Zachary Coleman died. His family grieved.
Justice demanded a response.
She demanded answers.
Anything else would be bad for business.
43
Amara reread the email from Sanchez. Sorry, but the water park’s attorneys insisted on a warrant for anything else she needed. He probably didn’t even ask them. Whatever. The video would serve as proof that the suspect, once she identified them, was at Cannonball the day Coleman died. There’d be time to deal with that later, once she put a face to MM12.
The bigger issue in the email was the info that the park used a different insurance firm than the town of Barstow. A company named LockShield handled their policy. Nothing was simple. Didn’t mean
there wasn’t a connection.
She searched for an Arizona legal corporation close to “Unity Legal,” the name Haley thought it might be, and found the unlikely title United Divorce Group in Phoenix. Their website said they were a collection of attorneys specializing in making certain “you get what you deserve” from the dissolution of your marriage.
Amara wanted to spit in her garbage can. If she could find it. Her own divorce ten years earlier had been quick, though a couple of years too late, and cheap. Had she got what she deserved? She did have Larry, but he was a gift to herself after the final hearing. Definitely a step up from her ex.
A recording stated they were closed for the weekend, but she could leave a name and contact number and they’d be in touch first thing Monday morning.
She fidgeted on the keyboard. Easy enough to find a phone number for one or two of the lawyers in the group, but chances were that’s not who she needed to speak with. If the company was big enough, there’d be someone who handled things like that. Not a divorce attorney. And if they weren’t big enough, they’d have an insurance agent who did it for them. If she ran out of things to do before Monday, she’d start down that trail. If not, her time was better spent elsewhere.
Over the next half hour, she researched Carbonis and LockShield. Both claimed to specialize in network restoration with an emphasis on getting the client back up and running as quickly as possible. Each also stated that paying ransomware was the final option, but in rare cases may be necessary. Fear not though, since they would handle everything from negotiation to file recovery. Of course they would. Once they determined what was cheapest for their company. Both websites were filled with alarming statistics surrounded by photos of smiling customer service representatives and urgent requests to call now for your free quote. Testimonials cycled through from individuals with last initials only and unnamed companies.
She flicked a finger on her bottom lip. Hackers who wanted to go big would surely target organizations with this kind of protection, wouldn’t they? A better chance at a quick payout since, by the time they got involved, the insurance company would be eager to settle quickly. Otherwise, they’d be on the hook for substantial costs if the victim opted against paying the ransom.
MM12 had access to the files. It made sense. He knew the companies that had insurance. And once she figured out how he gained that knowledge, she’d have him.
The obvious solution was that he worked at one of the companies. Since both LockShield and Carbonis were based in Connecticut, it was possible he’d moved from one to the other at some point and taken a customer database with him. Wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened, especially if he was in sales and was hired with the promise of bringing some of his clients with him.
There were other possibilities. MM12 could be working with someone from the other company or might be part of an entirely different outfit that happened to service both companies. Communications, cleaning, banking, whatever. The only way to figure it out was to get going.
She dialed the 800 number for LockShield and heard the message telling her to please listen carefully as their menu options had changed. The most secure job in America had to be changing menu options for companies. Every single corporation she’d ever phoned had recently changed their menu options.
She punched 3 for all other inquiries and listened to elevator music—was that “Stairway to Heaven”?—while debating whether to ask for security or legal or HR. Maybe go straight to the CEO. Like they’d be at work on a Saturday. And even if they were, how could she be sure they weren’t MM12?
A beep sounded and she pulled the phone away from her ear to check the display. Incoming call from Wylie. Her mind sped through dozens of possibilities in a nanosecond but, as usual, settled on the worst-case scenario. Something was wrong with Mama. She pressed the button to hang up on LockShield and switch to Wylie.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
No response. She glanced at the phone. Stupid thing hung up on both of them. She redialed Wylie and listened as his voice mail kicked on. She clenched the cell until her knuckles hurt. “Wylie, it’s Amara. Call me back.”
After hanging up, she began dialing him again and a tiny icon appeared at the top of the screen notifying her of a new voice mail. She scrolled through the menu to find the option to check messages. Her heart pulsed against her chest and she slapped her free hand on the desk to release the frustration. Didn’t work.
Wylie’s name popped up on the display again and she answered before the first ring could finish. “What’s happened?”
“Get to the hospital,” he said. A siren echoed in the background. “Maria’s had some sort of reaction. The EMTs said to hurry.”
“Hurry? How serious is—”
“Go, Amara. I’m calling the rest of the family.”
44
She slowed and killed the siren as she neared the ER parking area. The twenty-five-minute drive took her fifteen. She ran Code 3—lights and siren—the entire way. If the SAPD had a problem with that, let them. Halfway there, she’d dialed Starsky, put the call on speaker, and dropped the phone into the center console. Both hands on the wheel when running hot. She’d shouted, “Mama’s on the way to the hospital,” and he’d said something, but the combination of external noise and internal focus shoved his voice away. Regardless, the call disconnected.
She parked outside the ER, careful to leave room for other emergency vehicles, and jogged inside. Selina, one of her younger sisters, paced toward her. The woman’s damp eyes, rapid breathing, and trembling chin were all it took. Tears overflowed and streamed down Amara’s face as the two hugged.
“What happened, Selina? Is Mama—is she okay?”
Her sister squeezed tightly before stepping back. “She’s, um, she had a bad reaction to one of the drugs. They’re working on her.”
Amara turned toward the double doors blocking access to the ER. “Working on her? What does that mean? Where is everyone else?”
“Wylie rode with them. He’s back there with her and they said only one family member. I was the first to get here, but everyone else should—”
“Amara!”
Her heartbeat slowed minutely. Starsky. He must’ve run Code 3 too. She spun around as he hurried to embrace her. After a moment, they separated. His hands fidgeted and he shifted on his feet.
“How is she?” he asked.
“We don’t know. I just got here too. Selina said they’re working on her and Wylie’s back there. They won’t let anyone else see her and no one has given us any update.”
He glanced around the area. “Wait here.” He trotted past the semi-crowded waiting room to the admitting desk where a brief, animated conversation took place. At one point he’d shown his badge. In return, the nurse at the desk showed her ID. His slumped shoulders and slower pace gave the battle results.
“Thanks for trying,” Amara said.
“Yeah.” Wrinkles creased his forehead. “Officially, Wylie’s not family, but I didn’t want to, uh, you know.”
“He’s where he should be. Selina, could you text him? Let him know we’re here and to call when he can?”
She nodded and wandered a few steps away.
“You want to sit?” Starsky asked.
“I’m okay. I saw her this morning and she said she felt fine. If it was a reaction to the chemo, wouldn’t that have happened yesterday?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what the doctors say.”
“Uh-uh. I’m going back there now. We don’t even know if she’s still in danger.”
“He’s coming out,” Selina said. “Wylie, I mean.”
Seconds later, he walked through the double doors, spotted them, and hurried over. Most of the color was gone from his face, and his stubble and messy hair aged him twenty years. Amara’s throat tightened. Even when Wylie had been shot and laid up in the hospital, he hadn’t looked this bad.
He raised both hands. “She’s g
oing to be okay.”
Amara wrapped her arms around Starsky as sobs of relief poured from her. He cupped one hand against the back of her head and waited until she had nothing left. A few quivering deep breaths later, she pulled away and used her finger to trace a circle around the large wet spot on his T-shirt.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes. “Don’t say that.” He blinked several times, then exhaled and ran his hand under his nose. “Of course, this was my favorite shirt.”
Her grin faded as quickly as it appeared. “What happened, Wylie?”
“The nausea was bad when she woke up this morning. She took a pill but it didn’t help, so we called the doctor and he phoned in a prescription for a different kind. Less than an hour after she took that one, she was having trouble breathing and her lips were tingling, so I called 911.”
He swallowed and wiped under his eyes. “The doctors said she had an anaphylactic response to the drug. Like if you’re allergic to bees and get stung. Extremely rare, they said. The paramedics gave her a shot of something and put her on oxygen. By the time we got here, she was lots better. Told me not to tell anyone about it. I said it was too late. Now she’s mad at me, I think. Can you believe that?”
“I can,” Amara said. “But for future reference, you call us regardless of what she says. If you don’t, I’ll put you in the hospital myself.”
“I’ll call, but don’t kid yourself,” he said. “I’m more scared of her than I am of you. They’re moving her to a room soon and keeping her overnight for observation. Switching her meds too. The nurse said no visitors until she gets out of the ER. Probably another hour. But she wants to see you, Amara.”
“The nurse?”
He shook his head. “I bet you fit right in over at Homicide. Your mother wants to see you.” He gestured toward the woman at the admitting desk. “I’ll tell her.”
Network of Deceit Page 24
