After a brief conversation, the woman nodded and waved Amara back. A click sounded on the door as the lock released, and she stepped into the maze of doors, curtains, beeps, antiseptic, and scrubbed personnel. A young man leaning against a wall and punching something into a computer tablet pointed her in the right direction.
She peeked around a curtain to make sure she had the correct location and was spotted by a man taking her mother’s vitals.
“Family?” he asked.
“Oldest daughter,” Mama said.
Amara cringed and waited for the “she’s single” comment any decent sitcom mom would include. It never came and she moved to her mother’s side and grasped her hand. “How are you feeling, Mama?”
“I’m fine. All this fuss because I had a little trouble. Ridiculous.”
The shaky tone of her voice failed her bravado. Amara fought to maintain a steady expression. A new pain weighed on her heart as her extremities went numb. Mama was scared. She’d thought she was going to die. All the focus on attacking the breast cancer and she nearly lost before the battle even began.
“It’s okay,” Amara said. “I’m here now. Selina too, and the rest are on their way. I’ll sleep in the room with you tonight and won’t leave the hospital until you do too.”
“Hush.” Mama waited until the nurse jotted down some notes, checked her IV again, and left the room. “That’s not why I wanted to see you. I need you to do something for me. You have to promise.”
“If I can.”
Her mother nodded once. “I’m not going to win,” she said.
“Mama, don’t say that. You’ll be okay.”
“Let me talk.” She sighed and squeezed Amara’s hand. “I’ll beat the cancer, or I won’t. Even if I do, who’s to say how much longer I’ll be here?”
“You’ve had a scare, but you’ll be back to normal soon.”
She let her hand slide from Amara’s grip onto the bed. “My time will come. My prayer has always been that none of my children would go before me, and Dios has granted that so far. Do you know what frightened me today? Not death. More like the goodbye, I think. We’ve seen that pain in the ones left behind.”
Daddy. He’d died of a heart attack when Amara was fifteen. The day of her quinceañera. “Mama, you should be thinking about yourself. We’re fine. All you need to do is concentrate on getting better.” She gently rubbed her mother’s arm.
“I love you, baby. You know that, right?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t say things like this to your brothers and sisters. But you’ll understand. You’ve always been that way. Do you remember Izzy?”
“Yes.” Their pet chihuahua.
She smiled. “I hated that dog. But you kids loved her. Your dad did too. You must’ve been around twelve when she died. She’d been throwing up, not eating, whining all the time. We knew something was wrong.”
“I remember. We buried her in the backyard. Had a little service and everything.”
“She had cancer, Amara. We knew for almost three months before she died. The vet said we should put her down, but your dad and I couldn’t do it. Not if there was a chance. We didn’t want to see our kids hurt, so we opted for some experimental medication.” She let her head sink into the pillow. “Mmm. For a dog I hated. It cost us thousands and accomplished nothing except prolonging Izzy’s suffering and your grief.”
Where was she going with this? “I didn’t know all that, but if you’re trying to make some comparison between Izzy and you, that’s not even realistic.”
“No? What do you think Izzy would have told us to do?”
Amara wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Did they turn on the heat?
Her mother smiled. “A day or two after we buried Izzy, your brothers and sisters had already moved on. But not you. I’d catch you in the backyard putting a flower or bone or toy on his grave.” She paused for nearly a minute. “He’s not there, you know.”
Her father. Every month on the eighteenth, or as close to that as she could, Amara visited the grave. “I know. I just go there to clear my mind.”
“And there’s not a thing wrong with that as long as you understand you’re doing it for you, not your daddy. I’ll fight the cancer. Hard as I know how. But whether it’s this or something else, when it’s time for me to go, let it happen. Nothing would ease my heart more.”
Amara’s heart sank. “What exactly are you saying, Mama?”
“I’ve lived my life and I’d love to live another fifty years, but if the treatments don’t work, I won’t chase a cure. One good year with my family is worth more than a dozen years of hospitals and nursing care and”—she flicked her hand toward the curtain—“and this. Do you know what your father used to say to me? ‘That girl’s going to be just like you.’ He was right.”
How? Mama loved cooking and socializing and a big family. Long hours solo at the gym or working on a case were more her speed.
The nurse poked his head through the curtain, announced that Mama would be wheeled to her room within the next couple of minutes, and disappeared just as quickly.
“I’ll go with you to the room,” Amara said. “When we get there, I’ll call the others and let them know where we are. They’re anxious to see you. But I’m staying. No argument.”
“The sixth,” Mama said.
“What?”
“Your dad and I were married on May sixth. I go visit his grave every month on that day. You were there once so I didn’t stop. I sit and remember. So I’m asking you to promise me that when it’s my time, you’ll think about what you would do if you were in my place.”
An orderly swung the curtain back. “Ready to go?”
Amara kissed her mother’s forehead. “Ready.”
45
Amara rolled her shoulders and stretched her head every possible direction. While the recliner in Mama’s room had been surprisingly comfortable, it would never replace her own bed. The night had been uneventful, and her mother seemed to be fully recovered from the reaction. Just after eight, Amara went home to shower and get some work done. Mama had insisted, since the flow of visitors hadn’t decreased and she’d be released at any moment.
After spending some quality time with Larry while getting laundry done and cleaning out the fridge, she’d headed to a local soup-and-salad restaurant and unpacked her laptop. No sense going to the department today. A shooting at a bar on the River Walk last night left two dead and several injured, including a couple of tourists from Japan. Homicide would be buzzing and she didn’t need the distraction. Too easy to get drawn into someone else’s case, especially one with that much visibility.
The chatter of the Sunday lunch crowd blended into background noise as she checked old newspaper stories to confirm Haley’s statement about the pool company. Sure enough, a short article, complete with a photo of the store’s monitor, verified what the girl said. Next up, she resumed her search for a connection between LockShield and Carbonis. Forty minutes later, the only thing she’d learned was her chicken tortilla soup was a lot better when it was hot. If there was a link between the two companies, she wasn’t going to find it online. And of course it was a weekend. Everything happened on weekends, when you couldn’t get in touch with anyone. Everyone except tech support and customer service, both of which were probably handled by people reading from a script, would be off until tomorrow.
She spread her fingers and dragged them through her hair. An employee directory for both organizations would be nice, particularly one dating back several years. Or a list of customers. Better yet, a database of all payouts in the last decade with details on ransoms that had been paid. That info could be sorted and dissected for possible ties to the teens.
“Idiota!” The outburst caused several patrons to stare at her for a moment before returning to their meals.
She squeezed her lips together and exhaled several hot breaths through her nose. Great detective work, Amara. We want to build our credibility, H
aley said. Make a name for ourselves. Customers have to know they can trust us. And the FBI said the same thing.
She typed TOXICftw into the search bar and the page filled with links. The top few were sponsored ads for ransomware solution companies, meaning the search engine’s algorithms had enough information to be aware of the hacking group. The first nonadvertising link took her to an article geared toward protecting yourself from online attacks. TOXICftw’s network intrusion on a tax-preparation office four years ago was used as an example. The owner of the company complained that it cost him almost three hundred dollars to get his data back, but that was cheaper than losing all his work and buying new equipment.
Three hundred dollars. TOXICftw had come a long way. She read through each of the links on the first page, several of which were different pieces about the same events. In every case, the business paid the ransom and had their data promptly restored. A credibility boost for the hackers. Good advertising for the insurance companies. The most recent stories, at least the ones that shared specifics, confirmed the dollar amounts had grown dramatically. Details about whether the victims had coverage, and if so, with whom, were missing from all but one article. It included the name of the customer’s insurer, Carbonis, and a quote from their chief information officer, Vincent Blume, about the importance of organizations having a procedure in place to deal with these incidents.
Mr. Blume would be a good contact. And maybe a good suspect. A CIO would know the ins and outs of network hacks and insurance and how to mesh the two into a profitable venture. She searched for information on him and found his name mentioned in several magazine and newspaper stories. Most were of the industry up-and-comers variety, though a few did have more in-depth interviews, none of which revealed anything important. Like did he ever work for LockShield?
A search for his employment history pointed her to LinkedIn. No looking without signing up. She completed the enrollment process and ignored the prompts to update her bio—what would she say? Cop. Single. Iguana roommate. Then she scanned Blume’s details. No mention of LockShield, but he was passionate about people. Said so right there under his picture. Loved living in Hartford, Connecticut, the insurance capital of the world. A few jobs since he’d graduated college twenty-some years ago. At Carbonis for the last eight years. No phone number. She hovered the cursor over the Message button. Not yet. The first contact should be a live conversation. See how he reacted to her questions without time to think.
She closed the browser tab and clicked to the second page of search results for TOXICftw. More of the same. Most of the links led to information about the same hacks she’d seen on the first page. One link pointed to an article giving a broad overview of how ransomware worked and why it would be difficult to eliminate without removing some of the privacy protections of the internet. The piece included a list of known hacking groups and there, close to the bottom, was TOXICftw. She bookmarked the page and clicked the writer’s name. Shelby Rymer, a journalist for the alliteratively appropriate Hartford Hardline, which was an “independent news source specializing in all things Connecticut.”
Amara enlarged the woman’s photo. Why did she look familiar? Early thirties maybe, though who knows with all the editing that could be done on pictures these days. Brunette hair tied back in a ponytail. Round glasses a tad too big for her face, just enough of a smile to show she was a serious journalist but had a fun side too, and a nose ring through her left nostril. Amara settled in her chair and stared.
Where had she seen the woman? She scratched her forehead, but the itch was deeper. Had she been on one of the videos from the water park? Maybe, but wouldn’t there be plenty of people who looked like her? The only photo she’d seen was a headshot. A standard image used for her work.
For her work. This time the idiota remained unspoken as she clicked through the links she’d already visited. Of course she’d seen Shelby Rymer before. The woman’s photo was on three of the other items she’d read. Didn’t mean she couldn’t be a suspect, particularly if she had access to confidential information from insurance companies. Client lists would be worth their weight in Zcash to a hacking group.
She shook her head as the woman’s name fell atop the mountain of data pressing against her skull. What’re you doing? Look long enough and you’ll come up with a thousand suspects. Narrow the scope. Wrong target? Pivot to someone else. Put away the shotgun and pull out the Glock. Aim for what you know. Center mass. Keep firing until the threat is eliminated. Four options to choose from. Haley Bricker, Liam Walker, Matias Lucero, and Mighty Mouse 12. She’d spoken to all but one. Time to change that.
People chose their online names for a reason, didn’t they? So why “Mighty Mouse 12”? Wikipedia said the character debuted in theaters in 1942 and moved to Saturday morning TV in the ’50s, with the last revival of the series airing back in the ’80s. Also a comic book . . . spoof of Superman . . . blah blah blah . . . girlfriend Pearl Pureheart . . . archenemy a cat—very original—named Oil Can Harry.
Nothing that indicated why anyone would want to choose the name for their online persona. But why the twelve? Maybe there were eleven other Mighty Mouses. Mighty Mice? She typed the alias into Google and received a list of comic book sellers offering the twelfth edition of the comic. Near the bottom of the page was something different. A link to player stats for Tango Murked.
Mighty Mouse 12 had exactly zero wins. Zero losses. Zero kills and zero deaths. Every category was a nada except duration—53:41. MM12 had spent less than an hour in the game. No shocker, but it did lend credence to Haley’s statements. The guy only showed up when he had a new customer or when they needed to discuss something.
How to find him? No way to be notified when someone came into the game. You could set up an alarm when friends joined, but MM12 would have to accept her request. Not gonna happen. And even if she did see him online, so what? Not like she’d get anywhere near their private chat room.
She closed her laptop. MM12 would have to wait. The other three wouldn’t be as fortunate. She packed up her belongings and strode to her car.
They like playing games?
Let’s play.
Winner take all.
46
Barb Freemont, the CSI tech who’d inspected Coleman’s computer, grinned at Amara. “So what do you think?”
The woman’s three-bedroom two-bath home could’ve been cut from the pages of Better Homes and Gardens. Beautifully furnished in a southwestern motif, but not with the Texas kitschy overkill. No longhorns over the fireplace or cow-print sofas. Tasteful with an understated elegance. That’s what a magazine would say.
Until they got to the last bedroom. A pair of black desks, both anchored with a huge monitor, faced each other. Multicolored keyboards, padded headsets with microphones, mice with neon outlines, and an array of peripherals, some which Amara recognized, some she didn’t, filled any open space. Blackout curtains prevented any outside light from creeping into the darkened area. An assortment of backlit images lined the wall, all cartoonish drawings of what she assumed were computer game characters.
“Wow,” Amara said. “This is, um, wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks,” Barb said. “My hubs drew the pictures. He’s a natural, isn’t he?”
“They’re very nice.” Not her style, but definitely creative and colorful. “Is he an artist?”
“Nah. Programmer.” She pointed to one of the drawings. “Recognize her?”
Amara stepped closer for a better look. A tall, thin woman, her long brunette hair cascading over her shoulders, stood on a snow-covered hill. She wore a blue dress that sparkled with flashes of white and silver. Her arms were extended and wisps of a much lighter blue flowed from her fingertips into the frigid air.
“That’s you,” Amara said.
Barb grinned. “Technically, it’s Calina Iceguard, my elven frost mage. But yeah, that’s me.” She matched the pose in the photo. “The color coming from her fingers is arctic blu
e. Hubs thought that was pretty cool.”
“Love it.” But do you have to call him Hubs? “I really appreciate you taking the time, especially on your day off.”
“Not a problem. Even if it doesn’t help your investigation, maybe you’ll get sucked into the world of online gaming.” She rolled a second chair to her desk and motioned for Amara to sit. “Always looking to get more women involved. Tango Murked, right?”
“That’s what one of the suspects said. They meet in the game to make plans.”
An assortment of whirs and clicks sounded as the computer booted. “Don’t suppose you know their character names?”
“One. Mighty Mouse 12.”
“I’ll do a search once we get in the game, but I’d be surprised to find anything. Public visibility is turned off by default, so unless a player activates it, or you’re on their friend list, you’ll never see them.”
“Any thoughts on how we find him?”
The monitor filled with the Tango Murked logo and flashed to a screen full of options. “We don’t,” Barb said. “The only way would be if we were randomly matched with him, but that’s remote. You’re talking about hundreds of servers, each with thousands of players. The chances of being on the right server at the right time? Astronomical.”
“One of the suspects said she found friends by searching for players who were close to her.”
Barb nodded. “Used to, could do things like that. Not anymore. Too many privacy issues.”
“I guess that’s a good thing. Not for my investigation though.”
“It’s a very good thing, but meaningless in the bigger picture.” She swiveled her chair toward Amara. “I’ll give you the short version of my usual rant. The privacy battle is already over. Guess what? We lost. Mostly because we didn’t even fight. At this point, there are two options. Move as far away from civilization as you can and live off the grid, or trust that whoever has all the data isn’t going to use it in a way that harms you. I know which option I choose. Hubs feels the same.”
Network of Deceit Page 25
