License to Lie

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License to Lie Page 20

by Terry Ambrose


  Baldorf smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I did some work for a local outfit that installs them. We did a trade. I feel way more secure now.”

  “Turning into a recluse?”

  “Like a Howard Hughes? No, man, I haven’t got that dude’s money—yet. Wait till Baldorf’s Revenge hits the stores, though.”

  “I know, you’re gonna be rich.”

  “And famous.”

  Skip snickered. Like Baldorf would care about either of those, he thought. He noticed that the monitor in front of Baldorf displayed more of the gibberish he’d seen on Dane’s computer. ”What’d you find?”

  “This guy is way into spyware. The funny thing is he’s only been monitoring one computer.”

  “Is that unusual? Stupid question. Of course it is. People who do that go after as many machines as possible, right?”

  Baldorf nodded. “That’s the norm. It’s unusual to put in this type of effort on one machine unless you’re carrying out some sort of industrial or commercial espionage.”

  Skip wondered who Dane could be monitoring. “Can you tell what computer?”

  “One geographically close to where you were. Maybe two blocks away.”

  “Two blocks?” Skip felt like a giant hand had just slapped him on the side of the head. He practically fell into the chair next to Baldorf. “The guy was planning to double cross his boss. It was a kidnapping and he was going to steal the ransom.”

  Baldorf winced. “Who got snatched?”

  “My client’s dad. They held him for five million ransom.”

  “Electronic transfers?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  Little lines around Baldorf’s eyes crinkled in a self-satisfied smile. “It’s all here. This guy was tracking keystrokes so he could intercept the banking transaction and reroute it. Very cool. Once you know what the login information is, it’d be simple, quick, and best of all, couldn’t be reversed.”

  “So he moves the money to another account and it just disappears?”

  “You’d know the number for the other account, that could be traced, but you’d never discover who had the account. Or the money. Sweet.”

  Skip wet his lips. Could it be that he’d found Roxy’s money? “So can you decode this stuff?”

  Baldorf let out a puff of air between his lips. “Dude. That was done before you were out the door. I got intrigued by this.” He clicked one of the buttons at the bottom of his screen.

  What was on the screen reminded Skip of an e-mail in some ways, but there were no little fields to put an address into. Skip said, “It looks like an e-mail printout.”

  “It is. It’s going to a Gmail account, sp5445. Like I said, it was generated from a place just a couple of blocks from this computer.” He pointed at the screen. “Here’s the message. It says, ‘Target en route. Money transfer should be complete within the hour. Will expect payment tomorrow noon at designated location.’” Baldorf continued. “I figured you were involved in some sort of kidnapping when I read that and a couple of the other messages.”

  “What can we do about it? The guy who owns this computer is gone. Disappeared. The kidnapper stole my car and totaled it. The other kidnapper is dead.”

  Baldorf smiled. “You’re gonna love this. The answer to all your problems.” He clicked another button at the bottom of his screen. “Your bank transfer, voila.”

  “You have it? I have to call Roxy.”

  “Is that the target?”

  Skip nodded. “Yeah. No, wait. Let’s see if we can get into the account.”

  Baldorf winked. “Awesome. I thought you’d never ask.”

  He turned and opened an Internet browser. He typed in an address and a screen for Amalgamated Worldwide Bank came up.

  Skip said, “You’re amazing, Baldorf.”

  Baldorf nodded. “Yeah, I know. Wait until I’m amazing, rich, and famous.”

  Skip searched the page frantically, but was nowhere near as fast as Baldorf. He’d already selected one of the menu items. A new page, this one labeled Client Accounts came up and Baldorf quickly scanned the page. His head and eyes moved like a metal ball in a pinball machine. His eyebrows went up as he clicked in a field and began to type.

  “This is the account number,” he said. “Once I click this button, we should get . . . aha.”

  Skip glanced at the screen. He watched as Baldorf clicked in the user name field.

  He typed again. “There’s the user name.”

  He tabbed down and typed again. “And the password. Ready?”

  Skip glanced at Baldorf. “Go for it.”

  Baldorf clicked the login button.

  The image of gears turning appeared on the screen. He raised his eyebrows. “Sweet graphic.”

  A moment later, a message appeared. “The user name and password you entered do not match our records. Please try again. Your account will be locked after three unsuccessful login attempts.”

  Baldorf got an irritated look on his face and swore. “Shit. Maybe I had a typo.” He retyped the information. The result didn’t change. “Well, damn.”

  Skip glared at the screen. “Somebody’s changed the password.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Roxy

  The balance in the account at Amalgamated Worldwide Bank was $4,877,946.32. In the short time that my money had been there, I’d made a bit of interest. My one consolation was that we’d never completed my mother’s transfer so she still had her $50,000. Actually, there was another bit of good news—I was getting $10,000 of the kidnapper’s money that had already been in the account.

  A little surge of self-satisfaction made me smile. “Serves you right, asshole.”

  For the first time since my dad had disappeared, I felt good. I found myself humming a Jimmy Buffet song while I performed my first official duty as the new custodian of the money—changing the password on the account. Tomorrow, I’d move the money to the account I’d set up when I was planning this operation. Amalgamated and my bank offered similar services—online banking, anonymity, and security—unless, of course, someone got hold of your login credentials. The credentials for my account were in my head, not written in a stupid email. What a bunch of amateurs.

  I wasn’t going to need Stella’s phone for anything else, so I put it back in its charging stand. My next step was to implement my long-planned exit strategy. I was supposed to have a bit more money, but under the circumstances, it was time to pull the plug. In fact, I was surprised that the cops hadn’t already started investigating my business. Once that started, leaving would be nearly impossible. No, when they showed up on my door, I wanted my door to be unanswered. I’d be in the Caribbean, somewhere where these local guys had no jurisdiction. A strange longing weighed on my heart, but I’d do what had to be done.

  My business records all resided on my laptop, which I unplugged and set in its carrying case. Usually, I just left the machine here, but I’d take it along to avoid having records of my dealings accessed easily. No sense in giving the cops their case. I also went to Stella’s desk and started up her computer. As long as she hadn’t changed the password, which I’d told her not to do, I could check to see what she had there and clean up any incriminating evidence.

  As it turned out, Stella didn’t have much on her computer, just a record of my calendar and an address book. It still amazed me that she’d gotten involved in this kidnapping scheme. She’d just seemed so—could she have really conned me that well?—no, Stella was dense. Or was she?

  I’d learned enough about computer records to know that the only safe hard drive is a missing hard drive. Without that, the forensic guys would have a helluva time reconstructing anything. Just to be sure, I cleared off the calendar entries and the address book. There were some documents I’d had her work on to help drum up business. Those marketing materials wound up getting trashed also. Finally, satisfied that it would take a forensic review of the disk to find anything of value, I shut it down and pulled out my trusty
screwdriver set. I’d pull the hard drive and take it with me. I could drop it in the ocean somewhere and the evidence would be harder to find than the Titanic.

  A few years ago, I learned the ins and outs of computer forensics by visiting a computer store and sweet-talking the tech into showing me how to remove a hard drive. Removing the drive on Stella’s machine took me just over ten minutes. I glanced over at her cell phone. Just to be safe, I’d toss that, too. I placed her phone and the hard drive into a cloth shopping bag that I kept in my desk drawer. It took twenty minutes to shred the signed documents for my clients. Everything else was in electronic format and those documents were on my laptop.

  I checked my exit strategy list and congratulated myself. Forty-eight minutes. I gazed around the room. Forty-eight minutes. I’d destroyed my entire business in less than an hour. It was as though all the sins of my life suddenly came crashing down on me. The need to let it out grew until I plopped down into my chair and cried. And cried.

  The last time I cried like that was when my dog Brandy died. My parents bought a Golden Retriever shortly after I was born. I’d never known a day without Brandy, had never walked in the house without her greeting me at the door, licking my face and my fingers and giving me her unconditional love. She died when I was fourteen, two days before I graduated from 8th grade.

  I cried for Brandy, for the mistakes I’d made, and for the ones I would make in the future. The tears rolled down my cheeks in a river that couldn’t be stopped. My head began to pound and that made me cry more.

  I wailed, “Stop it! Dammit, stop it.” But the tears wouldn’t stop. My body and emotions had taken their own path. I’d turned into a perpetual crying machine and felt like I was producing tears that could be packaged and sold. And that made me cry more, because, for the first time, the realization that I’d sold my soul hit me.

  With my head pounding, my eyes wet and hurting, and my little bag full of the soon-to-be discards, I headed for the door. There was little time left. My stupid crying-jag had cost me more valuable time. If I didn’t move now, if I didn’t get out of town before morning, my instincts told me I’d be discovered, arrested, jailed, and would lose everything. I was not about to let that happen. If nothing else, I’d have the money.

  By the time I made it to the car, which was one of several parked on the street, the tears let up enough that I was able to get my key into the door, unlock it and toss the shopping bag in the back seat. I needed to get home to pack a few clothes into an overnight bag. I stuck the key in the ignition, but my vision blurred again as the tears returned. My head was killing me. I tried breathing deeply and soon I was able to see clearly enough to drive.

  A car and a motorcycle approached in the opposite direction. The car continued on, but the motorcycle did a U-turn and parked in a spot in front of the car ahead of me. The street was dotted with parked cars. Several of the buildings here had been turned into work-live lofts. But there was something familiar about this guy. I bit at my lower lip. Who would be out at this hour? I waited.

  At this point, my Toyota was hidden from his view by the car between us, but I could just make him out through the front and rear windows of that car. I slipped down in my seat as he walked away from the bike. He strode toward the door of the building, but stopped about halfway there. He glanced up at the window of my office. I followed his gaze. I’d forgotten to turn off the lights on my way out. The guy glanced at my car, apparently noticing it for the first time. My heart pounded again. He took another look at the window above. He started in my direction, and my breath caught. Then, he turned and ran through the building’s front entrance.

  I gave him another few seconds, then started the Toyota and pulled out of my parking space. The guy on the motorcycle had been Skip. He’d figured everything out, I was sure of it. The fact that he’d come here made me believe he’d either been to my condo already or would be going there soon. Should I trust that he’d already been there? No. I’d use the back entrance.

  Fortunately, my condo building isn’t gated. That lack of security had concerned me on several occasions, but tonight I praised my decision to not move to a more secure location. There were a couple of ways into and out of my building and, once in, I could exit out the patio slider and Skip would never be the wiser—if he turned up there.

  It only took a few minutes to drive to my place. I parked my car a block away on a side street in the middle of a row of cars relegated to the street each night. A few of the apartments around here, mine included, had their own parking lots, but many didn’t. Consequently, this hodgepodge neighborhood had a few little “secret” pathways that were known only to exploring tenants or those who were clued in by a neighbor. In my case, I’d met my neighbor, a little old man of about eighty who walked to the nearest market each day and carried his groceries home. He’d told me about the back way in and out of the building. I’d used it a couple of times for that same run, so I knew the route. I went in the front entrance and grabbed my mail, sure that I had a few minutes lead on Skip. When a business card fluttered to the floor as I pushed the door open, I knew that Skip had already been here. How long before he came back?

  “Pull yourself together, Roxy,” I muttered. I hadn’t even noticed the card wedged between the door and the weatherstripping. I stuck the key between my teeth, kept a firm hold on my laptop with my left hand and grabbed the business card off the ground with my right.

  On the back of the card, he’d scrawled, “Call me.”

  I got inside, locked the door, and turned on the lights. Diversion. If he showed up, I’d need a diversion. If he saw lights on, he’d try and get in. Who knows how long he might bang on the front door while I slipped out the back.

  I went to the closet and grabbed my overnight bag, which was a combination notebook case, briefcase, and suitcase. I put the laptop into its compartment and sealed that up. Next, I needed some underwear, two changes of clothes, my toothbrush, razor, and makeup. No gels. No liquids. No hassles with TSA at the airport.

  With clothing packed, it was time for my exit cash, passports, and credit cards. I had three fake credit cards in different names that I’d never used, but kept for a time when I’d need the convenience of credit without being discovered—at least for a while. I’d charge airline tickets on one, hotel on another, and keep the third for another escape should it be necessary.

  I put $250 of the exit cash in my wallet. The remaining $750 went back into its envelope, which I secured in my carry-on bag. The burbling of the phone nearly sent me through the roof. I muted the phone and checked caller ID. It was Mom. Shit. Had he gone to my parents’ house, too?

  “Roxy, honey. It’s Mom. Skip was just here and he’s worried about you. If you’re around, call me. Your dad and I are worried sick about you, too. Please, call.”

  I waited, listening to a silence that spanned my lifetime. She sniffled, then finally disconnected. It was 11:37 p.m. Mom and Dad were usually in bed by ten. I felt the tears coming again, but found the will to hold off. Skip would be showing up soon, I was sure of it. I had to move and had no time for emotions. Once I got to the Caribbean, I could cry for days. Until then, I had no time.

  I jumped again at the knock on the door. No! It was too soon.

  Skip’s voice came through. “Open up, Roxy.”

  I took a last look around my apartment. I loved this place. I liked my neighbors.

  Another knock.

  Damn you, Skip Cosgrove! I glanced at my image in the mirror. I looked like hell. My face was blotchy, my mascara had run, and I was sweating and breathing like a marathon runner at the end of a race.

  The image was enough to make me hate myself and everything I’d become. I took a last look at myself. “Time for Roxy Tanner to disappear.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Skip

  The butterflies that Skip had felt in his stomach were gone, replaced now by a rancid mix of fear and anxiety. Emotions were truth. Skip believed that. “Trust your gut,” didn�
��t become a cliche’ because it was wrong.

  Skip sat in the chair adjacent to Baldorf and leaned back. Try as he might to act calm, he knew what this meant. With the password to the killer’s bank account changed, one thing was certain. The game was over. Someone had the money and the likelihood of getting it back was somewhere near zero. Who was he kidding, he knew who the someone was.

  Baldorf watched Skip with an expression that said, “I’m sorry.”

  Skip shook his head. “It’s not your fault. I know who did this.”

  Baldorf seemed to perk up. “Let’s check his browser history. We’ll know if he visited that site.”

  Less than a minute later, the browser history showed that Dane hadn’t accessed the AWB web site.

  Baldorf said, “Dude, he couldn’t have changed the password.”

  “I know. Two people might know how to access this account—the kidnapper and Roxy. The kidnapper is dead. He died before he got hold of the CD. That leaves Roxy. Somehow, she hacked that disk. I have to find her, Baldorf.”

  He sat for a few seconds until Baldorf said, “What are you waiting for, dude? Go! Find her. You’re, like, a major downer on my space.” He winked, then made a shooing motion with his hands.

  After leaving Baldorf’s, Skip had gone directly to Roxy’s apartment. When she didn’t answer the door, he stuffed his card into the doorframe and went home to use the GPS locator on her phone. He quickly discovered that she was at her office. He could think of only one reason she’d be there at this time of night, she was after the money and getting ready to run. He got on Wally’s motorcycle and drove there. When he arrived, he spotted her car, but it looked empty. The office light was on so he charged up the stairs to her office and realized—once he’d picked the lock on her door—that she was long gone. The inside of the office had a normal appearance, except for the lights blazing away in the middle of the night.

  When he came back to the street, her car was gone. It was the second time this week he’d made that mistake. At first, he’d assumed she’d go to her parents. He drove there and learned that they’d been asleep when Richard answered the door. He’d asked Evelyn and Richard not to call Roxy, but knew what would happen next. Evelyn had probably been on the phone to her daughter before he’d mounted the bike.

 

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