Pittman dumped his grungy coat in a waste can. After using some of Reverend Watley’s five dollars to buy orange juice and a Danish from a sidewalk vendor, he boarded a subway train for Brooklyn, took his electric razor from his gym bag, made himself look as presentable as he could, stared out the window, and brooded.
21
The last time Pittman had seen him, Brian Botulfson lived in a run-down apartment building on the Lower East Side. Surrounded by expensive computer components that hid the cockroaches on the dingy walls, Botulfson had obviously enjoyed the glamorized image of an impoverished student. But now his apartment building was quite respectable—clean, made of brick, with large, glinting windows, in an attractive neighborhood, the Park Slope section of Brooklyn.
Pittman nodded to a man coming out of the well-maintained building. Then he climbed steps, paused in the vestibule, studied the names on the buzzer directory, and pressed the button for 4 B.
When he didn’t get an answer, he pressed again.
One-on-one contact? Great. But what if nobody’s home? Damn it, I came all this way for nothing.
He was about to press the button a third time when a nasally male voice spoke from the tinny microphone. “Yes? Who is it?”
“Brian?” Pittman asked. “Is that you?”
“Who am I talking to?”
“Matt Pittman. Do you remember me, Brian? When you had that trouble about hacking some years ago, I did a couple of stories about you in the Chronicle.”
The intercom became silent.
“Brian?”
“What do you want?”
“To talk, Brian.” Pittman liked to use a person’s first name as often as seemed natural. It established a bond. “Quite a while since we saw each other. I thought I’d catch up, find out what you’ve been doing.”
The intercom became silent again.
“I need to talk to you about something, Brian.”
“What is it?”
“I feel a little awkward down here, with my face against this intercom. Unlock the door, will you, Brian? I’d like to come up.”
A further silence.
“Brian?”
To Pittman’s relief, he heard a buzzer at the side of the door electronically freeing its lock.
He quickly turned the knob, pushed the glass-paneled door open, and entered the building’s recently painted, fresh-smelling, white lobby. The comparison between this and Pittman’s own dingy apartment building was striking. Brian must have a job that paid well, Pittman decided.
An elevator took him to the fourth floor, where he went to 4 B, heard a child crying beyond it, and knocked. Even though Brian was now expecting him, ten seconds elapsed before the door was opened.
Pittman was surprised by Brian’s appearance. Seven years ago, Brian had preferred sneakers, torn sweatshirts, and jeans with the knees ripped out. He’d had two shark’s-tooth earrings. His scraggly hair had hung down over his shoulders. All in all, he’d looked more like a candidate for a heavy-metal rock group than the computer fanatic he actually was.
Now he wore black Bass loafers, gray slacks, and a blue button-down oxford-cloth shirt. The earrings were gone, as were the holes through which the jewelry had been attached. His brown hair was cut so short that it didn’t touch his ears. He had wide-rimmed bifocal glasses. His very conventional appearance drew attention to his short, slight stature and his weak chin, which a thin mustache did nothing to hide.
“What do you want?” Brian blocked the doorway.
Pittman glanced past him and saw an infant in a high chair at a kitchen table.
“Is that your child, Brian? Things certainly have been happening. You’ve got to fill me in.”
Pittman made a move to enter, but Brian didn’t budge.
“What do you want?” Brian repeated.
“Brian, this isn’t very sociable of you. I come all this way to see you, and you don’t even want to catch up on old times.”
In addition to the cries from the infant, Pittman heard an announcer.
“Watching TV while you feed your baby?”
“The news.” Brian’s expression was sober. “CNN.”
“Ah.”
Brian’s expression became even more solemn.
So he knows, Pittman thought. “Anything interesting? Seems to me I heard something about Jonathan Millgate. That reminds me of seven years ago when you helped me get his unlisted telephone numbers.”
Brian’s eyes narrowed. Inwardly he seemed to flinch. “What do you want?” he asked a third time.
“A favor.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Why does anybody ask a favor? I need help.”
“That’s not what I meant. Why should I do you a favor?”
“That’s a tough one, Brian. I guess because you’re a human being. Incidentally, your child’s starting to climb out of that high chair.”
Brian swung, saw that the baby was in danger of falling, and hurried to grab it. The baby cried harder.
Pittman stepped in and shut the door. “Boy or girl?”
“Hey, I didn’t say you could—”
“What have you got there? A jar of apricot baby food? Let me help feed… Boy or girl?”
“Boy. But I didn’t say you—”
“How old?”
“Almost a year. But—”
“Wonderful-looking boy. What’s his name?”
“Daniel. Now, look, I—”
“Brian, I’m in trouble, okay? From the expression in your eyes, I think you know I’m in trouble. I think you just heard something about it on CNN. I bet you said to yourself, ‘No, that can’t be the same guy who interviewed me. It can’t be the same guy I did a favor for and got him Jonathan Millgate’s unlisted telephone numbers. Matthew Pittman. Yeah, that was his name.’ And then all of a sudden, here I am knocking on your door. A lot to adjust to, isn’t it?”
Brian held the baby and looked nervous.
“Are you married, Brian? Where’s your—?”
“She’s gone for groceries.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting her.” Pittman set down his gym bag. “I wasn’t kidding. Let me help feed your son.”
Holding the baby, Brian stepped slightly backward.
“Brian, I think you misunderstand. I’m not here to make trouble. All I need is a small favor, and then I’m out of here.”
Suspicion fought with hope. “Do what?”
“Nice apartment. Love the plants. Clean. Roomy.” Pittman opened a door and found what was obviously Brian’s workroom. “Ah. I see you still keep up your interest in computers.”
“I’m a programmer for Nintendo.”
“And how about hacking, Brian? Do you still do any of that?”
“That was years ago. Since I met Gladys, I… Wait a minute. You’re asking me to…”
“And then I’m gone.”
Brian’s cheeks quivered with tension. “Nintendo would fire me if they found out I was hacking. Gladys would have my nuts.”
“They wouldn’t know. All I need is one piece of information, Brian. Then I promise I’m out of here. With luck, before Gladys gets back.”
The baby squirmed. Brian eased him into the high chair. When he tried to spoon some of the pureed apricots into his mouth, the baby knocked the spoon and sprayed apricots onto Brian’s clean shirt.
“Here, I was always good at this.” Pittman made a face at the baby and immediately got its attention. He crouched so that his eyes were even with the baby’s. He leaned forward so that his nose touched the baby’s, but he kept his eyes open, noticing that the baby did the same. He pulled back and opened his mouth.
The baby opened his mouth.
He spooned the apricots into his mouth.
“How the hell did you do that?” Brian asked. “Strangers always make him cry, but you…”
“I had lots of practice.” The baby reminded Pittman of how Jeremy had looked as a child. He suddenly felt melancholy.
“They say
you killed him,” Brian said.
“Millgate? No. That isn’t true.”
“And a man in your apartment, and your boss at the paper.”
“The man in my apartment pulled a gun on me. We scuffled. He fell and broke his neck. As for my boss…” Pittman hesitated, his throat tight with grief. “No, I didn’t do anything to Burt. It was someone else.”
“And they say you’re hysterical, out of control. That you’re planning to kill yourself and you don’t care who you take with you.”
“No. That isn’t true either, Brian.” Depression overwhelmed him. “I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”
“Then you’re not suicidal?”
Pittman looked at the baby.
“Well?” Brian asked.
“That’s about the only thing that is true.”
The kitchen became silent, even the baby.
“They say your son died.”
Pittman swallowed and avoided the issue. “I really need this favor, Brian. I’m in a lot of trouble that I don’t deserve, and I want to set it right.”
“Why? I don’t see why it should matter if you’re planning to kill yourself.”
“Yes. I’ve been asking myself that a lot.… I think”—he swallowed again—“it’s because all along I planned to go out cleanly. But suddenly everything has gotten very messy.”
Feeling pressure in his throat, Pittman spooned more apricots into the baby’s mouth.
Brian stared at him. “What the hell happened?”
Pittman frowned toward the floor. Then he told Brian everything.
22
Brian kept shaking his head, alternately bewildered and dismayed. “This is…”
“I swear to you, it’s the truth.”
“Look, you can’t do anything about this on your own. You have to go to the police. Tell them what you just told me.”
“If you have trouble believing me, would they?”
“But you don’t have a choice.”
“No. I don’t think the police could keep me safe.”
“Man, oh man, do you realize what you sound like?”
“Who was it said that paranoia was the only sane attitude to have these days?”
Brian looked appalled. “And you expect me to…”
“Get me into some computer files that I otherwise wouldn’t have access to.”
“Like?”
“At my newspaper. I have to show ID and sign in to enter the building. A guard or someone else would recognize me. They’d call the police. But I know the passwords that allow access from an outside telephone.”
Brian looked somewhat less threatened. “That’s not hard to do. In fact, it’s almost a legitimate request. Under other circumstances, it would be legal.”
“Yes.” Pittman had fed the baby and now was changing its diaper.
“And that’s all?”
“Well…”
“There’s something else?”
“I need to get into the computer system for the city’s criminal records.”
“Jesus.”
“Isn’t there a way to route the call through a system of long-distance relays so the call can’t be traced before I get the information I need?”
“Yes, but…”
Pittman turned as someone opened the door.
The woman—a redhead, severely thin, with stern features—looked alarmed at the sight of Pittman holding the baby. “What are…?”
“Gladys, this is a friend of mine,” Brian said.
“Ed Garner,” Pittman said, hoping that if he used a different name, she wouldn’t associate him with the photographs of him on CNN or in the newspapers.
Gladys marched to a kitchen counter, set down two bags of groceries, and took possession of her baby. Her pinched expression suggested that she felt Pittman wasn’t worthy enough to have touched her offspring. “Ed Garner?” She squinted at Brian. “You never mentioned him before.”
“Well, I…”
“We were buddies in college,” Pittman said. “We loved to fool around with computers.”
“Computers? You weren’t a hacker, I hope.” Her voice had the grating sound of a knife being sharpened.
“Never had the nerve.”
“Brian had too much nerve. He went to prison for it.” Her eyes glared.
“Anyway,” Pittman said, trying to change the subject, “I heard Brian was living in this area. I’ve got relatives not far from here, so I figured I’d drop in. Brian was just about to show me some of the stuff he’s doing for Nintendo.”
Wrinkles developed between Gladys’s eyes.
“Weren’t you, Brian?” Pittman said.
“If that’s all right, Gladys. You can see the baby’s been fed and changed.”
Gladys narrowed her steely gaze at him. “Just remember, we have to be at my mother’s in an hour.”
“I couldn’t possibly forget.”
Brian and Pittman went into the computer room. Brian shut the door. He looked angrily at Pittman.
Pittman worried that the anger was directed at him, then understood its true target.
He had an ally.
23
Furious, Brian turned on the computer, then locked a phone into a modem. His cheeks were flushed. “Which system do you want to access first? Your newspaper’s?”
“Criminal records.”
Brian didn’t react to the change in priorities. Instead, he touched buttons on his telephone.
“You know the criminal-records number by heart?” Pittman asked in amazement.
“No. This is a friend of mine. I don’t hack anymore, but I keep in touch with friends who do. This guy’s obsessed about eavesdropping on the police. And he never talks on the phone. I always have to go through his computer.”
Words appeared on Brian’s computer screen.
YOU HAVE REACHED THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE.
“He’s also crazy about Star Trek.” Brian tapped letters on his keyboard.
MR. SPOCK TO CAPTAIN KIRK.
“Spock’s my code name,” Brian said.
Words appeared in response.
KIRK HERE. WHAT IS YOUR PASSWORD?
Brian typed more letters.
TRIBBLES.
New words appeared on the screen.
PROCEED, MR. SPOCK.
Brian typed:
TOP SECRET MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND. FEAR THAT KLINGONS MAY TRY TO INTERCEPT TRANSMISSION.
The response came quickly.
ACTIVATE SCRAMBLER.
Brian turned on a machine next to the phone.
SCRAMBLER ACTIVATED.
For the next few minutes, Pittman watched with fascination as Brian tapped his keyboard, read and responded to queries on his screen, and finally wrote down a series of numbers.
“Got it.”
MAY YOU PROSPER. SPOCK TO KIRK. OUT.
Brian pressed other numbers on his telephone. “I’m routing this through Fairbanks, Alaska, and Key West, Florida. Even then, the call can be traced. If the criminal-records computer senses an intrusion, I’ll have to unplug right away.”
“How will you know?”
“That’ll tell me.” Brian pointed to another machine beside the telephone.
He pressed more numbers and nodded toward the screen. “Okay, we’re in. What do you want to know?”
“Access the file for Sean O’Reilly.” Pittman spelled the name.
O’Reilly had been the master thief whom Pittman had interviewed some years ago. The tool knife with its lock picks that Pittman had used to get into Jonathan Millgate’s room had been a gift from O’Reilly.
“There,” Brian said.
Pittman read the screen. Earlier, when he had tried to find Brian’s name in the phone book, he had also looked for O’Reillys, with no success. Either O’Reilly was back in prison, had moved to another area, or…
“Yes.” Pittman picked up a pencil and notepad.
According to O’Reilly’s file, he’d been released from prison three mont
hs previously—on parole—which meant that he was required to keep the authorities informed about where he was staying.
The address was on the Lower East Side. Pittman quickly wrote it down, tore off the piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.
“Now what other computer files do you want?” Brian asked.
“I thought so,” a steely voice said behind them.
Pittman and Brian spun toward the noise.
Gladys must have been listening at the door. She had thrown it open.
She stormed in. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute. You can’t stay out of trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“You are hacking. What’s the matter with you? Do you like prison so much that you want to go back there?”
“You’re mistaken,” Pittman said. “I was showing Brian some work I’ve been doing.”
“Get out of my house.”
“We accessed my files at—”
“Don’t lie to me. Your name isn’t Ed Garner. It’s Matthew Pittman. CNN just did a story on you. I recognized your picture.” Gladys yanked the phone from the modem. “I’m calling the police.”
As words vanished from the screen, she raised the phone to her ear and pressed 911.
“Gladys,” Brian objected.
From another room, the baby started crying.
“Please,” Pittman said.
Gladys spoke to the phone, “My name is Gladys Botulfson. I live at—”
Pittman pressed the disconnect button. “You’re doing something stupid, Gladys.”
“I don’t want any killer near my baby.”
“You don’t understand.”
They stared at each other.
The phone began to ring.
Gladys flinched.
“That’ll be the police,” Pittman said. “They have an automatic record of the phone number of anyone who calls them.”
Desperate Measures Page 11