"Kayla! Just got your message. I was tied up with the police. They came to my apartment."
"What did they want?" she asked.
"They asked if I knew what articles Beth was working on, but I didn't tell them."
"Do you know anything about Beth's files getting deleted from the server?"
"No. Max asked me to disable her account, but I haven't got around to it yet."
"Beth gave me her login information, but I don't see any recent files."
"That's news to me."
"Who can delete a reporter's files?"
"Only me and I never delete anything, period. Even after I disable Beth's account, the files will stay on the server. Say, do you want to meet for a late breakfast tomorrow?"
"You're busy today?"
"Emma's here. We may get a pizza later if you want to come over."
Kayla wasn't in the mood for Matt's new girlfriend Emma, whose behavior she found juvenile. Instead, they agreed to meet at the Bluebird Café the following morning. After disconnecting, she stared at her laptop screen for a while, wondering why Beth didn't put her latest projects on the server.
CHAPTER 15
THE THRILL OF THE HUNT was the most satisfying part of Kent Brickman's job as Chief of Security at Abbey Mount Hospital. He enjoyed exposing people, usually hospital employees, who thought they were smarter than him—cleaners who believed they could steal with impunity; nurses who lied about the cause of a patient's sudden death; doctors who took patient records with them when they left the hospital's employment. They all thought they could outwit him.
Except they never did.
But like a man who enjoys chasing after a younger woman, then gets bored with her after a few years, it was the pursuit that thrilled Brickman. His excitement waned after he'd caught his quarry; after he'd exposed them for the miserable excrement, they were. He had first experienced this as a private detective in New York where he was almost exclusively tasked with tracking down unfaithful partners. That hadn't been his intention when he started, because it required an investment in an array of expensive microphones and cameras. Back in the days of film, he also needed the services of a darkroom expert.
He'd had a good run as a private eye, but it ended ignominiously with the death of Claire Landsbury and her lover in a seedy backstreet hotel which rented rooms by the hour and asked no questions. Planting cameras or microphones there was impossible, so he'd burst into the room, catching Claire bouncing her flabby butt up and down on top of her toy boy. Unbeknown to Brickman, the husband had followed him and managed to empty a silver Saturday night special into his wife and her lover. He then swung at the private detective who counter-punched with a blow that put the husband in the hospital for a week.
The police department had frequently turned a blind eye to Brickman's illegal tactics, but their report on the killings and assault was his undoing. While police concluded he acted in self-defense, and did not charge him with a crime, they sent the report to the New York State Division of Licensing Services. The Board discovered Brickman had lied about his experience on his original application to become a private detective and banned him from ever practicing in the state. It effectively killed his career anywhere, as details of the ban were the first thing anyone looking into his background would see.
Brickman could only think of one way out. He moved to California and reinvented himself with a new first name and a fake employment history of his life as a trusted security professional. He told himself he was more than qualified for the positions he applied for. It took some careful organization of phone numbers to ensure the right people were ready to pick up the phone when anyone called to verify his record. He'd discovered that Abbey Mount Hospital staff were lax in their pre-employment checks. He'd had a few narrow escapes over the years, so when they offered him a job as Head of Security, he snapped it up.
Over the eighteen years, he'd held the position, he'd discovered enough evidence of wrongdoing by his boss, Hospital CEO Bill Lewis, to give him lifetime job security. He was always careful to conceal from Lewis his own flirtations with the law by only giving him the results of his investigations. Lewis knew better than to ask for details of his tactics, which many times included threats and blackmail, and the use of surveillance equipment like he'd used in New York. Naturally, the gear he used now was like night and day compared the primitive equipment he'd used back then. And it was much easier to obtain. Anyone could buy spy cameras and microphones over the internet with no questions asked. But, he told himself, only a select few knew how to use them properly.
A concealed camera was just what he would use to cut through Patrick Whitehead's bullshit explanation for all the overtime his hospital services department was working. It stung Brickman that Lewis hadn't called out Whitehead's blatant lies when they summoned him to the sixth floor to explain himself. Whitehead's department included the IT department led by Andrei Petrov. Brickman was sure that's where he would find the shenanigans.
With all the overtime, it had been tricky to pick a time when no one was there. But the previous night he'd been able to set up two miniature cameras with equally small microphones covering Patrick Whitehead's office and that of his sidekick Petrov. Brickman kept a secret basement hideaway, and he was there now, recording the output of his covert devices.
He was listening on headphones to a lengthy phone conversation between Patrick Whitehead and his ex-wife, Vicki, the Mayor. They were arguing over the education of their ten-year-old boy, who lived with his mother.
Brickman could only hear one side of the conversation through his bugs and was thinking he may have to hack the manager's cell phone if results weren't forthcoming soon. Although, he balked at the prospect of having to listen to Mayor Vicki Whitehead's whining voice.
Patrick Whitehead's voice was strained, "look, if he stays in the public school system, he won't go to college, and he'll wind up working in a supermarket or some other God-awful job. . . . Really, Vicki, you want to go there? . . . You're just saying that because it's better for you politically if he doesn't go private. . . . I can't believe you said that, you bitch. . . . Look, I'm too busy to keep taking your calls at work. . . . You know what I'm up against here, damn you."
Why are people so weak and stupid? Brickman wondered. Education is not the problem, no sir. He'd barely graduated high school, and now he was Head of Hospital Security. The real culprits rotting everyone's minds were video games and the internet. Such time wasters too. Probably how the Whitehead family passed their time.
Now his spy cameras were in place, he'd soon discover the rot in the Hospital Services Department and cut it out. Picking up a knife he'd been using to peel an apple, he made a slicing sound with his tongue.
PATRICK WHITEHEAD WAS seated at his desk, fretting over the wisdom of continuing to let Sophia live with him. He'd tried to impress on her not to phone him at work unless it was a real emergency like a fire or a flood, but she continued calling with questions she should have figured out herself. Now she'd just phoned to tell him her period was a week late. As if he needed one more thing to worry about. She'd also said she might have the baby should it turn out she was pregnant. Patrick suspected it was another of her stupid jokes, but what if it wasn't and Sophia refused to have a termination? How could he make her? He would end up paying to support the child for the next twenty years—another of life's unfairnesses. The girl didn't see life the way he did.
Whitehead's relief after escaping the early morning meeting on the sixth floor unscathed was now tempered by the realization that it was only a matter of time before Brickman found out about the hacking. Before the security chief discovered his cover-up and that cut-price security software was to blame for the intrusion. The man seemed to have an uncanny knack for unearthing the truth. The thought sent trickles of sweat down his back.
He was thinking of going home to talk sense into Sophia when his office door burst open, and Andrei Petrov entered. He was excitedly waving sheets of computer prin
tout at Patrick.
"We've finally cracked it." Petrov's unkempt hair and drawn face were a testament to the long hours he'd been working. "We have the identity of the hacker."
"Really?" Whitehead looked skeptical. It was the second time Petrov had found the name of the person who'd stolen Gigabytes of confidential patient information. The first had turned out to be an 86-year-old woman who lived alone and who'd never even touched a computer. Fortunately, they'd realized their mistake before taking any drastic measures.
"We've got him bang to rights this time."
"This had better be good. It's not just our jobs on the line; we could both go to federal jail for covering up the break-in. The data protection laws are strict."
"Most hackers get caught because they're sloppy and overconfident and this guy is no exception," Petrov explained. "Remember he used the moniker 'Jabberwocky' in the ransom email to Lewis. The one we intercepted before he saw it. We couldn't find the hacker's IP address as he routed all his online activity through anonymous proxies in Russia. We've known for a few days about a person using the same name on a bulletin board popular with hackers. In his recent posts, he's been boasting about a massive payout from a hospital. We take that to mean Abbey Mount Hospital. He usually uses the anonymous proxy to hide his location when he posts there too."
"How can we find the hacker's name if he's hiding where he is?" Whitehead thought it sounded like another dead end.
"Last night, he slipped up and posted a message on the board directly from his home IP address. We're not the police, and we couldn't just ask the bulletin board moderators for it, so we hacked into the board and retrieved it. Finally, we've got the name of the hacker who broke into the hospital's computers." Petrov looked triumphant.
"What's his name?" Whitehead's face brightened.
"A local kid, Mathew Baker. Goes by Matt, I've heard. We have his address."
"Him again! Remember a year ago, my ex, Vicki, had a problem with someone sending her malicious emails about her policies as Mayor. We went to the police, but technically he'd broken no laws. We contacted the internet provider and tracked him down. It was the same guy. The city's attorney got tough with him, and thankfully, the messages stopped."
"We need to find all the places he's stored the data and shut him down."
"We'll have to put the frighteners on him. It's the only way to force him to cooperate and convince him not to mess with us again."
"How will we do that?" Petrov realized he'd been so focused on the technical aspects of their plan, he hadn't thought clearly about what they'd do once they knew the hacker's identity.
"I have a Sig Sauer 9mm automatic. We'll wave it in his face and scare the shit out of him until he tells us what we want to know."
"He'll recognize us and go to the police after we leave. Then the game will be up." Petrov looked dismayed.
"Not if we wear ski masks. We'll tie Baker to a chair, while we erase all his data. Scare him into understanding it will go very badly for him if he ever says anything about us or the hacking. Leave him with something to remember us by."
Petrov felt like the walls were closing in on him. "Have you gone crazy? I'm just an employee here. I didn't sign up for guns, ski masks, and physical violence," he screamed.
Whitehead fixed his eyes on the younger man. "I don't care if you come with me or not. I'll find someone else, but I'm not going to jail. Get a grip, Petrov—you're a party to it either way, and I need to be sure you're going to keep your mouth shut."
When Petrov didn't reply, Whitehead made his fingers into the shape of a gun and said in a gangster movie voice, "I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse. Say hello to my little friend. Capisce?"
CHAPTER 16
"LOOKS LIKE RETIREMENT suits you." I was looking at the suntanned face of Ex-Detective Mark Davies. He'd taken early retirement a couple of years earlier to take care of his wife who had ovarian cancer. She died a month later, and I'd heard he'd suffered from severe depression ever since.
We were at the crowded pub-style bar of Wrights Grill, an upscale eatery in the downtown. I ordered a pale ale, and the barman pulled a double IPA for Davies without asking. After we collected our drinks, he ushered me to a wicker chair on the deserted balcony overlooking the river. The setting sun had turned the few remaining clouds a dusky rose hue.
"Best we discuss this well out of earshot," he leaned into me and whispered as we took our seats.
"As I said on the phone, I have a dead reporter who was allegedly investigating a pay to play arrangement between Mayor Vicki Whitehead and developer Joey Sands."
"You should be very careful who might overhear you saying that. There's strong support for the Mayor all the way to the top of the police department. After the Pascoe case, it became even more of a taboo subject."
"Our senior crime scene tech, Chris Andrews, said that was the last case you worked before retirement."
"It was a low note on which to end a career. We never did find Marcus Pascoe, you know."
"Any theories about what became of him?"
"He's either in Mexico or under two feet of concrete."
"What was his connection to the Mayor?"
Davies looked around before answering. "Five or six years ago, Pascoe came to us claiming he had evidence of a scheme to funnel kickbacks to Mayor Whitehead in return for a favorable ruling from her on rezoning land owned by councilman and construction company owner, Buddy Olsen. Developers Joey Sands and Jack Bennett wanted to build apartments there. Whenever there's a significant construction deal, Olsen and Sands are always the movers and shakers.
"I met Buddy Olsen briefly when I was at City Hall, and he deflected my questions."
"Olsen is a snake and a bully who'd sell his own mother if the price was right. His specialty is counterpunching. If someone attacks or embarrasses him, he'll retaliate in kind. He's filed complaints against officers in the past and plays dirty, so watch yourself."
"I've dealt with his type before. What was the scheme?"
"Quite a few years ago, Pascoe had started out framing buildings for Sands' construction company which at the time he co-owned with Jack Bennett."
"I gather Detective Turner found Bennett dead his second day on the job."
"After a couple of years in construction Pascoe got his contractor's license and started up on his own. He quickly got financially overextended and started cutting corners. He came to our attention soon after, when he took a one hundred grand down payment to build a warehouse for Ajax Solar. He began having the site cleared but work suddenly stopped because the subcontractor hadn't been paid. Pascoe and the money were nowhere to be found. Pascoe eventually turned up in San Francisco living in a hole-in-the-wall place. We brought him back and charged him with fraud and money laundering for which he served three years. Most of the money was recovered. A couple of years ago, he was out of jail on probation and laboring in the construction industry again. Working as a carpenter, if I remember correctly, and he came to us with a story about a kickback scheme involving his friend Sands and Mayor Whitehead. At that time, the mayor was renovating her house—one of those renovations where there's only one original wall left standing to get around building regulations. The Mayor's husband Patrick Whitehead, a big shot manager at Abbey Mount Hospital, was acting as the general contractor. Pascoe said he would be given, and I quote, a suitcase full of cash and it was his job to pay the subcontractors in amounts less than ten thousand dollars. We knew his history, so we didn't put a whole lot of credence in his allegations, but we had a duty to investigate whether a crime had been committed."
"You're saying Pascoe would be the bag man for the kickback payments to the Mayor in return for her rezoning land owned by Olsen so Sands could build apartments on it? Isn't corruption in local government something the feds usually investigate?"
"Chief Kane didn't want them involved. He said even if the charges were not proved, the FBI investigation alone would neuter the mayor for the rest of her term.
He wasn't going to do that on the say-so of a worm like Pascoe. We ran the investigation locally in secret. Pascoe even agreed to wear a wire. Then one day, a Saturday, if I remember, no one could find him. We guessed he'd skipped town with a suitcase of money. But he could just as easily have been cut up and fed to pigs. Either way, he was never seen again, but guess where his car turned up?"
"San Francisco?"
"Yeah. Maybe Pascoe is dead, but there's no evidence, either way, so now he's just another missing person case."
"You think he could still be alive?"
"It's possible. We couldn't afford the resources to continue searching for him indefinitely. He's a lowlife who misled us, so who cares where he is?"
"What happened with the rezoning?"
"It went through. Mayor Whitehead made the case that Sands and Bennett were building affordable housing, something the city badly needs, and it seemed to satisfy the press and the Mayor's critics. Olsen got to sell his land to them, though I believe all three were involved in the overall project."
"If the investigation was so secret, how come anyone knows about it?"
"Pascoe was known to be loose-lipped when he drank. He must have let the alleged kickback slip because the conspiracy theories about it keep resurfacing."
"Does that mean there could be some truth to what my dead reporter was investigating?"
"I don't know what evidence might exist for anyone to find. We looked into the subcontractors working on the Mayor's house and the payments they received, without finding anything out of order."
"Whether or not there's any truth to the allegations, it could still have got Beth Gervais killed, just like it got Pascoe vanished." I stared into the river's swirling blackness.
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