The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "Yeah, yeah. Vader had ya make a copy of that segment, then 'suggested' you sorta make it dis-a-pear-like, right?"

  Rubin grinned, exposing a gap in stained teeth.

  Taseer managed a smirk, nodding.

  "Been there, done did it, got the T-shirt and the attaboy smiley-face sticker," Rubin declared, refocusing on the computer screen.

  "Ol' Danny-boy is Metro's go-to guy for special jobs like this, ya know. Hell, who do ya think made those minutes kinda evaporate from the parking-garage video? The one that caught our distinguished guv-a-nur gettin' it on with that hot filly? Ol' Danny Boy!"

  Rubin glanced sideways and stage-whispered, "'Course, Vader always takes very good care of Danny Boy, if ya get my drift."

  Hajji smiled broadly and produced two five-inch-long tickets and a hundred-dollar bill.

  "Ta-da! And that's why you are goin' to the championships next weekend."

  "Awe-some, dude!" Rubin breathed, pinching the tickets between smudged fingers and smoothly pocketing the cash. "It's impossible to get these things! Your bro hook 'em? Is he gonna be fighting?"

  Again, the awed tone of respect.

  "He scored a couple, 'cause he… like… works with the right people, ya know? He's on the program, but not fighting for the championship. Didn't make the finals."

  "Soooo cool, my man! Wooo-hooo! Danny gonna see some serious ass-kickin' bad boys!"

  Rubin was a die-hard fan of the ultimate-fighting craze that had swept Las Vegas in recent years, and was particularly impressed that Hajji's younger brother had become a nationally ranked mixed martial-arts combatant.

  Shooting another glance at the clock, Rubin turned back to his bench. "Dude, we are gonna fix this here DVR. I know 'zactly what Vader wants, and Danny Boy aims to please. Yes he does."

  His fingers flew across the keyboard, time-tagging and designating sections of the DVR's terabyte-capacity hard disk. He raised his arm, hesitated, then slammed a middle finger on the return key.

  "There she goes! Now, what we're doing is 'prepping' part of the disk. Your IT guy erased the section that had recorded those critical incidents, ya know, but the video data's still hidden on the disk. It can be retrieved by some smart dude, if he really knows what the hell he's doing."

  Hajji's thick, V-shaped eyebrows furrowed in concern. "But… I thought… you… . That other time… ," he sputtered.

  "Hey, my man! I tell ya. Not a problem!" Rubin pointed at the screen and dropped into a rapid-fire commentary.

  "This program scrambles everything recorded after about two-thirty last Thursday afternoon. Takin' the recording media right back to the most basic, clean-platter configuration. Your incriminatin' section will be as clean as the day this hard disk was born! Baby-butt smooth and not a pimple of bits and bytes for even Freddy the Federal Forensic Squirrel to find.

  "No human be-in' on the planet will be able to recover that data, because it just ain't der no mo'! Nuttin' to find, ya see?"

  They watched a red bar slowly inch from left to right, then vanish.

  "There ya go! Touchdown!" Rubin yelled.

  Fingers flew across the keyboard, terminating the disk-prep routine.

  "Now we'll give this puppy a good reason for not recording data in that sector."

  Agitated, Hajji danced from one foot to the other, aimlessly waving a paw.

  "You sure no computer guy can dig through that… you know… the hidden video data, and… . Captain Greel said… unless you do a super job, Danny, some fed… ."

  "Not to worry, my man! There's nothing left to find, don't ya comp-re-hend?"

  Rubin lifted the DVR to about shoulder height, and watched the computer screen closely.

  "Soon as those read-write heads get to right about… there, we deliver the coop-da-grace!"

  With a spread-eagle flourish, Rubin released the DVR, letting it crash to the shop's floor. The narrow box's plastic cover shattered, exploding in a shower of gray shards.

  "What the… !" Hajji cried, jumping to avoid flying debris. "By Allah… ! You broke our damned DVR!"

  Rubin stared down at the dented frame and exposed circuits, then shot his customer an exaggerated wink and lopsided grin.

  "Oops! So solly!"

  Kneeling, he retrieved the damaged DVR, returned it to the bench, reset a loose cable, and punched flush-mounted buttons on the front panel. He tapped several computer keys, then pointed to a wire-mesh graphic on the screen.

  "Shee-it, my man! We done did it! See that?" Rubin asked, tapping the display. "The read-write heads kissed those recording platters, so yo recording media are big-time ruined! Deeee-stroyed! Those puppies are not gonna record no mo'!

  "And that's why your po' li'l DVR did not capture that Steele dude gettin' hosed by our Metro buds, see?"

  "You sure?" Hajji asked, still worried.

  He had no idea what he was looking at. It was all techno-gibberish — strange codes and see-through mesh images of stacked pancakes.

  "Hell, yes, I'm sure! No sweat-ski, my man!" Rubin enthused. He flipped the DVR case upside down and removed screws from what was left of the shattered cover. He carefully unhooked latches that held a thin square of polished aluminum in place and tugged a multiwire cable connector free.

  "This is the hard disk that had recorded video from about six cameras, both inside and outside the store," he explained, slipping it into a smoked-plastic envelope. With a felt-tip marker, he scrawled something on a label, pressed an adhesive band closed and handed the sealed packet to Hajji.

  "Make sure you stick this in the security safe. Some 'forgetful' Metro detective will come looking for it… eventually."

  He winked.

  Hajji fingered the envelope and its diminutive hard drive. "You're absolutely positive this won't show any of the cops shooting, or… ya know… stuff inside the store last Saturday? If Captain Greel… ."

  The anxious security guard was hardly convinced that the tiny mechanism in his palm was neutralized and no longer constituted irrefutable proof that could send Metro officers—and him—to prison for murder and conspiracy.

  "Abso-frickin-lutely positive, man! The critical section of that little doggie is totally blank. No video there at all! I swear on my momma's grave! You got nuttin' to sweat!"

  Rubin inserted a new hard disk, replaced the damaged DVR case, tested the unit with a camera and declared victory.

  "Put 'er in the rack, and she'll work like new."

  Hajji expressed profuse thanks, shook hands with Rubin and headed for the parking lot. He carefully set the DVR on the passenger seat of a cherry-red 1999 Mazda Miata.

  The two-door convertible was supposed to be an irresistible chick-magnet, but Las Vegas women had proven surprisingly immune to his charms, even when enhanced by a cool sports car. He ran a hand along the low-slung roadster's fabric top, distressed that the material's waterproof coating was cracking, a casualty of brutal desert sunshine and heat.

  Hajji hated the desert. He longed for the cold, damp climate of Anchorage, or even the moist warmth of Florida. Unpaid traffic tickets, the threat of jail time for driving under the influence, and a rash of credit card fraud charges had forced a hasty departure from both states.

  Thanks to a sympathetic uncle, who happened to be a vice president in charge of security for the rapidly growing Ho's chain, Hajji had landed in Seattle. Young Taseer had been hired under a special ethnic-diversity provision adopted at the previous shareholders meeting.

  Fortunately, his uncle conveniently forgot to conduct a background check. Two years at Ho's headquarters had led to a field assignment in Las Vegas.

  Hajji reflected on that transfer, as he threaded the Miata through heavy westbound traffic on Charleston Boulevard. In a rare moment of honesty, he admitted that the reassignment had been outright banishment, a means of protecting the corporation from a massive lawsuit. A bitch working in the front office had claimed Hajji Taseer assaulted her, after a few drinks at a local club.

  Hell, she'd clearl
y wanted him, but had fought like a cornered wolverine, when he tried to bring her fantasies to life. Then she filed a complaint, charging him with stalking!

  Fancy legal footwork by his uncle and Ho's chief counsel had avoided a sexual harassment suit—but the price of settlement included Taseer's immediate reassignment to Ho's-Summerlin in Vegas.

  His uncle had saved Hajji's nascent career, by asking Ho's very pissed-off president, "How much trouble can a horny security officer possibly get into in Las Vegas?"

  Taseer parked in the meager shade of a wind-battered tree in the Ho's sprawling lot. He retrieved the repaired DVR, ensured that sealed envelope containing the original, now-damaged hard disk was in his pocket, and angled for the store's double entrance-and-exit doors.

  Under the covered portico, he glanced uneasily at a prominent streak on the concrete, where Erik Steele had died.

  Hajji felt a pang of anxiety mixed with excitement. Yeah, he was responsible for Erik Steele's shocking death, but the stupid ex-Army officer should never have challenged Ho's rules, especially on Hajji Taseer's turf!

  Allah be praised! the guard whispered, as he skirted the mop-smear, a fading reminder that Erik Steele's life had oozed away on that concrete pad.

  I am mujahideen!

  His Afghan brothers in the Korengal region would be proud.

  In Ho's security office, Taseer reinstalled the DVR, connected a handful of signal cables and verified the system was operational.

  He stowed the damaged hard drive in the store's cheap safe, and surveyed an array of closed-circuit TV monitors. Images showed customers milling around the cavernous warehouse store's aisles, searching shelves and transferring products from oversized shopping carts to black conveyer belts at a row of checkout counters.

  Everything was back to normal. No hint that a horror of gunshots, screams of fear and death itself had appeared on those monitors less than forty-eight hours earlier. Except for Metro-muddled, foggy memories of about fifty witnesses, there was absolutely no record of that shooting, either.

  Assuming, of course, that Danny had, indeed, excised the video data.

  Hajji swiped the screen of his cell phone and thumb-typed a cryptic text message. He re-read it, deleted a word and tapped the Send icon. Satisfied that he'd done his part, he pocketed the phone and returned to the floor of Ho's-Summerlin store.

  With luck, maybe he'd bust another clueless would-be shoplifter today. Or put the moves on that pretty pharmacy tech, whose Air Force hubby had just deployed overseas.

  * *

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  Within seconds, a National Security Agency Echelon algorithm intercepted Hajji's text message, routed its content to a Checkmate server in Washington, D.C., and logged the cell-phone numbers of both sender and receiver. An analyst responded to an automatic alarm, tagged the message as High Priority, and ensured it was forwarded directly to the appropriate parties.

  Although it wouldn't be read for several hours, the message had been filed in an NSA-encrypted inbox, before the security-room door closed behind Taseer.

  For Checkmate director Gray Manor, that message was incontrovertible proof that the Ho's-Summerlin loss-prevention guard and one of Las Vegas Metro's senior police officers had conspired to destroy critical evidence in a homicide case: Capt. Greel — Video disappeared. Data unrecoverable. — H. Taseer

  CHAPTER 14

  PREPARING THE BATTLEFIELD

  "Do not let your heart be troubled,

  nor let it be fearful."

  John 14:27

  LAS VEGAS/TUESDAY

  "Hey, Dad." Kyler Steele wrapped both arms around his dad's shoulders. As men do, they thumped each other on the back and ribs, but also held on a bit longer than usual.

  "How're you doing, Big Guy?" Win asked, overcome by a wave of emotion.

  My only son, he thought, a flash of painful reality. At least, in this existence.

  "Been better," Kyler said, whipping off a pair of wraparound sunglasses to wipe his eyes. "How was the trip?"

  "Long. Too much time to think. A lot of questions and damned few answers."

  He left the obvious one unsaid: What the hell did Erik do that warranted being shot to death?

  "You didn't stop for lunch, did you?" Kyler surmised, correctly. "I'll fill you in over a burger."

  Win parked the titanium-colored Volvo XC90 and climbed into the back seat of a Yukon SUV. Trace, Kyler's golf-pro friend, drove to a Gordon Biersch restaurant. Inside, Trace, Kyler and Win slid into a booth and ordered sandwiches.

  Kyler quickly summarized a meeting with Sofia Knight, the lawyer Erik's friends had contacted, and her suggestion that they re-engage today, after Win arrived.

  "We'll hook up with her, Max and Rico over by Ho's at three. Kat might show up, too. Sofia said she wants to go into Ho's and look around."

  Win had been studying his son's features. Kyler was tired and hurting, but the young man was in control, emotions in check, focusing on what had to be done.

  "Thanks for jumping in right away, son," Win said softly. "Have you been into Erik's condo yet?"

  "Yeah. We finally got a key from the Public Administrator's office yesterday. That dipshit PA who called me broke in late Saturday, took some random items, then changed the lock — and charged me two-hundred bucks! Kat's key wouldn't work, of course, so we couldn't get in, until I signed for stuff the PA had confiscated."

  "You get everything back?"

  "All but a Sig Sauer P226 they found in a nightstand drawer. The PA said they'd get it to you, but through a licensed firearms dealer," Kyler explained. "They wouldn't give it to me, 'cause I live in California."

  "What about the rest of Erik's collection?" asked Win. His eldest son had been a gun collector and avid investor, and possessed at least a dozen rifles and pistols. Of particular concern were historic weapons Erik's late grandfather had given him. An M-1 Garand, for example, had been in the family, since World War II.

  Kyler smiled. "Thank God, Erik had locked most of them in a huge gun safe. The PA had a Metro cop with him, and they would have killed to get into that safe! They did steal two pistols, though — that we know of. And two rifles."

  "Stole them? You sure?" Win asked, startled.

  He pushed the half-eaten chicken sandwich aside.

  "Damned sure! Erik had a tiny Ruger LCP on his nightstand, and an H&K forty-five jammed in the couch cushions," Kyler affirmed. "Neither one was on the PA's inventory of items, and they're both missing."

  "He always kept that forty-five between the couch cushion and arm," Win recalled. "You sure he didn't put them in the safe, too?"

  "Absolutely. We got into the safe yesterday, and neither pistol was there." Kyler smiled. "Opening that safe was a trick, too."

  He recounted how he and Max Decimus, Erik's business partner and close friend, had called a gun shop, where the safe had been purchased. Store personnel gave them the basic six-digit code for the safe's electronic key pad, but it had failed to open the five-foot monster. Evidently, Erik had reprogrammed the touch-pad code.

  "Max looked at me and said, 'Erik was predictable. I'll bet we both know what he used for a code. What's your guess?' I told him, punched them in—and click! The safe popped opened!"

  "But the two handguns and rifles weren't in it?" Win pressed.

  Kyler shook his head. "Not like Erik, but the safe was a mess—like he'd practically thrown those high-dollar guns in it. Ammo boxes were stacked up, but a ton of loose rounds were scattered all over the bottom. No pistols, though.

  "The two missing rifles had been in cases under the bed. Both were empty, except for a few magazines."

  "How do we know… ?"

  "One other thing," Kyler interrupted, raising a hand. "Erik's digital camera. The one Danielle gave him? It was in the safe, too. We checked it, and guess what?"

  Win shrugged. "Pics of Kat?"

  "Pictures of all his guns. Kat said Erik had laid out his whole collection and took pictures for insurance purpos
es. In several, you can see that little Ruger LCP and an extra magazine on the nightstand. Kat said Erik always kept the Ruger there, so he could grab it in the middle of the night."

  "You're positive those pics were taken Saturday morning?" Win asked, visualizing the bedroom.

  "Absolutely. They're time-stamped, right on the image. Erik was going to leave his guns on the bed, while they did some running around Saturday, but Kat talked him into putting most of them in the safe.

  "Good thing, too, or that piece-of-shit PA and cop would have taken every damned one of them!"

  "Except for the Ruger. Was it still on the nightstand?"

  "The last picture on the camera was one Erik took of Kat, smoothing out the bedspread, after all the guns were stowed. You can see the Ruger and extra magazine on the nightstand. It was still there, when they left that morning. Definitely."

  "But not when you got into the condo yesterday."

  "No. We searched everywhere, because Kat swore the Ruger and that forty-five had been in the condo, before those shitbirds broke in."

  Kyler slammed a fist on the table, startling his buddy, Trace, who'd been eyeing a young waitress. "The bastards stole four of Erik's guns, Dad!"

  "Maybe," Win allowed. "But why?"

  "Don't know," Kyler admitted, fiddling with his cell phone. "Here. Listen to that PA dude's voicemails."

  He tapped a screen icon, activating the speaker.

  Hunched over the table, the three men listened to voicemails left by Deputy Public Administrator Rob Vaca. The second confirmed, "we're going in, as soon as Metro gets back."

  "Those jerks were desperate to get inside," Win agreed, tight-lipped. "They were looking for something."

  "I think they found it," Kyler replied, returning the phone to his shorts' Velcro-flapped pocket. "When Vaca called the first time—while I was at DFW—he claimed the 'Public Administrator secures weapons and valuables,' after a person dies. Supposedly, when the victim's family can't be located, or if nobody is living in the deceased's home.