C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  Now I could only wait. I had to hope Chris would see the message, not be freaked out, and get back to me. My cell number gave him an easy way to figure out who I was. It would have to be enough. I wanted to look into his posting history on these forums, but it grew late, and I was tired.

  I went upstairs. Gloria woke up when I entered the bedroom. She propped herself on one elbow. Her chestnut hair flowed down her shoulders and touched the white sheet of my bed. The lingerie she wore fit like someone made it just for her, and knowing Gloria, it was a possibility. I found myself staring. Gloria grinned.

  Well, I wasn’t too tired.

  In the morning, I left the sleeping Gloria upstairs as I went down into the kitchen. One of these months, I would need to get my grocery shopping done. I made a cup of coffee and pondered my limited options. Some cracked wheat sourdough still looked good enough to combine with turkey sausage and a few eggs. A pretty basic menu, but it would do. I got two skillets going with a little olive oil and put the eggs and sausage on. The aromas of the food must have woken Gloria. She came into the kitchen and beelined for the Keurig.

  “No kiss for the chef?” I said.

  Gloria waited until her coffee brewed. She added sugar and creamer, took a long drink of it, and then kissed me. It tasted like spearmint and dark roast. “Priorities,” she said, taking a seat at the table.

  “I understand.” I flipped the eggs and sausage patties and maxed out the toaster at four pieces. A few minutes later, I carried to the table two plates, each with two fried eggs, three sausage patties, and two pieces of sourdough toast. I sat opposite Gloria and buttered my toast.

  “You always seem to know just what to make for breakfast,” Gloria said after a few bites of her eggs and sausage.

  “Years of morning-after practice,” I said with a wink.

  Gloria smiled and shook her head. “I might believe you.”

  “I might be telling the truth.”

  “Did you get any work done last night?” she said.

  “You mean between bouts of being ravaged by a beautiful woman?”

  “Yes,” Gloria said, color rushing to her cheeks.

  “I did some research, the kind you suggested. I found a few places Chris visited recently.”

  “Did you reach out to anyone who knew him?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I didn’t have much time. I found he logged in three days ago on one site, though, so I sent him a message.”

  “Any response?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll check after breakfast.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  I buttered and added apricot preserves to my second piece of toast. My first cup of coffee was getting low. “No idea. If he hasn’t responded by tonight, I’ll try to find some people who knew him on those sites.”

  By the time I needed a second cup of coffee, Gloria did, too. I carried both back to the table. We finished, and I nearly fainted when Gloria volunteered to put the dishes in the sink. If she washed them, I would have dropped where I stood. While I went down the hall to work, Gloria climbed the stairs to get a shower. She didn’t try to coax me into joining her; I must have looked serious about getting on task. I would have joined her had she asked.

  While Gloria showered, I looked into Chris Sellers’ activity on Coding Chat. He made over three hundred replies but only started three of his own threads. The pattern pegged him as a solid contributor. If I needed to track him down via other people, there should be no shortage of fellow coders he helped along the way. I focused first on the threads Chris replied to most often.

  They all concerned malware reverse engineering. I studied it in college and worked at it on occasion since. Chris Sellers was probably more proficient than I at the moment, much as it pained me to admit. He offered a few pieces of general advice to the original poster. Then the person posted the code in question, and Chris provided a bunch of comments. I wanted to see how insightful they were.

  I downloaded the code onto a flash drive. The exact functions of this malware had yet to be established. I would find out on a VM. I got out my laptop, fired it up, and logged into a fresh virtual machine. I copied over the malware code, compiled it, and ran it. I didn’t notice a visible effect. My desktop looked the same. I searched for open processes and found nothing unusual. Maybe this malware didn’t allow itself to be evaluated on a VM. On a lark, I opened a terminal window and examined the file list.

  Then I saw it.

  It took me a minute. I could have easily missed it. It was, after all, easy to overlook. It was exactly the point. Chris Sellers had been helping someone with a rootkit, a piece of malware able to hide from the user and subvert the operating system to mask itself. An extra file in the expanded listing I preferred provided the only indication, and I doubted most people would have seen it. Users and admins get accustomed to certain things, so much so they expect it. This rootkit took advantage of their tendencies.

  I tried to find it in other ways and got stymied at every turn. This one dug its hooks into a lot of processes. I checked Chris’ comments. He advised the original poster how this was a powerful and insidious rootkit and should not be trifled with. I couldn’t read the original poster’s intent. Chris must not have been able to, either, because he stopped replying after giving a long explanation and suggesting the poster leave well enough alone. This rootkit could do some serious damage in the wild. I wondered if anyone ever used it, and if an enterprising admin ever discovered it.

  I heard Gloria come down. While I destroyed my infected VM and created another, I scoured the forums anew. Chris’ replies centered on reverse engineering and esoteric coding challenges. From what I saw in his replies, he was a damned good programmer. In a moment of weakness, I would admit he had a small edge on me due to the recency of his research. No wonder Bobbi Lane held him in such high regard.

  Instead of continuing with Chris’ replies, I dug into the threads he started. One dealt with reverse engineering and how to handle a rootkit responsibly. Another solicited opinions on the finer points of Unix shell coding. The third intrigued me: it dealt with research into ransomware. I wondered again if Alberto Esposito found interest in Chris Sellers for the same reason. After some back and forth and solid suggestions, Chris posted his code. I downloaded it to a different flash drive.

  My new VM finished building. The code allowed me to manage and deploy the ransomware, so I built another VM to play the victim. Ransomware tends to lock users out of their files. I created a few text files on the second VM so the software could encrypt and hold them for ransom. After verifying any communication medium on the laptop was disabled, I compiled and ran the ransomware.

  The management console opened. This was software anyone could use. It gave a choice of how to encrypt the files, how much money to demand to release them, and ways to collect the funds. The hacker could choose what image to display on a victim’s desktop. This was one-stop shopping for criminals. All they would have to do is point and click through a few choices, wait for their malware to infect some unwitting folks, and start making money. I had never seen such customization before. If this got into the wild—especially in the hands of someone like Alberto Esposito—it could cause a metric ton of damage. Not to mention, raise a lot of ill-gotten gains.

  “Interesting stuff?” Gloria said from the doorway, making me jump in my seat. She padded into the room. “You were so wrapped up in your work.”

  “This is really interesting,” I said.

  “Did you find the guy?”

  “No, but I discovered he’s really good at writing malware.”

  “Is that a good thing?” Gloria said.

  I leaned back. “It’s a matter of perspective,” I said. “The coding skills are good to have, though I’d like to see them put to better use. This program could cause a lot of damage.”

  “What does it do?” I explained the basics of how ransomware worked. “That’s really shady,” Gloria said.

  “It is,” I said. “So
far, people who pay have gotten their files back. But there’s no guarantee it’ll keep happening.”

  “So people could have to pay over and over?”

  “Potentially.”

  “What if this targeted specific people?”

  “Good grief,” I said, letting out a slow breath. “It would be like spear phishing on steroids.”

  “That actually made some sense,” Gloria said.

  Was this malware the source of Alberto Esposito’s interest in Chris Sellers? I still needed to know how Esposito got onto Sellers in the first place. Now seemed like as good a time as any to pay Danny Esposito a visit. I looked at my phone; it just turned one o’clock. I had been sitting with this malware for about four hours. Doing anything else sounded better.

  I changed into more respectable clothes and drove to Hopkins. Several years went by since I was last on campus. During my senior year of high school, they recruited me hard, both for my academics and for the lacrosse team. I preferred computer science to engineering, opted for Loyola, and ended up not good enough to play varsity lacrosse. Despite the passage of time, I remembered where the admissions office was. I parked in an available spot and walked into the building.

  A few students dressed like they didn’t care if they got into Hopkins or not waited in the office. I asked the receptionist if I could speak to Danny Esposito. She eyed me and frowned. I didn’t dress like a college student. She said Esposito was busy. Was there anyone else I could see? No, thank you. Was I OK to wait several minutes? I was. I took a seat next to a fellow who wore a sweatsuit and smelled like he recently sweated in it. I hoped Esposito wouldn’t be long. Showing my ID could have reduced the wait, but I didn’t want to put anyone in the office on edge right away.

  A few minutes passed—and then a few more. I pondered the fact the receptionist and I favored divergent definitions of “several.” She looked at me from her desk on occasion. Her short blonde hair framed a cute face, but she kept frowning at me as if I were suspicious. Perhaps I should hold her character evaluation in high regard. While I thought about it, Danny Esposito came out of his office. The receptionist pointed him to me.

  Danny was shorter than his brother, probably about five-eight. He possessed a classic Italian complexion along with dark hair and dark brown eyes. He was built like a fire hydrant. When he walked, I could tell he was solid and strong. His gait showed an easy confidence. He could probably take care of himself in a fight, and if he couldn’t, his brother the gangster would be a phone call away.

  We went to Esposito’s office. I closed the door behind me, causing my host to frown, but he sat behind his desk without comment. The desktop held stacks of folders and papers atop it, and the bookshelf featured more of the same. “Must be the busy season,” I said after I sat in the uncomfortable guest chair.

  “We’re always busy at Hopkins,” Danny Esposito said, sounding like he worked in a pizza shop in the Bronx. I couldn’t tell if his accent was real, or he affected it because he thought he should. “You got an application in?”

  “Not exactly.” I took out my ID and showed it to him. He looked it over and peered back with narrowed eyes. “I’m looking for Chris Sellers.”

  “I don’t know who he is,” he said.

  “Sure you do. You were his graduate admissions officer.”

  “I got a heavy caseload.”

  The plethora of folders and papers confirmed it. “He wasn’t just another case,” I said. “This guy is smart, even on the Hopkins scale. In fact, he’s so smart you told your brother about him.”

  “My brother?”

  “Your brother.”

  “You’ve met my brother?” Danny said.

  “I have.”

  “Then you know what he does.”

  “If you’re trying to intimidate me, Danny, you’ll need a lot more than an implied threat. I don’t care what your brother does. He doesn’t scare me and neither do you. I’m here about Chris Sellers.”

  Danny Esposito stared at me. I didn’t say anything. He gave up after a few seconds. “I have work to do,” he said. “You need to go.”

  “After we talk, sure.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me.” Now he scowled again. As glares went, it wasn’t bad. It didn’t make me quiver in my Clarks, but I could see it getting a freshman to bolt for the door. “Time for you to go.”

  “Danny, this is how it is: we’re going to talk about Chris Sellers. You can’t throw me out of here, and I’ll prove it to you if you try. Let’s make it easy and talk about Chris. When we’re done, I’ll leave.”

  Danny shook his head. He got up and walked unhurriedly around his desk, staring at me the whole way. I watched him. He was squat and strong, but I couldn’t presume that also made him slow. I shifted in the chair, ready for him to throw a punch or try to grab me. He stood about a foot away and glowered down at me. I didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop glowering. We would hit an impasse soon.

  After a few seconds, he said, “You hungry?”

  I hadn’t expected anything of the sort. “Uh, yeah,” I said. “I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

  “We can talk about your boy over lunch, then. You’re buying.”

  I stood, still alert for shenanigans from Danny Esposito. “Where are we going?” I said.

  “The cafeteria. It’s close.”

  “How’s the food?”

  “Shitty,” he said.

  An advantage to lunching after one-thirty is the dearth of people doing it at the same time. Barely a quarter of the seats in the cafeteria held occupants, and the lines were short. We got in one. Esposito didn’t need to look at the menu boards, but I did. The fare and the smell of grease evoked memories of high school. I didn’t trust anything like chicken salad, so I opted for a burger and curly fries. Both surprised me by still being warm. I risked a chocolate pudding not appearing to be concrete in a cup.

  Danny Esposito had already selected a table. Like a good gangster’s brother, he managed to find one without anyone sitting nearby. He chose a chicken salad sandwich and non-curly fries, and he started eating by the time I sat with him. “You must be brave,” I said.

  He looked at his food and gave a knowing nod. “The first time I got it, I was,” he said. “It ain’t bad. Good sub shops do it better, but for three-fifty at a college cafeteria, it’s pretty good.”

  I took a bite of the burger. It had been cooked to medium. I did burgers at least to medium well. The flavor was good, though, and the toppings were fresh. “Why are you doing this?” I said.

  “What, having lunch?”

  “Talking to me.”

  Danny Esposito took a large bite of his sandwich. A little mayonnaise gathered at the corner of his mouth. He left it there. “You mean, why am I going against my brother?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “My brother’s an asshole.”

  “Good reason,” I said. I tried the curly fries. They were adequate.

  “Thing is . . . I’m an asshole, too.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You look like an athletic guy,” Danny said. He ate a few of his non-curly fries and talked again before he’d finished chewing. “My guess is you can take care of yourself in a scrape.”

  “I do all right.”

  “You always done all right?”

  “My parents made me take martial arts classes after some kid punched me a few times in sixth grade.”

  “You stick with it?” I nodded. Danny continued. “My brother wasn’t much of a fighter. Didn’t stop him from getting into his share of scrapes, of course. I was younger and not much help.”

  I shrugged. “Younger brothers shouldn’t fight battles for older ones.”

  “Sure.” Danny drank some soda and got a faraway look in his eyes. A minute later, he spoke again. “We got older. Alberto . . . got involved with some interesting people.”

  “I already knew about it. Doesn’t make you an asshole.”

  “No. But whenever I’d get in trouble,
I’d drop his name. ‘Don’t mess with me, fucker. My brother will kill you.’ That kind of shit.” He let out a dry chuckle. “Made me a coward, I guess. So yeah, my brother’s an asshole for doing the things he did. I’m an asshole for riding his coattails.”

  I gave Danny a couple minutes there. The faraway look returned to his eyes. I took the time to finish my burger. It would earn a five out of ten. Were I in college, I might have given it a six, but I made better burgers on a skillet in our dorm room. When Danny appeared ready to talk again, I got back to it. “How long have you been here?”

  “Five years,” said Danny.

  “How long have you been feeding names to your brother?”

  The corner of Danny’s mouth turned up. “I told you I was an asshole.”

  “I’m not judging. I’m trying to find a guy who’s gone missing.”

  “You think my brother was involved?”

  “I know he was.”

  Danny regarded me for a few seconds, then drank some more of his soda. “My brother has ideas,” he said. “He wants to modernize things, bring the operation out of the stone age. He knows where I work and figured I’d be a good resource.”

  “The admissions office has to have access to student records. You know who the good ones are.” He nodded. “And not long ago, you put your brother onto Chris Sellers.”

  “He’s a sharp guy. I knew he could help.”

  “What if he didn’t want to?” I said.

  Danny shrugged. “My brother is persuasive. He usually gets what he wants.”

  “You mean by threats.”

  “Hey, I told you he was an asshole.”

  “How much of one?”

  “Why?” Danny said with a frown. “What happened?”

  “Chris is missing,” I said. “I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

  “My brother’s not a. . . .” he trailed off.

  “Not a killer?”

  Danny didn’t say anything.

  “Maybe calling him a killer is a little much,” I said. “But he’s killed before.”