“One day somebody’s gonna get a bright idea to bust in that back window, make off with that junk and turn all the kids in this town into crack hos, and we won’t have the foggiest who done it, will we dude? Course, ask me and I’d put my money on that biker dude. Jimmy told me the dude laid damn near a Benjamin on him as a tip? Hoo— hot damn! I’m bettin’ he’s like one of them advanced scouts for Hell’s Angels. You know them biker clubs is all a front for drugs and all sorts of bad business, right? I seen it the other night on one of them cable exposés, dude. Them guys is bad news. . .bad news, I’m telling you that!”
Lloyd whistled to emphasize his point. Martin took the note out of his back pocket and scanned it again.
“So, uh, dude,” said Lloyd, straining to get a better look at the letter. “Why’d you want to know so bad anyway? What’s the biggie if someone left you a letter or something?”
Martin quickly folded the letter and slid it into the back pocket of his khakis. He smiled.
“Sorry Lloyd, I think we’re up to nearly 20 now, which exceeds my daily dude quota. Gotta go,” said Martin, turning back to the pharmacy shelves.
“Huh?” asked Lloyd.
“Back to work,” said Martin, stepping back from the counter.
“Ah, gotcha” said Lloyd, smiling. He whistled through his teeth and went back to patrolling the store. “Peace out for now, dude!” he called back to Martin.
“Yes sir,” said Martin under his breath. “Peace when you are out.” He returned to his inventory.
Chapter 17
Steve had overslept. He had hit the alarm with dead accuracy, but he fell back to sleep. Twenty minutes after eight, he woke again and cursed at the clock. Skipping the shave, he dressed quickly, snatched up his keys, and ran to his Jeep. Before he left the driveway, he texted Randy to say that he would be a little late. Randy was usually flexible with him, but Steve still liked to account for his own time. He backed his Jeep out into the street and sped toward downtown Charlotte.
Countless nights with little sleep were making the transition back into the working world very difficult for him. He’d upgraded to the extra large diet soda each morning, but the caffeine was just a delaying tactic. Somehow, he was going to have to find a way to get some sleep.
By the time he got downtown, traffic was in full swing. The bank’s corporate offices were off Trade Street, so he had to fight for every foot of progress through Charlotte’s morning gridlock. As he waited for the light to change, he fiddled with the radio, looking for something to pick up the pace.
A loud knock on the driver’s side window startled him. A tall man wearing an orange reflective vest and neon yellow hardhat was peering in, leaning on the tall temporary STOP sign on a pole. The portion of his face not covered by black sunglasses was weathered and tan. He had the broad shoulders and deep chest of one accustomed to manual labor. Startled that the man had gotten so close to the car without his noticing, Steve rolled down the window.
“Mornin’!” said the worker in a cheerful Southern drawl.
“Morning.”
“Listen,” said the worker, “the road ahead of you is gonna be kinda bumpy. I’m gonna need you to be careful.”
“Oh, okay. Are we going to hit a detour or something?” Steve asked, looking ahead for the imminent construction.
The worker chuckled.
“No, no sir, not if I can help it. You just gotta stay with the course you’re on, and you’ll arrive where you need to be. Take it easy and watch where you’re going.”
“Uh, okay,” said Steve, “thanks.” The vagueness of the worker’s directions surprised him. And since when did they come to your window and warn you in person?
As the light changed, he proceeded across the intersection and looked up to see the worker waving to him in his rear-view mirror. He kept his speed slow and his eyes alert for several blocks, but never found any sign of road construction.
He arrived late to work and the parking lot was almost full, so he parked several rows out.
Grabbing his diet soda, he gathered his rucksack and began the trek through the rows of cars to his building. Steve worked for a regional bank, so his building was full of not only bankers, but all sorts of corporate support staff—administration, human resources, shipping and receiving, building maintenance, the bank’s regional call center and, of course, the other technology geeks like Steve.
As he walked through the office, he could see everyone else had already pushed the day into full swing. The air buzzed with water-cooler conversations that centered on sports plays and last night’s reality show blunders. Phones chattered, and the muffled sounds of closed-door deal brokering wafted from several offices on the first floor. The miasma of stale coffee and burnt early-morning popcorn already filled the air. Errand runners and doorway meeting-holders constricted the corridors.
It was a typical workday morning, and Steve was beginning to hate it more with each passing day. He kept his sunglasses on and his head focused forward, avoiding collisions and conversations with equal precision. He negotiated the crowd and took the back stairs to his third-floor office, taking the stack of mail out of the bin hanging on the wall before he swiped his badgekey on the panel next to his office door He said a silent prayer of gratitude that Randy had moved the senior technology staff members into their own private offices.
His office was small, with no windows and a plain, simple desk. His bookshelves were Spartan, full of organized technology manuals, trade magazines and photos of him and Julie. His few mementos included a replica of a Chinese abacus Julie had bought for him several Christmases ago and a tiny inunnguaq stone statue he had bought on a trip they’d made last year to Manitoba. He kept all of his tools and spare parts inventory downstairs, near the network operations center and server room. It was a small, simple office, but it was his. Now, more than ever before, he was grateful for that. He had a door to shut and four walls to keep others out and his personal demons in.
He plugged his laptop into its docking station. As he waited for it to load, he sorted through the pile of mail. Between the most recently published networking magazines and the latest software catalogs, he saw an envelope, the same lavender color as the one he had found earlier. He flipped it over. This one also had his name on the front, written by hand, but in a much gentler style than before. It looked like a woman’s handwriting. To Steve it looked like Julie’s.
He tore the envelope open, and inside was a one-page letter written in the same script as the envelope. Today’s date was at the top. Steve read it to himself:
Steve,
My God, how I miss you too, baby. Hearing your words makes me ache. I know how great the pain is now. I feel it myself, even as these words are written. It will get better. You must trust me on this. You are strong Steve, and you have to stay that way for everyone’s sake. There is so much at stake here, and we are all watching, listening and praying. Wherever you go, and whatever happens, know that I will be with you at each step. Yes, this is goodbye—a second chance for us both to say what is in our hearts. But then again, we shared everything, so we really didn’t need this, did we? I was yours, I am yours and I will always be yours. This is only goodbye for now. Together we’re better, forever we’re strong. United as one we can never go wrong. We’ll walk hand in hand up to death and beyond. We’re better together, it’s where we belong. Be strong and remember that you will always have my love.
Julie
Steve’s heart was pounding. He felt his adrenaline coursing, and he was ready to fight. Someone was stealing his identity. They were invading his life and his personal secrets. He cursed himself for sending the message the night before. He had fallen victim to one of the oldest phishing scams in computer security. The Say Goodbye to Me site was a fraudulent website designed to lure visitors in and prey on their fears, convincing them to reveal confidential information.
But he had never heard of such a complex approach. Typical cyber thieves cast a wide and automated net ov
er thousands in the hope of snagging a potential victim or two. But they always relied on technology to help them. They used phishing emails with fake messages promising dire results if the recipient didn’t “click here now” to update their bank data or personal information. Or they promised wild riches, if the recipient would be so kind as to deposit a small amount of money into a US bank account for the rich-yet-recently-deposed African prince in desperate need of help.
He had received the invitation to the site in a handwritten letter! They’d breached the bank’s network defenses, which was difficult, (but not unheard of), given the safeguards the bank invested in. Yet rather than swindling him online, were these thieves regressing to paper form? The handwriting on this note looked identical to Julie’s. Surely, they could have had samples of her handwriting by digging through the trash, but that would have been months ago, when she was still alive and writing. Maybe they broke into his house and found samples of her writing: recipes, legal signatures or her address book. If they were going to risk breaking in, why not pull a smash-and-grab? There was enough computer equipment to make it worth their while, but how did they make it inside with no forced entry and no tripping of the security alarm?
Why would someone go to such lengths? How did they know that he was going to visit the site last night? Did they monitor his Internet traffic that closely? Had they written this fake response after he had submitted his message? How had they fabricated it so quickly and so accurately in six hours’ time? Steve read the letter again. The typical scam would keep up the façade until the thieves got what they were after: your identity, your credit card number, your bank account info. Yet this message seemed to be attempting to close communication. The words were so strange and out of context: “There is so much at stake here, and we are all watching, listening and praying.” What was that supposed to mean? The letter even ended with lyrics from “Better Together” by an obscure alternative country duo called Sex ‘N Cigs. Steve and Julie’s first real date had been to see them at the Ready Room in downtown Charlotte more than a decade ago. “Better Together” had jokingly been their “first song,” although it had disappeared from their music library in later years. It was the song playing on the radio in Steve’s recurring nightmare about Julie’s death. No trash-digging or computer-hacking could have produced that information. How could they possibly know that?
Steve could taste the bitter bile of anger in his mouth. He felt naïve and violated. Someone was in his space—picking through his trash, hacking into his computer and maybe even burglarizing his home. He hadn’t had the foggiest idea this had been going on, and now he was realizing how truly “out of it” he had been these past few weeks.
For the next hour, he checked and re-checked the bank’s information security systems and his own computer’s logs and defenses. He could not find any evidence of tampering. His machine was clear of trojans, worms and any type of known virus. He found nothing that pointed to even a marginal flaw in the bank’s technology defenses. He spent time researching online to see what he could turn up on this targeted type of retro-style cybercrime. He submitted countless descriptions to the search engines and information security databases describing the crime style at hand: “phishing scam with forged printed note,” “hackers with handwriting,” “identity theft + link website to handwritten note.” None of his dozens of searches yielded anything useful or even similar to his situation.
This had to be a targeted attack. There was too much manual effort involved for it to be some faceless, bored, teen tech prodigy in his parents’ basement or one of the commonplace cybercrime gangs from Russia or Eastern Europe. This was a very cunning, very local criminal who had Steve in his sights.
“But why me? If this guy is that skilled and that jacked into everything about me, why not take it to somebody with something more to offer?”
Should he call the police and report it? No. For one thing, technically no laws had been broken yet. In fact, the response letter hadn’t asked him for anything. Aside from that, Steve had seen enough in the media to know that justice often got the shaft, thanks to a technicality or a procedural loophole that could cause the prosecution to lose an otherwise slam-dunk case. He wanted there to be no doubt as to the intentions of the person behind the messages before he involved the police.
It was nearly noon now. Steve decided to skip lunch, take care of a few of his more pressing networking issues and then head out early. At quarter after two, he called Randy’s office and the secretary put him right through to Randy.
“This is Randy,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.
“Hey Randy, it’s Steve,” said Steve.
“Steve! Glad you made it in,” said Randy. “How’re things?”
“Great, thanks,” said Steve. “Listen, Randy, I’ve set up the new virtual test server for the apps group and the upgrade for the mail server for the southside branch is done. The box is in the workroom, packed up and ready for delivery. I’ve already let the mailroom know.”
“That’s great Steve. How’re we doing on those quarterly virus numbers? I still haven’t got those yet.”
Steve was chagrined. “Oh, damn. I’m sorry, Randy. I forgot. I’ll get them to you soon, but I really need to leave now to take care of some personal matters.”
“Wow, you take this ‘banker’s hours’ thing to heart, don’t you?” asked Randy.
Steve forced a half-laugh. “Yeah, I know. I appreciate your being so flexible lately. I have a lot of things still on my mind, but I think that soon I—”
“Steve,” Randy interrupted. “I’m kidding. Look, you have a solid record at this bank. Everybody makes mistakes. A little forgetfulness is understandable these days. Take the rest of the day off. Just get them to me soon, okay?”
“I will. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Take care, man,” said Randy.
Steve hung up the phone. He packed up his desk, shoving his laptop and the latest letter in his rucksack. His plan: go home, plug in and do some hacking of his own, if need be, in order to find the answers and the evidence he needed. He was no longer tired, and the caffeine had nothing to do with it.
Chapter 18
“June, look,” said Martin, into the phone, “it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it ‘like’ Martin?” June snapped from the other end.
“I miss her, June,” he replied. “I want to remember her the way she was.”
“Of course you miss her,” June, sighed, softening a little. “I miss her, too. But having some public memorial makes no sense. Why do we want to linger over it, and let other people talk and assume so much?”
“Let them assume,” he said. “She was our daughter! We are entitled to remember her however we want.”
Trying hard to keep her voice even, June explained: “Exactly my point. I don’t want to remember her by listening to a whole bunch of people coming together, weeks after she died, to tell us how special she was. Because then they will all talk about how she died and why she died. And, Martin, I don’t want to continue to go through that.”
Martin heard her pause and take deep breath before continuing.
“Maggie was our beautiful and lovely daughter. I don’t care how senseless and horrible these last few weeks have been. I don’t care that we’re divorced. No matter what else happens, she will always be that brilliant spark that we made and raised. I just don’t want the public spectacle of it all.”
Martin was silent. He felt the all-too-familiar tightening in his throat and stifled the tears threatening to escape from his eyes. He did not want his former wife to hear him crying again. Several silent seconds passed. Both clung to the phone, neither speaking, yet neither wanting to hang up.
With a sniffle, June continued, “I don’t want us to forget her, Martin. I don’t want you to forget her but let’s do it in our own private way.”
“I know, June,” said Martin, struggling to hold it together, “but I miss our baby. I can’t let
her go.”
June was openly sobbing now. She breathed deep and spoke through her sobs. “You have to. You have to let her go. You have to move on. We’ll always remember our sweet Maggie, but we’ve got to let her go now.”
Martin shook his head. He could no longer speak. He mustered enough voice to end the conversation. “Okay, thanks. I have to go,” he said, and punched the button on the cordless phone without waiting for her reply.
He shuffled to the desk and turned on what Maggie had dubbed his “ancient PC.” His preferring to spend his money on expensive kitchen appliances like a bread-maker and a professional mixer, while his computer grew long in the tooth, had been a foreign concept to his daughter. Nowadays those appliances and the computer were getting very little use.
He reached into the bill basket on the desk and pulled out the crumpled handwritten note he had found on the pharmacy counter. It wasn’t June’s handwriting, but had she sent it to him?
He wasn’t going to call her back to ask. That would only make things worse. Whenever he called June, he thought about Maggie, and when he thought about Maggie, it reminded him of how lonely he was. It had been a year since their divorce had been finalized. They both had known it was coming for some time, but they had made an unspoken pact not to act on it until Maggie was out of the house and off to college. Somehow, her being old enough for college had seemed like the “right” time to drop the sham that their marriage had become.
On Tenterhooks Page 8