Mrs. Chang shook her head. “He’s not here. He’s my son, back home.”
Franklin had to be in his forties, Joe figured. Surely he could handle himself.
She seemed to read his mind.
“Franklin is what they call a change-of-life baby. Mr. Chang and I, God rest his soul, thought we couldn’t have children. We made our peace with that. But the year I turned forty-five, God graced us with Franklin. He was an unexpected gift. And I’m afraid I raised him too soft. My husband died twenty years ago, when Franklin was thirteen. He’s a bit of . . . a momma’s boy.”
She ducked her head in shame.
Joe obviously didn’t know this Franklin character from Adam, but he felt compelled to comfort the woman.
“Come on, now. A kid with your DNA? He’s got to have a steel core. Maybe it’s just well hidden.”
She met his eyes with a look of gratitude.
“I hope so, because he’s mixed up in something serious.”
“Why don’t I fix us some soup while you tell me all about it?” He gestured toward the pine table and chairs jammed in the corner of the kitchen area.
She followed him across the room and arranged herself in the hard chair, then launched into her story while he banged around in the kitchen, looking for a ladle and a pot.
“Franklin’s a very bright boy. He’s good with computers. Coding and programming and things. But he’s not good at life.”
Joe turned a dirt-crusted knob on the stove, and one of the flat circles on its surface glowed to life. He stuck a cheap, lightweight pot on the burner and glanced over his shoulder at her. “No street smarts?”
“Exactly. He’s naive. Like I said, soft.”
A shadow of regret crossed her face, and he hurried to move on.
“What’s he do? Does he have a job?”
She straightened in her chair, her posture suddenly full of maternal pride.
“He’s very important. He works for SystemSource, writing their programs.”
He opened a can of chicken stew and dumped it into the small, dented pot. He stirred it and tried to keep her talking.
“What do their programs do?”
She chuckled, a deep belly laugh.
“What don’t they do? I don’t understand the technology at all, but Franklin tells me they can monitor and control almost any computerized system from anywhere in the world. It sounds fantastical to me.”
“What kind of systems?” He tried to keep his face neutral, even though it sounded creepy to him.
“Every kind of system.” She held up the fingers of her good hand and started ticking them off as she recited them. “HVAC systems, security systems, medical equipment, elevators, sprinkler systems, traffic lights. You name it.”
“Wow. That’s something. What happened to your fingers?” He tried to make the segue sound casual. He suspected he already knew.
Her eyes darkened.
“Oh, that man wanted to teach Franklin a lesson. He didn’t do something the man told him to do, so he snapped my fingers.”
Rage swelled in his chest.
“Are you okay?”
She waved away his concern and responded with bravado. “Please. A minor irritation at worst.”
He doubted that. No matter how tough she was, that had to have hurt.
“What didn’t Franklin do? What does the man want him to do?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure. It all has something to do with that woman lawyer.”
“What woman lawyer?” he asked, freezing in place as he reached for two gray melamine bowls in the cabinet beside the stove. He already knew what she was going to say. He just didn’t know why.
“Aroostine something or other. I’ve overheard him talking to Franklin. He wants her to throw some case.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Aroostine paced in a tight circle. The guy on the phone had said he’d meet her at the ice rink at the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden. The gallery and the gardens closed at five o’clock, so she loitered around outside the Constitution Avenue entrance to the skating rink and worried that he’d go to the Madison Drive entrance instead.
She pulled the glove from her right hand and swiped her finger across her phone to unlock the display. She redialed the last number she’d called and hurriedly jammed her cold fingers back into the glove.
The sun had set while she’d been on the Metro, and she’d emerged to find the temperature had fallen at least ten degrees. The chill didn’t seem to be deterring the skating masses, though.
Groups of squealing, helmeted kids, some of them pushing chairs or clinging to the rails, circled around the rink. Serious enthusiasts weaved around them in graceful loops. And laughing, pink-cheeked lovers skated by hand in hand.
A memory flashed through her mind: Joe’s hand, firm in a leather glove, gripping her own mittened hand, as he guided her unsteadily around the frozen lake behind what would later become their house. She was twenty-two and had never ice-skated in her life. His footing was sure; his voice amused and encouraging in her ear.
She blinked away tears and focused on listening to the ringing phone. Keep it together.
There was no answer and no option to leave a voicemail. The phone just continued to ring. At the same time, she heard an insistent ringtone over her shoulder.
She turned.
She didn’t know how she expected the man to look. Tough. Enigmatic. Unkind, maybe. She certainly didn’t expect what she found: a pale Asian man, his shoulders stooped and his back hunched as if he were trying to fold into himself and disappear. The man turned off his phone and shoved it into the pocket of his navy peacoat. He turned his collar up against the wind and ran his hand through his too-long hair, swiping his bangs out of his eyes and blinking nervously at her.
He was not fat, not thin. But he was soft, out of shape. A sedentary cubical dweller. Maybe a snacker, too.
She pushed down her nerves and smoothed her face into an expectant expression. This was his party.
He stared at her for a moment longer, then cleared his throat.
“Uh, hi,” he managed to say.
She raised an eyebrow. “Hello.”
Another throat-clearing noise. Then he gestured over his shoulder.
“There’s a cafe. Do you want to get some coffee?”
“Well, I don’t want to ice-skate.”
He half-chuckled and swallowed his laugh.
She hadn’t been trying to be funny. She felt awkward meeting strangers—let alone strangers who were involved in her husband’s abduction and were trying to convince her to violate her ethical obligations as an attorney. She’d just blurted out the first response that had popped into her mind.
He made a sweeping motion with his hand, as if to say “after you.”
She headed for the entrance to the fenced-in sculpture garden and passed between two marble plinths that flanked the entrance to the garden. She was very conscious of the man following right behind her, so close on her heels that she could hear his choppy breathing, fast and shallow.
They entered the cafe and a burst of hot air enveloped her. She found a table near the windows and slung her bag over one of the chairs.
He unbuttoned his coat and blew into his hands.
“So, uh, can I get you a coffee?” he asked.
“I’ll get my own drink. Thanks.”
The awkwardness was excruciating—worse than a first date.
She dug out her wallet and walked up to the counter. He jogged along beside her.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.”
She stopped and whirled to face him.
He coughed into his hand, then said, “I’m not a bad guy. I swear.”
She stared hard at him. His shy eyes. The dark, deep circles that haunted them. His hunched, cowering posture.
>
He didn’t look like a bad guy. He looked like a victim. A sudden swell of sympathy rose in her chest.
“I’m not saying you’re a bad guy. I can just buy my own drink. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He dropped her gaze and shuffled ahead.
Great. Sure. Feel sorry for this dude. Why not?
She reached the counter before he did.
“Can I help you?” the eager teenager asked, flashing her a bright white smile, a stark contrast to his dark skin.
“Yes. I’d like a medium hot chocolate.”
“Oh, good choice! Whipped cream?”
“Of course.” She smiled back at him despite her current miserable state. His bounciness was contagious. Before she realized what she was saying, she added, “And my friend will have a coffee.”
The kid shifted his gaze to Franklin. “How do you take it, buddy?”
“Uh”—he blinked in surprise—“black, please.”
“You got it. Just brewed a fresh pot.”
The kids’ fingers flew over the register keys.
Aroostine handed him a ten-dollar bill before Franklin could react. She shoved the change into the mug full of tips and was rewarded with another blinding smile.
He hurried off to get their drinks.
“Um, you didn’t have to do that,” Franklin mumbled. “But thanks.”
She leveled a serious look at him.
“You’re welcome. I’m going to assume, for this one occasion only, that you’re acting in good faith and need my help. So, right now, you aren’t a bad guy. But if you prove me wrong, there won’t be a second chance. I’ll be at the police station before you can blink.”
Dad Higgins always said to assume the best of people but if they showed their true colors, believe them. It was a philosophy that squared with what her grandfather had told her when she was very young. People, like all animals, will reveal themselves if you give them a chance.
This was Franklin’s chance.
Joe stared unblinkingly at the man. The man stared back.
Joe waited.
The man spoke first.
“Excuse me? Did you say ‘No’? You refuse to do what I request?” His voice was cold. Emotionless. But Joe could hear the anger churning just beneath the surface.
“You heard me right.”
The muscle in the man’s cheek twitched.
“That is not advisable.”
Joe shrugged and tried to ignore the almost paralyzing fear that gripped him.
“Says you.”
“Mr. Jackman, this is not a game. You will set aside your pride and record the message as instructed.”
“Or what?”
Joe had no intention of being filmed like some kind of hostage in the Middle East begging for his life. The man wanted him to convince Aroostine to tank her case to save him. He wasn’t going to do it. Not because he was proud, but because he knew his wife. She wouldn’t deliberately lose one of her cases, but she would do something dangerous and foolhardy in an attempt to help him.
The man’s face darkened, and he narrowed his eyes. Then his mouth curved into a cruel, hard smile. He turned and strode into the bedroom, where Mrs. Chang somehow had managed to sleep through his unexpected, late-night return.
Sour bile rose in Joe’s throat. He forced himself to keep breathing.
The man reappeared, dragging Mrs. Chang by her thin upper arm. She blinked, shielding her eyes from the sole lamp’s light. Joe could see her trying to clear the disorienting cloud of sleep from her mind to figure out what was happening.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Chang, it’s going to become clear all too soon, Joe thought.
The man drilled his eyes into Joe’s.
“Now, then. Your question was what happens if you do not comply, is that right?”
Joe’s throat closed.
Mrs. Chang’s face filled with sudden understanding, but she didn’t panic. She looked at Joe intently. He knew she was trying to send him a message not to cave into the man’s demand.
But Joe knew the man wasn’t bluffing. He would hurt Mrs. Chang. Again.
She stared harder and gave her head a tiny, almost imperceptible, shake. Don’t, she mouthed soundlessly.
He shook his head at her, giving her an apologetic look, then wet his lips to tell the man he’d do it. He’d record the video message.
Before he could speak, the man laughed.
“How cute, this solidarity among my captives. She wants you to stay strong, Mr. Jackman. But you are not strong enough, are you? You do not have the stomach to watch me break her remaining fingers, one by one, until you do as you are told. You will acquiesce, yes?”
He forced out an answer. “Yes.”
At the same moment, Mrs. Chang spat, “No. Whatever it is you want him to do, he’s not doing it. You can go to hell.”
In a swift motion, the man released her arm and backhanded her across the face. She staggered across the small room and landed in a crumpled heap against the wall.
Joe raced over to her. She looked up at him and gasped for breath.
“Don’t do it. Don’t do it, Joe,” she whispered.
He bent and helped her to her feet.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “I have to.”
She bent her head, and her disappointment in him radiated off her like waves. She shook her head sadly.
He patted her arm gently and turned to face the man.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Aroostine sat at the small, wrought iron table and studied the face of the man across from her. Franklin hadn’t spoken since she warned him that she wouldn’t hesitate to contact the authorities. He’d just stared at her owl-eyed for a moment and then trailed her to the table.
They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. The faint strains of the music from the ice rink floated into the cafe and filled the space between them.
Finally, Franklin put down his coffee and dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “I am acting in good faith, I swear. But, please—what you said before? Please, don’t even think of going to the police. He’ll—he’ll kill them.”
His voice rose in a high-pitched panic.
The kid manning the counter looked over at them, his bored expression turning curious.
She smiled reassuringly at the kid and then turned to Franklin.
“Shh. Calm down.”
He gulped noisily and nodded. “Sorry. What are we going to do?” His voice quavered.
She considered the question for a moment, then exhaled slowly.
“First things first. Who are you? How are you tied up in this . . . this whatever it is? Let’s start there.”
“Okay, so, I’m a computer programmer. I, uh, did some hacking while I was in high school and college—nothing crazy, but I know my way through a lot of back doors.”
“Back doors?”
“Right. A lot of times, a programmer will create a program for a client but leave himself a back door—a way in just in case he needs to fix or update something. Usually you’ll hide it, so kids screwing around don’t stumble on it and come in and muck things up. Follow?”
“I guess.”
This might be more background than she needed, but she decided to let him go. He was clearly warming to his topic. He straightened up, leaned forward, and a glint of excitement shone in his eyes.
“So, I was hired right out of college as a programmer for SystemSource.”
He paused to take a breath, but she jumped in.
“Wait—SystemSource, the company that makes the RemoteControl systems?”
He nodded. “That’s the one. I know you sued us for trying to bribe foreign government officials. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
Her brain was racing, signals careening around and bouncing off the walls like bumper cars, as she tried to make sense of the connection. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
“I’ll get back to the bribery thing in a minute, but stay with me, okay?”
As he got deeper into his story, his voice gathered force. Maybe she hadn’t saddled herself with a bumbling wimp, after all.
“When I joined the company, they were selling systems software, but that was it. A client bought it, loaded it on their system, and used it to monitor things locally. I was given a project to update the software to make it more robust. I’m not really a software developer, so I left the basic program and started playing around, just kind of pretending I was a hacker. I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure it would work. I worked on it here and there, whenever I could, in my free time for a couple of years.”
“You developed the remote monitoring capabilities?”
She stared across the table, hot chocolate forgotten, at the unassuming man who had revolutionized the remote monitoring industry and, at least according to SystemSource’s publicly filed financial reports, had rocketed the small company from a niche software provider to a billion-dollar player.
He beamed. “Yep.” Then his face fell as he remembered the hell that singular achievement had thrust him into. “So, I modified the software so that it could be used to monitor and control almost any computerized system from anywhere with an Internet connection. My boss went nuts. I got a huge bonus and a promotion to lead the project. As you can imagine, clients loved it, and the software started flying off the virtual shelves. But then everyone needed to have it tweaked. Like, a security guard monitoring an apartment building is gonna need different capabilities from a building engineer trying to maintain a constant temperature and humidity.”
“Sure,” she said. What he said made sense, but an icy fist grabbed her chest. She had a feeling she knew where this story was headed, and it was nowhere good.
He plowed ahead, oblivious to her rising dread.
“Pushing out patches was labor intensive and time consuming. But for the first eighteen months, I just did it. I was working, I dunno, nineteen-hour days? They assigned me a bunch of interns, but I had to go over all their coding and check it because an error could be disastrous. I was drowning.”
Critical Vulnerability (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 1) Page 12