by Sam Cade
“Okaaaaay... First volley from Montoya. Now, what do you need?”
“I’ve got something for you on the dead lawyers. I need it in tomorrow’s morning edition of the Post. Has to be attributed to unnamed sources.”
“What! Tomorrow? I’m about to start my Peloton class, you jerk. And, by the way, Peter thinks my figure is beyond nice for a thirty-seven-year old woman.”
“He’s seen it? Ahhh, man, I can’t go there.” Jake shook his head. “You know, here’s another thing. Why, with all that money can’t he get some braces? His teeth look like ten miles of bad highway...but never mind. I wanted to make this a scoop for you and you only. And there are lots of other reporters out there, you know. We’re chasing the trial lawyer’s extortion money overseas and we think it’s being manipulated by Asian gangs based in Los Angeles and Macao. You could puff it up all mysterious like you do. But Asian gangs are the critical info.”
“Interesting. That’s doable. Very doable. I could skip my class, go flabby for Peter, and write something amazing for you. I could post it to our online edition tonight with a huge eye-grabbing header and get a nice placement on page three in the morning’s print edition.”
“That a girl! That’s it exactly. You’re amazing.”
“Yes, I am. But I’ll pass on New York. I’m thinking five days in Aspen at Christmas. Festive lights, fine restaurants, shopping with dusty NFL money, celebrity spotting, and high-energy skiing.”
Jeannie had him in a headlock. “Yeah, great idea,” said Jake, wincing.
“Separate beds, of course.”
What?
93
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
JAKE SLICED AIR WITH WOO CHOW ON THE BLUFF for thirty-five minutes before the sun floated soft light across the bay. It was 6:05 a.m. and the water looked like blue glass. As they finished, Woo said, “Jake, I’m seventy-four and I don’t know the answer.”
“To what?”
“Anything... Everything... Life... The lack of daily civility on the planet.”
“Nobody does, Woo. I don’t care what they tell you. They don’t know either.”
“So, I worried for nothing?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Let’s race down to the Magnolia Hotel and back, Jake. Five miles total.”
Jake exhaled. “Woo, you’ve never beaten me in thirty years. Not once, ever.”
Woo squatted until his butt almost touched the ground then shot towards the sky with both feet coming off the ground, landing with a lopsided grin on his face. “But this could be the day. Hope, Jake. Live with optimism. I’m feeling it in my legs right now. Feelin’ it, man.”
“That’s the Woo I know. You scared me for a moment.”
Jake was mid-sentence when Woo shouted, “GO!” and blasted off at full speed.
“DID YOU GET THE PHOTOS IN THE EMAIL?” Fifty minutes past seven in the morning. Jake was talking to Andy Grissom in the Mobile office as he pulled Bonnie’s Corolla in the parking lot of an Allstate insurance office across the street from Coffee Loft. He wore a Braves cap pulled low and dark sunglasses and had the sun visor pulled down.
“Yep, I’ve got them. I passed them on to Marcia Allen. She’ll be arriving in Black Point around noon or so. Hopefully she’ll be in the shop when the target arrives.”
“Great. Listen, Andy, give Marcia my number. Have her call me when she gets over the Bayway. I want to meet her someplace and go over a few things.”
The insurance agency gave Jake a great view of the Coffee Loft parking lot. He put Erik Larson’s Devil in the White City audiobook on, a sinister tale about one of the first known serial killers. Bonnie had told him her book club loved it. Then he lowered his profile by letting his seat back, settled in, and watched.
His cell vibrated at 8:35. He knew it’d be toasty in the Corolla, so he was in shorts and tee shirt wearing running shoes. He saw the caller, John Simmons, turned off the audiobook and answered. “Bring me good news, John.”
“We’re screwed, Jake,” said Simmons, the financial crimes specialist.
Jake’s body slunk lower at that. “What’s up?”
“The Burnham money. Panama to Hong Kong. Then converted into Bitcoin. We were tracking Bitcoin, right?”
“Yeah, ledgers and stuff I don’t understand. I knew that.”
“Well, the architect of this scheme has now purchased Monero with the Bitcoin.”
“Okay. What’s that mean?”
“Monero is another cryptocurrency. And it’s untraceable. Wild Bill Burnham’s five million has gone dark. Poof. Sitting in a digital cold wallet only to be unlocked if you know the codes. Which gets me back to my original thought. We’re screwed.”
“Ahhh, man. That was our top lead. I thought we’d have something on that.”
“Got one more thing, Jake. We’ve had two bankers that filed SAPs, suspicious activity reports, to FinCEN. They passed the info on to us. The bank customers, both lawyers, do not know of their filing and will not know we are investigating. Neither of these bankers were suspicious at first when their clients wired significant funds overseas. But they follow the news and are aware of the extortion, and both of their clients are very heavy hitters. So, we have two more rabbit trails to follow. One, $3.2 million, went to a bank on the Isle of Man, the other, $4.9 million, to the country of Lichtenstein.”
“I’ll be damned. Okay, John, thanks. Just do your thing, man.” Jake hung up, took a sip of half-frozen Powerade from a cooler on the passenger seat, switched Devil in the White City back on.
At 9:43 Jake had to shake himself. Sitting still in the heat listening to a smooth voice reading a story had him nodding off. Finally, a green Subaru zipped past with his left turn signal on. Theo pulled up to a front-row parking space and stepped out a moment later with a laptop bag in his right hand.
THEO GLANCED AROUND THE ROOM after two swallows of coffee. He saw two middle-aged regulars and a girl in her early twenties holding a monster textbook titled Pharmacology for Nursing.
Last night Theo went home knowing he could stay ahead of the malware attack because he was 100 percent sure he had not logged on with those charger cables. That fuckin’ Lucky!
Lucky must have had Lorenzo do this. But, why would he? Because Lucky thought he was getting cheated by the financial master. That’s why.
By 7:10 last night, Theo had dismantled the USB ninja. He was able to identify the malware payload by manually uploading it into a wiped trash computer. It was the Data Moccasin, a dangerous application that could suck your computer dry. Thank God they muffed up with the size of the wall plug.
Theo obliterated the hard drive in both computers with a ball peen hammer and industrial metal snippers and threw the pieces in a bag.
On his way to Best Buy he stopped at a dumpster behind a nearby Cracker Barrel, opened the top, and threw all the slivers of metal away. He bought two new computers with cash. He had configured them for use by 11:30 p.m.
94
JAKE PUNCHED IN A CALL TO TOLLESON, one of his analysts/researchers in D.C.
“Is this the legendary Montoya?”
“Damn right it is. Ross, I have a job for you.”
“Well, make it simple. I’m heading to Nags Head next week for some R and R. And I promise I won’t be answering my phone or checking email when I’m surf fishing.”
“Spoken like a career bureaucrat. Here’s the deal. Get a pen. Need background on a guy named Lucas Knight from the San Diego area. Likely in his forties. Also, the company he runs, Knight Force. That’s k-n-i-g-h-t-f-o-r-c-e. Two words. There’s a webpage but not much to it. It mentions Knight but there’s no photo and no background history on him. First thing I want you to run is DOD records. I think he’s ex-military. I need to know doing what, where, and when.”
“Got it. Back to you soon.”
Jake watched Theo pull out from the coffee shop. 10:45. He’d spent about an hour in the building. The Subaru picked up speed heading south on Colony. Jake smiled. Le
t’s see what you had to say, tech boy.
Jake fired up the Toyota, raised the windows and placed the AC on the coldest setting. He pulled out heading north, the opposite direction than Theo. Chick fil-A was fifteen minutes away. He’d grab an early lunch, borrow some WiFi, and wait for Marcia Allen’s call.
Driving down U.S. 98 towards the restaurant, he recalled what Agent Belinda Brant told him in Washington. The malware uploaded in Theo’s computer would email a detailed system activity report every two minutes to an obscure email address that would be stored in an FBI server. That would only happen when the computer is signed on to a WiFi signal. Brant showed Jake an example of an actual report and explained how to look at screenshots as well as individual keystrokes.
Genius, he thought.
The cathedral of the holy chicken had more parked cars and drive through action than any three McDonald’s combined. Jake had to park next door at Target.
His salad with grilled chicken was up super-fast. He found a seat, poured some ranch on his salad, and signed on to WiFi. He slid the salad to the side, took a sip of tea and input his sign-on data for the email address.
He clicked the inbox. No emails. What! Jake hit Belinda Brant on speed dial.
“Hello there.”
“Belinda, hi. I’m doing something wrong here. I got the ninja cables installed yesterday. The target was on his computer for an hour this morning at a coffee shop with WiFi. I’m at a restaurant utilizing WiFi myself right now and I’m signed onto the email server. Nothing’s there. No mail. You said every two minutes, right”
“Okay, hold it, let me get signed on. I have the credentials right here. Oh, guess who ordered her husband a Big Jake Grill...just take a wild guess.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “Ummmmmm...you.”
“Yep, me. The big brown truck will be at our house any day now. All I heard was ‘Jake this and Jake that’ for two days after you cooked for us. It was my husband’s wet dream meeting you.”
“That’s great, we’ll do it again sometime.” Never again for any reason.
“Okay. I’m signed on. You’re right. Nothing there. Did you actually see him use the computer or are you assuming he used the computer?”
“Assuming.”
“Okay, he hasn’t logged on yet. Just keep checking.”
Jake had a call beeping on his cell. “Gotta run, I’ll get back to you.” He answered.
“Agent Montoya, this is Marcia Allen, Grissom’s sending me over. I just pulled off I-10.”
“Great. I’m at Chick-fil-A, about five miles down on your left, next to Target. I’m sitting in the last booth near the restroom, window side. See you in a few.”
Jake cut the chicken into smaller pieces then punched the plastic fork into the lettuce. Something’s not right, he thought. He replayed everything he did with those cables. He did it right.
Eight minutes later he spotted a woman with sandy blond hair pulled back in a short pony-tail bob with summer-tanned skin that made an attractive combination together. She had on shorts with a Life is Good tee shirt that said ‘Antidepressant’ written above a golden retriever with a leash in his mouth. She stopped at his table. “Agent Montoya?”
“Yes, call me Jake.” He tried to stand, she put a hand on his shoulder. “No, need.”
She offered a handshake. It had the firmness from a woman with her build. Five-six, probably 155 pounds. But built in the arms and legs.
She sat, pulled off the ponytail holder, shook out her hair, looked him straight in the eye.
“Ready to do it, Montoya?”
He processed her for a moment. Brown eyes. Athletic. No bulky purse. No garish makeup. He thought if he grabbed her crotch like he was Trump, he’d probably feel a derringer. With that dog tee shirt, this could work out.
“Definitely ready. We’ll have you lazing around a coffee shop named Coffee Loft in Black Point diddling on your phone or computer watching for,” Jake turned his computer screen towards her. “This guy.”
“Well, let’s do it. I know the spot. I have the photos. Save my number in your phone. I’ll call when he leaves...or if he’s a no show.”
Marcia walked down the aisle displaying the tightest ass he’d ever seen.
Landmine squat presses in the gym...had to be.
95
Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, September 4, 2019
LUCKY PLANNED SOMETHING THEATRICAL FOR DRAPER SIMS. He witnessed results of the practice in the Middle East, an Al-Qaeda punishment. It was pure Imax material, big screen and bright colors appropriate for a blockbuster film. He purchased four worn truck tires from a tire shop and stored them in the cargo area of the van.
This was Lucky’s third day of surveillance which was going nowhere. His burner rang once at his hotel. It was 9:37 p.m.
Lucky walked two blocks to Starbucks, checked DataCage.
Interesting Update.
Libby Grambling, the hot little daughter of John Grambling, CEO of Grambling International, has booked a cottage for the weekend on the river in Cambridge, MD. Sims is banging her on the side. Here’s the text:
‘Draper. I have booked a secluded sweetheart cottage Friday, Saturday, Sunday. I’ll fill it with steak, seafood, wine, and candles. And maybe something a little sheer and naughty. See you Friday. It’s been too long. Can’t wait. Lib.’
Whatcha think? Opportunity?
Hell, yeah, opportunity. Lucky had nothing to show for three days in D.C. He quickly researched Cambridge. Rural. Small town. Cottage on a river. Perfect.
Let’s make a movie, Mr. Sims.
96
Eastern Shore, Maryland
Thursday, September 5, 2019
THE DRIVE WAS JUST UNDER TWO HOURS FROM D.C. Cross the Chesapeake on 301/50 then cut south on U.S. 50. Cambridge was an old small town famous for its charm and beauty, sitting hard by the Choptank River. It was easy to see why Libby Grambling nabbed a cottage here. Quiet spot, no bustle.
Lucky rented a Townie bicycle from a stand at the waterfront.
It took him twenty-five minutes to travel a few miles on his slow-going Townie. The landscape was full of well-kept cottage homes, picket fences, and trim gardens. A place people were proud of.
Libby’s spot was a two-bedroom cedar shake cottage, plenty of charm, with a backyard view over a small beach and pier that walked into the Choptank River as it entered the mouth of the Chesapeake. Excellent, he thought. Secluded. Thick hardwoods in the front yard. No cars.
He’d swing by tonight after dark and check out the lighting in the area.
BY NINE THE FOLLOWING DAY, Lucky was headed on a scout mission to the Blackwater Refuge, a place he spotted in a tourist rag while eating dinner. It was located twelve miles out of Cambridge.
Battleship gray clouds whizzed by on a bleak morning. Temps would reach the high by noon with showers expected by late afternoon escorting a cold front from the west.
The refuge was pristine, an idyllic unspoiled expanse of nature. Tidal waters sifting through the boggy peat in the marsh left the waters a tannin color. A mucky earth scent in the air.
Secluded, woodsy, and free of people.
After surveilling the refuge, Lucky parked the van on the edge of Maple Dam Road at what he thought was an opening into the woods. He walked forty-yards into the trees on an overgrown double-track fire road. Thick weeds grew uncut in the median.
A beautiful spot for a murder. Isolated. Eerie.
He had just started the van when he spotted a four-wheel-drive forest ranger truck approaching from the rear. He watched it in the rear-view mirror. The ranger eased by doing maybe ten miles-per-hour. The truck stopped twenty yards in front of the van then backed up until side-by-side with Lucky. Both men rolled their windows down.
“Mornin’.”
“Good morning, ranger, glad you stopped.”
“How can I help you?”
“I just finished a construction job yesterday, got a few days off, and decided to drive out from G
ermantown for a little kayak fishing and bicycling. But now I’m sitting here listening to the weather report on the radio. Starting to bum me out. You know how it is, get a couple days, you kind of say screw the weather, it’ll work out. What’s your take on the forecast?” Lucky had on his sunglasses and an Orioles cap. The scruff on his face was filling in by the day.
The ranger laughed. “Been there done that, partner. Looking bleak for today and tomorrow. Sunny on Sunday. But anyway, good luck.” The ranger raised two fingers in a wave goodbye, let off the brake, went forward ten feet, hit the brake, and backed up.
“Listen, if you get a wild hair and decide to take the kayak out, call our website number, leave a message and we’ll keep an eye out. Believe it or not we’ve had people make one really bad decision in their lives and die out here.”
Lucky suppressed a smile.
Add one more to that list, ranger.
97
Black Point, Alabama
Friday September 6, 2019
“Y’ALL PROBABLY SEEN THIS,” said Vernon, the barber from across the street. He was holding an article in front of Liz’s face as she sat at her desk. She pulled her readers on, read the headline, ‘Murder Investigation Focuses on Asian Gangs.’
“I printed it off Drudge,” said Vernon. “They think Asians are killing these lawyers, taking their money.”
It was Jeannie Hunt’s piece from the Washington Post landing squarely where Jake wanted it to. Jake read it online the night she posted it. Worth every dime of an Aspen trip. He’d work out that separate bed misunderstanding, he thought.
Liz took the article from Vernon, did a quick read. “Well, I’ll be. Thanks, Vernon, we hadn’t heard that. Bill will be very interested. Finally, a lead.”
“The only Chinese guy I’ve seen around is Woo Chow. I cut his hair every ten days on the dot. He’s in his restaurant every time I go by, so I don’t think he’s behind it. But can you ever really know somebody?” Vernon cocked one eyebrow.