by Sam Cade
But he damn sure didn’t sign on for murder.
In thirty-five minutes, Tommy arrived on one of the dizzying colorful commercial streets of Chinatown. The scene was busy enough to swallow a man whole. He walked into a small store crushed between two identical acupuncture centers. Sign said “Electronics”. It took less than ten minutes to walk out of a shop no bigger than a three-couch opium den with a prepaid burner phone.
At a subway stop he hopped on the 7 train. He popped out at Grand Central Station, a massive building that 750,000 people pass through every day, and went into the main concourse, an area swarming with people on a mission, a good thirty-percent walking with a phone to their ear.
He pulled out his burner, punched in 1-800-CALLFBI. He spoke slow and deliberate to a woman with a New York accent.
“Listen very closely as I tell you two things. This is regarding the attorneys murdered in Charleston, Colorado, Florida, and Maryland.”
“Number One. Look for someone who goes by berkeleyblue2 on torbox. That is a darknet exclusive email. That’s one word, all lowercase. b-e-r-k-e-l-e-y b-l-u-e-2. Torbox is t-o-r-b-o-x.
“Number Two. This individual has no fingerprint file on any known database.”
On E. 42nd Street he crushed the phone with his foot and kicked the parts into a street sewer.
108
Washington, D.C.
JAKE AND BEN STAGGERS sat on square topped metal stools scrunched against a two-person-wide wall mounted counter with a wall of white-washed rough-hewn wooden planks two feet from their faces. It was 11:20 and a steady flow was mobbing into Luke’s Lobsters on Potomac in Georgetown.
Jake rested his left elbow on a manila envelope on the counter and faced right to look at Ben. “Big favor, Ben. Big big. And delicate.”
Ben noticed the seriousness on Jake’s face, took a swig of iced tea, and said, “Okay, shoot.”
“First, do you have any idea how many guys are in special forces across the branches? I mean Delta, Seals, and Green Berets.”
“Somewhat. Delta has a little more than 1000, SEALs I think are maybe 2400-2500, and Green Berets, I’m pretty sure are 7000 or so.”
Jake nodded. “Okay. This has to do with the case I mentioned a while back when I asked you about a spec ops soldier going bad. You know, the combat hatchet and the long-distance sniper kills.”
“I remember.”
“We had another lawyer go down not too far from here, out on the Maryland eastern shore. Burned to death. The guy was stuck down into a tube of stacked tires that was soaked in fuel. It was touched off by a burning rag.”
Ben sat bolt upright hearing that. “I didn’t hear that part on the news. The tire prison, that’s what it’s called.”
“What? Tire prison? Why would you know that?”
“It’s a crude Taliban thing, for traitors. And, guess who would be very well acquainted with the concept?”
“Spec ops soldiers.”
Ben Staggers nodded. “As well as other soldiers.”
The conversation was interrupted by a waitress dropping identical lobster rolls and poppy seed slaw on the small counter. “Enjoy.”
Ben took a big bite out of his sandwich, chewed. “Aww, man, awesome, I never have lobster. Great idea, coming here.”
Jake ignored his food. He pulled an 8 X 10 color photo out of the manila envelope, a crystal-clear facial image of Lucas Knight exiting Bill’s office. “Ever seen this guy?”
Ben was about to fork some slaw in his mouth, stopped, took the photo out of Jake’s hand and studied it. “Nope. Don’t know him.” Pushed the slaw into his mouth.
“Here’s what I’m wondering,” said Jake. “Any way you could show this photo to your contacts in Delta and SEALs and see if anybody knows him. I mean VERY quietly. Can’t let this guy know we’re looking.”
Ben laughed. “You guys were photo-blocked in DOD files, weren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“We maintain a lot of secrecy for the special operators. But, yeah, for a lobster lunch I can do that. Delta will be easy. They know me. SEALs, they’ll be cautious. I know three retired guys around here and a couple in Virginia Beach that were based at Little Creek. Team 6 is housed at Dam Neck, close by. Problem is I don’t know a soul in Coronado. First thing I’ve got to do is come up with a story, why I want to know.”
“I’ve got your story, bubba. The man in the photo has a company called Knight Force. Elite security outfit. He goes by the name Lucas Knight. You’re looking for high-end security work, but you don’t want to work for some half-baked yokel.”
Ben ate the last bite of sandwich, followed it with a slug of tea. “That’ll work, Cowboy.”
JAKE PULLED THE TAHOE OFF POTOMAC ONTO M STREET, had his fingers on the radio dial when his phone rang. “Jake Montoya.”
“Agent Montoya, this is Laura Shillings from the tip line. An anonymous caller phoned in an hour ago on one of your cases. I just wanted to verify you saw the email.”
“I hadn’t yet. Do you mind reading it to me, I’m driving in right now?”
She read it to him.
Interesting. Who could possibly know about the fingerprints?
109
Washington, D.C.
Monday, September 23, 2019
“GOT HIM.” The office door was open four inches and Jake walked in without a knock. “We got him, Belinda.”
It was 8:20. Belinda had her face in a laptop and her hand on a Dunkin Donuts cup resting on her desk. “Uh, what...got who?”
Jake scrunched his eyes, cocked his head looking at her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, eighth wedding anniversary. Spent the weekend at a wonderful bed and breakfast on the South River in Annapolis. Thank God I only have another fifty years of that crap.”
She smiled. He laughed.
“Tried to find you Friday afternoon,” said Jake.
“Friday afternoon my husband was turning me into a pretzel in a bedroom full of dainty Queen Anne furniture.”
Jake put his fingers in his ears. “Can’t listen. My mind is easily prone erotic visualization. And, besides, it’s Monday morning.”
“But, good news,” he continued, “an anonymous tip came in about our dead barristers. Somebody says we should look at an individual that goes by berkeleyblue2 on Torbox.” He spelled out berkeleyblue2. “Let’s see if you can backtrack the owner of that.”
“Sorry. No chance. Torbox is darknet-based on the Tor browser system. We can’t crack it.”
“Well, dang.”
“Let me think on it. I need to make a call to somebody. Get back to you later.”
RANDY GARRISON WALKED INTO JAKE’S OFFICE at 9:30 after a long breakfast meeting. “You know the Redskins suck, right? Guarantee they lose to the Bears tonight. Oh, I forgot. You don’t remember you won a super bowl with them. Anything interesting yet?”
Jake handed the tip transcript to Garrison. “Came in on the tip line Friday.” Garrison read it quickly. Then read it again. Slipped off his glasses, raised his eyebrows. “Now that is interesting. Any idea who could have sent this?”
“No clue.” Jake informed him about the meeting with Belinda Brant. “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend, the fingerprint thing. I want to hear what first pops into your mind.”
“Hmmmph. No fingerprints on file...” Garrison rubbed his hand across his mouth and chin, crossed his legs, glanced over to the wall, but not really looking. “Okay. First thing that hits me is how in the hell does someone really know another person hasn’t been printed...ever.”
“Exactly.” Jake nodded. “That’s what hit me, too.”
“Alright,” said Garrison, “so if we know that someone does not have prints on file that could exclude him from what?”
“Background check for certain jobs, military applications, arrests...”
Garrison said, “Yeah, and how about professional licenses, like medical? People that work with kids. Teachers, daycare staff, probably adoption and foster par
enting. Do you need fingerprints for life insurance applications?”
“Not sure,” Jake shrugged. “How about banking, Randy? That’s a biggie here. Have to be printed working around money, right?”
“You’d think.” Garrison said, “How could an individual know that someone else has no prints on file? I mean, really know.”
“You just ask them. Or this, they just tell you,” said Jake.
“Yeah, yeah, maybe.” Garrison was nodding, lower lip poking out. “Or, you have their print on something and you run ‘em.”
“Okay, latent prints. Starts to get interesting on that point. And, who has the ability to do forensics on that?” said Jake, knowing the answer.
“Cops.”
Their eyes met.
110
3:00 P.M. JAKE TAPPED TWICE ON THE CLOSED DOOR.
“Come in.” Seeing Jake, Belinda said, “I was just about to ring you.”
“Better be good news.”
“It’s not. The colleague I mentioned this morning was a fellow grad student with me at Stanford. There are no small brains in that school, but, yet, some brains seem to stand way above the rest. And, that characterizes my buddy who’s name I won’t mention. He’s at the NSA. Anything black, anything clandestine, he has his fingers on. Microscopic chance to uncloak berkeleyblue2. They have no time to spend on this.”
Jake sat in a chair, crossed his legs. “Not surprised. I want to run something by you. And, afterwards, if you want to think my brain also stands way above, that’s okay.”
Belinda smiled and cupped her hands behind her head and leaned back in the chair far enough to tighten her sleeveless blouse across her chest. It made Jake think of Dr. King David Brillstein, an erudite Jewish guy with a doctorate in nursing. He was also the third string center for the Redskins, and odds-on the least athletic guy in the NFL. The King used to say with unabashed authority that small-breasted women possessed greater intellect than large breasted women and he knew what he was talking about, because, he would add, he was a nurse. Jake always figured that was anecdotal nonsense. Until now. But, anyway, it was Monday.
“I did some PhD-level research,” Belinda. “I punched berkeleyblue into Google. Guess what popped up?”
“Surprise me.”
“I think I will. Berkeley Blue was Steve Wozniak’s hacker name back in the 70s. Before Apple, Wozniak and Steve Jobs built blue boxes to do some of that phone phreaking crap where the boxes allowed you to hijack the analog phone to make free long-distance calls.”
“Interesting.” She pulled her arms down, placed her elbows on the desk, and leaned into Jake’s conversation. “Good work.”
He held up a hand. “Keep listening. Then I searched free email sites to see if berkeleyblue2 was available as a username. Gmail, Yahoo, AOL, Outlook, Mail.com, Yoho, and a few more. The name was not available on Yandex, Gmail, and Proton mail.”
“Niiiiiice. What else?”
“I’m wrestling with something, though. For our investigation, is berkeleyblue2 a techie, a killer, a finance guy...or all three?”
“Good question. Another thing. Blue is one of the school colors for Berkeley University.”
“That’s right. So, there could be a boatload of Berkeley alumni with some form of that username.”
“Back to your question, Jake. I’d X out the killer. I’m thinking more of a techie or a finance person might have gone to school there.”
“Belinda, I need a website, fast. Just a home page. And a corresponding email associated with the site.”
“If you’re asking, Jake, yes, I can get you one, and you’re welcome. I could have one by nine tomorrow morning. But, why?”
“Bait. I’m running on the theory that berkeleyblue2 is a techie. I want to solicit those three email addresses for a coder.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a manilla folder and handed it to her. “This is the legend of a fictional company.”
Company: 4th Down Analytics
Mission: We provide intricate detail of every stat you know as a coach and many more that we will teach you. Using mathematical and statistical methods, we access, manage, and analyze critical data that helps you win big ball games. We are dedicated solely to High School Football and bring pro quality data at a price even small schools or booster clubs can afford.
CODERS NEEDED
Full Time or Part Time—-Work From Anywhere
Highest Pay in the Industry
Stock Options and Full-Time Employment Opportunities
We are an extremely well-funded venture capital backed company with thousands of potential customers.
Please email your interest and resume to:
[email protected]
She looked up with her cute crooked smile. “You sly bastard. I love it.”
“One thing I haven’t mentioned about Tech Boy in Black Point. First day I go in his office I notice some old clunker computer encased in plexiglass on a desk. It was under the Mr. Robot poster. I asked him if he bought it at a yard sale, kidding around, but a little serious. He started huffing around at that. Said it was an iconic piece of history, the Apple 1 computer.”
“Oh, wow. He’s right.”
“Fuller says it was created in 1976 and was one of maybe sixty in existence, and he’d been offered $500,000 for it.”
“Whoa.” Belinda’s eyebrows popped.
“I know. Now pay close attention here, Belinda. I step over and take a closer look at it, right? There’s an engraved brass plaque attached to the plexiglass. It says, “Apple 1. Designed and built by Steve Wozniak.” I asked Fuller where’s Steve Jobs’ name? He came out of his chair almost apoplectic, telling me Jobs was nothing more than an appliance salesman, that he really knew nothing of the intricacies of technology and that Wozniak was the genius of the company.”
Jake stopped talking, let his face go stone still, waited to see if she made the connection.
The punch line didn’t immediately come to her. She returned his stare. Then her brain massaged their conversation, a smile creased across her mouth and she turned her head, looking at him askance.
“Jake Montoya, you big-brained SOB...Berkeley Blue2.”
He said nothing, pointed to his head, then placed his open palms out to the side of his head as if he were holding a beach ball on his shoulders.
111
Fort Worth, Texas
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
“LET’S MEET,” SAID CECIL WILLIAM INTO HIS CELL PHONE. “I might have something for you.” Cecil was a CPA with a law degree from UT-Austin who ran his own forensic accounting business. The majority of his work came from lawyers in the metro Dallas-Ft. Worth region. He was also Broyle William’s brother, and Broyle knew him as a man sharp with a pencil and a deep knowledge of accounting and tax law.
Broyle had Cecil working on a very private task for him and told him, “It looks odd, but don’t ask questions.” Broyle told Cecil that William Burnham owes his painting company a substantial amount of money for painting services on commercial buildings. Broyle said he needed to untangle some of Burnham’s financial dealings, starting with the bus crash. Cecil was unaware those banking documents he examined were obtained under duress, but he was suspicious. But he was suspicious of a lot of work that came his way.
Broyle flicked up his sleeve, caught the time. “Let me think for a second. It’s 11:20. I’ve got another meeting at one. Can you make the In-N-Out burger on S. Hulen around twelve? I gotta see somebody located about ten minutes from there.”
“Sure. See you then.”
CECIL WAS WAITING just inside the door. “I’ve got lunch, Broyle. What do you want?”
“Number one with a sweet tea. Thanks.”
They found an empty booth in the back. Both started in on their hamburger. “Let’s hear it. What’s interesting?” said Broyle.
Cecil held up a finger while he chewed, nodded. Took a swig of drink. “Okay, yeah.”
He laid down his burger.
“I found nothing
in the way of a multi-million-dollar check being paid out to anyone after the bus case. Apparently, Bill Burnham has established an organization named the Codger Traumatic Brain Injury Research Foundation. It’s a nonprofit that was set up eleven months ago, September, not long after the huge judgement in the bus crash trial. The Foundation has a website. It delves into the background of the crash. Quite a bit focuses on the child who lived for a while, Abigail. Oddly, there’s no mention of Bobby Carl Codger, Dude, as you call him. Doesn’t mention dead or missing or anything. The site does mention there are no surviving members of that nuclear family.”
“Did we get you financials on the foundation?” Said Broyle.
“Yes. I have what I believe is clear documentation on the movement of funds after Burnham prevailed against both the bus company and trucking firm. Seventy-seven million went into Burnham’s trust account.”
“Damn!” said Broyle.
“Yeah, really. Then Burnham sliced what appears to be a third out of that amount for his firm’s fees, $25.4 million. Next, he paid what I assume to be all outstanding medical bills for Abigail. He paid a hospital in Mobile, a hospital in Birmingham, and a dedicated nursing facility in Birmingham. A total of $3.1 million went out.”
“Don’t tell me. Burnham stole the rest.”
Cecil ate a couple French fries and shrugged as he took a swallow of tea. He pointed his cup at Broyle as he spoke. “Here’s where it gets interesting. Burnham has $48.5 million to establish the foundation.”
“Right.” Broyle leaned forward, listening carefully.