by Sam Cade
“Get a Charleston agent into MUSC, the medical school, with a picture of Lucas Knight and the story of meeting there for ten days in April. Speak to everybody, research, pharmacology...whoever. Let’s see if that story holds up. And screw that sketch bullshit for now at the hotel. Photograph first. If it’s not Lucas Knight, then get the artist to create what they remember.”
“On it.”
Jake rubbed his hand across his mouth, thinking. “You know, that’s quite a story he was spreading at the hotel. Think about this. Why would John Thomas Turner take the chance on making what could be a blatantly memorable impression of himself? He needs to be a shadow figure.”
“Don’t know, but he bought the farm right there.”
“Well, anyway, awesome work, Ross. Keep it up.”
“Sit down, there’s more.”
“You got more!”
Ross indicated with his palm to take a seat. “This right here is three pay grades above you, so, easy boy. Do you know the Son of Sam case?”
“Serial killer, everybody knows that. Something about the takedown was interesting but I’ve forgotten the details.”
“You’re gonna love this. David Berkowitz is killing away in New York, right, and nobody has a trace on him. So, a NYPD detective brainstorms the idea of looking into any auto citations that may have been written in the areas of the murders around the time of the killings.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, curious, focused. “Alright.”
“The detectives found a parking ticket issued the night of a killing for parking too close to a fire hydrant. It was that damn Berkowitz, parked within two blocks of where the body was found. They thought what the hell, let’s knock on this guy’s door. Berkowitz opened the door, saw the cops, and gave himself up... right on the damn spot.”
“That’s crazy. But, so? Wait... no, no, don’t tell me you’ve been running citations?”
Tolleson nodded in slow motion while a smug smile eased across his face.
“No. No way. Tell me. A hit? You got a friggin’ hit?”
“Yep. But it’s not Turner. It’s Jerry Trask from Austin, Texas. Trask was issued a warning ticket for speeding just north of Durango, Colorado two days before Peter John Clemmons and his bodyguards started collecting .338 ammo in their heads. Trask was heading in the direction of Clemmons’ ranch. And the other half of the Trask story is that he was registered in a room near Disney World in the three days leading up to Kimbrell’s casket adventure in Kissimmee.”
“Damn, Ross, outstanding! Help me think for a second here...let’s put this together.”
Tolleson watched Jake think. “Hell, I did my thinking, I’m ready for a beer. What’s next?”
“This. Get a team in Texas to run by the Trask address.”
Tolleson extended his right palm in the air facing Jake. “Hold it. Germantown and Austin. Bogus addresses. No such place. I’ve had the local cops verify that.”
“Okay, surprise there, I guess, right? Get a sketch artist on the deputy in Durango. Let’s see what we get. We can compare it to the Maryland sketch.”
Tolleson stood. “On it.”
“One more thing. I want you to get a photo of the refuge ranger and the Colorado cop in their uniform as well as a civilian shot in some casual clothes. Needs to be a clear facial shot, chest up.”
“Why?”
Jake smiled, pointed to the door.
“Um, hold it Ross. That’s some fantastic work. Call Sally right now and tell her she’s going with you to Joe’s Saturday night for stone crab and steak, just because you love her. Maybe she’ll give you some. Tell her it’s on me.”
“Tell her it’s on you and she’ll give you some.”
“Then let’s go with that. Definitely tell her it’s on me.”
115
Asheville, North Carolina
Thursday, September 26, 2019
MONTOYA AND GARRISON ARRIVED at the McDonald’s on Fairview Road, just off 40 in Asheville, at 8:20, ten minutes ahead of schedule. Walton James told Jake yesterday afternoon he was “between offices” and said the restaurant was convenient.
They bought two coffees in the restaurant and grabbed a booth in the back next to a large plate glass window. Jake kept checking the time on his phone while he watched the parking lot. “Fifteen minutes late.”
“Might have made us. Or maybe he heard what you did to those Dragon’s in Virginia Beach. That’d spook anybody.”
Jake coughed out a laugh.
Five minutes later, a silver, early 90s Corolla with a dent in the left rear door, pulled into the parking lot. A skinny blond-haired kid got out, blew a vape cloud in the sky and started walking towards the restaurant holding his vape pipe like a pacifier. They watched Walton look around inside the restaurant. Jake threw up his hand, waved him down.
“You’re shitting me. This guy’s in the eleventh grade, and that’s only maybe,” said Garrison.
Walton wore skinny jeans and a black tee that said Fortnight. A pair of metal-framed glasses rested on his face. He introduced himself and offered each of them a handshake that was basically a flimsy bag of flour connected to his wrist.
“Sorry I’m late. I got wrapped up in Resident Evil 2. I haven’t slept in twenty-three hours.”
Garrison cut his eyes over to Jake.
“Let’s get to it, shall we. Tell us why we should hire you, Walton. Start with your background,” said Jake. Total waste of time, here.
Walton had never been out of the country. He’d never traveled farther than Atlanta. He’d never worked at a bank. He didn’t graduate college. He’d never been in the military. He lived with his parents. And, he drove his brother’s car.
“This is a company about football statistics,” said Garrison. “Did you play?”
“No.”
“Do you participate in online fantasy football?”
“No.”
“Are you a football fan?”
“No. But I can code the fuck out of shit. I thought that’s what you needed.”
“Crypto’s interesting,” said Jake. “We’re entertaining taking Bitcoin for payment of services. Believe you said you’re an expert.”
“Dude. You whacked? You think high schools are gonna pay you in Bitcoin?”
“Walton, that’s why we’re talking to you about crypto. We don’t understand it.”
“Damn right I have experience. I own eighteen hundred bucks of Bitcoin. I bought it early on for $150. Sat on that shit. Now I’m looking pretty damn good.” Walton spoke with the swagger of a guy that just said he owned the New York Yankees.
Garrison stood. “Gotta hit the men’s room.” He looked at his watch. “Jake, let’s don’t be late for the next interview.” He looked at Walton. “Busy day here, partner. We’ve got twelve people lined up to talk to.”
THEY DROVE STRAIGHT BACK TO THE AIRPORT IN CHARLOTTE, turned the car into Hertz, and had plenty of time to grab lunch.
Thirty minutes before boarding, Jake called Hope in Black Point. Last night he had a rather provocative memory of the evening they went to the Anchor. He let her know that he briefly spoke to Sarah Bradley about her dreams for the Refuge of Hope.
“Hope, Ms. Sarah’s not a tire kicker, she’s a trigger puller. She wants to fly down to Black Point in a few weeks and look at land. She told me, and I quote, “Jake, at my age I’m looking for a ‘statement investment.’ So, keep your eyes peeled for anything interesting.”
“Land! Are you serious?” Hope gushed on, happiness hugging Jake through his phone. He liked the sound of it, thinking maybe a little more than he should.
At 3:05, Garrison and Montoya lifted off on a nonstop flight to San Francisco.
116
San Francisco
Friday, September 27, 2019
THE MEETING WAS SET FOR 8:30 IN THE WEWORK OFFICE in the Central Market district. Jake and Randy ate toaster waffles with coffee at their hotel, discussed some interview questions, and checked out at 8:05. 1161 Mission S
treet was two blocks away.
Cold air slapped them in the face as they walked out of the hotel, Jake with a small duffel slung over his shoulder and Randy rolling a small carry-on case.
“Thank God for a peep of sun. How the hell does it get so cold in this place?” said Garrison.
WeWork’s building was a 1920s era former industrial structure tuned-up with a hip millennial-purposed interior. “Wow,” said Jake, as they walked in. “Great looking space.”
They both scanned the set-up. Wood floors, exposed ductwork, tasteful plants, and architecturally designed furniture. Jake spotted a Boxer, a Golden, and two Bernese Mountain dogs. Dog friendly, not bad.
At the community bar they hopped on stools, grabbed an herbal tea, and glanced at the clientele. Garrison saw mostly jeans, tee shirts, hoodies, and headsets. “Maybe we should stash our sport coats in the trash can.” Jake saw creative self-starters that were likely to land on the cover of Inc. magazine in the next five years.
A tall imposing figure approached them. “Mr. Montoya? 4th Down Analytics?” Jake heard a rich baritone voice that didn’t mesh with the person he was looking at. “I’m Mala Dimitru.” She pronounced it mall-ah.
She was every bit of six-feet-one in a conservative navy-colored dress and flats. She wore chic librarian glasses, her neat dark hair parted in the middle came to her shoulders, straight as broom straw. A computer bag hung over her shoulder and in her right hand she held a heavy leather leash snugged up tight on a heavily muscled Rottweiler that wore a muzzle. Mala nodded towards the dog. “This is Cocoa.”
After introductions, Mala said, “Follow me.” Jake and Randy lagged a solid seven feet back from Cocoa. They went into a stairwell and walked up two flights. Jake and Randy’s eyes met. What the fuck!
Mala walked with the stride of an athlete, and seeing her calves flex, Jake knew he played ball with boys at Bama that didn’t have muscles that imposing.
She took them to a small private conference room with solid frosted glass walls facing the hallway and a massive window flooding the room with natural light, exposing a cityscape view of San Francisco.
Mala sat across the table from Jake and Randy, pulled out a MacBook Air, powered it on, and typed a small number of strokes, what Jake surmised to be a heading for this meeting. The men watched, digesting the shape of the morning so far.
“I’m a major fan of American football. I mean major.” The accent was European morphing into American English. “I have season tickets to the Forty-Niners. So, the prospect of 4th Down Analytics appeals to me.”
Randy suppressed his urge to mention Jake was a former All-Pro with the Redskins.
“So, gentlemen. You say you’re well capitalized. How much have you raised in your early round financing?” Mala was no wallflower. She charged out of the gate forcing the meeting into the direction she desired.
“We’re starting with $5.5 million and believe that will last thirty-six months,” said Randy. “We’re not looking for a lot of hires, just exceptional people.”
Mala nodded. “Let me be candid up front. If I can’t negotiate an equity stake for participation, I likely would have no interest. I’ve been fortunate to have made some nice money lately, especially over the last six months. So, I’d like to hear your qualifications to obtain company equity as well as your expectations of my programming skills.”
“We’ll get to all of that,” said Jake. “But first I’d like you to go through your background with us. Your CV is quite impressive but...” Jake lulled, looking for words.
“But my physicality is not what you expected.”
Jake wobbled his head. “Yeah...I guess that’s right.”
“I’ll be glad to run through it for you.”
Randy jumped in. “Hey, I’m always fascinated by success stories. What’d you get into to land you into that big recent payday?”
Mala maintained a poker face, letting her eyes glance at each man. “Some things a lady keeps to herself. Why don’t we move on.”
Jake thought, pushback, private. He interpreted her look to say why do you want to know. Suspicions rose at that point.
For thirty-five minutes Mala described her past prior to the last six months. She told them she was an officer in the Romanian military focusing on cyber intelligence when she could no longer masquerade as a man. She detailed her transition through hormones and surgery. She moved to San Francisco to live a judgment free life in an area flooded with tech firms and opportunities. Mala had equity in two start-ups that are very promising although she wouldn’t name them. She prefers freelance coding opportunities rather than the tedium of a full-time job at a single enterprise.
“Mala, I’ve got a question,” said Randy. “What is berkeleyblue2?”
“I went to Berkeley and am extremely proud of my degree. It’s hard to get into that school and even harder to graduate. So, yeah, I’m quite proud.”
“Are you familiar with Steve Wozniak?” Said Jake.
“Are you serious? Of course. He’s a Berkeley grad and an icon. That’s like asking Elon Musk if he’s heard of Henry Ford. In fact, I’m signed up for a tech conference in Scottsdale in a couple of weeks and Woz is a keynote speaker. Really looking forward to it.”
“What’s the conference focus? Maybe we should go,” said Randy, glancing at Jake.
“Blockchain. Cryptocurrency. Cybersecurity. Things I’m very interested in.”
Both men froze.
LYFT DROPPED JAKE AND RANDY AT SFO AT 11:35. They ate a quick sandwich and chips, took a pee break and lifted off on United at 12:30 headed to McCarran International. Las Vegas. On the ninety-minute flight they discussed getting a team on Mala and doing a deep dig on her past, particularly the last half of the year.
“We need to get into her banking, try to find the origin of her good fortunes,” said Jake. “Not to mention crypto accounts.”
“Gotta say, all weirdness aside, she was impressive. Takes major balls...excuse the pun...to do the transition thing. But, I could see her for this,” said Randy. “Let’s dig into the military end, see if she has any sniper experience. Maybe she just decided to omit that from the conversation, thinking we might not need a sniper in 4th Down Analytics.” Both men laughed.
In the Vegas terminal, Jake put down his duffel and pulled up the number for Philly Boy Richardson, punched dial.
“Phil, this is Jake Montoya, I’m at the terminal.”
“Great, Mr. Montoya. I’m at the Casino Royale, in the middle of the strip. You can get here in twenty minutes. Meet me in White Castle, I need about ten of those burgers.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, I’m wearing a black tee, jeans, and a Raiders cap.”
“Got it. My partner and I will be the two guys in sport coats that look like accountants from Wisconsin.”
THEY SPOTTED PHILLY IMMEDIATELY. He was sitting at a table that did have ten hamburger boxes on it with fries and a trash can-sized soft drink. Philly waved as they approached. “Sorry, can’t shake your hands.” Philly held up his right palm. “Burger grease.”
Randy looked at those tiny square burgers. “Man, those look delicious. I’m getting a few. Want any, Jake?”
“Shoot, yeah. I’ll start with three. Plus a Diet Coke.”
Tolleson called Jake with something interesting yesterday. Theo Fuller was a poker player while at MIT. Tolleson found an old picture in The Tech, MIT’s school newspaper. It was of Fuller and three other guys, one being Phil Richardson. Tolleson tried to track down a couple of the guys and Phil was the one he found first. He had a Masters’ in electrical engineering and an undergrad degree in computer science. No real job. He was a professional poker player.
Jake set up the meeting by phone yesterday. Said he wanted to discuss someone Phil knew. But he wouldn’t give up a name.
Jake ate his first burger in three quick bites, took a sip of Coke. “Awesome. Hadn’t had one in a long while.” He wiped his lips with a napkin. “Phil, I’m curious, this is interestin
g as hell. I’ve never met a pro gambler. How does a guy with your engineering background end up here?”
“Welp,” Phil was chewing, held up a finger, “Okay. I found out quickly I don’t like what people would look at as a regular job. I get bored easily. For the first five years out of MIT I worked for two different companies, Google and Qualcomm. Just wasn’t my thing. I came out to Vegas on weekends in college and liked it. Now I do what I want when I want. Most of my gambling is online. So, I can do a lot of traveling, both for tournaments and, also, for the joy of the road.”
Garrison held a French fry as he spoke. “So, you really can make a living at this?”
“Well, most people can’t. Poker is a very hard way to make an easy living. Here’s the deal. I’m good with numbers. People that are good with numbers are generally better poker players. Fact of the matter is I’m probably in the top fifty of the most successful poker players, at least in America. I’ve made $8 million gross in the last five years. But I do treat it like a J-O-B. I play eight to ten hours a day, six days a week. I eat right. Well, except for these ten burgers. I exercise seventy-five minutes daily. I’m a professional in a seedy neon world.”
Jake saw Phil take a quick glance at his watch. He didn’t want to take a man from his livelihood. “Man, that’s fascinating, it really is. Phil, I’ll get to the point. I want to see what you can tell us about a guy from your past. Berkeleyblue2. As a username does that ring a bell?”
Phil finished his bite, leaned back, looked at both Jake and Randy, expressionless.
Jake wondered if he was structuring the response he was about to give. Toss out a fat lie.
Phil stuck a tongue in his cheek, looked away, then looked back right at them. “BerkeleyBlue. Oh, yeah, does more than ring a bell. Bottom line. He’s unethical, he’s a liar, he’s a thief. He’s a fuckin’ criminal. We flew to Vegas to play poker at least 75 weekends. We were tight. He was my best friend on this earth for a couple of years. We gravitated to each other in Boston. In year three I knew what I was dealing with. And, that was it. Saw him once, about two years after we graduated. Why? What’d that bastard do?”