by Sam Cade
“Well, he might be orchestrating murders.”
Phil huffed out an exasperated exhale, glanced into space. “Can’t say I’m shocked. Hell, if you told me he was doing the killing himself it wouldn’t shock me.”
“Did you ever hear Theo talk about his stepfather, Bill Burnham?” said Jake.
“Theo Fuller. Bill Burnham, the lawyer,” said Randy.
Phil’s face scrunched into a puzzled look. “Theo wasn’t berkeleyblue2, his roommate was.”
Jake and Randy looked at each other. They leaned forward, elbows on the table.
Their question was spoken in unison.
“Who’s Theo’s roommate?”
117
“MIKHAIL KUZNETSOV.” That’s what Philly Boy told them.
“So, you guys don’t know who that is?” Phil raised his eyebrows. “You sure you guys are FBI?”
“Tell us about Kuznetsov,” said Jake.
“He’s from Little Odessa...”
“That’s Brighton Beach, right?” Said Randy.
“Yep. In Brooklyn, New York. I’ve been there several times with Mike. At Tech, he went by Mike. His comrades in New York called him Mikhail. And there’s definitely some shit coming out of Brighton Beach. Russian mafia. Mike tried to impress us at Tech about his uncle being a badass in the Russian mob. At first I thought it was horseshit. But then I met his uncle and some of his cronies in a restaurant called Skovorodka, years back. If there’s a Russian mob look, these guys had it.”
THE SOUTHWEST FLIGHT WAS CLOCKING 550 MILES PER HOUR at 36,000 feet headed to Washington National. Smooth, no turbulence. Muffled roar of jet engines in the background.
“I think it’s a three man deal at a minimum,” said Jake. “Theo and Mikhail hatched the plan, and they’ve got a former SEAL doing the dirty work. But, still...it’s hard to believe a Team 6 guy would do this. A Naval Academy grad...I mean, damn, that’s out there.”
“Before we hit Vegas, I thought we had our guy...girl, you know, in San Francisco. Mala looks like she could stir up a serious calamity,” said Randy.
“No kidding,” said Jake.
“I’ve got a contact in Organized Crime in New York. I’ll call his cell tomorrow. See what he can tell us about Kuznetsov,” said Randy. “And, can you believe that shit? Phil’s pulled in $8 million playing poker. Damn.”
Philly Boy filled them in on what he knew currently about Mikhail, which wasn’t much. Kuznetsov was a leading suspect on the ransomware attacks on hospitals and governments around the world as well as highly sophisticated European and American hacks into bank accounts, walking away with millions.
“Do I think he’s smart enough to do it?” asked Philly rhetorically, earlier in the day. “Definitely. Do I think he’d want to do it? Absolutely, beyond any doubt. He’s been enamored with criminal enterprise since he was a boy.”
The mention of ransomware resonated with Jake. Ransomware payments were in Bitcoin....
JAKE TURNED ON HIS PHONE AT THE TERMINAL. A single text popped up.
Got Something! Call me. Loomis Fagan.
Loomis, an FBI Special Agent based in Charleston, S.C., answered on the third ring. “Fagan.” A high school pep band was playing near him. “Hey, hold on a minute, can’t hear.”
Loomis was commiserating with his son after the game. Loomis walked his boy thirty yards away, hand on his shoulder. “Okay, let’s try it now.”
“Loomis, this is Jake Montoya in Washington. I was on a plane when your text hit. Whatcha got?”
“Sorry for the racket, Jake. My boy plays football at a small school in Mt. Pleasant. They just got ransacked.”
“Hate to hear that.”
“Well, you know, it’s a character builder. Oh, hey, I hear you’re the football Montoya. Mind saying a quick word to my boy, Clayton? Here he is.” Jake heard Loomis tell his boy it was Jake Montoya, played at Bama and all-pro from the Redskins.
Ahhhh, gawd. “Clayton, how’s it going, man? Your dad said it was a rough game.”
“It was, Mr. Montoya. We lost 56-6. Missed the extra point.” Jake scrunched his face. Youch.
“Clayton, look. Nobody’s ever played the game that hasn’t lost a couple. And, I’ve lost way more than a couple. Despite the negatives, every game has a positive. Give me one positive from tonight.”
“I scored the touchdown.”
“That’s it then, that’s the focus. Focus on the TD. Take that positive into next week’s practices and bust your tail. To be a winner you have to think like a winner.”
“Yeah, but I only ran for twenty-one yards on fifteen carries and had two fumbles.”
“The touchdown, Clayton. That’s all you think on, man, the score. Good luck next week.” Go back to the oboe, kid.
“Thanks, great advice, here’s my dad.”
“Appreciate that, Jake. But, yeah, we got something. First, we scoured the medical school talking to basic science folks then the clinical departments. Nobody’s heard a thing about any joint testing with an agricultural company. After we asked, we showed everybody the picture of Lucas Knight. We told them the man’s name is Dr. John Thomas Turner. Nobody had heard the name or recognized Knight.”
“Great work, Loomis.”
“But the Doubletree was a slam dunk. We spoke to the general manager first. He remembered the name, Dr. John Turner. We walked in with two separate six-person photo lineups we created. Really mixed it up. Ten seconds and he nailed him out of twelve people. He suggested showing the lineups to two desk clerks. One was out of town. We’ll talk to her next week. The other was at home. We ran by her home for three minutes. She was a sharp young Jamaican woman. Bang. Another ID in ten seconds. She checked Dr. Turner out of the hotel and they had a conversation about Asia. Turner told her he was heading there soon.
“Damn good work, Loomis. Let me know what the other clerk says next week. Next time I’m in Charleston, I’d like to meet your son and buy you guys dinner.”
Commander Lucky Hendrickson. In Charleston. Kuznetsov, Theo, and Hendrickson.
118
Monday, September 30, 2019
IT WAS 9:42 ON A MONDAY MORNING in the third best month of the year. Jake flipped through pages on a yellow legal pad reviewing notes on the White Dragon’s medical robot robbery in Silicon Valley. Tough questions were coming his way at an 11:00 a.m. conference call with agents in California, which was to include the CEO of Intellisurg. Three Matisse surgical robots were seized four days ago coming off a ship in Lagos, Nigeria. Seven are still missing.
Jake had already spoken to Randy earlier about Kuznetsov. According to the OC division in New York, Kuznetsov is in the wind. They’d been looking for him for three years.
His computer chimed with an incoming email.
From John Lozano. La Plata County Sheriff’s Department. Durango, Colorado. The message went to Tolleson first. He forwarded it to Jake. An attachment named “Trask Sketch-JLozano” was included with the mail. Jake opened it, stared. He pulled the Maryland wildlife officer’s sketch out of his desk drawer to compare. Same sunglasses. Both sketches showed a bearded man in a cap and shades. Jake lazily nodded to himself.
John Thomas Turner. Ford Van. Cambridge, MD. Jerry Trask. Jeep. Durango, CO.
Twin drivers.
Jake picked up his phone, dialed the cell number for John Lozano listed in the email.
“Deputy Lozano.”
“John, this is Jake Montoya, FBI. I’m calling from Washington. I just got my hands on your sketch. And, thanks. You guys have a fine artist. If you have a moment, could you give me a rundown on your encounter with Trask?”
Good fortune, just like the Doubletree clerk. Lozano remembered because of an extraneous conversation about kayaks and Lozano’s wife. Lozano remembered everything. Jeep speeding. Kayak on roof. Fitness. Lozano and his wife should kayak together. Texas driver’s license, Austin residence.
“Agent Montoya, I was a hair away from not writing the ticket. I wrote it, then we had such a nice con
versation that I became benevolent. I crumbled it up, put it in my pocket. Trask left and I got to thinking. I needed to look like I’m doing something besides staring at the blue sky. I uncrumpled it, listed it as a warning, and filed it.”
“So as far as Trask knows, there is no record of a ticket?”
“That’s right.”
“This is important, John. Did Trask ever take off the shades?” Please say yes.
“No, I’m sure of that. And I was standing right at the driver’s door, chatting. Trask was cool, not a single inkling of a guy driving down the highway to kill somebody.”
“I’m about to email two photos. Are you near a computer?”
“I’m logged on right now. Fire away.”
“Hang tight.” Jake attached two photos of Lucas Knight taken in Black Point. Glasses off. Glasses on.
“Got it.” It only took a moment. “Well, this guy is clean shaven, no cap. But the shades are dead on. So, a chance it’s the guy, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“How about a southern accent?” Lozano didn’t remember one. Jake ended the call, then punched in Ross Tolleson’s number.
“Same guy in the sketch, don’t you think?” said Ross.
“I do. Listen, you said the vehicle was rented in Albuquerque, right?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. Check out flights coming in and out as well as hotels for seven days before and after the murder. See if they have anything on Lucas Knight, Lucas Hendrickson, John Thomas Turner, and Jerry Trask.”
“On it.”
“Two more things, Ross.”
“Come on, Jake, it’s Monday. I have to ease into the week.”
“Check all the local smaller airports taking in traffic from small business and personal aircraft. Luke Hendrickson’s a pilot. And do the same thing for airports in the Orlando area. And grab any video footage from the hotel Trask stayed at in Orlando.”
BRANT ARRIVED AT JAKE’S OFFICE CARRYING A LEGAL PAD and a pen. It was five minutes after 3:00 p.m. She took a seat, crossed her legs leaving a single dark high heel in the air. “Tell me something positive.”
A pleasant scent followed Belinda into the office. Very light. Fresh. Citrus? A tinge of vanilla? Unusually alluring for a Monday afternoon.
He told her Walton James in Asheville was a washout. Then he went into detail about Mala Dimitru in San Francisco including the minutia about the transition surgery and a big pup named Cocoa.
“We’re digging into Mala’s background now,” said Jake. “They said they’d made out big on money in the last six months which opened our eyes. For participation as a coder, they want equity in our fictional company. They even proposed investing in 4th Down Analytics if they liked what they saw.”
Belinda frowned. “What is this they stuff?”
“Learned it in a transgender PC seminar. Not really sure what it means.”
Belinda rolled her eyes. “Keep going.”
He told her about Philly Boy Richardson and Mikhail Kuznetsov.
“Kuznetsov was Theo Fuller’s roommate at MIT. He used berkeleyblue2 in his personal emails back then. Now he’s hiding overseas. Prime suspect for ransomware threats and bank account hacks.”
Hearing this, Belinda waggled her right foot subconsciously to the point her heel slipped loose. Jake’s eyes gravitated towards it. She watched him watch her. She kept waggling.
“So, Tolleson found Philly Boy for you? Good work. I’m definitely liking Mikhail.” She pronounced it mick-Hah-EEL.
“Here’s what I need from you, Belinda. I need you ready to go to Black Point on very short notice.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m seeing a plan come together but it’s not quite there yet. Step one, though, is to take down Theo in the coffee shop with his computer up. I don’t trust a soul to touch the computer but you. I mean Nobody.”
Belinda looked earnest, began nodding, stared into Jake’s eyes. “I definitely want a peek into that box...I do. Good plan.”
119
Black Point, Alabama
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
WADDELL SKIPWORTH TURNED HIS HEAD, leaned over the table, and bit into the most authentic Mexican taco to be had in Black Point. It was delicious, with a thin delicate shell. Remnants of meat, cheese, and fried tortilla shell splattered back into the paper boat the delicacy was served in. He scooped up the remnants with a plastic fork and shoveled them in his mouth. It was the last bite of his third taco. Which also meant he had two final sips remaining in his third Dos Equis. One Taco. One beer. It kept the earth on its axis.
Los Tacos was a low ambiance spot nudged into a busy convenience store. You don’t come here expecting bullhorns and cowboy relics like Longhorn’s.
Waddell’s eyes shot through the large plate glass window past a scenic vista of nine gas pumps. He didn’t notice the pumps. His mind was in a daze thinking deep thoughts. Cause that’s what house painters do.
Was Gomer Pyle really gay? Or was it a publicity stunt?
Three beers had Waddell’s engine primed. It was 5:40 p.m. He was about to shove off, drive two miles south, and get his drunk on at the Rusty Anchor bar. He’d ask Alonzo what he thought.
Gomer was a Marine so he couldn’t be gay, right?. He’d bet dollars to donuts Gomer banged that redheaded friend of his. The funny one. What was her name? Had her own TV show...
A black streak sliced into the convenience store parking lot interrupting his musings. A distant brain cell in his head sparked. A black Ford F-250 pickup. Gleaming like a new Ferrari. Lone Star Paint Works logo on the doors.
A tall pale man hopped out of the driver’s seat wearing bootcut jeans over shiny Tecovas and a green range wear shirt with pearl buttons. A heavy Mexican man stepped out of the passenger seat, likely early fifties. A young Mexican couple emerged from the extra cab, couldn’t be thirty just yet.
Waddell tried to force out a memory. Where, where, where?
He decided to leave now, drive down to the Anchor. His old buddy Mr. Daniel’s might grease his memory wheels.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
JAKE’S FISTS SLAMMED THE HEAVY BAG. He was shirtless and barefoot. Sweat drained down his face. A moist sheen across his chest highlighted his pecs.
“Come on now. Crush it. Bust the son of a bitch open.” Ben Staggers stabilized the bag as Jake threw deep hard punches. “Switch. Speed bag.” Jake took two big strides to his right. In an instant his fists connected with the teardrop-shaped bag swiveling on a screw eye. Both fists were a blur. His arms were lithe, defined, powerful. They would have been a gift for DaVinci’s sketch pad.
“Legs, let’s go, Jake, don’t let up, start popping.” Back to the heavy bag. Jake’s right shin guard crashed into the bag, rocking Staggers backwards. A low kick. Thwack...thwack...thwack. “Harder. Crush his thigh...come on...he’s drawing a weapon...chest...slam the chest.” Jake turned his pelvis, jumped forward thrusting a right heel into the center of the bag. Thwack. Staggers recoiled, holding the bag. “Cracked his sternum. “Come on, fuck him up...both wings now, bring him to the ground.” Jake slammed the bag, alternating right and left legs. Like a switch hitter in baseball, Jake delivered power from both wings. Staggers counted kicks. “Eighteen...nineteen...twenty. Stop.”
Jake bent over, hands on his knees. “I can barely stand up.” He wobbled, picked up a towel off the floor, wiped his face, grabbed a bottle of water, emptied it. He walked slowly around the room, breathing hard.
Staggers had trained Jake in Muay Thai for eighteen months. Elbows, knees, shins, fists, feet. Body weapons that leave an opponent bloody, and often with broken bones. In the ring, sparring with Jake was like walking into an airplane propeller.
Jake’s phone rang. It was 8:10 on a clear dark Tuesday night in Washington, temperatures dropping until it hits a low of 49.
Wild Bill Burnham. “Jake, I’m 107 percent drunk.” The words were slurred. “Bad fuggin’ news.”
“What happened?” Jake wiped his
chest sweat with a towel as he spoke.
“The Asians is what happened. They want my mansion. My beautiful home. My dock and boat. They want it. Got an email forty-minutes ago...and now I’m drinking as fast as I can.”
“What’d it say?”
“It said panic at fuckin’ proton mail, them bastards. Absolute auction to the highest bidder. My hot damn house. Donate the proceeds to the foundation that owns the trailer parks.” Jake heard ice tinkling as Bill slurped down his alcohol.
Next he heard what he thought was crying. But it wasn’t. Bill was laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
Bill was howling now, slapping his palm on his desk. “Cause...cause...” Bill fought to stop laughing. “Cause those dumb fucks don’t know that Liz and Theo control my foundation and...” Bill sounded like a laughing bag. “Jake...Jake...I’m getting all my shit back in three years. Theo set it up that way. My stepson’s a hot damn genius. Watching out for my ass.” Another drunken belly laugh. “All of it. Every single square inch of land. Even the house if I give it to them. Those stupid dumb fucks got nothin’ on old Wild Bill.”
Theo set it up?
JAKE RAN HOME IN SEVEN MINUTES. He threw his small backpack on the couch, grabbed a Powerade from the refrigerator, booted up his laptop. He entered his Bureau credentials on the sign-in page. Opened daily reports. Benton and Allen in Black Point.
Theo Fuller was averaging three hours and nineteen minutes a day on his laptop for the last six weekdays at the Coffee Loft. Allen’s impression. Highly focused. Thoughtful. The face of someone taking an important test.
He walked to the counter, glopped some peanut butter on a few saltines. He leaned on the counter with his back, started eating. And thinking. After five crackers he left his drink on the counter, grabbed a hot shower. Steam heat expanded his mind.
Twelve minutes later, he was sitting on his leather couch wearing flannel pajama pants and a grey sweatshirt with Alabama Football stenciled across the chest in crimson. Rowdy was next to him on the couch, entranced at people on TV wearing camouflage peeking at gorillas in the dark using night vision goggles.