In for a Ruble tv-2

by David Duffy

  “Believe it or not, I did. From a pay phone.”

  “You leave a name?”

  My turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “Never mind. Take what you can get. Hang on.”

  She took a cell phone from her pocket and gave someone a short list of orders about the NYPD, Coryell, and his office.

  “Want to hear about the computers?” I said when she finished.

  “What computers?”

  “ConnectPay’s. The ones that probably have every transaction the company ever made recorded on their hard drives. Not to mention customer files, money flow, BEC data…”

  She’d been pacing the kitchen while she made her call. She stopped and faced me. “What about them?”

  “They’re missing. Not in Coryell’s office. They used to be, I saw where they were. Somebody took them. Maybe the same somebody who killed him.”

  “Goddammit. You got any good news?” She paced some more.

  “I’m alive. And you know a lot more than you did two days ago.”

  That stopped her again. She came back toward me.

  “How the hell did I get myself shacked up with a serial felon?”

  “Felonious sex appeal?”

  “Don’t start with the humor—and don’t give yourself airs, especially not tonight. How’d you get into Coryell’s office?”

  “You don’t really expect me to answer that.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. You touch anything, take anything?”

  “No one will find fingerprints.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. Answer the question.”

  “I opened the window. I moved the photocopier away from the wall and put it back. I checked Coryell’s wallet. It’s in his hip pocket, where I found it. I interrupted several hundred musca meals.”

  That got me a look.

  “Flies—there’s lots of them.”

  “Ugh.” She resumed her pacing. “You know, shug, aside from your own criminal intent, which I’m trying hard to overlook, all this information you serve up, I don’t know if we can even use it. We’ve got laws, conventions, rules of evidence.”

  “You’re a prosecutor. I’m an ex-spy. If what Foos just said about your chess acumen is true, I’m guessing you’ll find a way.”

  “You’re an ex-spy bullshit artist.”

  She put out her arms. I stepped into her embrace.

  “No! My mistake. I think that smell’s growing. You need a bath, maybe disinfectant. If that doesn’t work, one of us is definitely sleeping on the couch.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got one more job to do. It’s why I came back here. It’s ugly and unpleasant and probably involves your man Konychev. I’m also going to need your help with something.”

  “Do I anticipate more laws being broken?”

  “Can’t say no. But law or no law, there’s no good way out of this particular swamp.”

  “Remember I grew up in a swamp.”

  “Doesn’t mean you want to return.”

  She put a hand on each cheek and planted her lips on mine—briefly.

  “You’re not the only who can take a selective approach to truth telling. Let’s go—that is, if he’ll let a Fed sit in.”

  “If you really drew him in chess twice, he’s too devastated to say no.”

  I grabbed the bottle and two glasses in addition to my own, and we went to Foos’s office.

  “Showtime,” I said.

  “I was afraid of that,” he said.

  He moved his desk chair aside to make room for the two I brought around. He made no comment on Victoria’s presence. Pig Pen wasn’t the only one she’d been bonding with.

  I put the glasses and the bottle on the desk. Foos poured a drink. Victoria shook her head, no.

  “First stop, see if WildeTime.com is still online.”

  “No need. Whole BEC network is down.”

  “Again? That’s not good for the kids.”

  “The kids—or kid—are the ones who took it down. That’s what I meant when I called.”

  “Andras really took down the BEC?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s been toying with ConnectPay for months, starting last summer. He spent weeks looking around, figuring out what’s what. He tried a few minor data-corruption programs, nothing too serious, more experiments than anything else. Then he found his way through the BEC firewall. A few more data-corruption forays, reconnaissance missions, enough to cause some glitches. Then he clipped them for that three mil in August and the five at Thanksgiving. Like he was ramping up. A couple weeks ago, he planted a real worm, nest of worms actually. Data corruption big time—designed to make a total mash of everything. The first time it twists a few files—as a warning. That was the little hiccup a few days ago. The second, if it isn’t disabled, the worms bore their way through everything, eat it all from the inside out, leaving a long trail of cyber-shit in its wake.”

  “Let me guess. The second launch was today.”

  “Correctomundo,” Foos said. “They may have backup systems unconnected with their main servers, but if not, the BEC is well and truly cooked. And even if they do, they’ve got a big job getting back in business. Could take weeks, probably months.”

  “That’s a lot of income.”

  “Billions.”

  “Did he cover his tracks?”

  “He did inside the ConnectPay servers, but all the activity is clear as day on his own system. Didn’t reckon anyone would be looking at it, I guess.”

  “Naïve.”

  “He’s a kid, a smart kid, but a kid.”

  “And the guy this morning could see it?”

  “If he’s remotely competent, he saw everything I did.”

  “You’re right about buried alive. If they don’t dismember him first.”

  Victoria was watching silently, a mix of surprise and thoughtfulness on her face. I reached for the phone and called Leitz.

  “You get your son somewhere safe, like we discussed?”

  “Working on it right now.”

  “Don’t delay. It’s worse than I thought. And don’t tell anybody—not your wife, your family, anybody where he is. Anybody who knows is in the same kind of danger.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you.”

  Victoria said, “That kid’s a suspect. You’re aiding and abetting.”

  “That kid’s dead—as soon as they finish torturing him—the moment anyone in the BEC knows where to find him.”

  “You can’t keep him in hiding forever.”

  “I know.” Problem was, that’s exactly how long Karp and Konychev—Batkin too?—were going to keep looking. She was giving me her best prosecutorial glare.

  “Suppose I need to talk to him?”

  “We can discuss that.”

  “Uh-uh. You get no special dispensation from me. Not when it comes to doing my job.”

  “I understand. I’m not expecting any. But there may be other answers.” I did my best to sound confident. I could see she didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself. I turned to Foos.

  “If the ConnectPay servers were disconnected before the data destruction program launched itself, there’s a chance they weren’t infected, right?”

  “If they were offline, and Andras didn’t trash them too, they’re probably okay.”

  “Looks like you still have your case, if we can find those servers,” I said to Victoria. “Although we may need them to bargain for the kid.”

  “Hold on, shug. You can’t…”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said quickly. “We have to find them first. And if Nosferatu killed Coryell, it’s a moot point—he’s already got them.”

  “You still can’t…”

  Time to change the subject, even if it was only a temporary reprieve. I said, “Let’s take a look at the WildeTime data. Start with e-mail. Search on Newburgh.”

  I could feel Victoria’s glare as I watched the computer. Foos was cool
as a cucumber—once again declining to take sides, at least overtly. It took a minute to find an exchange between someone named frankyfun and Salomé—a half-dozen messages arranging a five-thousand-dollar private “in-person audition” at the Black Horse Motel for the night of January 15.

  “Who’s that?” Victoria asked.

  “Frankyfun is Walter Coryell.”

  “You sure?”

  “Dead certain, actually.”

  “Doesn’t your sense of humor ever take a night off?”

  “Carpe diem.”

  “Carpe my ass. Who’s Salomé?”

  I resisted the temptation to carpe the obvious comeback. “Salomé is Andras’s girlfriend, Irina. What else is there on franky?”

  Foos worked the keys. Franky was a regular. He’d paid for “private auditions,” mostly with Salomé, about once a week for the last six months. All recorded.

  One of the worst things about this kind of investigation, it makes you question your own motives. Are they based on prurience? How much do I need to see? We all have tendencies, I’m told, but most of us keep them buried. For those who don’t, and have the funds, here was a menu, just like a diner. Cute underaged Russian blowjobs in column A. Sweet-faced American boy pulling his pud in column B. For kiddie doggy, choose column C. Got a thing for teenaged lesbians…

  Victoria muttered, “Jesus, I can’t believe this. You weren’t kidding about the swamp. I’ll take that drink now.”

  She reached for the bottle.

  “Pick one at random,” I said to Foos.

  Foos pointed and clicked. We got Irina/Salomé doing a solo masturbation act, at the direction of frankyfun, who’d paid $699 for the privilege. It took a short minute to figure out how it worked. Irina was on the bed in one of the rooms I’d seen that morning. She stared out at the camera, clothed in a vintage velvet dress with lace collar, made up to look like an even younger girl, pigtails and all. She shed velvet to reveal underwear that was decidedly twenty-first century, then she removed that piece by piece and went into her self-pleasuring act. She received direction from franky via e-mail, which someone was reading at the computer on the desk and relaying to her. One of her fellow players, no doubt. Andras? Boyfriend as virtual pimp? That was more depressing than I wanted to contemplate.

  “I’ve had enough,” Foos said.

  “So have I,” Victoria echoed.

  “One more thing,” I said. “What’s the date on the scene we just watched?”

  “Last May,” Foos said.

  “See any sign of a scar on Irina’s neck?”

  “Nope.”

  “Neither do I. Pick a more current one.”

  He found another private audition, ordered up by frankyfun just two weeks ago. She used a lot of pancake, but the rough skin was difficult to hide. The scar was there.

  “Enough,” I said.

  “What’s that about?” Victoria asked.

  “I don’t know. Noticed it on the drive from Gibbet. I’m going to check it out.”

  “How’re you going to do that?”

  “Spy sources.”

  That got me a look, but she didn’t press it. “How many clients you think these kids have?” she asked.

  A quick survey indicated almost three hundred, with an average monthly tab of two grand.

  “They’ve been pulling down north of seven mil a year, minus ConnectPay’s cut.”

  “This can’t be about money,” Victoria said. “These are rich kids, right? They have money. They have futures.”

  “Another question we still don’t have an answer for. Go back to that frankyfun e-mail,” I said to Foos.

  He scrolled through the full exchange—four messages, franky arranging a tryst with Salomé at the Black Horse.

  “I’m betting that’s not Salomé. It’s Andras using her account.”

  “Can’t check that, if he logged on with her user name.”

  “No need to. Only way it fits. The junkies said he was shouting, ‘Where is he?’ and she said, ‘This was your plan.’”

  “Junkies?” Victoria asked.

  “Witnesses,” I said. “They weren’t stoned. I caught them just before their morning fix.”

  “Great!”

  “The guy in the playhouse this morning? He try to hide his tracks?”

  “Uh-uh,” Foos said.

  “He knew Nosferatu was going to blow the joint.”

  “What?!” Victoria shouted.

  I told her about the playhouse and the explosives.

  “Jesus Christ! You’re a one-man wrecking crew. You didn’t call the… Shit, never mind, why am I asking?”

  “I removed the gas. Put it in my car. Nobody got hurt.”

  “Oh great. You could have been… What makes you think…?”

  “Once a Fed…,” Foos said. I guess he couldn’t resist.

  Victoria got ready to belt him. He grinned. They hadn’t bonded as much as I thought.

  “Do either of you realize how many laws… Of course you do. And you’re happy about it.”

  She stood, knocking her chair over backward.

  “Nobody’s any worse off than they were before,” I said. “We haven’t changed the dynamics here one bit. The kids were in danger, they’re still in danger—all of their own making. Coryell’s dead. He was already dead—also his fault. You know more than you did four nights ago, when you were ready to trade anything for help. I’m out a night’s sleep, but I picked up some free gas in the deal. And—even though we can’t take credit for it—it appears one of the truly nasty players on the Internet has been knocked offline. This is where I need your help.”

  “That’s not the point, and you know it.” She stomped her feet and walked around the office. Foos watched, stifling a chuckle. She stopped in front of me. “What help?”

  “I need the FBI or somebody trustworthy—not the local cops—to go to Crestview tonight and retrieve the WildeTime servers, before Konychev or Batkin or someone else gets them. Even though those kids are already all over the Internet, let’s not make it worse by having all that content fall into the wrong hands. They may be useful to you too.”

  She took another walk around the office and came back and looked me straight in the eyes. Annoyance, concern, fear, and love were duking it out in hers.

  “This is what it’s going to be like, isn’t it?”

  “Welcome to the inside.”

  “I should’ve stayed in Marathon—maybe even that reform school. I’ll make the call. Then let’s go home.”

  Foos winked.

  CHAPTER 35

  “That kid has to be a suspect in his uncle’s murder.”

  “I don’t think he did it.”

  “What you think isn’t relevant. What you know—about him, about the uncle—that’s material.”

  “It’s all there for the cops to find, if they look.”

  “That’s not the point either. And one thing isn’t there, and that’s the kid, thanks to you.”

  “He won’t do you any good dead.”

  We sat across from each other at my kitchen counter, eating a late meal of bread and cheese and vodka and wine. I’d washed off most of Coryell’s corpse’s stench, to her approval, but I was resisting her admonishments to tell my tale to the police, which had her increasingly pissed off.

  We’d checked Ibansk.com before leaving the office. As expected, Ivanov was already on the Lishin story.

  Gone Lishin?

  I provided a rough translation.

  “I take it back. He’s worse than you are,” Victoria said.

  Terminal troubles at the Baltic Enterprise Commission, Ivanov can report, of both the technical and personal persuasion.

  The service is offline again, as dead as one of its founding partners, Alexander Lishin, found yesterday, his decomposing corpse adding its own peculiar pollution to the Moscova.

  Not much is known about Lishin’s demise—yet. The body was clearly dumped, and the cause of death is a well-protected secret—for the moment.
Ivanov has learned that the stiff has been stiff for several weeks.

  As for the BEC, it appears the glitch a few days ago was only a harbinger of things to come. A mysterious cyber-attack has blown through the vaunted defenses and torched everything it could reach—which is to say, everything. Restoration, if even possible, is expected to take months.

  Retribution, however, is another matter. But against whom? And who’s calling the shots? Lishin sleeps with the fishes. Efim Konychev remains in hiding, except to venture out for sustenance, in New York. Taras Batkin has played no active management role in recent years. He’s employing his considerable talents feathering his nest—and those of his Cheka colleagues—also in New York. Maybe Ivanov should plan a trip to that trans-Atlantic Ibanskian playground.

  One more question (well, two) occupies Ivanov above all others. Who has it in for the BEC—and why?

  “I’ve got the same question, shug. Why’d he do it? Andras.”

  “The girl put him up to it.”

  “Typical. Blame the woman. Why?”

  “Don’t know. But after eight hours with them, I can tell you she’s running the show.”

  “Merle Haggard said the same thing about Bonnie and Clyde. History’s on your side for once. What’s her motivation?”

  “That I don’t know. I wonder whether it has to do with the death of her father, but the timing doesn’t line up. She and Andras started in on the BEC back last year—months before Lishin got run through.”

  “I need my people to talk to her.”

  “I’ll ask Batkin, but I won’t cross him.”

  “You cannot hide behind your client.”

  “I’m not hiding. Nosferatu doesn’t care about laws or rules of evidence, neither do his bosses. You heard Foos—the guy I saw this morning spent enough time on the WildeTime servers to finger Andras for the BEC worm. Maybe Irina too. That’s why Nosferatu wired that place to blow, taking everyone inside with it—including, as it turns out, me. He’ll know by now he failed—and he’ll be looking for the kids. He won’t be reading them their Miranda rights.”

  “That’s not the goddamned point. It’s the cops’ job—my job—now. Can’t you get that through your hairless head?”

  The green eyes were afire. For my part, exhaustion and vodka were overcoming good sense.