by Roy Johansen
“I got a theory. A theory maybe Sabini was killed by someone he knew. Someone like…”
“Who?”
“Somebody who already got what she wanted from him. Someone smart. Someone beautiful. Someone who knows how to make a man stop thinking with his head.”
“Myth was with me that night.”
“At eight-twenty P.M.?”
Ken didn’t reply.
Michaelson nodded. “I was following him, remember? I was about a block away when he got it. I kept waiting for him to come out the other end of that alley, but he never did.”
“You didn’t see who did it?”
Michaelson shook his head. “No, but I got ideas. She wasn’t with you then, was she?”
Ken tried not to let Michaelson see how the conversation was affecting him. His stomach was churning and his throat was closing. He felt a layer of sweat on his forehead.
Michaelson talked louder and more quickly. “What do you know about her, really? That she’s great in the sheets? Yeah. I know about you and her. But what do you know?”
“You’re wrong. She didn’t do it.”
“I can afford to be wrong. You can’t. If she did kill Sabini and get the money, you’re in an awkward position. You helped her perjure a client. You got something on her. To her, you’re a loose end. Know what you do to loose ends? You clip ’em off.”
“I believe her a hell of a lot more than I believe you.”
Michaelson grinned at Ken. He finished his bratwurst, crumpled up the wrapper, and tossed it into the trash can. He stepped around and opened his car door.
“I’m sure Sabini believed her too.” Michaelson motioned toward the passenger-side door. “Want a lift?”
—
That night, Ken spotted Myth near the illuminated fountains at Centennial Olympic Park. They had chosen this meeting place since locals never ventured there after office hours, and, as expected, only a few tourists were present. Ken glanced around, realizing that he had not gone there since the Olympics. How different it was without the pavilions, without the vendors, without the people. It seemed lonely without the crush of visitors that had once so defined the character of the place.
Ken stepped over the plaza’s personalized bricks, remembering that Bill had bought one for him. He never got around to looking it up, though he knew it was somewhere on the side facing Martin Luther King Drive. He’d have to find it someday. Given Bill’s sense of humor, the brick was probably an insult for everyone to see.
Ken gestured toward the fountain as he approached Myth. “If you need to cool off, it’s okay to jump in.”
“You mean I won’t get arrested?”
“It’s not that kind of fountain. And if they saw you with your clothes wet, you’d probably get the key to the city.”
“I’ll pass, thank you.”
“Your decision.”
“What have you found out? Anything?”
Ken paused. He thought about telling her of his conversation with the Vikkers private eye, but decided to keep it to himself. At least for a while.
“I know that a number of people got their hands on Sabini’s computer files. I have a list of names, and they check out. They’re also alive and well, unlike our friend Don Browne. If he was killed because he had those files, the others were spared for some reason.”
“Maybe he wasn’t as discreet as the others.”
“Maybe. But from what I’ve been told, there’s nothing in those files worth killing for.”
“We’ll know that only when we know who killed him.”
Ken stared at her. Was she a killer? Could she really have snuffed Sabini with a blade to the heart?
Ken tried to picture her doing it.
The image came to him easily.
Jesus.
“What about on your end?” he asked. “What have you found out about Vikkers?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. The SEC investigation has everyone clammed up tight. No one likes talking about it.”
“I’m sure you could persuade them.” An edge crept into Ken’s voice, despite his best efforts to suppress it.
Myth hesitated. The fountains stopped, then began their cycle again. “I made a man’s acquaintance…”
“I’ll bet you did.”
She eyed him curiously. “Is there a problem?”
The back of his neck felt hot. “You made a man’s acquaintance to get what you wanted from him. Just like you made my acquaintance.”
“We can stop this right now. I thought this was what you wanted.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s a high-level executive at another company. He saw the stolen data. The thing is, it turned out to be wrong. The figures were incorrect.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that they had extensive financial reports, but the information had almost no basis in reality.”
“Then what use was it?”
“No use. Not to any of the people who purchased it. The phony data may have hurt them more than it helped.”
Ken turned to avoid the lens of a tourist’s camera.
Hurt more than helped.
“Maybe that was the point.”
—
“It was this way when we got in this morning.”
Ken was staring at Keogler’s workbench, now barren where there had once been tools, a boom box, and tacked-up Victoria’s Secret catalogue pages.
Ken turned to the receptionist and one of Keogler’s coworkers. “He didn’t call in?”
The receptionist shook her head. “No. He was supposed to be here at nine. But when we got in, his workbench was cleared out. I’ve been trying to call him all morning, but there’s no answer at his apartment.”
“Where does he live?”
The receptionist hesitated. “I really can’t tell you that.”
“He has my computer. Give me his address before I start screaming to the Better Business Bureau.”
The receptionist looked toward a technician, who replied with a “what-the-hell” shrug.
Ken followed her back to her desk, where she consulted a small card file. She jotted down the address on a Post-it note and handed it to him.
“If you find Dennis,” she said, “tell the jerk I never thought his Somalia jokes were the least bit funny.”
—
Ken pulled to a stop in the parking lot of Keogler’s complex, finding a space near the tennis courts. Nice place. How many illicit data sales a month did it take to live here?
It was a security building, but Ken was able to catch a door as it closed behind two bikini-clad women who were stepping out to the pool. He bypassed the elevator and climbed the four stories to Keogler’s apartment.
The door was wide open.
Ken poked his head inside, but the place was empty. Not a stick of furniture, not a single hanging print.
Not a living soul.
“Hello?” Ken said.
No answer.
He took a quick tour of the apartment. Empty. And clean. Aside from the occasional nail hole in the wall, it was as if no one had ever lived here.
He ran downstairs to the building manager’s office. The manager was an overweight woman with long, painted nails and green eye shadow.
She held up a set of keys. “These were dropped in the mail slot sometime in the last hour or so. No notice, no note, no nothing!”
“You didn’t actually see him?”
“No, he didn’t even stop in to say good-bye. Chickenshit little bastard skipped out on his lease. I’ll tell you one thing, he ain’t getting his deposit back!”
“So you had no idea he was leaving?”
“Do I sound like I had any idea?”
“Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“Nope!”
Ken walked back to his car. Why had Keogler suddenly bolted from his job and apartment, leaving without a trace?
If, indeed, Keogler had bolted. Was it possible that someone had snatched him and taken all
his stuff?
Get real, Ken thought. Too many conspiracy movies had warped his brain.
As he drove out of the parking lot, he caught sight of a red Camaro with a U-Haul trailer hitched behind it. It was coming from behind the building. Ken squinted to look at the driver.
It was Keogler.
Ken cut his wheel hard to the left, blocking the Camaro’s way out of the lot.
“You asshole!” Keogler shouted out his window. He braked to a stop, his face tensing as he recognized Ken.
Ken jumped out of his car and ran to Keogler’s side window. “Where are you going?”
“Vacation. Get the hell out of my way.”
“Unh-unh. What’s going on?”
“I gotta get out of here now.”
“Why?”
“Man, I don’t have time for this shit.”
“Make time.”
Keogler slumped in his seat. “If I find that all this is your fault, I’m gonna kill you.”
“All what is my fault?”
Keogler rubbed his face in his hands. “I haven’t slept, and I have one hell of a long drive ahead of me. Please. Just get out of my way.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
Keogler anxiously looked around. “Shit. Get in. I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version.”
Ken climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. “Talk to me. What’s going on here?”
Keogler gazed out the windshield. “I did what you told me. I took another look at those data files.”
“And?”
“I found a pocket program. A program that hides in a file, between lines of programming code. It’s hard as hell to find, but I ran across some red flags that started me digging deeper.”
“What’s in this program?”
“It caused Sabini’s computer to malfunction.”
“Like a virus?”
“Much more elaborate. It had to have been put there by someone who was very familiar with the programs already in place. He was using custom programs, so that doesn’t leave many possibilities.”
“Someone at his company.”
“You got it. The amazing thing is, at the same time, this program replaced Sabini’s data files with new data.”
“Fake data…” Ken said.
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like. His company referred him to me. They wanted the computer to malfunction, they wanted it brought to me, and I think they wanted me to pass the data along.” Keogler shook his head. “I thought I was covering myself, man. I didn’t know anyone was on to me.”
“I found you out pretty easily.”
Keogler looked as if he were going to cry. “I screwed up. That’s why I gotta skip town now. If the company knows, then the feds could be on my ass. I got greedy. Stupid and greedy.”
Ken couldn’t argue with that. Vikkers had used Keogler to disseminate bogus information to its competitors. The kid walked right into it.
“So if you don’t mind, I have to get the hell out of Dodge,” Keogler said, leaning over Ken and opening his door for him.
Ken swung his legs out of the car and stood up. “Maybe there’s another way. Running’s not the answer.”
“Neither is jail. Move your car, please.”
Ken moved his car. Keogler’s Camaro, with the U-Haul trailer attached, sped out of the lot, barely slowing for the speed bumps.
—
Gant thought the receptionist in Ken Parker’s building was a nice enough kid, but her tight-lipped smirk unnerved him. It was the amused look a high school girl might have if a guy’s fly was open, or if he had a “kick me” sign taped to his back.
“I answer the phone for him only if he’s out of the office,” the young woman stated flatly. “Sometimes I’ll give directions to his clients if they can’t find their way to him. That’s it.”
“Do you keep a phone log?”
The receptionist shook her head and lifted up a pink message pad. “It all goes here. I tear the sheets out and give them to the tenant. When are you going to tell me what he’s done?”
“When I know he’s done something. Have you noticed anything different about him in the past couple of weeks? Anything strange, out of the ordinary?”
“Strange, always. Out of the ordinary, no. Except that he’s been really down in the dumps lately.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. No wonder though. As far as I can tell, his business has been worse off than ever.”
Gant made a mental note of this. It didn’t quite jibe with his findings that Parker had recently spent several thousand dollars repaying delinquent loans.
The lieutenant produced photographs of Burton Sabini and Carlos Valez. He showed them to the receptionist. “Recognize either of these guys?”
She immediately dismissed the photo of Sabini, but stared at the Valez picture.
She pointed to it. “Maybe this guy. He might have come in here once.”
“Just once?”
“That’s all. Ken doesn’t have regular customers. It’s not that kind of business.” She took the photograph and held it closer. “This guy’s dead, isn’t he? I saw this same shot on the news.”
Gant nodded.
The receptionist grimaced. “This is one terrible picture. It’s bad enough someone croaked him, but then he has to have this awful picture on TV. That reminds me…” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a miniature television with a five-inch screen. “I’d appreciate getting this over with as soon as possible,” she said. “General Hospital starts in two minutes.”
“I can’t compete with G.H.” Gant tossed a business card onto her desk. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
He made his way out to the parking lot, thinking about what the receptionist had said. Parker’s business was apparently worse than ever. Where had his money come from?
As the late afternoon sun dipped low in the sky, he glanced at the neighboring buildings. One in particular caught his eye. Its side entrance faced the west side of Ken’s building, and over the door was a security camera.
Gant stepped closer. He couldn’t make out the camera’s angle through the smoked glass bubble, but it appeared to be pointed in the general direction of Ken’s building. He knew these devices were, as often as not, actually “dummy cameras” that did not function, but served only to deter thieves and vandals.
However, if this was a real video camera…
He walked inside, waved his badge around, and within minutes found himself talking to a six-dollar-an-hour security officer who was employed to sit at a console and watch the bank of monitors.
“Show me the east entrance,” Gant ordered.
The security officer punched a button, and Gant squinted at the black-and-white screen. A good portion of Ken’s office building and side parking lot were in plain sight.
He turned to the security officer. “Do you record these?”
“Yeah. Eight hours to a tape, twenty-four hours a day. We keep them thirty days, then tape over ’em.”
“Good. Don’t erase any more. Gather the tapes from this particular camera. I’ll be back with a court order.”
—
“What do you have for me?” Decker leaned forward in his large leather desk chair, anxiously staring at Michaelson.
“Well, I’m keeping my eyes on Sabini’s widow. She just got a passport. She may be making plans to bolt the country.”
“The authorities have looked at her a thousand times. Don’t you think you’re barking up the wrong tree there?”
“Maybe, maybe not. The authorities didn’t even dig deep enough to find out that she has family in Europe.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. They could have helped with the bank withdrawals there. I’m sifting through the bullshit right now, but I might have something for you pretty soon.”
Michaelson shifted in his small chair. Decker was buying all of it. Just like always.
“I think I
’m close to finding the person who has the money,” Michaelson said.
Decker nodded. “Keep me posted,” he said. “The board of directors has been all over our asses. They want new systems in place, but they have no idea what kind of systems. In the meantime, we have a business to run. It’s a goddamn mess.”
“As soon as I find out anything, you’ll know about it.”
Decker spoke quietly. “What about Matt Lansing?”
“He’s been approached four times by the feds. Steven Lars was there three of those times. He’s an FBI agent who specializes in antitrust cases.”
“Did you believe Lansing when he said the wire didn’t work?”
Michaelson shrugged. “Those things can be temperamental. If you go into a cluster of buildings, the signal can get buried, just like with your cellular phone. I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s being straight with us.”
“I don’t like those odds.”
“I’ll try to adjust them in our favor.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
“Don’t worry,” Michaelson said. “I have an idea I’m working on. I’ll get back to you on it.”
“Sooner rather than later?”
“You got it. Listen, I might be able to do a better job if I knew what you’re afraid of. What did you guys do?”
“It’s best that you remain on a strictly need-to-know basis.”
“And at what point will I need to know?”
“The point at which all hell breaks loose.” Decker stared glassy-eyed out the window. “Which may come sooner than any of us would like.”
—
“Are you out of your goddamned mind?”
Hound Dog tried not to look irritated at Mark’s latest outburst. He didn’t understand. He said he did, but it was more and more obvious he never could.
He glared at the Lexis/Nexis printouts and Department of Motor Vehicle request forms. “This is sick!”
“It’s a hobby!”
“Riding around on your motorcycle all night, taking pictures of car accidents and murder victims, that’s a hobby. Barely. But this is going over the edge.”
“Look at this!”
“I don’t want to look. It’s none of our business.”
“This is all stuff I got at the library. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just trying to figure this out. Madeleine Walton and Myth Daniels are the same person. But why the different names?”