The Nano-Thief: A Lenny D. Novel (Lenny. D. Novels Book 1)

by Michael Lieberman

  "Last question: what was your mother's maiden name?"

  "My mother's maiden name?" he repeats and looks at Barry and M2…. Barry writes SLUR on a napkin. "Sure, it's Arabic I'll do the best I can to render it in English. Faye Azzurrish," he slurs. "Once more?" He does the same bit and he's home free. They'll freeze the account, but he needs to come to their regional headquarters in Houston before they'll allow any more transactions.

  "It worked," Lenny says. "So we've cut off his money and eventually he'll be hurting. And when he tries to make a withdrawal, he'll know we're on to him, more, he'll know we've got reach. We need him to show his hand, to make a move."

  M2 is confident. "He will. We need to go home and wait. He wants something, I'm telling you."

  That's the plan. They'll drive back down 290 to Houston. M2 and Barry will head to Lenny's in her Lexus. Lenny will peel off and stop by Ferndale's to trade cars with Snorri.

  Before they leave the parking lot, Barry takes his Glock from the trunk just to be on the safe side. They are not sure Sammy knows about M2, but Barry thinks it's too dangerous for her to be alone in her own place when she's not at work. So they decide first he'll go with her to gather up her things. At Lenny's they'll clear the third bedroom out for her.

  When Lenny gets to Ferndale's, Snorri has just arrived. "I'll tell you this, Lenny, that old Benz of yours drives a hell of a lot better than my Corolla." He looks at his friends face and reads: now's not the time for levity.

  They sit in Lenny's front seat, and he goes through the whole story. At the end, he says, "Jesus, you can't make this stuff up. Who would believe this could happen in Houston, Texas?"

  They play out the options that the three have discussed at lunch in Hempstead. "So here's another possibility," Snorri says. "Maybe this genius is not the mastermind you think he is or just plain fucked up. It could be that he doesn't know what to do with her, and he going to drop her off, unharmed, someplace or other. You know, no hard feelings, lady. I made a simple mistake. It's one thing to be accused of arson without direct evidence. He might beat that. If he gets caught for kidnapping, that's bad, but it's not murder. I don't think he'll kill her. At least not if he's halfway rational, which he may not be. Hang loose, but hang tough."

  Lenny would like to believe the story plays out as Snorri imagines, but he knows Sammy better than this: the aliases, the drug dealing, the fire, and the abduction, his shadowy existence at FDU. "Look, he's not going to drop her off in front of the Apple Store and say, Good afternoon, ma'am, it's been fun. Get real."

  Snorri watches Lenny transfer all the gear that Barry has left in the Corolla's trunk. When he gets a look at Barry's Glock machine pistol, he nods in appreciation. He opens Barry's plumber's kit. "I'm no expert, but you've come a long way, baby, since the bullwhip caper at Bar Antofagasta."

  By late afternoon, Lenny has joined Barry and M2 at his place. They have cleared out the bedroom, and M2 has settled in. With the fire power, the laptops, the plumber's kit, and Lenny's prized bullwhips, the house is beginning to look like an operations center. And it feels like one. Barry calls UVL and casually asks for a little protection. Just in case. He's low key, and as best M2 and Lenny can tell, the guy on the other end is too. Lenny concludes that this is not the first time his dealmaker son is living on the edge. Nevertheless, he's not unhappy for a little help.

  Constable Larkin knocks. "Not meaning to mind your business," and he goes on to tell them about the gardeners and that he drove by again later to check. "That's when I saw it. There was the three of them coming out the back of your place like nobody's business. They had on the black ski masks and were dressed in black, like it was some sort of a night operation. When they sees me, one guy knocks me to the ground, blindsides me he does, and they're into a black SUV. It moves out like a bat out of hell. It was a damn Mexican plate that I saw. I called it in, but no one has spotted it. Y'all be missing anything inside or in the yard?"

  Lenny thanks Larkin for his good police work. He says burglars didn't get anything, and he thanks him again for scarring them off. "Sorry they knocked you down. You okay?" Larkin nods. When he leaves, the three look at each other. They have all made the same deduction: Samuel Anderson is organized and not working alone.

  Barry worries. He doesn't share his thoughts, but a black SUV, three guys dressed in black, and Mexican plates is more than "Anderson is not working alone." He's working with an organized, experienced team. And he can't be the brains. No one driving around Southeast Texas with a hostage is running the operation.

  Part II

  22.

  Sammy didn't leave at midnight or anything like it. After he had dosed Portia with ketamine, stowed her in the trunk, called Biggie and left, it was about 5:20 a.m. He's afraid to drive south, back down Route 6. If he's been made, and Barry and the old guy got an early start, they could be headed up this way now. He doesn't think they know about Alcott's beige Taurus or that they could actually notice him in the oncoming traffic…but go north, young man, he tells himself. So he heads north for College Station.

  He worries about roadblocks and checkpoints—he senses it's too early, but what if he's miscalculated and they have their shit together? He twitches when he sees flashing red and blue lights up ahead. He hits the brakes too hard and the tires squeal. He only relaxes when he comes abreast of the lights and sees it's a patrol car behind a stopped car with its hood raised. He's careful to drive the speed limit.

  What's the plan? What's the plan? He grinds his teeth. He knows what the plan must be. He's working for Biggie, but there might be a little action of his own. He'll kill her maybe, kill her for the fun of it. Unless…unless what? He ransoms her for money. Too complicated and he's got Biggie to contend with. He'll kill her and dump her, he repeats. If he doesn't get caught, it could buy some time, but if Biggie finds out or the police stop him, it's game over. What do his former upstairs neighbor and his father have to trade? Nothing. What he needs is invisibility—and time to work on Professor Bessnager and NAFRA. The only way he buys time is to get rid of distractions. At last it occurs to the technogenius that Portia cannot help him. She stands between him and his mission. In short she's a distraction. Just stick to the general outline he and Biggie have worked out.

  He feels stupid. How did he get himself into this, and more importantly how is he going to get out? He reverses the old Muslim saying—if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain. That's it, if the mountain won't leave Muhammad, Muhammad must leave the mountain. He'll leave the girl. The idea's a great relief. Everything else will fall in place.

  He's in College Station in half an hour. Can't do anything here. It's practically his own backyard. He sees a Starbucks and thinks to drive through for sentimental reasons. Yes, they're open, but no, keep the show on the road. He has to choose between Waco (north), Huntsville (east), and Austin (west). Instinctively he chooses Austin—bigger, more mixed, the young people will give him cover. Waco's rednecky, he thinks—he's never been there, but he's sure he'll stick out. Huntsville is the edge of the Houston metroplex—too close for comfort.

  He heads west. He's on the road, more or less relaxed. He's working on the logistics of his plan to leave a mountain called Portia. He's been on the road about an hour, and he gets a surprise. What he hasn't anticipated is today's visit to Austin by the vice president and a group of trade ministers from Central and Eastern Europe. The state isn't taking any chances this morning. Texas is a law and order state. The governor doesn't want any incidents on his watch. The UT students are in Austin. He can't help that. The liberals are there, but he doesn't need outside agitators.

  Up ahead the cars are backed up. By now it's morning, but the tail lights blinking on and off as the cars creep forward are blinding to him. It's a long line, and troopers are checking each car. If they force him to open the trunk, he's dead. He hasn't had a chance to shave. He worries that there may be pig's blood on his jacket that he's missed cleaning. The line comes to a stop.
He looks around the inside of the Taurus. It looks okay, except for his computer bag. He just has to hope they don't ask him to open it and they find the ketamine and the syringes. Tell them it's insulin, he thinks, that he's a diabetic and needs his insulin. And hope they don't look too carefully. He's disheveled, unshowered, and mostly tired. Don't lose it. Keep your cool and think.

  It's an even longer line behind him now. Up ahead the police seem to be looking in and waving cars through without a search. It's going to be all right. Now he's there. They stop him. One officer walks around to inspect the car and punches the license plate into a handheld device. Another trooper asks to see his license and insurance, which he retrieves for the officer. "What brings you to Austin this morning, Mr. Alcott?"

  "I'm a graduate student in chemical engineering from Houston. I was at A&M yesterday and I'm here today to do some collaboration at UT."

  "You have a student ID?" He hands him an Alcott ID.

  "Okay." There's a pause, and Curly thinks it's a go, but the officer is looking up at the other trooper with the handheld device. Sammy holds his breath. The officer nods okay.

  "Your plates check out. Please hand me your computer bag." The officer opens it and for some reason doesn't see or ignores the ketamine and the syringes. He's worried about bombs, Sammy figures. "Turn it on." He complies. "You here for the vice president?"

  When Curly says he didn't even know the vice president was going to be in town, the officer asks him exactly what he's doing in Austin. "I work in nanotechnology. I'm doing a project comparing tiny silicon wafers with viral coat fragments as vectors in drug delivery systems."

  The officer isn't sure what this means, but he seems satisfied. He is about to ask Curly to open the trunk, when the chief calls over, "Hey, Spud, move this guy along. The line's almost back to Aggieland."

  "Go," he says, and Curly does.

  Technogenius is now starving. He needs grub and drives though a McDonald's. He sits in the parking lot and eats an Egg McMuffin. Lady Portia needs her beauty sleep and won't be dining with him. He realizes that he can't deal with her in Austin. There will be police everywhere, streets will be closed, sidewalks will be barricaded. Does he really think he can show up undetected in broad daylight and dump a sleeping woman in a park? Even if he could, she would be found in no time. Austin is too hot. He stops for gas and decides to go south, down the interstate to San Marcos. It's quieter there.

  He's right. It is. He decides against dumping her in a park near the university campus. Again, too risky. Then the obvious occurs to him.

  He spots a Zarconi Inn sign and exits at the cloverleaf. He parks around the corner from the front desk. He knows he looks haggard.

  "My girlfriend and I are pretty wasted, an all-nighter," he explains to the woman on duty. "We need a place to crash. Someplace quiet, out of the way. On the first floor."

  She gives Alcott a room on the backside of the motel. "One key or two?"

  "Two's fine." He pays in cash. He's running low, but no sense leaving any unnecessary footprints. He'll stop later for money.

  He drives around to the far side and backs into a space in front of his room. Good, no housekeepers. When he pops the trunk and pulls the blanket off Portia, he sees she's groggy but awake. "How was your night?" Her mouth is still sealed with duct tape. "We're going to take a little walk and then rest a bit." He pulls off the duct tape. She winches but doesn't complain. He unties her legs and waltzes her a few steps into the room and onto a bed. "Back in a jiffy."

  He brings in a bag from the trunk. He straightens her out on the bed. "Missy, you are a sight." Her eyes are small, beaded sacks of fear. Her face is covered with dried snot. Her mascara has run and given her skin a gray cast. Her dress is torn and urine soaked. "Why, you're all dressed up and no place to go.

  "There's good news and bad news. The good news is I'm not going to kill you. The bad news is it's not yet time to go home." She looks vacant. "Hello, anybody home?" In a minute he has her handcuffed to the bed again and has bound her feet. "Sleepy time." He doesn't want any accidents, and he gives her a half dose. More duct tape to keep her from yelling if she wakes up too soon. He covers her, puts the do not disturb sign on the handle, and figures he'll head south and then east for Houston.

  He's got time if he hustles. As he leaves the Inn, he's in good spirits. He has deposited the mountain where she will eventually be found by housekeeping, probably sometime today, but maybe not until tomorrow morning. He thinks he should have made her drink a glass of water. All that pee and no replacement. A little late now, and he puts her out of his mind. His head is moving in other directions, his thoughts gyrating around a cloudy set of choices.

  Now he's on I-10 past Katy and headed for the Memorial area in west Houston. Soon traffic begins to build. It's only mid-afternoon, and he's moving against rush hour, but it's getting congested. There are a gazillion lanes into the city. But traffic's crawling. Trucks limping along in the left lanes. Old timers and lady driers. A fucking busman's holiday. He grips the wheel and shouts at a bread truck in front of him, "Move it, asshole." He sees his McDonald bag on the front seat, let's down the window, and tosses it. It's headed for the windshield of the guy behind him till the whoosh of on coming air carries it up and over.

  Then he's off the interstate and working his way through tree-lined streets with large comfortable homes and sprawling yards. Once he's on Nardath Road, it's only a minute for him to arrive at the two-story white-painted brick house with the green shutters. It has a three bay garage. He pulls in and lowers the door as he kills the engine. It's a residence he shares, a safe house, and he feels secure at once. He sits quietly behind the wheel for a moment. Not a muscle moves. It's his first decompression since yesterday afternoon in the parking lot when he caught Portia as she tried to get into her white Audi.

  First stop, the shower. He's feeling lucky as the water tumbles over him. He's swept up in a sense of luxury from the simple act of showering and washing his hair. As he reaches for a fluffy towel, it occurs to him that the shower is not a rite of renewal at all. It is a forensic necessity. Any traces of pig blood, the smell of Portia's urine and shit, and, who knows, even traces of the ketamine he used to sedate her are down the drain. A chapter is over.

  A shave, and almost ready to go. He picks a blue button down and dark slacks from the closet. Then docksiders. On the way through the kitchen to the garage, he checks the fridge and freezer. Looks like dinner out. First he's off to the Piney Point branch of Angstrom National. He can use a little cold cash from his accounts. He does not bother to remind himself that cash is king. He is already tasting a cold beer someplace or other.

  At the teller window, Sean Abernathy would like to withdrawal $4,000 from savings. The teller looks at his license. No problem, Mr. Abernathy. Can he see his bankcard? Could he please type in his security code? When he does, the teller looks at his screen and asks him to wait a moment. Ms. Waldren, the branch manager, appears.

  She motions him to her office, well, more a cubbyhole than an office. "Mr. Abernathy, our records show that you put a hold on your account this morning. You had some concern about someone who seemed to have access to it. We have a hold on it, pending your appointment downtown tomorrow."

  "My appointment downtown tomorrow? There's some mistake. I want to withdrawal money from MY savings account. Is there some problem with that?"

  "It's a problem this afternoon, but I'm sure after tomorrow things will be fine."

  "I don't want to hear it. Someone one is screwing with me."

  She tries to soothe him. It's a customer with good balances. She doesn't want to alienate him.

  "I'm going to try this once more. May I please withdrawal money that's mine from my account, one that I've had for almost two years?" When she shakes her head, he becomes enraged. "My money!" and he picks up a geode from her desk—the desk she now reaches beneath to press the alarm button. He eyes her face, the glasses, the eyeliner, the dangling earrings, and palms the little g
eode like a pitcher adjusting his grip.

  As he lifts his arm to deliver, a security guard grabs him from behind. He's not a big burly type, the kind we're used to from the movies, but a young, sinewy Asian, perhaps former military, who is plenty strong enough. "Drop it, mister, or I use the mace and the cuffs, and we wait for the police."

  "Okay." The geode hits the floor and rolls toward the wastebasket. "I'll settle it downtown in the morning, but I still don't understand why I can't have my damn money. I'm leaving." And he does, under the watchful eye of security.

  He sits in his Taurus, incensed. Can't the bank keep their damn accounts straight? Why are they screwing with him? Why have they singled him out? What the fuck is going on? Then realizes it's not Angstrom National that's the problem. It's Barry and his father—they have hacked him. No, Biggie is sending him a message. He's on to him. Yes, a warning from the boss to concentrate. He doesn't want his money. There's not enough there for Biggie to care. Biggie has been monitoring him. Then he comes to his senses. Biggie needed the diversion he created. He needed the abduction. He put him up to snatching Portia. He's got no reason to rap his knuckles. No, it's them, no, it can't be Lenny. He's too old. He doesn't know enough. It's got to be his upstairs neighbor, Barry. He can't shake his rage.

  He needs a drink, and as he drives north, he spies Ferndale's. Why has he never thought of this place before? He's driven by a thousand times. Looks decent enough, he thinks as he pulls into the parking lot and heads for self-parking. In his line of work, it seems prudent to avoid the valet. Once inside, he looks around. Nice looking place, classy. Upscale is what registers in his brain. He sees the well-oiled teak bar with the maidenhead above the mirror. He'll sit there, have a drink or two, and grab some dinner. By sheer bad luck, he has entered Snorri's lair.