TAKEDOWN

by Anna Murray

  Moreno didn't buy into the distraction excuse, but he wasn't one to rock the boat. He was a minority, closing in on a promotion, and Alden knew it meant he'd play the office politics, but still, it rankled. "OK. We haven't got anything -- yet, mostly a lot of go-nowhere interviews with families and associates of the deceased. I'm on my way to the cyber lab."

  Moreno decided not to mention the problem he'd encountered at the Northtown Mall. When he'd questioned the security guards and asked for surveillance tapes the lead man told him he wasn't the first to stop by and ask. Later Moreno had checked with the other cooperating agencies, and none had debriefed the people at Northtown Mall. Someone else was looking for Jane Nelson. It meant she had information they didn't want her to spill.

  "OK. Keep at it." Alden nodded and backed away, and Moreno proceeded down the hall.

  Upon arrival at the lab he met their top tech, Carrie Landis. She was smiling and her blonde pony-tail bobbed. Moreno had considered asking her for a date a few months back, but he'd discarded the idea after he saw her in the parking lot holding hands with a junior agent.

  "Hey Phil."

  "Hey Carrie. What have you got?"

  Carrie sat in front of a monitor and beckoned him to take the chair next to her. "We've been searching through hard drives." She talked at the screen as she clicked, forcing Moreno to lean forward and near enough to smell her light soap scent. "Email, work documents, address books . . . all the data that's fit to be eyeballed. I set up a few parsing algorithms with key words to speed it up."

  "Good." Moreno liked Carrie's work style. Terse, no nonsense, and efficient.

  "Mostly what you'd expect . . . work and communications regarding Valley View customers, the occasional bad joke or office prank. We've zeroed in on Jane Nelson, as you requested. I found one odd thing."

  She took a sip of coffee and raised her thin eyebrows to heighten the suspense.

  "And?"

  "There are two emails she never responded to . . . love notes from a professor at the U. Mind you, these were supposed to go to his wife, who coincidentally had the same last name and first initial as Jane Nelson. He put the wrong extension on the send-to address."

  "And what's significant about this?"

  Carrie flipped to another screen. "I did a search on Anderson's -- that's the husband -- on his wife, Jillian Nelson. She kept her maiden name. Here's her obituary notice. See anything odd about it?" Carrie grabbed her cup and took another sip to extend the drama.

  Philip grunted. "She's young? When did she die?"

  "Exactly. Look at the death date. It's the same as the date stamp on the last email Jane Nelson received from him in error."

  "No kidding? You think Jane Nelson knew about the wife's death?"

  "Fer-sure. They worked in the same community. The untimely death of a young schoolteacher is always big news."

  "And?"

  "Don't you see? I was thinking. I know I'd feel terrible if I got a love note intended for someone's wife, and I didn't respond or forward it to the right person, and then the wife died. Wouldn't you feel bad? Heh, yeah, it's different for a man, but guess what Jane Nelson did?"

  "Apologized profusely for HIS mistake?" He flapped his hands in exasperation. Carrie was dragging this out as if she'd solved the crime of the century. "OK, Agatha Christie, tell me."

  "I had Clarissa check Jane's credit card activity. She made a purchase at a floral shop the next day. Abe ran over there, and guess what?"

  "She sent flowers to the funeral home?"

  "To Anderson's home. Jack Anderson teaches math at the U."

  Phil rose and headed for the door. "It's probably nothing, but I'll give it to Mark to follow up. Call me if you find anything else."

  "One more thing, Phil."

  He stopped half-way to the door and swung around.

  "Yeah?"

  "I went through her browser history for her last day on the job. She was doing research on fishing in Minnesota and Canada and fishing gear."

  "Makes sense. She was about to start work with Longren, the fishing sports guy who took her up to Mille Lacs."

  "Yeah, but then in the afternoon she started searching on totally unrelated stuff about the stock market. She used odd terms to search, like quant, computerized trading, algorithmic trading, and market crash, and -- get this -- "Great One."

  "Maybe she's a nervous investor. She's single, no kids, a decent paying job. Probably has money in the markets."

  "Great One?"

  "Wayne Gretzky, of course."

  "Could be, but the rest of her history shows her to be focused completely on work while she's at her job. I mean, she's not like some of the others -- she doesn't cheat her employer by wasting her time surfing for entertainment. No porn for Jane."

  "I get your drift. Excellent profiling work. Thanks."

  "Sure. Good luck." Carrie swiveled back to her screen and clicked away as Phil exited the lab.

  Chapter 13

  Jane woke from a fitful nap and pushed away the pea green coverlet on the guest room bed. She glanced at the clock radio. Eleven-thirty. She dragged herself to the shared bathroom, and to avoid the mirror she surveyed the long emerald-specked counter. Jack's toothbrush was stowed in a cup to the right of the cold-water spigot. His razor rested on a washcloth. Jack had thoughtfully cleared the left side for her items, but all she had was a borrowed toothbrush. She picked it up and turned on the water.

  As Jane brushed off the plaque she thought about how she could help Jack find the evidence they needed to make a credible case to the police and media. He had dialup internet access, and she'd seen him open a drawer when he'd logged on. His sign on and password must be there.

  Dropping the brush onto the counter, she returned to her room, where she pulled on a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt. The hardwood floor creaked as she passed through the living room. She shot a glance at the polished motorcycle, and she imagined Jack riding on his "baby". She smiled, remembering what her mother said about her father's car restoration hobby: "The difference between men and boys is the price of their toys." Mom also said it kept Dad out of trouble and challenged his mind, which worked overtime. The man had an insatiable intellectual curiosity.

  Jane walked over to the bike and ran her hand over the custom racing saddle, and then she imagined Jack in tight jeans, straddling the machine. "Uff. Don't go there Jane," she admonished, and she tried to wipe the image as she crossed the room to the PC desk.

  She was right about the location of the logon and password information. It was scrawled on a notebook inside the drawer, along with the local access dialup number.

  Before she could get started on her web searching the phone rang. She recalled Jack's instructions, so she let it ring until the answering machine engaged.

  Hi. You've reached Jack and Jill. We've gone up the hill, so please leave a message after the beep.

  "Hey Jack. This is Betty, across the street. You need to change your phone message. Anyway, I just looked out my window, and someone is going through your garbage. Oh, now he's loading it into the trunk of the car and driving away. Anyway, I thought it was strange, and I thought you should know about it."

  Betty hung up. Jane's stomach fell. Her hand flew to her head to commence hair tugging. "Oh Jesus." She ran to the kitchen and grabbed the pad from the counter. Frantically she dialed Jack's cell number.

  He answered on the third ring. "This better be good. I'm in the middle of class."

  "Your neighbor across the street called. I heard her leave a message. She said she saw a guy going through your garbage. Then he stuffed it in his car and drove off."

  Jack's voice wavered. "What? When?"

  "Two minutes ago. A guy searching your garbage."

  "Damn. OK. Get ready to leave. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "Jack, please hurry."

  Chapter 14

  "Class is dismissed early today, but the problem set is still due on Friday!"

  Jack's students stuffe
d backpacks and pulled coats off backs of chairs. Several moved forward to ask questions. Normally he'd stay to field them and chat, but today Jack was uncharacteristically blunt: "Sorry, you can catch me during office hours". He ran from the room. Get Jane out of Dodge, but first swing by Bill's office.

  Jack ran down the street and into the math department, where he got lucky. Claire was in. "Hi Jack."

  "Claire! I forgot." He was breathless from the trot. "I'll be gone starting tomorrow, and through the weekend, to a race in Ontario. Could you take care of Buddy?"

  "Oh sure. I'll be around. I'll let myself in with my key. Feed him twice a day and let him out, like last time?"

  "Thanks. Is Bill O in?" He was flying by the seat of his pants.

  "I think so."

  Jack ran down to Bill's office, knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a response.

  The elderly professor emeritus peered up from behind his desk. "Howdy, Puzzlehead." He pushed up his glasses with a bent index finger. "You ok? You look like heck."

  "Here and there," Jack blurted. "Bill, remember you offered me the use of your cabin? That still good?" He held his breath.

  "You betcha."

  He exhaled. "Good. Look, I really need to get away for a while. You know, it's been a bit overwhelming, with Claire and my mother-in-law smothering me and all. "

  "Sure. This weekend?"

  "Yes, but I thought I'd go early. Tonight, in fact. Can you take my single variable calc class tomorrow? I know I'm asking a lot but --"

  "No. It's fine," Bill drawled. "I hoped I could help. Emma wanted to ask you to dinner, but it got busy with tending the grandkids." Bill closed a book on his desk and opened a drawer. "Here's the key to the place." He reached across the desk and dropped it into Jack's outstretched palm. "Remember how to get there? It's hidden but it's plowed out. My neighbor has a blade on his truck, and I pay him in venison to keep the drive cleared." Bill leaned back in his chair. "There's venison steaks in the freezer. Heh. I appreciate your helping my scorched earth policy during hunting season. Darn white-tails were eating my young trees -- destroying all my hard work planting -- but we thinned the herd."

  Jack nodded. "Indeed we did."

  "You'll have to turn on the water and the heat. Wood for the Franklin stove is stacked out back."

  "OK. Thanks, Bill. Do me a favor. If anyone asks please don't mention where I am."

  "Sure. You won't be bothered. Your cell phone won't work up there."

  "Good. I really need to be alone to relax for a few days. See you next week."

  Chapter 15

  Brent Van Demeer rolled over and plunged toward the ringing phone on his nightstand. He fumbled the receiver and wedged it up against an ear.

  "What?" he croaked.

  "Demeer?" The voice on the other end was strained.

  "Yeah. Did a database crash?" Van Demeer stared up at the gothic rib-vaulted ceiling in his ten-grand-a-month West Village penthouse.

  "No. It's Decker."

  The Great One's sleep fog cleared, and he searched the nightstand for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. "Oh. Deck. Listen, we need to talk."

  "First off, is the code in place?" Decker spat the words as if they were dirty.

  "That's what we need to talk about, man." Van Demeer's shaking hands lit his tobacco consolation, and he took a deep drag. Van Demeer had traveled a mine-filled road since his days as a North Dakota country boy-wonder, the one who'd earned legendary status in the MIT physics department. After finishing his degree, Brent had accepted the offer from Alba software, a Wall Street firm specializing in algorithmic trading. It was too good to pass up. After four short years, and a string of personal salary revolts, he was the highest paid "quant" expert on signal processing and predicting market movement on the Street. As such, he quantified risk and oversaw development of computer code to act on data in a rapid trading environment. Once his algorithms went into overdrive the whole market was programmed to follow, because the street and hedges were out there pinging like submarines, always trying to find out what Alba's algos were doing. The systems work was elegant, beautiful, and a challenge -- at first. The general lack of understanding, at the management level, was also beautiful. His own boss saw it all as a black box, as did most of the traders. They didn't care, and didn't want to understand complexity. As long as the profits and bonuses kept coming, and the SEC allowed the industry to self-police, they didn't want to know how Brent and his team manufactured the magic. Blind greed ruled.

  "What do we need to talk about?"

  "Deck, you never said there'd be killings. This is sheer madness, and I don't want to be a part of it. I'm backing out the code."

  "Y-you mean it's in?" Decker's voice wavered on the other end.

  Van Demeer coughed. "Yes. It's a done deal. It all went in with a security update we sent out two days ago."

  "Brent, you can't back out. There's too many depending on this thing, too many people who will be ruined." Decker ranted desperately. "You have a stake riding on this yourself."

  "I'm backing it out. You should get off it too. We can't ever be tied to what happened out there. What a train wreck." The Great One flipped his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. "No way I'm pulling the trigger on a takedown. What time is it?"

  "Two AM. Look, you agreed to this -- "

  "How many times do I have to say it? I'm backing it out. You tell the others. I'm sending the clients an emergency security patch in the morning." He smashed the cigarette stub into a copper ashtray.

  "The guys won't like it. There could be consequences." Decker fumed. His voice was a low hiss.

  "I've gotta take a piss. Bye."

  Van Demeer hung up the phone and made his way to the bathroom. In that moment he wanted to go back to the farm. Or the lab. Physics should have been his life -- the study of change, of dynamics, of theories and scientific models. His skills, as mathematician, modeler, and computer programmer, had made him the perfect combo-pack for Wall Street, and financial software companies had recruited him straight out of grad school. He'd started innocently enough, by calculating the fair value of options, playing with the Black-Scholes model. Then he'd moved on to market event simulations, and finally to creating trading algorithms to find the optimum buy and sell points in the rapidly moving markets. As the best, he'd been promoted to managing director of the Quantitative Group at Alba. Every piece of programming code passed through Brent Van Demeer.

  He finished his business and went back to bed, thinking about how Decker was going to play hundreds of millions against the market, buying put options to short it. Of course Decker stood to make a windfall of billions, after his code was triggered to begin the programmed crash.

  The Great One's mind wandered to how his noble study of particle physics had turned to production of obscene profits and a life beneath the constant threat of wreaking global financial havoc, a la Titanic, with one bad model run amok.

  What did he produce? Wall Street was a greed-infested sinkhole, and he had as much right to play it as anyone else, but it had become less about serving the nation's business engine and more about schemes to front run other traders and earn a few more pennies on each transaction.

  Brent Van Demeer decided he was done. Alba's high-octane management paranoia had forced him to sign an iron-clad nondisclosure agreement. If he left Alba he couldn't work in the industry for eons. Damn them and the two million lines of secret source code he'd developed and continually enhanced. He'd retire to the farm and find an organic woman with simple needs. What refreshment, after the beautiful, insecure, high maintenance chores he'd dated these past years.

  * * *

  An hour later, Van Demeer heard the decking creak on his private rooftop terrace. He went to investigate the cause and confronted a masked man. When he yelled out the intruder turned and fired a handgun.

  The Great One thought about his father and the farm as he fell to the cedar planking.

  Chapter 16

 
It felt like an eternity until Jack arrived, but in truth it was around four in the afternoon when strolled through the door. Jane had packed her few belongings into a backpack, and she was perched on the sofa. Jack gave her a once-over with concerned dark eyes, and he immediately set himself to the task of removing the hard drive from his computer.

  "I don't want to leave anything incriminating," he explained to Jane.

  Darkness was closing in, and the Christmas lights flickering on homes and in yards up and down the street were dense enough to be featured on the St. Paul Holiday Lights Tour. Jane rose from the couch and went to the French doors. Peeking through the long white shades, she spied a herd of reindeer grazing on snow two doors down. Rudolph, red nose blinking, was in the lead.

  "See anything out there?"

  She pressed her nose closer to the glass. "Yeah. Twinkling elves, a Lucy and Linus nativity scene, five whopper-sized candy canes, Santa's sleigh piled with presents, three nutcrackers, rotating slides projecting onto your neighbor's garage door, and a toy train running around the yard on the corner. You got a competition going for tackiest Christmas display?"

  "It's tradition."

  "That, and a huge Xcel Energy bill. Your street is lit up like the Fourth of July."

  "Get your coat and boots on. We're going." Jack had completed his task, and he dropped the drive into his coat pocket. He shoved on his boots while Jane lifted her backpack.

  "Are we taking Buddy? He looks excited." Buddy was pointing at the door and wagging his tail.

  "No. Claire has a key, and she agreed to feed and water him."

  "Oh." Jane glanced out the window again

  "J-Jack?"

  "Yeah, what?"

  "Three cars have pulled up."

  He jerked to attention and peered out the living room windows. The Christmas light pollution made it easy to see five men approaching the house.

  "Oh God. Are they cops?" Jane whispered hoarsely. "Those are unmarked cars. How could they know I'm here?"