by Ray Daniel
I asked Jael, “What floor is this?”
“Phillips 22.”
That explains the woodwork.
There comes a time toward the end of a tycoon’s life when the only thing money can buy is a comfortable hospital room with a beautiful view. The Phillips floors of the Mass General Hospital fulfilled that dream. The Phillips floors mixed the luxury of the Ritz with the prestige of Mass General. Ted Kennedy had stayed on the Phillips floors. They are the crème de la crème of the hospital experience.
The waiting room lived up to the Phillips experience. Demure beige furniture fronted floor-to-ceiling glass windows, commanding a panoramic view of Beacon Hill. The brightening night sky suggested that sunrise was close at hand, but street lamps still twinkled on the narrow streets of the Hill.
I looked down on the little brick houses, then out to the State House, with its golden dome, and beyond it to the Financial District. It was as if the wealthy and powerful in Boston were being afforded a last chance to look at their lives. There’s my house. There’s my power base. There’s my money.
Our height revealed the old contours of the land. Beacon Hill sloped toward the river. I imagined the trees that preceded the brick houses. Beyond Beacon Hill lay the Boston Common, with its deadly garage.
I said, “I know you don’t trust Lucy, but I think I love her.”
“Yes,” said Jael. “I can see that.”
The sky brightened. Headlights glided along Storrow Drive and across the Longfellow Bridge. It would make a beautiful picture. I raised my Droid and was lining up the shot when the Droid said, “Droid.” I had a phone call from an unknown number.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Tucker.”
“Who is this?”
“I have left a gift at your apartment. Your friend, who is here with me, would be grateful if you would look at it.”
“Talevi. Is that you?”
The call died and my phone became a camera again.
I forgot about taking the picture.
Fifty-Seven
My mother’s mail splashed across my kitchen counter and spilled onto the floor. The new pile merged with a previous pile, creating a suffocating mound of crap. She’d been buried a week; her hoard was looking for a new home. I’d been piling it up but hadn’t noticed how bad it looked until Jael stood in my kitchen.
I said, “What a mess.”
Jael asked, “This is your mother’s mail?”
“Yeah. I had it forwarded to me.”
Jael picked up a menu from a Framingham pizza shop. “Why have you kept it all?”
The hoard squatted on the counter, inviting me to help it grow. A Macy’s catalog sat on top. It said, How could you throw me out? She loved Macy’s. A bill rested on the edge of the table, threatening to fall to the floor. It said, You can’t throw me out. I might be her last bill. The circulars, envelopes, credit card offers, magazines, and newspapers formed a chorus of whispers: You’ll forget her without us. She’ll be gone. Save us and save her.
I said to Jael, “You’re right. This stuff has got to go.”
I went into the kitchen, fished around under the sink, and pulled out a plastic garbage bag. I started throwing mail into the garbage bag, looking for something that wasn’t addressed to my mother. I tossed catalogs and magazines and solicitations. Bills went onto the counter. There were heating bills, electrical bills, her phone bill, and a bill for a storage facility. Apparently my mother had outgrown the house and had rented extra space. There was a cable bill, a lawn service bill, and a security company bill. Was I really going to pay the security company, given that she was murdered?
Jael said, “Can I help?”
I handed her a garbage bag. “Yeah, thanks. Just throw everything that’s not a bill in this bag. I hope there’s some mail in here for me.”
“You look unhappy.”
“Of course I’m unhappy. My mother’s crap is filling my life. Where is this goddamn ‘gift’?”
“You should not talk like that. It is profane.”
I stopped shoving crap in the bag and considered Jael, a killer who objects to profanity.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
Jael stepped into the hallway and returned with something I had overlooked as I ran up the staircase. She asked, “What is this?” and handed me a yellow padded envelope that had no stamp and the name TUCKER written on it in black magic marker. I squeezed the envelope and heard paper crinkle. It contained something hard, and something soft. My Droid spoke up, “Droid.” Uncle Walt. I put him on speaker, put the Droid on the counter.
“Tucker, where’s my truck?” asked Walt.
I turned the envelope over in my hands. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Starbucks in Boston.”
“There’s a Starbucks every ten feet in Boston. Which one?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Look out the window. Is there a street sign?”
“There aren’t any street signs in Boston.”
“Just look.”
I heard some grumbling and “excuse me’s” as Walt moved through a crowd.
“The sign says Cambridge Street.”
I said, “You’re right down the street from Mass General. How did you get there?”
“The cops picked me up last night after you and Lucy left me on the bench. They thought I was a drunk.”
“You were a drunk. What do you mean, Lucy left you on the bench?”
“I mean that I was sleeping and two cops grabbed me and put me in their car. Lucy wasn’t there.”
“Where is she?”
“How should I know where she is?” Walt snapped.
I tore open the envelope and shook it. Uncle Walt’s key fob fell out. The last time I had seen this, I was throwing it at Lyla.
I said, “I guess your truck is still in the garage.”
Walt shouted into the phone, “Why the hell is it in the garage? You were supposed to get it!”
I shook the envelope some more. Nothing came out. I reached inside and pulled out a slip of paper. The paper was a handwritten note.
Call Me. I have your friend. Here is proof.
It was signed T and had a phone number. Friend? What friend? Proof? I showed the note to Jael.
She read it and asked, “Lucy?”
Walt shouted from the speakerphone. “Tucker! Tucker! Are you still there? Are going to come get me or what?”
The proof was stuck in the padded envelope. I tore the envelope open and the proof fell onto the table. I thought about my night the other night with Lucy, and how she had curled up on my couch, tucking her red toenails against the black leather.
A pinky toe had fallen onto the countertop. It had red polish, the only scrid of color on a waxy bit of flesh and bone. The toe had been cut off, just after the first knuckle. My gut convulsed. Bile rose in my throat. I forced it back down.
“Tucker! Are you still there?” Walt called over the speaker.
I grabbed the Droid off the counter. “I gotta make a call. Take a cab to my house and I’ll give you your keys.”
I hung up on him and dialed the number on the note.
Fifty-Eight
“Did you like my present?” asked Talevi. He was speaking through the speakerphone on my Droid, which lay on the kitchen counter once again. Jael listened with her typical impassive stillness.
“You are a sick bastard,” I said. “You didn’t need to cut off her toe. I would have believed you had her with a phone call.”
“That was not proof that I have her, Mr. Tucker. As you say, a phone call would have sufficed. It is my proof that I will hurt her. That toe is almost a vestigial organ. She will survive. She will even be able to run. Assuming that she keeps both of her feet.”
“You
sick fuck!”
Jael touched the phone, muting it. She said, “That will not help. Find out what he wants.” She unmuted the phone.
I said, “What do you want? My father’s notebooks?”
“I have no interest in your father’s notebooks. I want what I have always wanted. The plans to the Paladin downlink.”
“Jesus, Talevi, let her go. How am I supposed to get the plans to the downlink?”
“That is not my problem. That is your problem.”
“Why would you even think I could get them?”
“Because your brother thought you could get them.”
“My brother was an idiot. I don’t even work at GDS.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Tucker. Call me tomorrow with the plans, or you will receive another envelope.”
The phone call winked off the Droid’s screen. Talevi had hung up. I pounded the counter. My mother’s mail scattered to the floor. I crouched to the floor, picking up mail and shoving it all into a garbage bag. Fuck the bills. They’ll send more. I knotted the bag and threw it by the front door. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t get those plans. I need to call Bobby.”
“That would be a mistake,” said Jael.
“How can calling the FBI to rescue Lucy be a mistake? This is Bobby’s investigation.”
“Bobby Miller is a good man, but he must prioritize the plans over Lucy’s life. He will not save her.”
Stress pinched the muscles in my neck, driving a pain spike into my eye. I winced and rubbed my temples, my thoughts getting crammed into a desperate corner. “What did JT want from me?”
“If Dave Patterson were not dead, he could have told you.”
I sat at my now-clean counter and watched Click and Clack, willing the stress in my neck to subside. Patterson. What did I know about him?
“All I know about Patterson is that he knew Talevi,” I said.
Jael searched through my cabinets, found the Advil, filled a glass of water, and put four of the orange pills on the counter in front of me alongside the water. “Pain will not help.”
I took the Advil. “And Talevi knew Patterson.”
Jael said, “Patterson was unable to get the plans for Talevi because he was no longer at GDS. Why did he leave GDS?”
“His boss told us that he was fired for sharing his password.”
“Who did he share with?”
“JT. And JT had the deal with Talevi.”
Jael said, “Your brother was a spy. He was buying the plans from Patterson.”
“By getting the password.”
“Yes. GDS mistook the password sharing for simple policy violations. They fired Patterson and changed the password.”
“Those paranoid bastards,” I said. “Their system worked and they didn’t even know it.”
“JT could not get the plans without the password,” said Jael.
“That’s why JT came to me. He thought he had a crooked half brother who could hack the account.”
“Could you hack the account?”
“Probably. If I could get into the GDS building.”
The intercom buzz broke through our conversation. I slipped off the kitchen stool and pushed the talk button.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, Tucker. It’s Walt.”
Fifty-Nine
Uncle Walt stared at my Mr. Coffee as it dripped out sweet hangover medicine. He looked bad and smelled worse. Gray bags hung beneath his eyes, his skin was the color of wax paper, his hands trembled.
I said, “You don’t drink very often, do you?”
“No,” he said. “Last night got out of hand. All I remember is you going to get my car. What happened to you?”
“Someone tried to kill me.”
“In the parking garage?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew it! I knew that parking garage was a death trap. This whole city is a pit.”
“It had nothing to do with the parking garage.”
I got a Museum of Science mug out of the cabinet and put it in front of Walt, poured him a cup of locally-roasted Bitches Brew coffee from Wired Puppy. I offered Jael a Red Sox mug. She passed, so I used it myself. The coffee was perfect. Walt took a sip of the sweet blend of African beans and said, “Jesus, what is this shit? You should get some of that Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.”
Dunkin’ Donuts coffee tastes as if someone had ground up an ashtray, put it in the coffee filter, and run dishwater through it.
I said, “Sorry. I ran out.”
“Damn shame.”
“We’ve got a much bigger problem. Do you remember Lucy?”
“Your girlfriend? The one from last night?”
“Yeah. She’s in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
I spent the next five minutes filling Walt in on the envelope and the phone call with Talevi. I showed him Lucy’s toe.
“Jesus!” Walt clamped his hand over his mouth. I felt sorry for him.
I told him about the downlink information and how it was in Dave Patterson’s account. I told him my plan.
Walt said, “I’m not sneaking you into GDS to steal secrets.”
“You have to. Talevi will cut Lucy into pieces.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help with that.”
“You have to help. She’s an innocent bystander.”
Walt looked at Jael said, “He’s just not getting it.”
Jael said, “The data is secret for a reason, Tucker.”
“What, now you’re on his side?”
“This is not a matter of sides. This data Talevi wants will allow Iran to disable Paladin missiles, correct?”
Walt said, “How should I know? I sweep the floors.”
I said, “That’s why you’d be the perfect person to sneak me in.” I turned to Jael. “Yes. The data would do that.”
Jael said, “Israel uses the Paladin missiles for defense.”
Walt said, “I’m not sneaking you in.”
I said to both of them, “I’m not talking about giving Talevi his data. I’m talking about getting a clean copy of the document so I can trick Talevi into the open. I’ll change the numbers. I just need a clean copy on GDS letterhead.”
Jael said, “So you would not provide the real data to Talevi?”
“No. Of course not. The guy is a psychopath.”
Walt said, “I’m not doing it. If you get caught we’ll all get arrested, and I’ll lose my pension. I’m two years from retiring. I’ve been working toward this my whole life, and you want me to throw it away?”
“You’re going to let him kill her?”
Walt picked up his key fob off the kitchen counter. He stood. “I’m sorry your girlfriend’s in trouble, Tucker, but there’s nothing I can do.”
He walked out of my apartment, letting the door close behind him.
I said, “Goddammit!”
Jael said, “This was easily predictable.”
“Why?”
“Talevi has leverage over you. The problem is that you have no leverage over your uncle.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a cell phone. Started dialing.
“What are you doing?”
“Arranging some leverage.”
Sixty
Hugh Graxton sat in his customary spot in the Chestnut Hill Starbucks, his MacBook Air open on the table in front of him. Oscar Sagese hulked next to Graxton, the spot on the table in front of him occupied by a vente cup of coffee. Jael and I stood in front of Graxton.
“Well, well, Oscar,” said Graxton. “Look. It’s your hacker buddy.”
Oscar stood. Jael shifted her weight.
He pointed at my chest. “You fucked me, Tucker.”
Oscar was at least six foot four. I said, “Uh—sorry.”
“Sal ma
de me close my Facebook account.”
“That’s a shame.”
“A shame? A fucking shame? All my friends are on Facebook.”
I raised my hands. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but it was probably for the best.”
Oscar stepped toward me. He shouted, “What the fuck do you know about the best?”
Graxton said, “Oscar, you need to use your inside voice.”
I said, “If you’re on Facebook, the FBI can get all those pictures, all your statuses, they can even get a list of your friends. It’s like handing them evidence on a silver platter.”
Graxton said, “The man is right, Oscar. You were lucky he was the only guy to get them before you deleted them.”
I decided not to mention the fact that Facebook might have not deleted the pictures. Internet pictures are like a tattoo; they’re out there forever.
Graxton said, “Check Tucker for a wire, Oscar.”
Oscar grabbed at me, his meaty hands batting me around as he pounded my check and back. He ran a hand up each thigh, and whacked me on the left nut with his fist. It wasn’t much of a punch. A love tap in the balls, so to speak. Still my eyes fluttered shut as the pain washed over me.
Oscar said, “He’s okay. You want me to check her?” He took a step toward Jael, who arched an eyebrow.
Graxton said, “It’s your funeral, buddy. As much as I’d like to see what would happen, I might need you functional later. Why don’t we take Jael at her word? Are you wearing a wire, Jael?”
“No,” said Jael.
“That’s good enough for me,” said Graxton. His eyes lingered on Jael’s face, and her eyes found his.
I said, “Do you guys need some time alone?”
“No,” said Jael. “We do not.”
“You’re in enough trouble, Tucker,” said Graxton. “You should shut up now.”
“Can we get down to business?” I said.
“By all means. Oscar, I think Tucker is about to owe us a big favor.”
Oscar sat, “Favor, my ass. I’m not doing him any favors. Fucking hacker.”
Graxton sighed and pulled out his wallet. Stripped out a fifty and handed it to Oscar. “Go buy me a Wall Street Journal.”