by PT Reade
“I do. Where are you right now?”
“Outside of the park where his body was found,” I said. “They have it knit up pretty tight.”
“I know. But that’s no bother of yours. The body was removed hours ago. It’s at the coroner’s office right now. And guess who was here to receive it?”
“Holy shit, are you kidding?”
“I don’t kid about death.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, I thought you might want to know that as far as we can tell here, preliminary tests indicate that Ashburn did indeed die of a cocaine overdose. But there’s a bit more to it than that.”
“How much more?”
“There was something mixed in with the coke. Something chemical-based, likely toxic. He was poisoned, Blume.”
“Poisoned with what?”
“Right now, the compound remains unknown, but we’re running tests.”
“How long until we get an ID on it?”
“No idea. Could be an hour. Could be tomorrow.”
Man, I thought, starting to get frustrated. Gremlin and now Ashburn.
The bodies sure were piling up, but the answers certainly were not.
“Ok, call me as soon as you know more. Thanks for the info, Remay.”
“Nicole,” she said. “Call me Nicole.
“Got it. Thanks, Nicole.”
With that, she hung up. No goodbye, no further info. I couldn’t decide if her taciturn phone manner was professional or just her personality. The woman was an enigma, but I had bigger mysteries on my mind.
I peered into the crowd of journalists and reporters that were jockeying for position around the entrances to the park and sadly thought of Sarah for a moment. I turned and headed back for the nearby underground station, leaving the scene of the crime behind me, knowing there were no answers to be found by looking back.
SEVEN
I was trying to be an analogue solution to a digital problem.
After getting nowhere at the park, I decided to call in reinforcements. I figured when following the path of a hacker, it pays to have one of your own.
With some prodding, I had used my success with the Ellington case to grease the wheels a little with Amir. He was now allowing me to pay his oldest son, Jamal, 10 pounds an hour for his help with the more technical computer work. It hadn’t been easy, but I’d pointed out that if I helped direct the kid’s talents in the right direction, there was a chance he’d make something of himself. The youngster would make one hell of a forensic investigator if he ever decided to take that route.
Jamal was excited and enthused about the position, partly because he despised the alternative, working in his father’s restaurant. Amir remained afraid and skeptical. Still, he allowed it.
And that was why Jamal had so easily been able to come to my apartment that afternoon directly after school. The kid was tall for his age, skinny and energetic but also polite, largely thanks to his upbringing. It was his senior year, and he was glad that he had such a cool (albeit shady) job to report to in the afternoons. This was the first time I had asked him to work on anything substantial, and part of me wondered if it was unethical to have his help.
He got results on the computer though, there was no denying it. I watched Jamal as he took a seat behind my new laptop and eyed the device that I had used to copy the drive at Gremlins’ apartment yesterday.
“You may have landed a pot of gold, man,” Jamal said. “If you cloned the drive correctly, this should be a piece of cake.”
“That’s good, right?” I said, watching him work. “Because I don’t have many answers right now.”
It took Jamal less than thirty seconds to hook the device to my laptop and access it. He pulled up its contents. I saw at once that there were hundreds of files.
“Not a lot of variety here,” Jamal said. “A bunch of Dox files and a video.”
“Dox files?” I asked.
“Hackers don’t just work on one person at one time. They basically scrape up information about hundreds…thousands of people. Addresses, emails, usernames. Then they save it all into a ‘Dox file.’ This guy probably targeted a ton of accounts. He just got lucky when he scored the video.”
Not that lucky. I thought.
We checked the Dox files. Most were basic text documents containing a frightening amount of personal information, but none were relevant to this case.
There were also a few emails, all sent to anonymous accounts, presumably other hackers. Gremlin was excited about stumbling on the video and offering to sell the contents.
“Can you open the video?” I asked.
“Yup,” Jamal said. He clicked on the file, but was rewarded only with a prompt for a password.
“Damn,” I said.
“No worries, man,” he said. “I have other ways.” He grinned at me and then set to work behind the keyboard.
As Jamal worked, my feet paced the apartment. I stopped at the view outside and glanced down at a noise near my floor. A tiny leak near the edge of the window was letting water in, causing a slow, steady drip. As I stood there half focused on the leak, my mind drifted, caught in the liquid rhythm. I thought about Nicole Remay, wondering if she really would live up to her end of the bargain. I knew for a fact that getting files that were deemed classified or off-limits could get her in a lot of trouble. But she seemed smart, and I had to assume that she had done this sort of work before. And if that were the case, she might be a good ally to have if I was going to legitimately make a go of being a professional investigator in London.
Not to mention that the woman was intriguing, even if my feelings weren’t ready to chase that thought right then.
Five minutes later, Jamal clapped his hands together and said, “Ta-da!”
“You got it?” I said, turning back to the computer.
“I did,” he said and clicked the file again.
This time it opened, and I saw a grainy video of Ashburn spring into life.
It was clear from the angle and ruddy lighting that Ashburn did not know the video was being taken. On the recording, he was clearly high on something, and it looked like there was a line of coke on the table, but the dim tone made it hard to tell. Ashburn was dazed and laughing about something while he lounged on a couch. He wasn’t quite delirious, but he was definitely zoned out from his surroundings.
There were other people around him too, and from what I could tell, they all looked to be in some sort of back room. The muffled music and laughter made me think it might have been a club or a private party. A man to the right of the camera had some ugly tattoos that looked like the sort that had been inked in a prison. There was also a leggy woman standing in the background. Due to the camera position, however, her face was off-frame.
Ashburn was speaking and gesticulating wildly, but it was hard to make out anything he was saying due to background noise and rustling clothing. Whoever had the phone out making the video had it hidden well, and as a result, it was not picking up much sound. But from Ashburn’s tone alone, it was clear that he was buzzing and probably not making much sense anyway.
This went on for forty-two seconds and then the video came to an end.
Jamal squinted at the screen. “Wait, was that —”
“— Just play it again,” I said.
The kid at least had the good sense not to ask any more questions. He ran the video again right away. There was nothing new to take away. I still couldn’t hear Ashburn clearly, just the staccato pitch of his voice. I once again took note of the other man’s prison tattoo, but that was about it.
When it came to the end, I was about to ask Jamal to play it one last time, but a small icon popped up at the bottom of my screen, letting me know that I had a new e-mail.
“One second,” I told Jamal, taking the controls behind the keyboard.
I opened up my e-mail and saw that the new mail was from Nicole Remay.
“Got a lady now, I s
ee,” Jamal said, glancing sideways with a wry smile.
“Save it, kid. It’s not like that”, I said, with a surprising pang of defensiveness.
I opened the mail and read the brief note. I could practically hear her whispering it as I read.
Blume,
Tox screens are back and indicate that the poison in the coke was an industrial chemical. (Beryllium). Not easily available. No idea where it came from. Sorry for the mail, but a call right now, where I am, is too risky. The walls are listening and all. Email me when you can.
-NR
“Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Blume?” Jamal asked. “I could probably decompile the drive, then clean up the —”
“— No, I think I’m good.” I cut in. I knew the kid would stay all night if it meant avoiding work in his father’s kitchen downstairs, but I had leads to follow up on. “There’s not much to go on with that video, but it’s a great start, and I have a couple of ideas. Thanks for your help.” I handed him a rolled up ten pound note and slapped an additional five on top as thanks. And to get rid of him. “Maybe I’ll have some more work for you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” Jamal said, standing.
I clapped him on the shoulder and watched him go. When I heard his footfall receding, I fired the video back up and watched it a third time.
I paused the screen when it fell on the man’s tattoo, and as I stared at it, an uneasy plan started to stitch itself into place.
EIGHT
Like the steady dripping of water, the parts of my plan had fallen into place.
It’s funny how fluid time seems when things just work out for you. The moments between staring at the tattoo on the man’s arm in the Ashburn video and the moment of sitting in the warehouse, looking at the owner of the tattoo now chained to the rafters, had slid by. It had been clean, uninterrupted and, somehow, pure.
I had never been the torturing type. I was no black-ops, government goon waterboarding anyone who looked suspicious. It was immoral, it was stupid, but above all, it was ineffective.
As a cop working one of the most dangerous cities in the world, I’d learned that if you torture someone enough they will tell you anything, whether it’s true or not. But if you want real results, then interrogation had to be 30% physical and 70% psychological. Even in some of my best interviews as a New York detective, I’d hardly ever gone anywhere beyond a shout or maybe a fist-slam on a table, gradually building the pressure through smarter means.
But I wasn’t the man I used to be. The calm, rational Thomas Blume was about three exits back. I knew I had the aggression in me now, especially looking at this asshole. I had felt it ever since Sarah and Tommy died. I knew that if a situation called for it, I wouldn’t have much of a problem putting someone through hell to get some answers.
So it was that I sat in the warehouse admiring my handiwork. I took a sip from my hip flask as the sorry shape slowly swayed while I considered how to proceed. I had to put the pressure on him. I had to make him spill.
The man tied to the rafters, his feet barely touching the ground and his arms pulled tight over his head, was Vasily “Lee” Stoyanov. He was squat, head shaved, muscular, and covered with badly inked tattoos. He was also a petty thug with a fairly sordid history. Suspected of Eastern European mob connections, the guy had a rap sheet that put War and Peace to shame; burglary, theft, possession with intent and a disturbing collection of assaults against minorities. He was a blunt tool with a reputation for partying, brawling, and peddling drugs. Basically, he was a fully qualified scumbag.
But with a record like that he was also easy to find.
Sometimes, no matter how far we run, we can’t escape our past.
I had called in some favors and had the image from the video run through a police database of tattoos, marks, and piercings first thing in the morning. By 10am, I knew his parole officer and current employer. By lunchtime, I had him in my sights.
Stoyanov had been holed up at his bar of choice, a sleazy-looking strip club on the outskirts of the city. I had toyed with the idea of walking in and having a few drinks myself until he took his leave. I opted not to because if I got three beers in, I might get sloppy or, worse, start to not care and tell myself that I could get the creep whenever I wanted.
So instead, I had hung out in the back alley where Stoyanov had parked his scooter. The plates were a match for the ones I had pulled up in the database. The ease of it all almost made me miss being a cop.
A few pulls of liquor from my flask; enjoying the way the smoke warmed me in the chill of winter’s bite. As I waited, I marveled at how much more bitter December seemed to be in London, which was odd because New York was known for their brutal winters. It made me miss Tommy something awful. He’d loved sledding down the hill at the end of the block. Even last winter when he had scraped his chin up after being thrown from his sled. He’d loved it.
Standing in that seedy alley and thinking of my son had felt wrong. It was a strong reminder of why I was in London and, for a moment, made me feel guilty that I needed the booze as an anchor for my work.
Perhaps the cold was inside after all.
A short time later, Stoyanov came out of the bar. He was staggering just slightly and humming a tune that was way off key. I started walking forward, paying him no attention and taking on the role of a random passerby.
Stoyanov even managed a nod and a blurred, “Cold as buggery out here today, huh, man?”
For a moment I considered letting him ride off. He’d drunk enough to become an accident waiting to happen. If he had a close encounter with a 10-ton truck, no one would shed any tears. Hell, the world would’ve been a better place. So maybe the right thing was to let him go?
But I was no judge. My own choices were so clouded by poison that I wouldn’t know the right thing to do if it bit me on the ass.
So instead, I opened my mouth to respond but, rather than speaking, swung a hard right hook that connected squarely with Stoyanov’s chin. His eyes rolled back into his head, and before he could recover, I caught him. I guided him to my car waiting on the corner and then cuffed him inside with the set of handcuffs I had ordered online shortly after the Ellington case.
He came to in the back of my car, pissed off, but he didn’t put up much of a fight. All he could manage was some wriggling and a few colorful words. Some in a language I didn’t understand.
And now here we were, all alone in the warehouse. I had found the place a few weeks ago while scoping out another case in Deptford, on the South Bank. I never really intended for it to be used for things like this, but its remote location in an old industrial estate and ramshackle condition made it perfect for uninterrupted discussions. In fact, the only downside was the pervading smell of ammonia, remnants of a heavy industry long since departed.
Stoyanov was strung from the rafters. He was fully clothed, but a damp spot around the crotch of his pants announced where he’d probably pissed himself. He’d almost started crying then too, I’d noticed. I figured because in his line of work, a situation like this usually ended only one way.
He had no idea who I was. He didn’t know what I was or was not capable of. Maybe I didn’t either. But I knew him well enough. I knew his type. Given enough pressure at the right points, he’d buckle. Hell, I had done very little too him so far — a few slaps, idle threats, and a punch to the gut when he pissed me off with some racist bullshit — and he was already clinging to the last of his bravado. I could see it in his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged from the unforgiving position his arms were raised in.
“Look,” I said from my place on a workbench several feet away from Stoyanov. It was the only furniture in the place. The entire building was nothing more than concrete walls, a few sparse cracked windows, and dust. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got things to do. So tell me what I need to know, and we can both get out of here.”
Stoyanov spat on the ground and shook his head. “No. In fact,
let me give you a chance to get out of this alive, you faggot! I know people, people who will mess you up.”
I shrugged, making a mental note of his words. “London is a pretty big city.”
“Oh, they’ll find you. Our people are smart. Keen. They’ll find you, and then they’ll kill you, faggot. Slowly and painfully.”
“Big talk from a man strung up like a pig,” I said, getting frustrated. I then stood up and walked over to him, looking him in the eyes. I pulled a switchblade out of my pocket and extended the blade. “Funny thing about pigs.” I spoke steadily and paced a few steps. “People think they are filthy, dirty animals, but they are excellent for disposing of all sorts. They’ll eat almost anything, even a body…if you cut it up for the piggy first.” I said. I then ran the blade-tip slowly across his shirt. Enough to hurt, not enough to puncture the skin.
“Bollocks.” He winced. “You don’t have it in you. But me, I’m connected and we’ll find you and yours.”
I felt the shadows inside get stronger at his mention of my family.
I slapped him hard across the face with a wet crack. He yelped. “You know,” I whispered angrily, “maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t….” I said. “…But then there are the people that do have it in them. Some of those government sorts that don’t follow the rules. The kind of people that work for Jonathan Ashburn. Or, rather, worked. You know Ashburn. The guy who you killed.”
“Bullshit, I did nothing.”
I placed the knife in my pocket and grabbed him under the chin. “Some of them have terror training, his people. They work overseas. They know how to torture someone in about a hundred different ways.” I had no idea if Ashburn had access to any such teams, but the modern world was a paranoid place. I hoped to plant the seeds of doubt. “So you’d better start talking, now!”
He smirked. “If they were coming for me, they would have already done it. No, you’re full of shit, man. When I get out of here I’m going to find you and your family and”—