Favors and Lies

by Mark Gilleo

  “So based on the napkin evidence, we can assume the mystery number was a cell phone that my nephew owned.”

  “Yes. Well, we were running on the assumption it was the phone your sister-in-law called from on the night of her death. With the napkin evidence, we now know it was likely a phone your nephew possessed and that your sister-in-law merely used it on the night in question.”

  “What can you tell me about the number?”

  “On the screen, I have the detailed history of calls involving the mystery phone. We have one ping for that number in DC. Two in DC. Three in DC. One in Tysons. One in Alexandria. Two more in DC. Two more in DC. Another two in DC. Almost all the calls made on your nephew’s phone are to an encrypted number which is represented on the screen by ten fives: 555-555-5555.”

  “They use that number in movies.”

  “Frequently. It is completely fictitious. The real phone number has been replaced with ten fives. Not the best news for us, but not a complete waste of time, either.”

  Dan stared over Tobias’s shoulder as data ran down the screen, too fast for him to decipher. He watched as the data scrolled and Tobias pointed out relevant information. A minute later the scrolling stopped and the cursor held its position on the bottom of the screen and blinked.

  “Well, in total, your nephew’s secret cell phone was only used a handful of times. We have sixteen calls in total. Thirteen of those calls were outgoing to the same encrypted number, represented by all fives. The sole incoming call to that phone was the last one made. It came from a cell tower near American University and terminated at a cell tower in Tysons. It was made two days ago. After your nephew was deceased.”

  “That is the call that got Lindsay Richer killed.”

  “Should I know her?”

  “No. And it wasn’t your fault.”

  “All of the calls were found on Verizon towers, so Verizon is the carrier for your nephew’s phone. The cell tower with the majority of the phone records is located on a building on Chesapeake Street, Northwest DC. The building leases a twenty-six-foot tower on the roof. If you look at the list of calls from this phone, there has been one call per month to 555-555-5555. Thirteen in total.”

  “What else can you tell me about the calls to 555?”

  “I have evidence a call was made, but the real number was manipulated and encrypted before it was stored on the cell tower’s hard drive. I have a start and end time for the thirteen calls, so I can see that a phone call took place. In fact, except for the phone number itself, it appears the data for the calls is legitimate.”

  “What about the call to my house?”

  “Of the fifteen outgoing calls, we do indeed have one that was made from your nephew’s mystery phone to your home number on the night your sister-in-law died.”

  “At least I’m not crazy.”

  “Hardly enough evidence to clear your mental state.”

  “Did my sister-in-law call 911?”

  “She did. Records indicate the call was terminated upon reaching the tower on Chesapeake Street.”

  “Which did she call first?”

  “911.”

  “How much time between the time she called 911 and the time she called my house?”

  “Two minutes.”

  “What the hell was she doing for two minutes?”

  “That I cannot answer. But based on these logs, she was not talking to 911. As I said, the call reached the cell tower and was terminated.”

  “So, we have the phone number for my nephew’s mysterious cell phone. It has fifteen outgoing calls, one to my home, one to 911, and thirteen to 555-555-5555.”

  “Correct. Those thirteen calls to the number represented by all fives were very regular. One per month. Usually in the first week of the month. We can see that all of those calls were completely handled by the cell tower on Chesapeake Street. That cell tower never passed those calls to another tower, at least not to any cell tower in the greater metropolitan DC area.”

  “So you can see when the number was called, the duration of the call, and whether or not the call was handed off to another cell tower in the DC area, but you cannot provide the number, beyond the ten fives.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Did you check to see if that 555 number is used elsewhere? Maybe there are calls from other phones outside of the beltway made to that same number.”

  “At a thousand dollars an hour, I was sticking to the work you asked for. You wanted to know if I could find a missing phone call made to your house. I did. You didn’t ask me about the numbers called by your nephew’s mysterious cell phone or anything else further upstream.”

  “Fair enough,” Dan said. “You know, the fact that most of the calls came through the same tower in Northwest DC is not surprising. That area was my nephew’s backyard. That is where he went to school. Where he grew up. Where his mother lived.”

  “You are missing the important part of the equation. The interesting tidbit of the logs is that the destination number of those calls—the recipient of those calls—was also within the same cell phone area. All of the thirteen calls started and ended within a very defined geographical area. Whoever answered the 555 number when your nephew called was close.”

  “So, it’s a landline?”

  “No. The calls from your nephew’s phone to that number were received by the cell tower but were not passed to a landline. It was very likely a fixed location cell number.”

  “How does that work? Sue asked.

  “Landlines are going the way of the dodo. Cell phones are the ubiquitous choice for communication. Fax machines can now employ cellular technology. You can control the systems in your home through your cell phone. Ditto for security alarms. So in looking at the 555 number, the only evidence I have of this number is in the Chesapeake tower location. If it is not a landline, it has to be a fixed location cell phone. Or a cell number that never ventures out of the footprint of the Chesapeake tower.”

  Tobias waited for Dan to stop pacing.

  Dan paused at the window and spoke over his shoulder. “Can you print out the metadata elements you do have for all the calls made on that phone, outgoing and incoming? And can you print the physical address of the cell tower on Chesapeake Street where the calls originated and terminated?”

  Tobias tapped on the keys and a printer came to life in the far corner. Dan retrieved the paper and came back to Tobias’s chair.

  “What is the coverage area for that cell tower?”

  “Give me a second.”

  Sue was mesmerized as Tobias pulled up a map of DC and several dozen cell towers populated their respective locations throughout the city with overlapping concentric circles.

  “The footprint of a cell-tower is not perfect,” Tobias added. “There are a lot of factors. Other buildings, elevation, capacity, height of the tower, technology components, weather. The size of the cell tower footprint can vary.”

  Dan glanced at Sue who hadn’t blinked. He watched as Tobias focused on the cell tower address and a bright red circle appeared, estimating the tower’s coverage area. Tobias then overlaid the red circle onto a DC metropolitan map. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at his own work. “Thirteen of the calls were made to and received by a phone or location within that red circle.”

  “What is the area, size-wise, more or less?”

  “A mile and a half in diameter.”

  “And we can’t triangulate on a more defined location for a phone call?”

  “No. We could triangulate a position if a cell phone was actively in use, or if the cell phone had its location services turned on. But without that, regardless of what you see in the movies, triangulating a phone call after the fact is impossible.”

  “Probably won’t matter anyway.”

  “Maybe. I mean, if these guys are pros, they know how to cover t
heir tracks.”

  “And that may be good news.”

  “Can you tell me how long it would take to check if anyone else called this 555 number, from any landline, from any carrier?”

  “I can run a few tests to give you an idea of the cost. I’ll start while you buy lunch.”

  —

  Lunch was comprised of a run to Tippy Tacos, a no-nonsense establishment at the end of a long-in-the-tooth strip mall near Merrifield. It was the first time Dan had ever been in public with Tobias and it would hopefully be the last. There is nothing like a backseat driver who sees death at every intersection, possible dismemberment with every passing car.

  Back at his house, with a pound of rice & beans in his stomach, Tobias sat down in front of the computer and pulled up a blank screen.

  “Houston, we have a problem.”

  “Let me guess, there are no records of anyone else calling 555-555-5555.”

  “Worse. It no longer exists.” Tobias cursed like a sailor in a port city bar and pulled a second keyboard from the far end of the table. He began typing code, one hand working each keyboard, his head on a swivel between monitors.

  “These guys are indeed professionals.”

  “Please tell me you are not going to say it is a good thing.”

  “Nope. You still have the printout with the date and times of the calls from the tower in Chesapeake Street?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You are going to need it. All the records have been erased. All records on the cell tower. A hundred hours of work just vanished. All you have is the piece of paper.”

  Dan pulled the paper from the pocket of his urban hiker pants and paced.

  “OK. Let’s see if we can use these guys’ strength as their weakness.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Tobias asked.

  “Well, if you wanted to get rid of a cell phone, you would just get rid of it. Throw the phone away. Get rid of the fax machine. Change security systems. Destroy whatever is using the cell phone technology and the related number.”

  “Sure. That would be the normal route for normal people.”

  “Well, if you could just discard the phone, system, or machine using the cell phone, then why would these guys be racing to delete a record of a phone call, better yet, an encrypted phone call?”

  “Because they are hiding something other than the phone number.”

  “Exactly. I think I am done searching for something hidden. It’s time to change tactics. Time to look for something I know doesn’t exist.”

  —

  Dan stood by the car and waited until Sue sat in the passenger seat. He took a deep breath and checked the surroundings. He glanced up and waved at Tobias who was peeking out from behind the curtain on the second floor. Dan took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and pulled the door handle.

  “What do we do next?” Sue asked.

  “There is no ‘we.’ Your work-study program is officially over. I’ll sign whatever you need to show your university you completed your requirement. I’ll give you full credit for whatever time you need. I’ll sign your time sheets, and hell, I’ll pay you for the rest of the school semester. Just let me know what you are reporting to the university and I’ll support it.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. You could have gotten rid of me anytime. You are just using today as an excuse.”

  “Today was the tipping point.”

  “Today was not the tipping point for you. I watched you in there. I saw your reaction. You weren’t surprised by anything you saw. You already knew the CIA, or whatever other agency designation you pick, was involved in this ghost chase of yours.”

  Damn, I hate good intuition on everyone but myself. “I suspected it.”

  “So what changed in Tobias’s house?”

  Dan was stumped. Sue was right.

  Sue continued. “We didn’t just pass a tipping point. A point of convenience maybe. A point where you could say to me, ‘Things are about to get dangerous.’”

  “Well they are.”

  “They already were. In fact, I should be pissed. If you knew you were involved in something dangerous, you should have told me earlier. We didn’t have to go through the charade of some great discovery that suddenly made things dangerous. They were dangerous before and they are dangerous now.”

  “Now I remember why I am single.”

  “This is not a joke.”

  “No, it is not. Are you aware there are at least four dead bodies? My nephew, his mother, his girlfriend, and a police officer?”

  “I am aware.”

  “And do you have any idea who could kill four people, especially a police officer, and get away with it?”

  “Professionals.”

  “Let me tell you what a professional is. A professional is someone who can put a bullet in your head and then have dinner. Someone who can take a single mother and string her up in her own closet and watch her twitch with her last breath. Someone who can kill a young man just starting out in life and run over his girlfriend in broad daylight with no witnesses.”

  Dan released a primordial yell and punched the ceiling of the car. The veins in his neck pulsed and his eyes watered. He looked at Sue, whose expression hadn’t changed. “You have any next of kin? Any brothers? Cousins? Anyone? Anyone who is going to miss you if you get yourself killed?”

  “No, Dan. I am just like you. Alone.”

  Chapter 19

  —

  Dan and Sue parked between Third and East Capitol, three blocks behind the Rotunda. The neighborhood was still dark, streetlights illuminating the sidewalk in patches. Capitol Hill, the neighborhood, was the original heart of the now political district. Running behind the Capitol and the Supreme Court and pinched between Independence and Constitution Avenues, Capitol Hill—before it became a political lair—had been home to the working class and immigrants. Blistered hands that had built the Capitol stone by stone. The eclectic mix of craftsmen who toiled at the largest munitions plant in the late-nineteenth century world, just down “the hill” on the banks of the Anacostia.

  Today’s Capitol Hill was a mix of million-dollar row houses, small businesses, and the burned-out remains of part-time crack shacks. Most of the shacks had been bought during the housing boom, later to be reclaimed by public funds, and ultimately returned to their former abandoned glory. The real estate was now on its third upswing in a decade. Living on Capitol Hill was hit or miss. A trip to the neighborhood market was just as likely to end in a conversation with a congressman as it was a mugging. Real America, down the street from those who made the laws for it.

  Dan walked behind Sue as they ambled down the narrow brick sidewalk.

  “Thanks for letting me stay on with you,” Sue said over her shoulder.

  “Don’t thank me. It’s against my better judgment.”

  “I wrote and signed a waiver of liability last night. You could have signed it this morning. It exonerates you of any injury, illness, accident, death, or dismemberment that I may incur as a result of my semester-long, credit-generating, real-work experience internship—of sorts.”

  Dan changed the subject. “You know, at the peak of immigrant labor in the city, this street used to be a horse track.”

  “So the horseshit never really cleared the air,” Sue said.

  Dan laughed as he fought to avert his eyes from Sue’s silhouette in the passing light of the street lamp.

  “You feel safe back there?” Sue asked.

  “I feel better with you in my sights, and with the two guns I’m illegally carrying within the DC city limits.”

  “I feel better with you back there.”

  “I’d feel better if there were someone covering my back with a couple of illegal firearms, too.”

 
“Teach me how to shoot.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You any good?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Where did you learn?”

  “From a neighbor. The first gun I fired was an M40. It’s a marine sniper rifle.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Turn left at the next corner.”

  The Supreme Court stood on First Street—its final resting place decided after a decade-long game of Marco Polo. The Supreme Court, its need determined long before its location, originally met in New York and then bounced around the country like a traveling carnival. New York, Philly, Washington. From a committee room to a senate chamber to a tavern down the street. In 1935 the cornerstone was laid on its current location and the nine men and women who determine the supreme law of the land had a place to hang their gowns.

  Dan and Sue approached the Supreme Court building from the same direction as the lantern-run tavern where the justices of yesteryear made their cases and drank their share of them in the process.

  Dan nodded forward and Sue looked up to see the line of people snaking down the massive steps. Bodies wrapped in warm clothing. Small makeshift tents and sleeping bags splayed on the ground. Flashlights flickered on waiting faces and their belongings. In the darkness, before most of the world stirred from their beds, people were camped out on the steps of the highest court in the land as if waiting for a Black Friday sale at Walmart. Sue pointed at the police on horseback at the foot of the Court.

  “Yes, the Capitol Police still use horses. They have a stable in Rock Creek Park.” Dan reached the bottom of the stairs and turned upward next to the meandering line. On the fourth step, the first voice of rebellion yelled out. “Back of the line.”

  It was followed by another voice, “No cutting, asshole.”

  Ahhh. A local, Dan thought.

  The police officer on horseback whistled and Dan and Sue retreated back to the first step. “At 8:30 we allow for swapping of places, but there is no cutting in line and no swapping before then.”