by E Y Mak
“It’s still pretty impressive to me,” said Candice.
“You know what happened before I started here? I set up a website that was constantly tracking the airships. You could input a physical location and time, future or past, and it would be able to tell you if the network could see you. Phineas acts like these airships have a random flight path, but of course, they don’t. Your FAA would never allow it.”
“So why are you here now?” asked Candice.
“It’s a long story. Director Peters and Russell convinced me to work here. Not sure why he did it, but he got me job and I took it. Why not?” said Petri.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nyet, you don’t want to know,” Petri said, smirking.
Candice noticed that Petri seemed particularly proud of this story. He either had incredibly loose lips or was making up the story altogether. They should probably turn back to the Butler file. “Alright, can we take a look at the rollback,” she said.
“Okay. Do you want photo brief, highlights, or raw clip?
Phineas runs AI facial recognition on the clip and will piece off any notable pictures with identifying information. You might get many hits though if it’s a busy area. That’s what we call a photo brief. It’s the cheapest, but useless for most of Manhattan if you don’t have a lot of time to review the photo.”
“Okay, what about the other two?”
“Highlights are video clips selected by a computer algorithm. It first establishes a baseline of how busy the area is and then selecting out the portions when something is actually happening. Russell sent you here, right?” asked Petri.
“Yes, that’s correct,” she said.
“Okay, Russell. He’s going to want photo brief and raw clip. He doesn’t trust our video processing. Ha. He’s pretty old school for his age. You might end up spending your next couple days fast-forwarding through three weeks of raw video.” Petri punctuated the sentence with a sarcastic chuckle.
“Okay. Please prepare a photo brief and the raw clip,” said Candice.
“Good good. Which file?”
“Four five three three. Russell’s personal file for now.”
Petri chuckled. “These rollbacks are expensive. I hope Russell gets client or he’s paying out of pocket. Or maybe he requests write off and Director Peters will be upset.”
“Thanks. I’m just following orders for now. How long will it take?” he asked.
“The raw data will be ready momentarily and is available on PhineasNet. The brief will take more time for the analysis of the data—I should be able to have it for you by the end of the day. I’ll send both you and Russell a copy.”
“Thanks, Petri.” Candice made a note on the availability of the brief on PhineasNet, the company-wide, secured intranet portal.
“No problem. Enjoy the peepshow,” he said.
Chapter Eleven
The Office of Director Peters
It was already 7 p.m. when Lukas dropped Russell off at the intersection of Broadway and Chambers in Manhattan. After thanking Lukas, Russell started walking the five blocks back to the Tower. The night sky was crisp and refreshing but dark grey clouds lurked in the sky.
Russell did not rush.
Daniel had a temper, and it was clear that he was upset that Russell had gone ahead in the Butler investigation without his go-ahead. Russell knew that someone upstairs would definitely know about the file once Candice had inputted a rollback request. Daniel was loud, and two steps short of obnoxious, but Russell had amassed a significant amount of organizational equity and goodwill in eight years at Phineas—enough to survive a simple issue of billing.
Back at the Tower, he dropped his briefcase and trench off on his desk chair before slow-walking to Daniel’s office. He took a deep breath as he went in and announced his arrival.
“Daniel,” Russell said.
Daniel ignored him as Russell sat down in the same leather-backed office chair he had occupied yesterday evening. Daniel’s focus was entirely on his computer—and Russell knew that was Daniel’s way of trying to make him sweat. Daniel had spent most of the ’80s and ’90s building a name by chasing bad guys and amassing large security contracts, not by tapping a keyboard. He retained an aversion to the use of his computer. Wherever possible, Daniel would simply mark up a document and hand it over to an assistant for typing.
Russell defiantly sat back in his chair but kept his gaze on Daniel. Probably best to avoid his expensive scotch tonight.
Daniel spoke, eyes glued to his monitor. “A little birdie told me that you’ve been doing a solo expedition.”
“I had a friend who asked me to help him out,” Russell admitted in a monotone.
“A friend?” Russell knew that Daniel did not have many.
Neither do I, I suppose.
“Yeah, a friend. We go back. I owed him a favor,” said Russell.
“We aren’t in the business of doing things for free. We had a talk about this last night,” said Daniel flatly.
“Just a favor, just an afternoon or two and just a couple of questions. It’s nothing,” said Russell defiantly.
Daniel finally turned to Russell. “Okay, fine. Tell me about this case. Or do I even want to know?”
Russell briefly summarized his discussions with Lukas and Cherry, his review of the police file, and his investigation of the Butler residence. After Russell had finished his summary, Daniel finally spoke up.
“So, you’re basically wasting your time checking over some police detective’s file. Chasing a phantom? It doesn’t really sound like you have much reason to go over this Detective Lion’s head. We can’t have anyone important at NYPD upset with us. I mean we can, but not for this.”
“Look, I get that. But I’ve been asked to look into it. What if he is right? What about justice?” said Russell. He thought that Daniel was imagining a halo above his head.
“Justice? The guy defrauded the public, Russell,” said Daniel.
“I know that. But if there was something—anything—on top of the suicide, Cherry, Lukas—they have a right to know. Besides, there shouldn’t be much more to the file. There is no fresh crime scene to look into. I’ve already reviewed the file. All that’s left is a rollback and dossier to review—then I can come to a conclusion,” said Russell.
The intense expression in Daniel’s eyes softened slightly. Time to switch gears. Russell leaned forward in his chair a little. “Besides, what if Lukas was right about the suicide? If there is actually anything to this—then think of what it could mean to us. To you and this department. This is a high-profile case.”
Daniel swiveled his chair to the window, and Russell could imagine the inner machinations in Daniel’s head. There was absolute silence. Russell’s nature was to break the silence, but he bit his tongue to quell this instinct.
“Russell. No, I’m sorry. I made it very clear to you how important it was for all of us to focus on work for our major clients right now. I can hide what you have done so far by telling the committee upstairs that I had some marketing leads that I wanted you to follow up on. But I can’t authorize you to continue any further on this. John Phineas would have my head.”
“John doesn’t care now,” Russell said. “He’s become all principled and theoretical in his old age. Daniel—”
“NO!” Daniel yelled as he slammed both his palms on his desk. “Call Lukas and tell him that there’s no more to be done on the file. Do it—now. This is non-negotiable. I can’t protect you if you keep going on this and the Committee comes down on you. And they will.”
"This isn't about me, is it? It’s about the Committee thinking that you aren’t able to control your department,” said Russell.
“Russell, I’m warning you. You’re on thin ice,” said Daniel. “Get out.”
Daniel was smart and bullheaded, and he was pulling rank. Russell could see why Daniel was upset with him for continuing on the file after their discussion yesterday, but this was a drop in the bucket n
ext to the day-to-day expenses of his department. Russell dutifully stood up and walked out the door. He wasn’t overly concerned.
Back in his own office, Russell sat down and debated distracting himself with some sports highlights. It was a long day, and he didn’t really feel like going against Daniel’s orders. He buried his head in his hands and rubbed his weary eyes. Might as well eat something—it’s going to be a long night.
Russell went down to the wrap café across the street to get some air and dinner. As he exited Phineas Tower, he walked down the street to cross the intersection where the restaurant was situated. He was the third person in line and ordered a chicken salad wrap and cauliflower soup. After he grabbed his dinner, he sat at a table near the window, looking out. The sky was dark, but the city was bright and lively. A family of four tourists walked by, laughing and pointing. A man in a business suit walked by, engrossed in his cell phone, nearly tripping over an older woman walking her dog in the opposite direction.
Russell squinted into the distance. There was a man sitting on a bus bench on the far side of the street, staring back at him. Russell held his gaze for about ten seconds before the bus came and the man boarded the bus.
False alarm.
Russell finished his dinner and packed up to go back to the office. As he reentered his office, he realized that the break outside had done nothing to calm his nerves. He was still angry at being overruled.
He swore out loud.
As he sat down at his desk, he finally spotted the manila folder in his inbox.
He picked up the folder and read the title.
“Butler, Timotheus Y.F.”
Chapter Twelve
Somewhere in New York City
I look at the face staring back at me in the mirror.
So, someone is looking into my work.
How could this happen? I planned every tiny detail. There was nothing left to chance.
And yet, someone is looking. There is a thread loose.
I know the police had already stopped looking into this. Suicide made so much sense. But now, there is someone else looking into everything.
I bend over, lean over the sink, and spit. I turn on the faucet and stare into the darkness of the drain. I watch the water flow into the abyss.
This . . . agitation. How quickly can I make him stop?
I stand up with a snap, reaching out with my right hand and touch the mirror. I gaze into the hollow eyes in front of me—looking for a remnant, a shadow of myself. If only I could pull myself into the mirror to find it. All I see is a face that I see every day looking back at me. But something is missing. Something is not quite right, this time. Today.
I need a plan. A plan will give me purpose. A plan will put me back in control of my destiny.
I will soon know how much the Phineas agent knows. I will track him. Like the shadow I have trained myself to be. If he knows too much, I will dispose of him too, just like the countless others that I have ended.
I walk over to the bed. I lay a brown sweater, a pair of dark khakis, and a pair of Timberlands onto the bed. I take pleasure in meticulously laundering each piece of clothing. I had even wiped down the Timberlands earlier in the evening, until there was a shine, just like in the movies.
The experience is one thing.
The anticipation of the experience is better.
Something is missing. No, no, no. That won’t do.
Where is it? Where is it?
I feel my eyes bulging in their sockets as I search. My pulse quickens as I dig furiously through the bag. Everything needs to be perfect.
Here it is.
I find the leather worker gloves in the doctor’s bag in the closet. I separated the gloves and lay them each at the end of the arms of the sweater. The sweater, jeans, gloves, and boots now form the outline of a man on the bed.
Everything is where it should be again. The ritual is complete.
I change slowly, starting from the sweater and working my way down. I slip the gloves back into the doctor’s bag and walk out the door and into the city. Before leaving, I turn on the Phineas mesh network tracker—to plan and adapt my route away from the prying eyes of Phineas.
Tonight is not about hunting.
Tonight is about planning. Stalking. Learning the tendencies and the habits of my prey. Just as I have always done before. Anticipating every move, so that the prey finally gives up in hopelessness.
Patience is tedious but important, and its fruit is sweet.
My work needs to be perfect.
No loose threads.
Chapter Thirteen
Back at Phineas Tower
“Dossier—Butler, Timotheus Y.F.,” Russell read out loud, as he picked up the file folder in his inbox.
Well, this dossier is already paid for. I can’t really get into any more trouble for looking at it.
Authority or no authority, he was going to take this file to its natural conclusion. He’d deal with the professional consequences later. Russell opened the dossier.
Marissa had run an array of searches on Tim Butler, including the regular bailiff, civil litigation, and criminal records searches. Someone had tried to certify a class-action lawsuit against him. There was obviously a claim against him for the salting fraud. There was also a generic form letter from both the SEC and Canadian regulators describing him as a person on the disciplined persons list.
Russell next turned to the news media searches. These search results would reveal if there were any hits for Tim’s name in any of the major news services. He flipped through them quickly. Since Tim was somewhat infamous, there were many hits on his alleged African transgressions and the resulting fallback. Another dead end—there was nothing that he didn’t already know.
He then moved to the Phineas intelligence file. He placed it flat on the desk and opened it. The folder contained two sheets of paper. The first sheet was a report signed by Petri Ulanov. It summarized the parameters of the search requested and included the internal intranet location link for the rollback video. The second sheet was simply a status report indicating that the rollback raw data was available immediately and that the photo briefs would be available by tomorrow afternoon.
Russell quickly dismissed having Candice look at the raw video. He didn’t want her career to start off on a dog file, sifting through surveillance tape on a non–billable file. On the one hand, that’s how he started. But there was something about her. She definitely stood out when he had guest lectured the ethics class. She looked to be late twenties, the average age of a recruit. She looked tallish, about five foot nine, and her long brown hair stopped around her shoulders, framing a pretty face that appeared to be of Italian descent. But he mostly remembered her precise questioning. She was obviously talented and smart. More importantly, she had a calmness about her. A poise. She definitely had a bit of Dana Scully in her. And he didn’t want to waste her talents by linking her to a file that was already marked for the gutter. He would save the grunt-work request for when actual billable work was needed.
He looked at the file list on his bulletin board. He had twenty-three active files, most of which were inactive for the time being. He prioritized his tasks one last time and decided to see how much he could bang out before calling it a night. He put his head down and just started working.
Russell managed to make it to 2:30 a.m. before his eyes became so heavy that he began to nod off into the comfortable confines of his leather desk chair. “Alright, time to go,” he thought to himself as he packed his briefcase.
After exiting the Tower, he debated hailing a cab before deciding to grab a quick snack in the crisp New York night. He walked towards Barclay and then turned north on Greenwich towards the Soho district. He figured he’d find a place to grab a sandwich before hailing that cab home. The streets always seemed to be eerily quiet when he left the office at this time of night.
The moon had disappeared, hidden by the skyscrapers, and Barclay Street seemed darker than usual. There were
streetlights illuminating portions of the street, but the street was otherwise ensconced in blackness. Two blocks ahead, he saw the bumbling outlines of a pair of drunks staggering in the opposite direction. They stumbled across another group of men waiting for a streetlight to change. Above them, he saw a Phineas drone, attracted by their noise, slowly following, and monitoring, and recording.
Apart from that, the streets were deserted.
As he walked home in the darkness, Russell’s thoughts drifted towards the afternoon—his argument with Daniel and the earlier meeting at the Butler residence. His mind kept racing back to Cherry’s disbelief in the expressionless man. It was a very peculiar fact in an otherwise relatively mundane death.
Does he exist?
He paced further down the block, his mind lost in thoughts about this phantom. His role in this whole saga. Whether he was involved in the suicide. Or was it a murder? No, there was no hard evidence that this man even existed. He was a mere figment of Tim’s imagination. A demon brought on by late nights of work; a concoction of the mind, created by the mixture of early-evening caffeine and a nightcap.
He doesn’t exist. Russell kept telling himself. There is no rational explanation for this.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck raised. He had heard something. Something silent—almost imperceptible—but a definite shuffling noise. An unexpected footstep. His body immediately went into fight-or-flight mode as he tried to locate the sound before looking back. It was definitely behind him. Distance, maybe twenty feet. Likely a cat, or perhaps a giant rat. Not an immediate threat.