Was McAfferty already a known entity? What was going on behind the scenes? It seemed as though Swift and Duso had some kind of feud going on. Maybe it had to do with the pepper-spray incident, but maybe there was more. The prickling sensation intensified. Now Mike’s fingers started to tingle as he typed.
The lead Investigator working Tori McAfferty’s meth lab explosion was named Remy LaCroix. There was a picture of LaCroix in one of the articles — a funny-looking guy with a pot-belly wearing an old-fashioned fedora. LaCroix was part of a task force going after all the meth operations in the region. There was a related article in which the Plattsburgh Police Chief vowed that the city wouldn’t allow this rot to infest this community like so many other places in the country. They were going to “stamp it out.”
Mike cross-referenced LaCroix with the name Frank Duso. There was nothing. Even if there was something, realized Mike, it likely wouldn’t be in the papers. But he had a hunch, a guess that Frank Duso was getting his meth from McAfferty. Or maybe even selling for him.
There was some connection between Swift, Duso, and McAfferty, though nothing certain apart from what Mike felt in his gut. That McAfferty had hurt Braxton. That McAfferty had killed him.
So when the email alert popped up a few minutes later, it felt like someone had reached down inside of him and squeezed.
* * *
The email was from Tori McAfferty.
Mike. You ought to check the balance of your 529 account. Then we should talk.
He brought up the page for the education fund, his nerves chattering. He plugged in his username and password. Then he held trembling fingers over the keys. The page to his account profile opened, and his eyes scanned down to the bottom where he read the balance.
The balance was zero.
He stared into an abyss; his brain could form no rational thoughts. McAfferty. The whole thing. I knew it all along. I should have killed him when I first saw those emails.
Memories of his childhood crept into his mind, long repressed, specters materializing from the shadows. Images of his father, hands black with the tar and soot of the tunnels, his face smeared with it, his white teeth flashing as he yelled at Mike’s mother. Mike getting in between them. Turning on his father.
McAfferty. No different. Abusive psychopath. Everything starts and ends with him.
He got back on his email and sent a reply to McAfferty.
Tell me what you want.
He pressed Send. He got up from the couch and wandered aimlessly through the house, unable to focus. He was trying to locate something in his mind, but was unable to see clearly through the fog of swirling thoughts, each one more vicious than the last. He heard the chime that signified an incoming email, sat down and opened McAfferty’s new message.
Tonight. 10 pm. You and I meet. Father to father.
You call the cops, and the whole thing is off.
Mike sent another message.
Why?
He waited another agonizing minute for the reply. It was an address, nothing more. Mike didn’t recognize it, but found a piece of paper and a pencil in a kitchen drawer and scribbled it down.
He picked up his phone. He dialed the number from memory. He listened to the ring, and a woman answered. His own voice seemed to come from far away. She told him just a moment, and then another voice came over, and the sound of a man eating something like potato chips.
Bull Camoine said, “Hey, Mikey.”
Mike let it all out in a rush, his whole body shuddering as he stood with the phone to his ear, looking out over the windswept front yard, the drifts of snow, the scabs of oak bark and branches darkening the white in places.
When he was done explaining — about McAfferty, the 529 account, the messages, everything — he added, “Callie and the girls left.”
“Probably for the best,” Bull said, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.
“You think?”
Bull was silent, seeming to calculate. “Not my place to say; I’m sorry. So aside from getting all this off your chest, to what do I owe the pleasure? Is it time?”
Mike was silent. He could feel his mouth working, but his lips had gone numb.
Bull let out a laugh. “Always did have a problem coming to the point, didn’t you, Mikey? Come on. Nice to be catching up and everything, but Jesus, out with it.”
Mike took a huge breath and exhaled slowly. “I was just thinking, you know? For protection.”
“Absolutely, absolutely. We say no more, here, now, okay?” Bull would of course be worried about Big Brother listening in. And who knew — maybe Mike was worried too. Calling up an old friend to help you get yourself a gun was risky.
“Hey Mike?”
“Yeah.”
“Just know; I know what you and your mom went through. Yeah your pop helped me out, but I never forgot, you know. I never forgot the things he did to you and your ma. I’ve got my bags packed, Mike. I’ll be there in a few hours. Sit tight.”
Mike felt his lips quivering, and they parted. The objection rose in his throat, and then stayed there.
Let him come. Let him come and together you will shoot Tori McAfferty to death. Maybe first drag him behind the truck until he shits and pisses himself and then stop and let him think he is going to live and then do it again. Pull his arms from his body so he can’t even wedge into the ligature like Braxton did. Pull him through the dark and snow until his head shears away from his body.
On the other end of the call Bull Camoine said, “I’m on my way to you, buddy.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The phone sat on the desk between Swift and Captain Tuggey.
I spend half my goddamned life on the phone, Swift thought.
A voice came through the speaker. “Captain Tuggey, Senior Investigator Swift, Assistant District Attorney Sean Mathis. Hello.”
“We’re here,” said Tuggey. “Hello Deputy Inspector Jonas. How’s life in the big city?”
“Dandy. You trying to show us up out there in God’s country? Quite a case.”
“It is,” said Tuggey. He glanced briefly across the desk at Swift before his gaze fell back to the phone. “We appreciate your help, Jonas.”
“Well, I wish I had better news. As you know, warrant came through and we did a thorough toss of Darring’s apartment in Queens. Seized a laptop, a smart TV, a gaming console, a few personal effects, that’s about it. Guy lives like a monk. Place was spic and span.”
Swift scribbled down a note in his pad, and Tuggey played with the Windsor knot in his tie. “Tell me.”
“You know, like I say, not much to tell,” Jonas went on. He had a thick New York accent. “Cyber-crimes spent the morning going through the computer.” The word sounded like computah. “But there’s nothing that has stood out. Normal usage, I guess. Amazon, Netflix, various news media, a little porn, two basic email accounts; one Yahoo, one Gmail.”
Swift leaned forward. “Deputy Inspector, this is John Swift. Anything interesting in the emails?”
“We’re still going through them. The Yahoo account has over a thousand. So far, looks like emails to some buddies. But no Branson Simpkins.”
“Braxton,” Swift corrected.
“Right.”
“The other two? Hideo Miko, Sasha Bellstein?”
“Yeah, they’re in there. Right up at the top. Just a couple. Uhm . . .” It sounded like Jonas was rustling paper. “This one here is a group email, arranging a time and place to meet. Time stamp is 4:22 p.m., Saturday. It says Darring is going to pick Miko up in New Jersey first, and then going to meet the other one outside of Philly at 7p.m. Something about when the Philly kid gets off work . . .”
“But no intent?” asked Swift. Tuggey gave him another glance, which Swift ignored.
“I know what you’re looking for, Detective. No, there is nothing we have seen so far that indicates any intent to harm. Looks like they’re just kids planning a visit to another kid.”
“That kid is dead now
,” Swift said.
This time Tuggey didn’t just glance, but gestured, drawing the ridge of his hand across his neck, indicating to Swift to quit it.
“I understand that, I understand,” said Jonas. “You know what I’m sayin’? I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. But we just haven’t found it.”
“Thank you, Deputy Inspector,” Tuggey said, before Swift could speak again. “We appreciate all you’ve done.”
“My pleasure. You two take it easy up there, huh?”
“You bet.”
Tuggey pressed a button on the phone to end the call. His eyes were fierce. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to solve a murder.”
“You’ve already got two strikes against you, Swifty. Big ones. First, last summer’s fiasco with Frank Duso. Now this gaff where you’re caught boozing while on active duty — that’s punishable by termination alone — and you destroyed private property.”
Swift put on a humorless grin. “You loved that one. Admit it.”
“Now you want to badger the Deputy Inspector in New York City? You like this Darring kid so much for the Simpkins murder, you show motive, you give him a murder weapon, and you explain all this other shit with McAfferty.”
Tuggey pushed back from the desk and sighed. He played with his tie, smoothing it out.
“The arraignment is in two hours. Mathis is busy preparing. And you know what’s going to happen. Darring is going to see the judge, he’ll be advised of his charges, he’ll plead Not Guilty, Mathis will try to show he’s a flight risk, but Judge Stenopolis is a light touch with first-timers, and he’s got nothing but a sad, foster kid story in his background. No priors, no convictions. He hasn’t sought counsel, so he’s getting a PD. Bail will still be set high, but from what this kid has told us, he can afford it. And then, —vipp — he’s out. The burden of proof is all on Mathis, and he’s got none.”
“Which is why I’ve got to see Darring again.”
“No. For what?”
“I’ve got a theory.”
“You’ve got a theory. Jesus Christ, Swifty.” Tuggey was mad. “This is a small town, Swifty. You’ve probably noticed. Your recent actions make it look like we’re losing control, John. Like we’re frustrated, with nothing on the ball with this case.”
“Third time’s the charm, Tug.”
“Get out,” Tuggey yelled. “Get out!”
CHAPTER FIFTY
“Detective Swift. You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
The man standing in the receiving area at the Essex County Jail in Lewis offered Swift a wide smile. He was Brad Escher, county undersheriff. He stuck out his hand. Swift took it and gave it a brief pump. They stood looking at one another for a moment.
“I’m serious about that coffee. You want one?”
“I’d like to get right to the tough stuff.” Swift looked over the undersheriff’s shoulder and through the bullet-proofed glass into the jail.
“Absolutely,” said Escher, his smile fading. “Right this way.”
Escher led Swift through an entryway of piston doors and down a long corridor to an interrogation room. The room was much larger than the one at the substation. Here, Swift knew, the rest of the law enforcement team wasn’t watching on the other side of a one-way mirror, but on monitors in another room a few doors down. Mathis and Tuggey were there, along with Sheriff Dunleavy.
Everything was being digitally recorded, and archived instantly to a hard drive. Swift found himself thinking that the reason why his own substation didn’t have the budget to take on a homicide investigation like this one was because all the money went into the jail’s technology. Even the chairs were cozier than the hard-backs in the substation.
Robert Darring was rotating back and forth in a swivel chair. Now booked into the jail, he wore the black and white striped jumpsuit over a grey hooded sweatshirt. He smiled politely as Swift entered the room and sat down across from him, setting out a file folder on the table between them. Darring’s homely face and mud-colored eyes were open and guileless as his gaze dropped to the file.
“Frank Duso,” Swift said.
Darring looked up from the file. “I’m sorry?”
Swift paused, letting the moment linger. He folded his hands together.
“Did I ever tell you about my father? No. I never told you. I told your pal, Hideo Miko, from Philadelphia. You know . . . Just before he broke down and cried.”
“You can’t take kids anywhere these days.”
“My father was a state police detective, like me. So was my great grandfather. It skipped a generation, though; my grandfather was a farmer. But I bet you already knew that. That’s just how smart you are. A foster kid, you’ve said. Spent a lot of time reading books, maybe, like what’s-his-face in that movie. Good Will Hunting. What’s that like, being a foster kid?”
“I don’t have anything to compare it to. I wouldn’t know.”
Swift smiled. “Good point. Bet you felt alone at times though, yeah? Maybe . . . a little unwanted?”
Darring looked away, and Swift felt a momentary thrill that he might be getting under the kid’s skin at last.
“You feel right at home here in this place. In an institution.”
“Oh yeah, I love it,” Darring said, flashing his teeth in an ironic smile.
“You feel comfortable. You open up to people. People like Frank Duso.”
Darring’s smile faded.
“You told him things. You talked to Frank. But, see, Frank’s got a big mouth.”
Darring glared, saying nothing.
“You didn’t know that Frank and I had business, did you? See because he turned right around and got this big idea to call me up. Tell me he had something for me. In Frank’s mind, he was setting a trap, trying to get back at me for some old business. So he called me up, invited me out for a drink, and told me all about you, about how you seemed like you needed someone to listen to your rap. How clever you are to work with others behind the scenes, throw off the cops, be in more than one place at a time.
“I’d like to see a lawyer please.”
Swift hurried on. “Know what I think? You’re Billy Sweet Tea.”
Darring looked paler than usual. “Oh yeah?”
Swift pulled out his notebook and pen and set them on the table. He nodded. “You have other people, friends — I’m thinking Hideo Miko, Sasha Bellstein, maybe others — people in your little club, who play the same account, and that’s your online persona in the game The Don.”
“My persona?”
“Your character. What do they call it? An avatar? I played the game.”
“You did? What did you think?” He was acting nonchalant again.
“Ah, you know, I’m an old guy. But I saw some interesting artwork. You know those pictures they show after you’ve waged war with somebody? A mean-looking thug walking away from a burning building? Or the one where there’s a casket with flowers on it and mourners gathered around. Really great artwork. But this one’s the best.”
He leaned forward and slid a photograph from his file, the one he’d printed earlier. He spun it around so that Darring could look at it, while Swift watched his face.
“As you can see here, this is the image they use for their downtime, for maintenance. Or maybe fixing some security breach, who knows. But this one shows them digging a hole to dump a body in. The car lights shine so they can see to dig. And you can see the body there — see it? It’s tied up behind the car, tied around the neck and the wrist. The way it’s tied like that, it kind of cinches itself when someone pulls on it. A version of the garrote. Pretty gruesome stuff.”
“Yeah, they really get into the brutality of it,” Darring agreed.
“Did you get into the brutality of it?”
Darring looked up, his expression inscrutable. “It’s just a game.”
“You believe that the game continues on outside, in the real world, don’t you? Or, at least, that what goes on in t
he real world is sort of inconsequential. Here’s what you said the last time we met.” Swift picked up his notebook and quoted. “‘We’re going to all live completely online someday.’”
“It’s true.”
“And this: ‘I’m extremely interested in the techniques and technologies we use to essentially hack subjectivity.’” Swift looked up. “Do you consider yourself a hacker?”
“I asked for a lawyer.”
“‘The subjective experience,’ you said. You know, you use a lot of big words. Like I said, you’re a real smart guy. But I’m a little bit smart, too. Just a little. I think that what it means is, you mess with someone’s perception of reality.”
“You think so?”
Swift put the notebook down.
He leaned across the table and tapped a finger on the wood. “Remember couple days ago, when I admitted I was acting as-if? Well, now I’m not.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Janine Poehler worked her way past security at the front of the county jail, and through the heavy doors. The guards smiled at her as she checked in, turning over her ID, her belongings and her jewelry. Unadorned, she continued to the room where four men sat watching Detective John Swift interviewing the suspect in the Braxton Simpkins case.
The men all turned and looked at her as she stepped into the room. She was wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, Sateen slim cargo pants and a pair of classic platform pumps on her feet. Four sets of eyes scanned her up and down, and then returned their attention to the monitor in front of Captain Tuggey. None of them asked why the forensic pathologist was here. They were too engrossed with the interview, for one. The whole town was waiting to know who killed the boy in the middle of the night, and she would be no different.
Janine made her way a little further into the room, stopping beside Undersheriff Escher, a lumberjack of a man who’d been in the armed forces before joining the Sheriff’s.
She turned her attention to the screen.
* * *
“So tell me,” Swift said to Darring, “how much manipulation are we talking about? Two kids, Miko and Bellstein, they’re out there playing The Don on your behalf. You’ve hacked game servers, emails . . . bank accounts. What else?”
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