by Alex Ames
“Happy relationship?”
“Yeah, sure, why don’t you ask them?”
“Any financial problems we should know about before we dig into your gallery’s financials?” Another change of subject.
“I beg your pardon?”
Ron raised his hands apologetically. “I mean, you are dealing with expensive art, your inventory is quite large, lot of ‘dead capital’ lying around.”
“Sir, you think we tried to set up an insurance swindle that went wrong, or what?”
“Sir, your watchman was killed in a suspicious situation during an ongoing burglary. If I find the burglar, I will probably also find the murderer. So I investigate the burglary. My first question is the ‘Who.’ And my question second is the ‘Why.’ I have to look at all possibilities.”
“Police!” Faulkner exclaimed but he didn’t seem to take it personally. He shook his head and then looked at Ron. “No, I don’t think you will find anything ‘suspicious’ in our books, Detective. All clear, we are a respectable business.”
I wondered how many times Ron had heard that reassurance before?
Ron drove us back to the police headquarters.
“What does it mean to the case that Altward and Phoebe Eastman had a relationship?”
“Don’t know,” Ron answered. After he saw my rolling eyes, he added, “Really. The thing is, there are two basic motives: money and love, love and money. I favor money motives, like Altward stealing from himself to fence the goods for money and then getting repaid by the insurance as well. But add the relationship with the daughter; maybe this changed the dynamics between Altward and his night watchman? Or was there a break-up between Altward and Phoebe that caused someone to become angry?”
“I bet it has nothing to do with Altward or Phoebe or them together.”
Ron nodded. “The truth is—I don’t care. I just follow leads. That is all I can do. And the leads point to Altward and Phoebe.”
Chapter 14
JUANITA WAS WAITING for us. She was looking at her watch as we walked through the door of the detective-room.
“What’s the hurry?” Ron asked.
“We got something on the alarm system. Interesting. Let’s go talk to Pete from Labs.”
Juanita led the way as we went down to the forensic labs, located in the basement. On the way, Ron gave her a quick update on Marion Altward and her juicy inputs.
Finally, Juanita knocked at an open office door. A little bespectacled man turned from his desk and we simultaneously said “Hi.”
Juanita explained, “Pete here worked together with the guy from the insurance company and the manufacturer on the electronic control of Altward’s safe.”
“They were both extremely forthcoming and helpful,” Pete replied.
“Can you tell these guys what you just told me on the phone?” Juanita asked as she sat down on the edge of Pete’s desk.
“Sure. Come gather round people,” he said and picked up a model that resembled the control panel I had seen in Altward’s gallery. He pulled off the front panel to revesal a jumble of wires and chip-cards. “This is one of the latest models on the market. Altward’s alarm system is only about two years old and they upgraded it every year, it is as safe as it gets these days.” He readjusted his glasses and pointed out the details. “It works like this, you place your thumb or any other finger onto this mold and your fingerprint gets checked in a main control unit, which is located in the main safe room. If the main unit says ‘Yes,’ it starts opening the electronic locks.”
“So there is no way to access the main unit directly?” Ron asked.
“That’s right. The fact is that it has no manual input at all, no keyboard, just some little blinking lights. If you do something, you have to do it via the control box. I won’t bore you with the encryption system or the security of the network between the control box and the main unit but it comes down to this, everything you do, you do from the wall units.”
“Sounds more like a computer than an alarm,” I remarked.
“You are correct, it is a computer system,” Pete nodded his head and had to readjust his glasses again. “This control box is a standalone computer; the main control unit is, too. So is the other wall unit located in the back-office of the gallery. They are all connected by a network.”
“You read a lot about computers and networks being hacked these days,” Ron said.
“All the regular computer technologies and network standards are tested constantly by hackers and other criminals for their security gaps and exploits. That’s why the manufacturer of these boxes wrote their own version of networking protocols and programming languages.”
“That is possible? Sounds like a lot of software development.”
“Not really, all the concepts are around, IT students often develop their own languages and protocols at university so they can learn the theoretical concepts behind it.”
“So when an outsider, like a hacker-thief, looks into the chips and circuits, all he sees is garbage. “
“Yeah, as if you, for example, are a journalist and fluent in American English and are suddenly confronted with a German article. You recognize it for what it is, an article, and maybe you understand the purpose. But you understand neither the background nor the content.”
“Or even worse, Russian, different characters and all,” I threw in.
“Exactly,” Pete put the box back together and put it on his desk.
“What is the conclusion now? That it couldn’t have been done?” Ron was as impatient as ever.
“Hang on, I am not through yet. The tech guys and I went through it step-by-step to see what the hacker-thief had done. We found various points where he removed wires and connectors to attach scanners or readers. He worked his way systematically through the box to find a point of weakness that he could exploit.”
“Did he find one?”
“He did!” Pete exclaimed. “Because of various checking mechanisms, every attempt to network with the main control box is logged. However, there is no recording of a failed attempt, like a wrong password.”
Ron threw his hands up. “Don’t say that. That would mean, someone who knew the password opened the safe. Altward, Faulkner, Assistant… ”
“It would but it wasn’t. The log of the wall unit has no entry for any of the employees’ biometrics being entered.”
“But the main box had?”
“Yes. The only way you could achieve that is if you bug the wall box and wait until Altward or someone else scans his thumb ‘record’ imprint and later ‘replays’ it.”
“In English, you fake the thumbprint toward the main control unit.”
“That’s it. On a purely electronic basis. Forget all this James Bond nonsense of having fake thumbs and all that. The scan is translated into numbers and code, you catch that somehow, and you have access.”
Pete stood up and paced the room. “The problem is that there are so many encryptions, authorizations and logging going on that it is damn near impossible to fool the main control unit. Please understand, the manufacturer took all the necessary steps to prevent such a thing from ever happening.”
“Obviously not enough.”
“Obviously not,” Pete agreed.
Ron was unhappy. “Where does that leave our investigation? Please spare me any more tech details.”
Pete counted off on his fingers, “One: Altward didn’t open the safe. It would have shown up in the logbook of the alarm system. Two: It was done by a specialist who erased all records in the system logs of the steps taken during the break-in. Three: You are looking for a specialist with a very specific profile and skills. Four: There is a distinct possibility of other criminal activities in the computer crime area.”
Ron looked at me for a while, gnawing at his lower lip. Did he expect consultant input or was he putting me on the suspect list again?
“That specialist profile is in your report?” He asked, slapping the file on his other hand.
“Hard to find?”
Pete nodded. “Yes. The original equipment manufacturer is a Norwegian company.”
Ron just raised an eyebrow. “Do I start looking for pullovers in SoCal now?”
Pete shrugged easily. “Someone with good computer skills could interpret the inputs and outputs of the boxes without inside knowledge.”
“Where do I find such a guy? Or girl?” With a look toward me.
Pete looked at Ron. “Pardon me; I am only the techie here.”
“Where then?” Ron said, rolling his eyes.
Pete was surprised that Ron asked him but answered anyway. “Well, the FBI of course. Hacking is a state-level crime.”
On the way back to the office, Ron was steaming. “FBI, Jesus, how far will this go, the President?”
Juanita cheered him up. “Come on. The skill thing is great and it’s a good lead. Pete did a good job.”
“As soon as you get the FBI involved, the whole case goes down the drain.”
Juanita took it easy. “I bet the FBI has its head under water anyway with the double murder of the diplomats behind the airport. They will assist us and they will be happy to not have to do the dirty work.”
Chapter 15
THE LOOKS RON gave me made me queasy, but not in an erotic sense. He repeatedly looked me over as if he asking himself, ‘Who is that girl? What is she hiding?’ Alibi was alibi, but policeman was policeman. I still felt pretty secure in my skin but it was also increasingly clear that I had to get rid of my loot—very soon.
San Diego is home to a small Chinese community. Not as prominent as the ones in San Francisco or Los Angeles, but enough to fill a few blocks full of Asian smells, signs and people. Chong Lee had a small jewelry shop in a back alley, first floor office. To find him, you either had to know which staircase to take or be able to read the Mandarin signs that indicated the businesses in this block. Since my connections went east with Uncle Mortimer’s network, over the years, I had rarely done business with Chong. Another reason I rarely did business with him was that I didn’t plan to become a well-known West Coast thief, word travels fast along the coast but relatively slow on the East-West axis. I passed several rapper-style dressed Asians as I made my way up the creaking iron staircase. Where the originals always were on restlessly on the move with their swagger, these fellows were still like ghosts. Although they gave me unreadable looks, I knew they were there to check out visitors for Chong. I went along the maze of corridors of this Chandler-eske office building, wooden partitioned offices with frosted glass and unreadable signage. I politely knocked at Chong’s door and a buzzer let me in. It was like something you expected from a black and white detective movie of the fifties, some dark wooden shelves, desks and old chairs. Chong had a watchmaker-style magnifying glass over his right eye and some diamonds in front of him on a black velvet cushion. They sparkled in the glow of the small halogen light that was the main source of light in the room; the office shades were drawn. I didn’t have an appointment; you didn’t need one with Mr. Lee. Either you were received or you were not. I wasn’t asked to but I sat down opposite of his desk and marveled at the collection he was in the process of checking.
After a minute or so, “Miss Calendal, a pleasul…” He hadn’t yet looked up from his appraising task.
“Mr. Lee, long time, no see.”
He pulled the magnifying glass from his eye and finally looked at me. Still the same indefinable age, still no gray hair and always the very same beige Charlie Chan style of suit that would have done Tom Wolfe proud. And of course, the same unreadable face. I had learned to read his posture and hands instead. He gave his stones one last glance and pushed the velvet cushion to the side.
“What can I do for you, Miss Calendar?”
“I have a nice collection of the finest diamonds. Best source, most promising quality.”
He laid his hands flat on the table. “Origin?”
“Unknown, you know me,” I gave him a nice Western bullshit smile.
Still the impassive look but he folded his hands left over right, right over left. “I am afraid that my hands are tied this time.”
“Why is that? We have done good business before and you never had any reasons to complain. I never offered you red hot stuff.” We never talked about hot stuff because that was what we both dealt in. But ‘red hot stuff’ was a little more difficult to deal with, since the gems were either renowned in the gem community or the former owner was pissed off and wanted to get his goods back. Although I was often tempted to look out for famous stones, as a good thief, you tried to avoid these two cases. But I would never fence red-hot stones with Chong or any other West Coast connection and for that only went through Yehova in Philadelphia.
Again, Chong folded his hands several times. Uncomfortable. “There is word around not to trade. Temporarily.”
“Like a general freeze?”
“Yes. Yes, something general.”
“Like from high above,” I steered him.
“Yes, very much so.” He closed his eyes a little more. “You surely must have heard.”
“That I did,” I imitated his hands to show him that I had him figured out and looked him in the eyes. “Chong, we didn’t do too much business over the years because I prefer to deal with the East Coast. I would be willing, as a gesture, to give you a very good price, makes it worth more for you.” Usually, the type of deal that we made was for comfortable margins on all sides to cover the risks of our trade. But people like Chong were traders at heart and they lived and died for a better margin.
His hands grew a little more agitated; his fingers did a little drumming, finally found the pincers again and gladly played with them. “I really appreciate that generous offer, Calendar, you know I do. But please understand my situation. If any word were to get out that I did business against the current market conditions, my business as a whole would suffer.”
“No exception for an old associate? It would be just between you and me,” I tried.
He looked down, torn between danger and greed but danger won. He gave a small shake of the head.
I pounded my fist on the desk and he jumped a little. Then I said softly, “Excuse me, but I see that the decision is very difficult for you. I understand your overall concern.” I gave a small nod that would count as a bow; I would need to deal with him in the future.
“Just tell me one last thing. Was my name specifically mentioned regarding this general… trading embargo?”
Chong shook his head again. “No, Calendar, just a strong hint from above to cease all trading of stones for a while. Until further notice.”
“And the word came with authority?”
He nodded. “The authority we are talking about is beyond reach for a small time trader like me. In this situation, if you want to remain in this business in the future, you generally obey.”
I gave Chong a small nod to indicate that I understood. We sat motionless for a minute, each of us considering our options. For me, there was always the ocean. For the stones, not me.
I changed the subject. “Something completely different. Are you aware of any special Altward Gallery dealings or rumors? Any big artists, discoveries or non-kosher activities?”
A small ambiguous smile played around Chong’s face. I could read it either as irony or as pity. “A not so different subject altogether, my dear.” He said. “Be assured, Mr. Altward is a very honest gallery owner, beyond reproach. He is doing a lot of good for the San Diego art and jewelry community. The theft and murder in his gallery left most of us shocked.”
I had asked about the Altward Gallery in general, he had given the answer for Mr. Altward specifically.
“What about his own current activities?”
“He is preparing something spectacular, or so I heard.” Chong folded his fingers again and continued, “You do know that Thomas Cornelius, the big collector from the East, is in town?”
“We have met at the galler
y.” Chong didn’t know, of course, that Thomas Cornelius III was the man that scared him out of his wits as ‘The Fence.’
“It is rumored that Altward and Cornelius are preparing the presentation, or let us say rediscovery, of something spectacular,” Chong Lee said.
“Did they acquire the British crown jewels?” I asked skeptically.
“No one is really sure but some of my sources told me that they both did a lot of traveling to Mexico during the last year.”
“Is there a Max involved?”
Chong shook his head. “I don’t know. There are just rumors. And it has to be big. Otherwise Thomas Cornelius wouldn’t bother with our market, would he?”
“Is that ‘thing’ they are preparing legal?”
Chong folded his hands, caught me glancing at them and then put them back down flat on the table.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Chapter 16
THE DRIVE BACK to the House of the Moon gave me some time to think. I wasn’t in desperate need of the money, so I could hold on to the stones for a while and simply wait it out. I could keep them in my hidey-hole until kingdom come. Maybe help Ron and Juanita solve their murder. So far, so easy. The thing that worried me the most was the fact that Thomas ‘The Fence’ Cornelius III and his minions had me pegged for the crime and thought that I had stolen something special. He was turning the heat on, trying to flush me out. This was generally the first stage, blocking all traffic. But even Thomas would need to trade again soon or he would jeopardize his own network. His next step would be to resume trading but block me from it. He had the power to do that, for sure. If I sat still for a while longer, his patience would eventually run out completely and he would start getting physical, forget the old relationship we had. Better not think of that.
It had to be something big that Thomas was after; otherwise, he wouldn’t risk his network at all. But I still didn’t get it. The diamonds I nicked were a simple commodity, available in any jewelry store around the world, in any diamond dealership, from any decent diamond trader.