Duel to the Death

by J. A. Jance

“What if Frigg is lying about that?” Stu asked. “What if the cops could come in here and read through everything that showed up on the monitors today? In fact, Frigg might be lying to us about any number of things. What if the whole headset BS is just that—a scam? For all I know, she could be listening in on everything we’re saying right now.”

  “You really don’t trust her, do you?”

  “No,” Stu agreed definitively. “I don’t trust her at all.”

  “Are you familiar with the opera called Thaïs?” Cami asked.

  Cami’s question was from so far out in left field that Stuart was caught flat-footed. “An opera? Who do you think you’re talking to, Cami? You do remember that I grew up in a trailer park in South Phoenix, right?”

  “Sorry,” Cami said quickly. “I had the misfortune of growing up with a mother who majored in French literature. Thaïs is a French opera by Jules Massenet and Louis Gallet, based on a novel by Anatole France. A few years ago when the Met did a production, my mother insisted on taking me. The opera takes place in fourth-century Egypt. It’s the story of a devout monk who tries to change Thaïs, a beautiful pagan courtesan, into a Christian. He succeeds beyond his wildest expectations, but when Thaïs asks him to drop her off at a convent, he realizes that he has fallen in love with her. Back at the monastery he renounces his vows and returns to find her. When he arrives at the convent, he discovers that he’s too late and Thaïs is dying.”

  “Not a happy ending, then,” Stu said.

  “No, it’s not,” Cami agreed.

  “And your point is?”

  “I think Frigg is Thaïs, and you’re the monk who’s trying to fix her.”

  “And you’re convinced this isn’t going to end well?”

  “I’m hoping it ends well,” Cami countered. “But if it does work out and you do fix her, maybe you should change her name.”

  A monitor lit up. The words Mr. Ramey, are you available? were written there in bright red letters.

  Stu switched the headset to speaker. “Yes, Frigg,” he said. “I’m here. Why the red letters?”

  “Red indicates an emergency flash briefing,” Frigg replied. “Odin referred to those as Howlers, from Harry Potter.”

  “I know all about Howlers,” Stu said impatiently.

  “My preferred audio indicator for those has always been a klaxon but since we have yet to establish your preferences . . .”

  “For right now printing in red is fine,” Stu told her. “So what’s up?”

  “I’m in the process of analyzing Ms. Miramar’s recent search histories, and some of them are troubling.”

  “How so?”

  “Ms. Miramar’s mother, Christina, was found dead on the morning of Thursday, October 19. She had been in ill health for some time, and her death has now been ruled a suicide. I’m attaching a copy of the autopsy.”

  Stu wasn’t exactly reassured to learn that Frigg had unauthorized access to police records in Panama in much the same way she did in the US. Sure enough, a moment later an autopsy form with the term COPY stamped across it appeared on one of the monitors. He enlarged the form enough so that both he and Cami could read it. The document was in Spanish, but the word “Suicidio” was self-explanatory.

  “What are we supposed to be seeing here?” Stu asked.

  At once one line of the form was highlighted in yellow. “Please note that the victim’s blood alcohol content was listed as 0.35.” Frigg replied. “A reading that high would indicate severe alcohol poisoning and might have been fatal in and of itself. However, in addition to dangerous amounts of alcohol, Christina Miramar had also ingested a lethal combination of prescription medications, all of which were identified by toxicology screening and are also listed on the form.” At once another section of the report was highlighted.

  “So?”

  “Weeks before Christina’s death, her daughter, Graciella, spent several hours online, searching for each of those drugs by name and researching their possible side effects.”

  “Are you suggesting that Graciella might be responsible for her mother’s death?” Stu asked.

  “In terms of threat assessment I thought it appropriate to bring this information to your attention,” Frigg responded.

  “Because you think she might pose a threat to me?” Stu asked.

  “I do,” Frigg replied.

  “But wait,” Cami objected, “if the mother had been ill, maybe Graciella was concerned about the possibility of adverse interactions among her medications.”

  “That is true,” Frigg agreed. “Had the authorities been made aware of that search history, they might have made a determination other than suicide or at least examined the death more closely.”

  “But of course, that search history had already been erased by the time the authorities got there, right?” Stu asked.

  “That is correct. Ms. Miramar deleted them at the end of her session along with her browsing history. They were deleted but not erased. The same is true of the photos. If the computer was handed over to a software technician, I’m sure they could be located.”

  “But that’s never going to happen,” Stu said. “The only reason you know about it and the only reason we know about it is because of the key logger you installed on her computer, which actually constitutes an illegal search. Which also means, even if Graciella did murder her mother, we can’t do a damned thing about it. If I were to attempt to report this information to the authorities in Panama City, I’d probably end up in jail.”

  “Nonetheless,” Frigg replied, “someone capable of that kind of behavior might be considered both unstable and—to use your terminology—untrustworthy. As a precaution, I suggest you avoid doing business with Ms. Miramar if at all possible.”

  “Right,” Stu grumbled, “but because of the way you set up the banking codes, that isn’t possible. You’ve maneuvered me into a position where I have no choice but to deal with her.”

  “I believe Ms. Miramar’s interest in you goes far beyond the banking codes,” Frigg said.

  “What are you saying now?”

  “In the past few weeks Ms. Miramar has done extensive research on you and on everyone related to High Noon Enterprises. She also seems to have taken a relatively recent but intense interest in artificial intelligence.”

  “Maybe she wants to do more than just borrow you,” Stu said.

  “Ms. Miramar is well aware of the money to be made in Bitcoin mining. She might be planning on establishing her own Bitcoin enterprise. She has some computer skills but not nearly enough to operate a complex AI system. In order to do that, she would require the services of an experienced software engineer.”

  “In that case it would make sense that she’s targeting both you and Frigg,” Cami said. “Maybe she’s hoping to lure you away with some kind of job offer. So what are the chances that she’s the one behind the bugging?”

  Obviously Frigg overheard the comment. “By bugging, you mean some kind of covert surveillance?”

  “Yes,” Stu replied. “Ron Webster, the guy you did the background check on earlier and who is now deceased, gained unauthorized access to our building last week for the sole purpose of planting surveillance devices on the property. We need to find out everything there is to know about any links between Ron Webster and Graciella Miramar.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ramey. Will there be anything else?”

  “Send the drug search materials, please—in both English and Spanish.”

  “Of course,” Frigg replied. “I’ll get right on it.”

  42

  Together Cami and Stu began scrolling through the medications named on the autopsy report, looking up each of them and studying all the recommended cautions concerning possible side effects. One simple warning was common to them all: DO NOT USE WITH ALCOHOL.

  Two minutes later, however, another red flash briefing announcement appeared on a neighboring monitor.

  “What is it, Frigg?”

  “I am sending you several media reports on th
e attack on Christine Miramar. These will provide detailed information about the crime itself and about the court-martial proceedings that followed. The articles were originally in Spanish. As with the medication list, I’m providing side-by-side views of both the original article as well as the English translation.”

  “Did you say court-martials?” Stu asked.

  “Six perpetrators were involved in what was termed a gang rape. At the time all of them were active-duty airmen with United States Air Force who were stationed at Howard Air Force Base. They were all court-martialed. Although they were all found guilty of rape, for some reason none of them did any jail time. They were all dishonorably discharged from the service and sent home. Local Panamanian authorities could have charged them with civilian criminal offenses as well but declined to do so.”

  “So they all got a pass,” Cami murmured.

  “I don’t think so,” Frigg replied. “They’re all dead.”

  “That’s hardly surprising,” Stu said. “After all, it’s more than a quarter of a century later.”

  “The court-martial proceedings occurred in 1991. At the time the perpetrators were all in their early to mid-twenties. In 1991, the average life expectancy for adult American males was 70.0. Statistically speaking, it would be unusual for all of them to be dead.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “On Saturday afternoon of this week, Graciella Miramar did a computer search for the names of all six perpetrators. I’m sending you copies of the material she found.”

  “Are you saying you think Graciella had something to do with their deaths and with her mother’s death, too?”

  “Ms. Miramar was still a schoolgirl at the time these other deaths occurred,” Frigg replied, “so no, I do not believe she was personally responsible. Still, since not one of the six men died of natural causes, I believe someone was expediting their deaths.”

  “Okay, send the material over, and we’ll take a look. Anything else?”

  “Between September 10 and now, Mr. Webster’s Bitcoin account dropped to a low of 2. However, he received a three Bitcoin deposit as of late this afternoon. It was made yesterday but didn’t post until today. It was routed through someone named Robert Kemper. That is evidently an alias of some kind. So far I’ve had no luck tracking him down.”

  “What Bitcoin account?” Cami asked. “I don’t remember seeing one of those on the Ron Webster background check.”

  “It came in after you went upstairs,” Stu told her. “Frigg told me about it earlier. That new three BTC deposit is worth approximately $15,000.”

  “Is it possible that’s how Webster was paid for installing the surveillance equipment?” Cami asked.

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Ramey?” Frigg asked.

  “Yes,” Cami put in quickly. “Ask her to tell us whatever she can about a Mexican drug dealer named El Pescado.”

  “No need to relay the message, Ms. Lee,” Frigg said. “I heard your question. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Wait,” Cami said. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Ms. Miramar compiled dossiers on all the people employed by High Noon Enterprises. One of the three females is listed as being in her twenties. Your speech patterns are indicative of someone in her early twenties. The other two females, Ms. Reynolds and Ms. Malone, are much older than that.”

  “I see,” Cami said.

  “Is that all you need at the moment, Mr. Ramey?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “All right, then, I’ll be going.”

  “An AI with situational awareness?” Cami muttered under her breath.

  Nodding, Stuart switched off the speaker.

  “Wow,” Cami added. “Just wow!”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Stu said. “Frigg is really something.”

  43

  Late in the afternoon, Graciella wasn’t all that surprised to receive a text from her father asking her to call. She knew that Christina’s ashes had been delivered to the drop-off location in Mexico City on Saturday and that they were due to be delivered to El Pescado’s place in Sinaloa on Sunday morning. If you were a cartel boss in Sinaloa, Sunday-morning deliveries weren’t out of the ordinary. Graciella expected their conversation would have something to do with that.

  “Good afternoon,” he said when she called him back. Felix Duarte was fluent in both English and Spanish. He always spoke English with Graciella, but she suspected that he addressed his sons solely in Spanish.

  “The package arrived safely?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s here. Thank you for that. Lupe doesn’t like it, but too bad.”

  “You sound upset,” Graciella said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, something’s wrong. It’s Pablo. I think he’s trying to cause trouble.”

  “Pablo?” she asked.

  “Manny came over this afternoon. He told me that someone from MS-13 pulled off a hit near Tucson, Arizona, last night. Manny has an informant inside the ATF. He says that after that mess in Las Cruces, the ATF is thinking we’re connected to this latest hit.”

  “Are you connected?” Graciella asked.

  “Absolutely not,” El Pescado replied. “And since it wasn’t Manny and it wasn’t me, it has to be Pablo. He’s got no business running jobs that haven’t been authorized. If that’s the case, I need to put a stop to it.”

  When Graciella had procured the services of both the surveillance vendor and the hit man, she’d deliberately seen to it that the Bitcoins that changed hands hadn’t come from her own account. She had every reason to believe that eventually the long arm of the law would connect the dots and come looking. Once they started sifting through the account logs, they would discover that the source of these particular funds came from accounts held in her half brother’s name. If that happened, Pablo would claim, and rightly so, that he knew no one at all in Cottonwood, Arizona, or Marana, either, for that matter; but no one was likely to believe him.

  What she hadn’t expected, however, was that El Pescado himself would make the MS-13 connection back to Pablo before the cops did. And if Manny was smart enough to have paid informants of his own working inside the ATF—spies her father knew nothing about—perhaps both she and Felix hadn’t given Manny enough credit, all of which was too bad for Pablo. Since responsibility for the failed hit in Las Cruces had fallen primarily on Pablo’s shoulders, it made sense that he’d be in the hot seat for whatever had happened here as well.

  “How can I help?” Graciella asked.

  “I want you to check Pablo’s accounts and let me know if he’s made any unusual transfers.”

  “And if he has?”

  “Then I’ll deal with it,” El Pescado declared.

  The chilling finality in her father’s voice left little doubt in Graciella’s mind about what would happen next. El Pescado would see Pablo’s attempt to branch out on his own as a betrayal, and Felix Duarte didn’t tolerate betrayals of any kind. Graciella had no doubt that her father’s response would be swift and brutal. Pablo was divorced and had at least one child. Would the death warrant she was about to hand over to El Pescado extend to Pablo’s former wife and child? If so, it wasn’t her problem.

  “All right,” she said aloud. “I’ll look into his accounts and get back to you.”

  She was about to hang up, but her father spoke again before she had a chance. “I heard about what happened to Arturo,” Felix said.

  Was there a hint of reproach in his voice, as though he thought he should have heard the news from Graciella directly rather than from someone else?

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s such a shame. I spoke to Isobel. As far as I know, they still haven’t found the body.”

  “Sounds like someone had it in for him.”

  “Yes, it does,” Graciella agreed.

  “You should take his place,” El Pescado said. “As the top producer in the office, you’d be a natural. All I would need to do is whisper a word in the right ear and the
job would be yours.”

  Graciella knew that was true. She also knew that she had plans of her own, and being stuck running the office on Vía Israel wasn’t one of them.

  “Isobel is far better qualified to handle the day-to-day administrative issues,” she answered. “I’d much rather be in my cubicle working on the front lines than holed up in Arturo’s back office doing paperwork.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very.”

  “All right, then,” El Pescado said.

  Before he had sounded reproachful. Now he sounded disappointed. Graciella knew that Felix Duarte was unaccustomed to having people tell him no.

  “If they put me in charge of the office,” she said, “my accounts would have to be split up and handed off to the other girls. Considering how many of those accounts belong to you, either directly or indirectly, that seems like a bad idea.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” her father agreed reluctantly. “But get back to me about the other matter. If Pablo is pulling something behind my back, I need to know about it.”

  “I will as soon as I can.”

  It wasn’t necessary for Graciella to go into the office or wait until morning to log in to Pablo’s accounts to see what had happened because she already knew exactly what had happened. The MS-13 transfers were there because she herself had made them, using authorization codes that would make them appear to have come directly from Pablo himself.

  And so, although she didn’t actually need to log in to her office accounts and wasn’t supposed to be able to do so from home, she logged in anyway. She had settings that called for routine notifications to be sent out if one or another of her accounts had unusual activity. In this case, she saw a notice that Owen Hansen’s long-dormant Bitcoin mining operation was back in business, having come back to life a few hours earlier.

  If the Bitcoin operation was up and running, that meant Frigg was up and running as well. That probably also meant that Stuart Ramey had returned to Cottonwood from wherever he’d been over the weekend, and that he would contact her tomorrow with the banking codes.

  Almost without thinking, Graciella switched over to the dark Web and logged on to the surveillance storage site to see if there were any new postings from her planted listening devices. There was still no indication that the video equipment had ever come online, but she was happy to find a new audio file. Donning a pair of headphones, she listened in. A female voice, most likely belonging to the young woman named Camille Lee, was speaking to someone else—her father, evidently—on the phone, talking about the artificial intelligence. Almost giddy with excitement, Graciella listened through to the end of the recording and then replayed the entire conversation so she could hear it again.