Duel to the Death

by J. A. Jance

  When it was over, she knew for sure that Stuart Ramey had the AI in his possession, all right, and that he planned on selling it to the highest bidder. What could be better? And one way or another, using her money or her father’s money, Graciella planned on making Frigg her own.

  She didn’t call her father back immediately. Instead, she gave herself the luxury of a long celebratory bath in her soaking tub accompanied by a glass of champagne. This was the start, she realized, toasting herself in the mirror. This was the beginning of the dismantling of her father’s empire. It was coming sooner than she had anticipated, but it was coming.

  After her bath and after giving El Pescado plenty of time to sit around worrying and wondering, Graciella finally called him back.

  “Yes,” she told him over their encrypted connection. “Several unusual transfers have shown up on Pablo’s account lately. The most recent one was on Saturday. Between the amount involved and the tracking information, I’d guess it would lead back to one of the contacts at MS-13.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” El Pescado said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Graciella hadn’t a doubt in the world that he would. Once Pablo was out of the picture, there would be only two more obstacles standing in Graciella’s way. Somehow she hoped that Manny would be the last man standing. She suspected that, in the long run, he would be easier to deal with than El Pescado himself.

  44

  When B. and Ali came back downstairs, they found both Stu and Cami engrossed in material posted on several of the wall monitors. “What’s going on down here?” B. asked.

  “Frigg’s on the job,” Stu said, “and scaring the hell out of me.”

  “In what way?”

  “For one thing, our sweet little pet AI is armed with a killer key-logging system, which, before she went off-line, she deployed on Graciella Miramar’s computers, both at home and at work.”

  “Graciella being the banker?” B. asked.

  “Account manager,” Stu corrected. “Which means that the whole time Frigg was shut down and trapped in cyber limbo she was still spying on someone else and collecting her every keystroke.”

  “That kind of technology sounds like High Noon’s worst nightmare. How’d she do it?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Stuart said. “Frigg?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ramey?”

  “I’d like you to meet my boss, B. Simpson. He wants to ask you a question.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Simpson. I’m happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “I’m curious about your key logger,” B. said. “How did you install it?”

  “I concealed it in pieces of routine correspondence. Most people are smart enough not to click on links these days, so using one of those would be hit or miss. I hid it on the reply line, people are bound to click on that. Since Odin had dealings with Ms. Miramar on her home and work computers, I was able to infect them both.”

  “As a financial institution, wouldn’t Recursos Empresariales Internationales have anti-hacking protocols in place?”

  “One would think,” Frigg agreed. “They do have some, but they’re not that good.”

  “Your key logger sounds like something High Noon should know how to counter,” B. said. “Would you mind sending me a copy? If I can reverse-engineer it, maybe I can find a way to defend against it.”

  “Would you like a readable copy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, Mr. Simpson. I’ll be happy to do so. Where would you like me to send it?”

  B. started to answer, but Stu motioned him to be quiet. “I’m putting a new thumb drive in CC,” he said. “Send the file there.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Ramey,” Frigg said. “I’ll send it over in a jiff. I have some additional material queued up and ready to send along to you if you’re interested and ready.”

  “We have more than we can handle right now,” Stu told her. “Let us clear out some of the reading lists. I’ll tell you when we’re ready for more.”

  “Sounds good,” Frigg said.

  “What happened to ‘How may I be of service?’ ” B. asked.

  “I wanted her to tone down the formality,” Stuart answered.

  “She certainly got that message,” B. said. “ ‘In a jiff’ is anything but formal.”

  With the blanket from her chaise still draped around her shoulders, Ali stood staring up at the collection of monitors. “What are we looking at here?” she asked.

  “The one in the upper right-hand corner contains a reading list concerning the perpetrators of the 1989 gang rape of Graciella Miramar’s mother, Christina. Six airmen from Howard Air Force Base in Panama were court-martialed, convicted, dishonorably discharged, and sent back to the States. Within several years all of them were dead, none of them by natural causes, starting with Cameron Purdy who was killed in a drive-by shooting in Chicago in 1992.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ali said. “Why does it sound like we’re investigating Graciella Miramar? Isn’t she the person in charge of your accounts in Panama?”

  “She is,” Stu agreed. “I thought it might be helpful to know a little about her before I start dealing with her on those banking accounts, especially since she had a long working relationship with Owen Hansen. Frigg was kind enough to provide me with some background information on her.”

  “Which she apparently did by means of an illegal wiretap,” Ali observed.

  “However she got it,” Stu conceded, “what we’ve learned so far has raised more questions than answers. Graciella has gone to a good deal of trouble to learn everything there is to know about High Noon Enterprises. Much of her business is conducted on the dark Web. In addition, when Odin was still around, she was someone who expressed an interest in Frigg. Recently she seems to have developed an enthusiastic interest in all things AI.”

  “Stu failed to mention that Frigg is also of the opinion that Graciella murdered her own mother,” Cami put in, “but if you ask me, I think we’re dealing with a bad case of sour grapes.”

  “Whose sour grapes?” Ali asked.

  “Frigg’s,” Cami answered. “I think the AI’s been victimized by the green-eyed monster. She installed the key logger because she was under the impression that Graciella was horning in on her territory and wielding too much influence in Owen Hansen’s life. I think it’s a mistake to suspect Graciella of murder strictly on a computer program’s say-so.”

  “Okay,” B. said, stepping into the conversation. “I think we’re getting off in the woods here. Whether Graciella murdered her mother or not is none of our business. What is our business is dealing with our clients in the face of a looming PR crisis. While Ali and I were upstairs, we noodled out a rough draft of what we want to send out to High Noon’s clientele.”

  “Howlers, maybe?” Stu asked with a grin. “Written all in red?”

  B. was not amused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Of all the people in the room, B. Simpson was clearly the only one who had never read a Harry Potter book.

  “Never mind,” Stu said quickly. “It’s a joke.”

  “All right,” B. continued, “we’re going to tell them that High Noon has been the target of a corporate espionage operation, one aimed at giving us a black eye by linking our name to that of a Mexican drug cartel. Since the scans all came back clear, we can assure our customers that no data breach occurred. In the interest of transparency, however, we’ll also keep them fully apprised of each step in the investigation.”

  “Aside from the existence of Frigg,” Ali interjected.

  “Yes, aside from that,” B. agreed. “So Cami, why don’t you pack up. The two of us will head over to Cottonwood to work on drafting the notice and getting it sent out.”

  “I should come along and help,” Stu said. “After all, since I’m partially responsible for getting us into this mess, shouldn’t I help clean it up?”

  “You are helping clean it up. We need to know what’s going on. T
he information Frigg is providing might not ever be admissible in a court of law, but maybe it can help us handle our own problem.”

  “When you get to the office, what are you going to do about the listening devices?” Stuart asked. “Leave them in place or pull them out?”

  “I think Cami was on the right track,” B. replied. “If we leave them in place, maybe we can bluff our opponent into showing his or her hand.”

  “What about me?” Ali asked as B. headed for the door. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You, my dear,” B. said, “are going to take your weary butt upstairs, wrap yourself up in a couple of blankets, and bed down on one of those chaises. That way if Stu does need assistance of some kind, he’ll have someone nearby to help out. But trust me, you need more sleep.”

  Ali knew he was right. Her brief afternoon nap hadn’t been nearly long enough, and her nod of acquiescence surprised everyone in the room, Ali included. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m dead on my feet. If you need me, Stu, I’ll be upstairs in the master.”

  Once everyone else departed, Stuart was left alone in the man cave . . . almost alone, but not quite.

  “Frigg,” he said when he finally finished reading the Graciella Miramar dossier.

  “Yes, Mr. Ramey, how can I help?”

  “Please call me Stuart.”

  “Of course, Stuart. How can I help?”

  “I just was looking at Graciella’s credit report. How is it that someone who is thirty-two years old and working in an office owns a downtown condo free and clear?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll look into it.”

  “In the meantime,” Stu said, “and since I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment, go ahead and send me whatever you’ve gathered on that guy named El Pescado.”

  “Will do,” Frigg said. “I’ll get right on it.”

  45

  Long after Graciella’s phone call ended, El Pescado sat alone in the dark, thinking and despairing. He was an old man. He had worked all his life in hopes of leaving something behind for his children—and yes, even his grandchildren. Manny’s little daughter, Alicia, was the apple of his eye. But now, just when it was almost time to turn the reins over to the younger generation, Pablo was busy going off the rails. That was hardly surprising. He had always been the weakest link.

  Seeking reassurance, he logged onto his laptop and called up the feed to Graciella’s condo and scrolled through the material he hadn’t watched since learning of Christina’s death. The feeds worked fine, including one time-dated Saturday morning that showed several young men marching back and forth through the frame, sometimes carrying boxes, sometimes lugging furniture. Then, suddenly and without warning, the feed ended. Why? he wondered. Had someone unplugged the TV or had his equipment simply quit working?

  Shaking his head in frustration, Felix closed the computer. Then he got up, walked over to his bedside table, and retrieved the Colt .45 revolver he kept there. It was an antique and an heirloom, given to him on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday by his uncle, Manuel Duarte. A year later he had given one to Felix’s younger brother, Ricardo, in honor of his twenty-first. It had been Hondo’s signature way of welcoming his two nephews into the family business.

  El Pescado kept the weapon cleaned and loaded, but he hadn’t fired it or even carried it for a very long time. For one thing, living inside a family compound that was in actuality an armed fortress, there was very little need for self-protection. On those occasions when Felix ventured outside the family compound, he was usually flanked by a team of professional bodyguards. They were the ones who carried weapons, not Felix.

  When he slipped the Colt into the pocket of his bathrobe, the weight of the gun pulled the robe open. Closing it tightly around him, he retied the belt, then he set off to do what had to be done.

  Manuel and Pablo had been in their early teens when Felix had hired an architect and a trusted contractor to build the family compound. Looking into the future and knowing—or at least hoping—that his sons would be at his side, he’d had all three houses erected at the same time. The large one, the main house, was for him, while the two matching but slightly smaller houses were positioned on either side.

  Back in those days—before the dark Web or cryptocurrency—the drug trade had been a cash-only business. In many ways it still was, and that called for storage spaces—lots of secure storage spaces—some for holding money and some for stashing product. As a result, Felix had directed his architect to create basement storage facilities under each of the dwellings with underground passages that linked one house to the next. Turning on the light in his closet, Felix sought out the release that opened the sliding door concealed behind the clothing.

  Cool air greeted him as he set foot on the stairway. His knees pained him as he made his way down the stairs. Years ago he wouldn’t have given the stairs a second thought. Motion-activated lights lit the passageway ahead as he limped along. At the Y, he turned to the right. When he reached the end of the passage, the stairway up was even more daunting.

  Pablo was divorced. There was always a chance he’d have someone up in the bedroom with him, but Felix doubted it. These days Pablo was more likely to take a bottle of tequila to bed with him than he was some stray woman. That was why Ramona had taken José and left—because of the drinking—and Felix didn’t blame her.

  Felix paused at the bottom of the next stairway, long enough to catch his breath and prepare himself for both the climb and the confrontation that would follow. He didn’t plan on coming out of the closet in Pablo’s room with the Colt blazing. Felix’s intention was to have a talk with his son—a civilized talk, if possible—and ask Pablo what the hell was going on. Had he allied himself with someone else, and if so, with whom? And why? El Pescado’s situation with law enforcement was already complicated. Having his organization accused of and investigated for crimes that were none of their business was not to be tolerated. Would not be tolerated.

  The architect and the contractor, both sworn to secrecy, had done outstanding work. A slight touch on the pressure pad at the top of the stairway was enough to make the door slide open. The stench that assailed Felix’s nostrils—secondhand tequila, piss, and stale cigar smoke—made him want to vomit. In the glow of a bedside lamp, Felix saw his son lying flat on his back with his mouth open. He was passed out cold and snoring like a locomotive. A mostly full bottle of Jose Cuervo lay on the bed beside him. Next to that a half-burned cigar spilled ashes onto the bedding.

  The room was a pigsty. The floor was littered with dirty clothes and empty bottles. Standing next to the bed and staring down at his son, Felix was overcome by a flood of bitter disappointment. How was it possible that this man—someone who had once been his favorite son—had turned into this useless mess? Manuel was at least trying to carry his weight, but how could Pablo, once his pride and joy, have fallen so short? And how could it be that Graciella—the daughter Felix had never wanted and who didn’t even bear his name—had turned out to be so much more like him than either of his cherished sons?

  Felix’s own father, Joaquín, had died of lung cancer when Felix and Ricardo were in their early twenties. Had Joaquín lived, would he have felt the same kind of deadening defeat when Felix and Ricardo had declared war on each other as El Pescado was feeling now? Probably, Felix decided. Perhaps the gods of karma were having the last laugh.

  Felix stood for a while longer, thinking. There was no way to have a discussion with Pablo about this and ultimately no need. All that would come out of his mouth would be lies and excuses. The man was a useless wreck, and Felix didn’t tolerate uselessness.

  He didn’t bother with the gun. Using the bottom of his robe, he upended the bottle of tequila, spilling it onto the filthy bedding and making sure that some of it came within reach of the trail of ashes. An open box of matches sat on the bedside table. Using a tissue to keep from leaving fingerprints behind, he lit a match and tossed it into the pool of tequila. The liquor instantly cau
ght fire. Flames shot up from the bedding, but Pablo didn’t stir.

  Turning his back, Felix went to the closet. After pressing the door pad, he rubbed it clean with the skirt of his robe. Just for safety’s sake, he didn’t want to leave behind any fingerprints. Perhaps his DNA would be found, but since he lived on the premises, the presence of either one would mean very little in terms of an investigation.

  Felix hustled down the stairs and then hurried back down the passageway. Lupe and he no longer shared a room. She was a light sleeper, and her quarters were closer to Pablo’s house than to Manuel’s. If she awoke and sounded the alarm, it would be important for Felix to be found in his bed ostensibly fast asleep.

  The stairs back up to his room almost did him in. Had some of the smoke traveled back down the hallway with him? He hoped not. Just to be sure, though, he threw open the patio door and let the night air billow in through the curtains.

  He put the Colt back where it belonged. He pulled off the robe and dropped it on the floor, then he crawled into bed. He lay there with his head on the pillow, remembering that other time he had set a fire and how, when he had gone to bed the night his brother had died, he had felt . . . nothing. This was exactly the same.

  Lupe’s frantic scream sounded the alarm half an hour later. Standing on the patio, Felix saw reflections of a raging inferno burning on the far side of the house. As the fire brigade turned up to battle the blaze, Felix understood that they were too late to save either Pablo or the house.