Assured Destruction: The Complete Series

by Michael F Stewart

  I’m about to ask another question when he speaks.

  “Can I have access to all the purchases over the last few months?” Again, Williams scans the deck of information and then nods. “Cool. I’ll work to find similarities in victims, their demographics and buying patterns.”

  “Great idea,” she says. “How about you help Ethan, Jan?”

  Chow nearly falls out of his chair. “Um—”

  “It’s okay; I have an idea too.” I don’t actually. My mind’s sprinting to come up with one. I’d rather chew the gum off of park benches than work for this guy. Williams arches an eyebrow, waiting. “Yeah, I mean, if it’s all centred around this one branch, then maybe someone’s cracked their WiFi.”

  Williams straightens the packet of material, knocking it even on the glossy tabletop. “The bank’s encryption is probably pretty complex, but it would be good to cover all bases. What’s the plan?”

  Both Ethan and I are smiling now.

  “Well, I can sniff the sniffer, right? If someone has a wireless card running in promiscuous mode, then I can figure it out and … give you a call.” Okay, I’m proud of myself for having wiped the smirk off Chow’s face. Funny thing is, I was just charged with breaking into someone else’s wireless network. Now I can use the same skills for good. Which feels pretty … good.

  “Promiscuous mode?” Williams asks.

  I flush. “It’s just a way of intercepting and logging traffic.”

  “Oh, well then … No talking to anyone while you’re there.” Williams is red-faced too. “I’ll stop by when I have the chance. Don’t do anything more. Just sniffing,” she orders.

  I hear her warning. Energy thrums through me and I feel a little light-headed. This is my chance to prove myself, but it also puts me close to the beak-nosed banker.

  She hands me the address scrawled on a scrap of paper. I still can’t believe it’s the same branch. Now I’m supposed to help them? That’s the real crime in progress.

  Chapter 2

  Hours of community service remaining: 1999

  <> Heckleena tweets.

  @Heckleena For some reason the director keeps shoving me out for more, JanusFlyTrap replies.

  Heckleena is one of my many alter egos, which allow me to say what I want without inciting direct hatred. JanusFlyTrap is the real me. Although virtual, these identities actually originated from hard drives that real customers dropped off for destruction at my mother’s computer recycling center. Together I call them Shadownet. At first, I pretended to be the people represented in the hard drives, but over the course of a few years, they became me, or aspects of me.

  When the real people suffered vicious cyber-attacks over the past few months, I was in trouble too, and since it all landed me my community service hours, I was prepared to dispense with these masks. After further consideration, though, I realized I’d rather pull out my fingernails. To satisfy the judge, all I needed to do was not create any more and to erase all the personal information on the computers. So I wiped the original hard drives, destroyed one—Jonny’s—and now live with the remains, the online parts that long ago became me.

  Despite the crisp December air, Jonny’s window is down. Parked at the police station’s curb, my shiny new boyfriend slumps in the driver seat so that I can only see his heap of brown curls. As I near, he straightens and I can tell by the phone cupped in his hands that he’s been texting.

  “Sorry it took so long,” I say.

  “You’re a working woman,” he replies as I ease myself through the passenger-side door. “And besides, now I have you all to myself.”

  I grimace but then give him puppy dog eyes. “About that. I need to go to the mall.”

  “The mall.”

  “For a case.”

  He stares at the steering wheel. He just waited an hour for me.

  “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  He rubs his eyes prior to responding: “S’okay, I’ve some making out to do, too.”

  “Up, you mean, making up.”

  “Sure.” He grins and slips the key in the ignition.

  The whole time I was in the hospital and waiting for my court date, Jonny didn’t say squat to me. Now, Karl—he brought me a stuffed bear, daisies, held my hand. Not Jonny. For weeks his last word about me was freak. And sure, I hacked his computer and completely violated his privacy … even so, he does have making up to do. And out.

  I lean back for a kiss, and his mouth lingers on mine.

  “You’re biting your lip,” he says.

  “I’m nervous.” From this angle his nostrils remind me a little of Orsen’s and I shimmy back into my seat.

  “About us?”

  “Not really.”

  He frowns.

  “It’s the cops. They’ve put me on a case.”

  “You wanted that,” he says.

  “Sure, but the victim is this real jerk of a bank manager and I know him.” Jonny doesn’t say anything and I can tell he’s not quite understanding. “If the cops find out we don’t get along, they’ll take me off the case or butt-face-banker will demand it. Now I’m supposed to hang out nearby. Eventually he’ll place me if hasn’t already.”

  “So wear a disguise,” Jonny says as he starts the car.

  My mouth hangs before I fling my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “Of course! We need to swing by my house.”

  “The fare on this ride’s rising dangerously high,” he warns.

  I’m not quite sure how to reply, and I’m biting my lip again.

  “Are you like this with all your boyfriends?” he asks, pulling into the traffic on Elgin Street.

  “All my boyfriends,” I say. “Yeah, all of them.” Which is technically true because I don’t think I can really count any of the boys I held hands with in grade school as boyfriends.

  He shrugs, and I think he knows.

  “I am planning to sniff out promiscuous network cards,” I say suddenly. “For the case.”

  Jonny’s head tilts back as he laughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I like it!”

  After Jonny’s laughter, I don’t feel as awkward on the way home. Soon we’ve pulled in front of Assured Destruction, the center I run with my mother. Here people drop off all their old gear, everything from televisions, to gaming, to computer equipment. For an extra fee, we’ll destroy their hard drives and hand them a certificate of destruction.

  Peter, my mom’s boyfriend, has his powder blue Mercedes parked beside my mom’s handicapped van. She’s in a wheelchair due to her multiple sclerosis—aka MS.

  Home is this industrial building. It has two floors; on the smaller, second floor were offices that we converted to an apartment. The first floor is the retail intake area and the warehouse itself. Jonny pulls the car in tight to the barf yellow aluminium siding, well away from the retail store’s windows.

  “I’ll be a few minutes,” I say.

  “Waiting right here,” Jonny replies, and by the fiddling of his fingers I can tell he’s worried that he might have to deal with my parental unit.

  “What’s with the grin?” he asks.

  “It’s a surprise.” I lean over to kiss him again before trying to bounce out of the car with a broken ankle.

  The store door jangles as I shove it open with a crutch.

  Behind the counter, Peter has an arm draped around my mother’s neck and his meaty fingers envelop her hand. They start when I enter, and I wonder if they were kissing.

  Eww.

  “Can I help you?” my mother asks. Her mousy brown hair isn’t brushed; frizzes catch the light of the humming overhead fluorescent bulbs.

  “It’s Janus, Tina,” Peter says. He’s a good fifteen ye
ars her senior, and in truth I can’t figure the relationship out, even if they seem into one another. The bandage from where he’d been whacked in the head is off, releasing predominately gray hair. Thick teeth overwhelm his lips, and his crisp, blue eyes seem to take everything in. As always—in the way old people often dress too formally—he’s wearing a tweed suit with a starched white shirt. No tie today, but his face is a little haggard as if he’s being choked by one.

  “Yeah, it’s your daughter. Hello?” I say.

  “So it is.” Mom’s lips falter at a smile. “How are you?”

  “How are you?” I reply, questions I want to ask ripping through my brain. She doesn’t look so hot, kind of pallid and dull. I hadn’t realized the toll these last few weeks had taken on her. When my mom’s doing well, you can hardly tell anything is wrong, with the exception of the wheelchair. It’s been a stressful couple of months, and now I don’t have time to help with the business. Her having to man the storefront until we find a replacement seems to be hitting her harder than I thought. Before I can probe, however, Peter rushes from my mom’s side to mine.

  “So what’s the case?” he asks.

  “Credit card fraud,” I say. “Someone’s stealing credit card numbers somehow.”

  “Jackpot, carding on your first case, Janus! Fabulous.” His blue eyes are bright and intense. “What can you tell me about it?”

  Just like I don’t feel like grilling my mom, I don’t feel like being grilled by him. Besides, I don’t have time for chit-chat. He practically follows me into the elevator, but looks back to my mom and hesitates as the doors shut.

  “I’d love to hear more about the case, Janus; when you’re not so busy. I used to work in that field …” The last is muffled.

  Weird.

  Something about my mom bugs me. It’s like someone siphoned the sparks from her eyes and handed them over to Peter’s.

  Changing with a cast is awkward, but within a few minutes I have all I need, pigtails, makeup, ribbons, one knee-high boot, and a surprise for Jonny. Looking in the mirror I burst out laughing; one thing is for certain, no one will recognize me.

  As the doors to the elevator open back on the first floor, I remember that Peter wants to corner me and crutch like a mad chick toward the exit.

  “Good luck, Janus,” Mom says from behind the cash, and I can’t believe she doesn’t comment on my getup.

  “What do you think, Mom?” I say, showing her my costume and hoping for a smile.

  “You’re beautiful, honey,” she replies, but her tone is low.

  Peter yells goodbye from the back office. I push out the door, which swings shut behind me. I’m free. I crutch away from the weirdness inside Assured Destruction, warmed by the pale sun.

  I strike a pose for Jonny, revealing a fake, pregnant belly.

  “I’m so creeped out that this turns me on,” he says.

  “Shut up, I bet twenty bucks that your next graffiti tag will immortalize me.” I laugh again. “To the mall, and justice,” I say, and Jonny revs the engine.

  As we peel away, I look back to see Peter staring out the window.

  Chapter 3

  Hours of community service remaining: 1999

  <> Heckleena tweets, leave that to me.

  On official police business, I stand in the Rideau Mall’s food court, holding my faux-pregnant belly with one hand and a crutch the other. Surrounding the tables are fast food joints and mall stores, including the bank branch. My face starts to itch in the oily vortex of fried chicken, burnt coffee, and Cinnabon icing. A crowd slurps chow mein and shovels in burgers while eyeing one another. Any one of them could be the criminal.

  A twenty-something with a nose ring and a green streak of hair I immediately decide to copy swipes a credit card and punches in her PIN at a New York Fries. Is the card a fake? Is the chubby chick behind the counter recording the credit card number? How do you catch a credit card thief?

  But I’m not here to conduct surveillance. My job as described to Detective Williams is to see if I can identify any wireless networks possibly sending credit card information over WiFi. But after sifting through a few dozen networks and investigating the business types with open laptops—none of whom fit my hacker profile—I begin to fidget and decide to do some real police work. Besides, I realize, a good cracker could probably mask what they’re doing.

  Do nothing more, Williams’s words echo in my head, but really what could it hurt? No one will recognize me in my costume—even Jonny said so as he dropped me off.

  My back aches from the weight of the belly and my broken ankle throbs. I waddle and sit down next to an old woman with mayonnaise smearing her mouth. She looks at my stomach and her lips thin disapprovingly.

  I gasp and rub my tummy. “Ouch … I just felt him kick,” I say and flash a smile. “Isn’t it a miracle?”

  The belly is a fake, strap-on stomach, like the kind students wear in Home Ec to see what it’s like to carry the weight of a baby, thereby scaring them spitless. Back when she was better, my mom bought it at a garage sale from a retired teacher and made me wear it for a whole weekend after I began looking at boys a little too closely. To spite her I used to venture out in public as a pregnant fourteen-year-old. Oh, the calls she’d get.

  Now it’s part of my disguise. I’m dressed like a knocked-up Sailor Moon with only one knee-high boot. The belly reminds me to never judge by outward appearance. This woman here probably thinks I’m a total lost cause. She’s only half right. I’m also the High Tech Crime Unit’s newest computer profiler. Undercover. And very cool.

  I scan the sticky tables, looking for the carder. I catch another woman checking out my belly and shaking her head.

  “Oh, I think my water just broke,” I say loud enough for her to hear. She moves on.

  From what I know of the case file and the briefing, the Rideau Mall is the epicentre of the carding crime. Most of the victims visited here in the last sixty days. To narrow it down further, the victims all use the same bank. Coincidence? I think not.

  I pull out my debit card, run my fingers across the raised numbers and inspect the scratched up magnetic strip. On that strip are my banking info, my name and my four-digit PIN. That the bank requires only four numbers as a password is laughable. With a couple of hours and a bag of jelly beans, a three-year-old could figure out a four-digit PIN. No matter, the contents of my bank account are a whopping three hundred and twelve dollars and ninety-two cents. Bank machines laugh at me when I am near them.

  The bank branch across from me has three ATMs and a Saturday afternoon line four deep. Staring at the branch, my fingers slowly ball into fists, and I remind myself that I’m on duty and unbiased.

  I study the ATMs. I know what Williams said, but checking out the ATMs can hardly be considered doing anything.

  A cleaner wipes the table I’m at and smiles at my outfit before noticing the stomach, eyes widening. He grunts and runs a rag drooling gray fluid over the next table. I heave myself upright, beat my belly like a drum for shock value, and head for the bank line.

  In line with those in need of cash, I glance from ATM to ATM. A closed circuit camera monitors the three terminals and a TV screen lets everyone know that Big Brother is watching.

  The woman ahead of me pulls out a bundle of checks and four different cards, slotting the first card in. If I was in a hurry I’d be pissed, but I’m on company time now. The ATMs look like every other bank machine I’ve seen. The little card reader flashes green. The black screen is all pixelated and offers several different language options. A glowing green rectangle surrounds the silver keypad. I’m not sure what I’m looking for.

  “You going?”

  I blink at a kid wearing a jean jacket.

  “What?”

  “Your turn.” He points to
the empty terminal.

  I nod. He’s cute and I smile but he looks from the belly back to my face and raises an eyebrow as if I must be crazy. My stomach blocks part of the machine and I turn sideways to reach the keypad buttons. I’m never going to get pregnant. Ever. Score a point for my mom; her plan has worked.

  I lift my card to the slot and then decide that I’d rather not have my personal information stolen even if it’s in the name of research. I hit OK on the keypad and the button clicks. I hit the other buttons. They all click the same way; so people aren’t using the sounds the keys make to distinguish PIN numbers. My fingers trace the paneling of the machine, searching for a small camera that could be used to record the numbers. Nothing. When I look back, everyone in line is staring at the weird kid feeling up the ATM.

  I sigh and glance at the next machine as I crutch past. The man covers the keypad with his hand. I roll my eyes and carry on to the next, which a woman approaches. She turns and looks hard at me with a card poised at the slot.

  Something is wrong here. Something my mind grinds over. I look back at the man who was shielding the keypad; he clears his throat. His machine’s lights are blinking, just like mine did.

  “What’s the problem, miss?” the man asks.

  “You having a baby or something?” The jean jacket kid steps to my side.

  The woman shrugs and jams in her card. Her machine is dark, with no flashing green light. If two machines have flashing lights, and one doesn’t, could it have been tampered with? Could the thieves have installed a fake reader that steals numbers?

  “Don’t punch in your code, lady,” I say pointing at the keypad with my crutch. Her finger pauses on the number three. “Not unless you want to start buying big screen TVs for biker gangs.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” The kid touches my shoulder.

  I’m about to help out the very bank that nearly put my family on the streets.