“No, but I may have solved my first crime,” I say.
And what d’you know, but the woman finishes punching in her PIN and goes on with her day. Cops get no respect.
I dial Williams’s number and reach her voicemail. I explain what I’ve discovered. It’s time to break this case wide open.
Chapter 4
Hours of community service remaining: 1998
<<@JFlyTrap you are the protector of capitalists and billionaires everywhere, the 1% thank you,>> Heckleena tweets.
I look up from my phone, leaning against the wall outside the bank branch, ready to warn the person who just walked in not to use the bank machine, but it’s not a customer; it’s him, the banker. Frank Orsen is carved into his nametag. He’s glaring. Maybe I shouldn’t be standing like a preacher on a soap box, cautioning customers on the dangers of using the ATMs. But that’s my job. I think. And here comes my handler, Detective Williams, to explain it.
“Janus?” Officer Williams blinks with recognition.
She strides to my side and yanks me by the arm into the bank, past the tellers, and into Orsen’s office. Her fingers pinch and hurt more each time I struggle.
“Whoa,” I say as I walk faster than I should in my condition.
“This …” The imperious eyes of Orsen wheedle down at me as he slams the door. “This cartoon character works with you?”
I hold out my hand in greeting.
“What are you doing, Janus?” Williams demands. I can see the hope in her dark eyes, desperation that I’m not insane. “You were only supposed to be sniffing laptops. Why are you dressed like this?”
I let my hand drop and tug my skirt lower, which reveals more of my belly. Orsen averts his gaze.
“I’m incognito,” I say, unable to explain the real reason for the costume in front of Orsen.
“What are you doing telling customers not to use the bank machines?” Williams asks.
“Other than ruining our business,” Orsen adds.
“Like you tried to ruin ours,” I say, then regret it the moment it’s out.
Orsen squints. “What’s this?”
He still doesn’t recognize me. I want to choke him until his zits pop.
“I know how the carders are stealing the credit card numbers,” I say.
“How?” Hope shimmers in Williams’s eyes.
“The ATMs.”
“Not possible, we’ve checked them. It’s the first thing bank security did.” Orsen is waving his arms like an umpire.
“Why do you suspect it’s the ATMs?” Williams asks.
I’m suddenly not so sure. “The light.”
“The light.” Orsen frowns.
“Yeah, the ring of light around the card reader and keypad.” My voice drops as I explain. “Two of the ATMs have the light, the third doesn’t. Maybe someone installed a false reader and keypad?”
The detective looks down. I can hear her thinking: And maybe a light bulb has burned out.
“We’ll look into it,” the manager says and gives Williams a glance that orders her to throw this brat out of here.
I look left and right as if proof lurks somewhere near. All I see is a pristinely clean desk with a flatscreen monitor and wireless keyboard. A plastic tree collects dust in the corner. Orsen obviously likes everything neat and tidy, and doesn’t enjoy the mess he is in.
“Let’s head back to the precinct,” Williams says while marching me out of the office under the puzzled gazes of the tellers. The detective remains silent as we meander through the mall.
In the squad car, I shift under my boss’s ire. I pull out my pigtails and let black hair fall across my face. Williams isn’t pleased. She has put me in the back where it smells like vomit. I hold my hands off the seat, not wanting to even touch the seatbelt. My eyes water and I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Was I supposed to just stand by and let people have their credit card information stolen?” I ask.
“I am an officer,” Williams says slowly, “you are a high school student. Repeat that back to me.”
“I am an officer …” I begin but she’s already shaking her head. “What happened to me being a crime fighter?”
“Maybe you’re not quite ready for it.” The engine roars as she accelerates down Elgin Street, ripping past all manner of pubs, stores, and banks. “Maybe the sergeant was right; this was a mistake.”
My eyes flood with tears I desperately fight away. They didn’t even inspect the ATM; what if I’m right?
“The banks do have good security. They’ve been over the bank machines and the breach is not with their equipment.” She reads my mind.
“What if the reader isn’t there all the time?” I say. “If there’s no wireless feed, then the guy would need to pick up the reader manually and download the goods.”
I see a flicker of interest in the rear view mirror.
“It’s called skimming. Keep talking.” She slows, and I’ve discovered the relationship between her driving speed and her interest level.
“Well, I was thinking that a hundred and thirty-seven credit card numbers isn’t actually all that many, right? If someone had hacked the bank’s database they’d have millions. So it has to be someone who receives the info one at a time. That means a point of sale device or ATM.” She’s nodding. “You know, this isn’t exactly putting my computer skills to good work.”
She smiles and I nearly sag with relief. “Hold that thought.”
I blink in sudden darkness as the squad car bumps down the ramp into the lower level of the police garage. I’ve never come this way, even when I was initially booked; I don’t think it’s somewhere you take a sixteen-year-old. Williams parks between other Ford Crown Victorias and opens the door for me—not because she’s being courteous, rather because I can’t open the door from the inside. At a set of double doors, she swipes a key card. I eye the reader suspiciously as the doors swing open with a whoosh of hydraulics to reveal what looks like a hospital ER but filled with cops packing handguns instead of doctors and nurses. There’s a woman scratching at her scrawny, raw arms. A gray blanket hangs over her shoulders. Here the prisoners are processed.
Williams pushes me in so that I have to walk in front of her.
“Follow the line,” she says.
The duty officer behind the counter chuckles; he probably thinks I’m a prostitute.
We pass a door through which I see photography equipment, a fingerprint scanner, and a white wall with electrical tape marking various heights.
“You took me this way on purpose,” I say and stare back. Williams grins as we follow the yellow guiding lines. “You haven’t read me my rights and I want my phone call.”
“I thought it might help you see yourself.”
“I understand. No more Saturday morning cartoons. The costume was a mistake.”
“This isn’t over. Wait until the sergeant gets his hands on you.”
If my hands weren’t shaking, I’d laugh about Sergeant Underpants getting his Haines on me. Past the processing area, the bustle of a hundred cubicles is worse than metal bars and a stainless steel toilet. With everyone watching, I long for a trench coat. I can’t even remove the belly without a changing room. Someone titters and I cast daggers all around.
“In there.” Williams points to the same glassed-in meeting room where I’d been briefed earlier. Where I had nodded at the detective and said I would follow her orders while I served out two thousand hours of community service. I still find two thousand hours too long a time to fathom. It’s like the national debt or sitting through an opera. I sag into one of the dozen chairs surrounding the long table.
By the fierce look on Sergeant Haines’s face, I’ve just stepped on all manner of toes. Ethan Chow trails into the room behind him like
a favored dog. If Haines’s glower wasn’t enough of an indication, Ethan’s smirk underscores the message: I’m in deep crap.
“I haven’t had a formal complaint in three years,” Haines says. “You’ve managed to earn me one in three hours.” His white teeth are straight and gnashing. The seams of his uniform strain beneath his muscles. I gulp and he pauses, sending a noisy breath through his nostrils. “So, you think this is skimming?”
Not sure I’m allowed to speak, I deliver my Elmo stare.
“She has a point,” Williams says. “It’s not very many cards and all from the same bank.”
“We know they’re all from the same bank,” Haines replies. “Tell me. Have you ever used your debit card in another bank machine? One not from your bank?” I nod, not trusting my voice. “Right, so the very fact that every single card was from the same bank doesn’t make sense. It points to a different strategy. Out of every hundred cards used at an ATM, ten are from another bank, get my meaning?”
He pauses. I’m out of ideas; I’m evidently not quite as brilliant as I thought.
“This …” He’s waving a big finger at me but staring at Williams. “… whatever you want to call it, is not a great idea.”
“Respectfully,” Williams replies, “if not this then she’ll become a cracker and you’ll be picking her up on carding or skimming charges before she’s twenty.”
Williams thinks I’m on track to be a criminal?
Haines rubs his hands together as if he’s cleansing himself of me: “For the record, she’s your responsibility and under your supervision.”
“We’re clear, sir,” Williams agrees.
“Look, it’s an official complaint. Three years!” Haines draws a loud breath and lets it out. “We’ll take the case from here. Find her something that doesn’t involve people.”
He glances at me again, shakes his head and wheels.
“Sorry,” I squeak, and he waves it off as he strides away.
Ethan’s holding a laptop and it draws my attention as if magnetized. My two partners sit opposite me. I lick my lips.
“How are you doing?” Ethan asks when the door has shut. He’s still wearing his snake-smile.
“Not so great at present,” I say, itching for Heckleena to tweet something cruel.
“You know,” he says to Williams, “there’s a whole lot of data entry that needs to happen. People still pay parking tickets by check and someone has to do—”
“Please—” I reach out to Williams. “No data entry. Let me lick toilets clean or use me as bait for child predators, anything but—”
“I’m not ready to waste your youth or your talents,” she says. I note the implicit yet in the statement. “Give her the laptop.”
Ethan probes his teeth with his tongue and then slides the laptop across the wood veneer. He then pulls a power cord and plants it on top. Without even opening the laptop I can tell that it’s a Thinkpad X301, which means it’s about four or five years old. It’s a really small machine but packed some cool features for its time, like a webcam and GPS.
Williams continues, “This is the laptop of a convicted murderer.” My hands fly from the lid. “Don’t worry, he’s already jailed for his crimes and people have scoured the files a half-dozen times. We know what’s on it. Now we want you to find anything we missed and complete his profile. Data retrieval is a big part of what this unit does out of its headquarters at the RCMP.”
“You want me to search through the hard drive of a murderer?”
The smirk widens on Ethan’s face. This doesn’t really seem like a good idea. The things on people’s hard drives climb into my head. They become real. Still, it’s like a part of me is struck by lightning and the charge races to my fingertips, desperate to crack the lid on the thing. To prove myself.
“Profile him, Janus,” Williams says. “Do what you say you can do best. You’ve got until the end of the week.”
“Can you tell me more about what he did?” I ask Williams. “Who it is?”
“I’d rather you go in blind without and preconceptions,” she replies.
Holy crap, they’re serious. I move to turn the laptop on and Williams holds up a hand.
“Take it home,” she says. “You don’t want any more people to see you like … this. Not if you want them ever to take you seriously. If the captain knew, you’d be out on your ass.”
The last thing I want to wear is their itchy polyester uniform.
“That’s evidence, you know?” Chow adds. “Secure it when it’s in your home, and don’t let it out of your sight otherwise.”
“Does this mean I’m off the carding case?” I ask.
Chow snorts. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Steer clear of that bank manager. And, Janus,” Williams says with her fingers splayed on the table as she leans in closer to me. “This is official business. Tell no one.”
The two of them walk out and my stomach twists. A murderer touched this thing. His comments are in it. Webcam recordings. Maybe he has a journal of his killing. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I still don’t really feel like a part of this group. I haven’t had the tour. No one has shown me what the unit actually does yet, or the special tools they use to do it and already I’m dissecting the mind of a convicted murderer. I tuck the laptop into my bag. Laughter follows me as I wind through cubicles, somehow managing to find the exit.
I grit my teeth at the mocking. No one’s giving me a fair shake. I snap the bands back into my hair. It’s time for these people to learn what Janus Rose can do. Sailor Moon can be pretty kick ass. I stride out, chin high, boot and crutches clicking.
Chapter 5
Hours of community service remaining: 1996.5356, but who is counting …
<
A competition suddenly starts on Twitter with hundreds tweeting lol and hahahaha.
Having taken the bus home, I open the door to Assured Destruction, mind spinning to generate a reason I can’t stay and chat with my mom, but the retail store is empty. I pause. Maybe she’s in the washroom, but why leave the door unlocked? Someone needs to serve customers while I’m away; we may not get many, but weekends tend to be busier than weekdays. The money Assured Destruction generates is the only thing keeping pizza on the table. We really need a replacement for our last employee. The one who tied me up, threatened to kill me, and tried to steal the business.
I creep over the concrete floor, peer into the back office, which is empty, and shrug, happy that I’ve smuggled the laptop in without my mom hearing me. She still thinks I’m at the police station, and I want to get cracking. I’ll look into her absence once I’ve had a chance to figure out the laptop. Downstairs, I pull off my blouse and drop the instant pregnancy to the floor with a sigh of relief. Without the weight of it, I feel as though I’d hit the roof if I jumped.
As I wrestle with the duct tape on the computer cord, I dress and boot up Shadownet. Shadownet is not just a network of other people’s rebuilt hard drives, it’s more than that. Up until a couple of months ago I would have said that it was a replacement for the family I’m missing, but lately it feels more like they’re parts of me, ways to express myself. They used to be secret, but not anymore—mostly—I still have a couple of hard drives stowed away that no one knows about, my disappeared father’s and Peter’s. The same Peter who appears on track to become my new stepfather.
The thought brings a surge of guilt. Peter left his hard drive for destruction when my mom and he first started dating. I was supposed to destroy it. But even after he saved my life, it’s stayed, still stuffed in my backpack. I can’t put my finger on it, but something about Peter bothers me. And this is my mom’s boyfriend we’re talking about. It’s my duty to protect her. I’ve searched for him on the Internet. But for someone who is supp
osedly tech savvy, he’s scrubbed clean. Online he might as well not exist. I’ve never visited his home; I’m not even sure my mom has.
The cacophony of Windows and Mac themes chime as the computers wake. It sounds to me like the roar of the crowd cheering me on. I slip my arms into the green cardigan sweater that I keep on the back of the chair and watch as Hairy, Tule, Heckleena, Frannie, JanusFlyTrap, my mom and dad, and Gumps blink on, the last in monochrome green. I wipe their monitors clean with a cloth and straighten the Christmas garland draped over them.
The murderer’s laptop is charcoal in color; oddly the name Black Mamba comes into my head as if I’m considering whether to add him to Shadownet. I shudder. I really don’t need more ways to explore my dark side.
In an effort to control the shivers running down my spine, I tap a question to Gumps. I’ve programmed Gumps to reply to my queries with famous quotations, sayings, and bits of philosophy.
8-ball question: Should I be looking into Black Mamba? I type.
He replies: Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods.
I’ll take that as a no, but I don’t really have a choice. I plug in the laptop and hit the power, already feeling like I need to shower.
Up pops a Windows welcome page requesting a password. Now why wouldn’t Detective Williams have told me the password? She’d said that they’d already been over the files. It must be a test.
Password. I type.
Invalid Password
1, 2, 3, 4. I try, then, Secret, Love, and finally Iamakiller.
No luck. I’m failing.
“Hello?” a man upstairs calls and the door jangles as it shuts. “Hello?”
I listen for my mom, but the elevator doesn’t whirl, and since she’s confined to a wheel chair, that means she’s not coming.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 18