by Lee Winter
Lauren’s face lit up. “Oh yeah.”
Her phone rang again. She saw the Daily Sentinel prefix so she immediately punched the speaker button.
“King?” a gruff voice asked.
“Yeah. Frank?”
“Ayers with you?”
“Yes. But I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk on this number if it’s about our story.”
“Then call me back in five. It’s important.” The phone clicked dead.
“Come on,” Lauren said; her gaze darted back to the meat warehouse’s phone.
“I’m not going near that place,” Ayers stated firmly.
“But it’s offally good. Besides, what is it you say? Story always comes first?” Lauren shot her a shit-eating grin.
Ayers scowled.
* * *
“I’ll cut the BS,” Frank told them a minute later as they bent over the phone’s receiver, cheeks almost touching. “You hear about the intruders this morning? The two clowns going through your desks?”
“Yes,” Lauren said.
“Well our publisher met with the men involved, had a little chat, and shortly after sending them on their way, called in the editor. He was seriously considering it before, but now he’s told Neil we have to spike your story.”
“What?” Lauren gasped. “He can’t do that! We’re so close to—”
“Hey!” Frank barked. “I haven’t finished. I just said he was instructed to do that. You think we’re gonna spike your story just when it’s getting interesting? Way we see it, if you have two Neanderthals rifling through your desks and getting rounded up at Taser point, then you’re onto something. And while Harrington might be easily intimidated, that doesn’t mean we all cave.
“Now, we’re gonna buy you some time, but we’re on a clock now. Neil and I are going to conveniently forget to tell you officially that we’re killing the story. But after next Wednesday, Harrington will be hanging around editorial for some online integrated newsroom BS he’s dreamt up. We won’t be able to hide anything we’re working on then. So it’s real simple; you have till Tuesday night to file. Got it?”
“Yeah Frank. And thanks.”
“You got it, too, Ayers?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Make it worth the shitstorm we’re gonna cop from the boss for this. Don’t let us down.”
The phone went dead. Lauren carefully replaced the receiver.
“So,” she exhaled. “No pressure then.”
Ayers smiled darkly as they made their way back to the car.
“What did I say?” she asked rhetorically. “Never get between an old-school editor and a front-page story.”
She resumed the driver’s seat and flicked on her GPS and tapped in the Olympic Blvd address. Then she straightened, giving Lauren an unfathomable look. “All right, I am definitely not doing public-phone-reeking-of-roadkill ever again,” Ayers said sourly. “So on the way, we’re picking up a burner phone. I’ll bill it to Frank.” Her nose flared. “Along with my dry cleaning.”
* * *
11820 W. Olympic Blvd., LA turned out to be the grungiest storage facility in business. Its sign boasted Stow your stuff at a ‘cheep, cheep’ rate and had a faint glue outline of what once most likely had been a cartoon bird.
They made their way to the office only to find a faded Back in 1 hour sign on the door. Lauren glanced at her watch. Lunchtime.
“I guess we kill an hour?” she asked Ayers. “Feel like some food?”
“We smell of rotting carcass. How can you think of eating?”
Lauren shrugged. “I grew up with five brothers. Kinda immune to gross smells for life.”
Ayers looked faintly ill, and Lauren bit back a laugh as they headed back up the drive. Her gaze roamed across the prolific signage. No parking. No stopping. No flammable goods. Height allowance. Terms and conditions. She had to squint to read 285 storage lockers, capacities listed below.
Lauren stopped. “Catherine?” She tapped the number on the sign. “Hey, have you got that plastic card we dug out of the laptop?”
Ayers looked in her bag, pulled it out, and showed Lauren. It read 127/285.
“Now before you ask,” Ayers flipped it to her after she glanced at the 285 on the sign, “no, I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Standing outside the roller door of storage unit No. 127 Lauren noticed her palms were sweating. Which was stupid, really. It’d either open or it wouldn’t. And if it didn’t, well they’d deal with that then. But if it did…
Ayers shot her an impatient look, and Lauren pressed the pass to a small black rectangle on the wall.
Nothing happened. Lauren sagged in disappointment.
“Try again. Turn it around this time.” Ayers suggested, stepping closer.
Lauren reversed the card and pressed it against the reader. A green light blinked, and the screeching of a door going up sounded.
Lauren jumped back in surprise. “Huh. I didn’t actually think it would work,” she muttered, relief washing through her.
It was dark when they stepped inside. She heard a click as Ayers found the light switch, then the room lit up.
The small space was largely empty with a couple of cardboard boxes neatly marked cables and connectors and cases and switches against the wall. At the far end was a small book shelf, neatly stacked with computer publications.
“Hey,” Lauren said, “no doubting who rents this place.” She jerked her thumb toward the shelf.
Magazine spines were filed by color.
Lauren took in the rainbow of publications, and something tickled at the back of her brain. At that moment her hip bumped into something solid and big.
She turned. It was a pallet of pink champagne. Well, sparkling rosé to be exact.
“Hey, look at this.”
Ayers joined her and plucked off the packing slip strapped to the shrink-wrap. “It’s definitely the Booze, Booze, Booze order,” she said.
On top of the pallet lay an opened envelope. Lauren grabbed it.
For pickup May 11, bus driver from Carson City Coach Rental. Please read instructions within.
She pulled out a folded, typed page and read it to Ayers.
Driver, retrieve key card 127 from the manager who gave you this envelope. Unload the pallet of champagne into that storage unit, then lock up, and return that card to the manager.
Lauren dropped the envelope.
“Crap,” she said. “It was Jon Sands all along? The hookers, the booze, the bus?”
“Looks like it.” Ayers stared at it.
Lauren’s brain fizzed. “Barry was so certain Sands didn’t do it. And why would he? Is this some kind of mistake?”
“The proof is right in front of you. His key pass hidden in his laptop opened this storage locker.”
“Della will be devastated. Her husband’s a thief,” Lauren murmured, and stepped away. She opened one of the boxes lining the walls marked spare parts. Motherboards and wires came spilling out. She studied a strange flat green stick with metal bits stuck on it and tossed it back in the box.
“Nothing illicit in here,” she said. “He’s just an IT guy stashing his spare gear. I really don’t get it.”
Lauren’s phone vibrated. She pulled it out and found an empty text from an unknown number.
“Wrong number I guess,” she said.
It vibrated again.
Another empty message. She frowned and showed it to Ayers.
“Don’t ask me,” she said.
Lauren stared at the device hard, then put it on top of the pallet. It went off twice more in succession, vibrating and wiggling across the plastic casing.
“Why do I get the feeling someone’s waving madly at me?” Lauren asked. She picked up her phone and tapped a text reply. Who IS this?
Another empty text message landed. Then another. She growled and opened her inbox and stared at it, willing it to give her some answers. And then she saw it. The 1 next to her drafts folder. A draft message that she hadn’t written.
She opened it.
Safest way to communicate was all it said.
She deleted the draft and wrote Who is this? She hit Save Draft.
Within a second that message was gone and a new one appeared.
U know who. U gave me shit looks for cheking out a certain sum1’s fine a$$ this a.m. Cant blame a man 4 looking. She like yunger men?
“What’s going on?” Ayers asked, leaning over Lauren’s shoulder to peer at the screen. “Who are you writing to?”
The draft mercifully deleted itself just before she could read it.
“It’s Duppy,” Lauren said. As she spoke, a new message appeared.
U know ur password is way 2 easy 2 hack. Shit—MammaMia? Not even any nos?
Lauren scowled, wiped the message, and created a new one. What happened to you guys?
A moment later a message flashed up.
Think we tripped a hidden securty thng on the laptp. Then sum asshols wit no necks tried to break in but we got out a windw and dwn the pipe jst in time. Btw Josh says u owe him a new pair of sox. Hes safe 2. Just freakng out.
“Oh crap,” Lauren whispered. Poor Josh.
What’d you find out? she typed and then saved it.
The draft deleted.
Everythng. But first, c this.” An attachment appeared on the message. It contained a photo.
Lauren opened it to discover a screen grab of a list of names and numbers.
Reason no.1 that u have an asshle problem. Found this in a file wit lots of securty on it. Whch just made SnakeP more pumped 2 crack it.
Lauren stared at the screen grab.
State of Nevada
Infrastructure projects 2014-2015
Red Files—RF814: Consultancy Fees
A list of names were below it.
“These are the Red Files?” Lauren said, pausing on the third line, showing it to Ayers. “It’s just an account that pays consultants?”
“Not quite,” she replied. “Look who’s on the list.”
Lauren examined the names.
Peter Freeman—$65,000
Harry Biggs—$20,000
Jason Maynard—$10,000
Nigel Masters—$5000
BALANCE—$100,000
Dec 11, 9:02am
So, Nevada’s governor, lieutenant governor, the chief of staff, and someone else.
“Jesus!” she whispered. “Nevada’s three top political operators are being paid consulting fees from an account buried in infrastructure? Come on—how suspicious does this look?”
A new draft message appeared.
The $$ were paid to those 4 thru this account from an outside compny every 2 months, same amount each time. Then instantly the $$ were zapped out into personal accounts, and red files went back 2 empty. So even if anyone got luky findng this account, which is xtra hiden, itd almst always be on $0 so no one would bothr with it.
Ayers sighed. “Bribes. I was almost hoping it would turn out to be something a little less predictable. But it seems corrupt officials are as inevitable as taxes.”
Which company is paying the men? Lauren typed.
A reply instantly came: Heres the account no. You tel us. A screen capture with a string of numbers appeared.
Btw this laptop has a clone of the entire NV infrastructre budget files for past 18 months, incl its hidden files. U got the asswipes cold. Easy 2 c this is no 1 time thing!
Thanks D, Lauren wrote. That’s great.
Lauren’s draft changed.
U aint seen nothing. That was the starters. The mains are killer. They r gona rock ur world.
Lauren paused. What the hell could top that?
They waited a few minutes, but the screen stubbornly didn’t refresh.
When it finally did, they read, We think thugz r bak again. Talk l8er. D.
“No!” Lauren groaned. “What else did they find?”
“I suppose we just have to wait,” Ayers said. “But at least now we know what happened. Sands stole exactly $100,000 from an account that receives $100,000 every two months to pay off top Nevada officials.”
“But then Sands just pissed it against the wall,” Lauren countered. “So this was his revenge, right? Stick it to the corrupt officials? Stealing money meant for their bribes?”
“Actually, I don’t think this was about revenge,” Ayers said. “I think he was tapping out a code for us to find, and just like his hero Jeremiah Denton, he’s been doing it in plain sight. He’s a whistle-blower.”
“A whistle-blower,” Lauren repeated skeptically. “But he didn’t tell us anything.”
“Except he did. He’s been trying to draw everyone’s eyes to a dirty account in the most ostentatious way possible. The whole thing was one big, gaudy publicity stunt.
“Missing cheap pink champagne, bussed-in hookers at a big showy launch he knew dozens of media and political figures were at? He pointed us to the bribes while he hid in the shadows. And he’d have stayed invisible, too, if Barry hadn’t put his name out there.”
“But why didn’t he just whistle-blow to the media directly?” Lauren asked. “Why the stupid horse and pony show?”
Ayers frowned. “To spare Della? He thought he could actually do all this without his name being dragged into it?”
“Hey,” Lauren said, “is it actually stealing to divert dirty money intended to bribe officials? Is Sands even really a thief? I mean, hell, by preventing a payoff, he technically stopped a crime!”
“A good question,” Ayers said, and her eyes gleamed.
“Here’s a better one. How does SmartPay fit in? Was their launch just collateral damage to point the finger at the bribes?” Lauren snatched her cell. “And who is the fourth man on the take?”
She tapped in Nigel Masters and Nevada government into her phone’s web browser.
Nothing obvious came up. Only a social media page for some kid in Nevada. She opened it anyway. Okay, not a kid, but barely out of his teens. He had bad skin and a weird smile thanks to a missing left incisor. She was about to try a different search when she saw what was listed under employment on his profile page.
State of Nevada. Junior Accountant.
“No way,” Lauren muttered. She spun her phone around to show Ayers the young man with a faint dusting of a mustache and a wash of pimples.
Ayers’s eyebrow lifted. “I somehow suspect that young man and Governor Freeman don’t do drinks together at the club every Friday. They would hardly mix in the same circles.”
“How could a kid this young offer consultancy services on anything?” Lauren asked. “He lists his hobbies as high-voltage transmission lines. He’s included albums full of photos of power lines from highways around the world. Who the hell is he in all of this?”
“Barry would know. They work in the same department.”
“True,” Lauren agreed as Ayers rummaged through her bag and handed over their new, untraceable burner cell.
Lauren placed the call and waited. Barry’s phone stubbornly didn’t answer. She sighed, handing the burner back. “Lunchtime, I guess. We can try later.”
“All right. Are we done here?” Ayers asked. “I need to wash the cattle out of my hair.”
She turned toward the door but Lauren snagged her arm. “Wait,” she said. She found herself drawn again to the rainbow of magazines and books. Something nudged at her again. And then she saw it. Oh wow.
“Catherine, look. There’s a white book next to the purple.”
Ayers paused, and her eyes shot to the row of magazines. “Mr. Sands is slipping,” she said softly. “White’s not on the color spectrum.”
Lauren strode up to it. “Exactly. This shouldn’t be here.” She plucked the white spine off the shelf. It turned out to be a thin box. Ayers stepped up beside Lauren as she eased its lid off. Postcards. Piles and piles of them from all over the US.
Lauren flipped a few cards over at random. Spidery handwriting was on them all. She noted Sands’s Carson City address on the right and two short paragraphs writte
n on the left. She turned over another and another. All had the same writing and the same format.
“What does it mean?” Lauren asked, perplexed. “It’s not signed. But every single one goes on and on about prices. This one says Tomatoes are $4 out here and that ain’t right. Oranges now $8.55. Tobacco’s gone up by 31 cents. Why send Sands a shopping list of complaints?” She turned it back over to examine a picture of Reno and tossed it back in the box.
Ayers shook her head as she flicked through a few herself. “Oh look. Ohio. Mississippi. Washington DC. They’re in order.”
“What order?”
“The order Della told us where Jon’s father has lived over the years. I’ll bet the postcards are from Gray. And I’d say each one lets Jon know where he’s living every time he’s moved.”
“But I don’t see any address,” Lauren protested. “Just the ramblings of a crazy old man who hates inflation.”
“Perhaps.” Ayers shrugged and snapped the lid back on the box. “Let’s take it home anyway and look at it later.”
* * *
Lauren was perched restlessly on Ayers’s sofa, trying not to get distracted by the sight of Ayers with slicked back wet hair, yoga pants, and a pale green blouse. She was diligently sorting through her notes.
Lauren, in turn, was going stir-crazy waiting for Duppy to reconnect with them. She alternated between glaring at her cell, trying not to admire Ayers’s freshly scrubbed skin, and dialing Barry’s number on the burner phone.