by JB Turner
Reznick said nothing.
"Jon, don't go on one of those silent things again, man, you know how much I hate that."
Reznick picked up the paper and looked again at Tiny. He remembered the look in his eyes when they had to escape from Fallujah in the dead of night. "We deal with this the way we always deal with things, Pete, right?"
"So how do we do that in this case, huh?"
"We keep it in-house."
Dorfman said nothing.
"Do you know what I'm saying?"
"Jon, where you headed with this. .?"
"I want you to do me a favor, Pete."
Dorfman sighed long and hard. "What?"
"You know any guys who could access certain information?"
"You looking for a computer guy?"
"Yeah, a guy that knows how to gain entry to systems and networks." Reznick closed his eyes for a moment as the plan began to formulate in his head. He thought of the story. There had been a police investigation. He needed to find out what they knew. All of it.
"Sure, I know people that have that skills set . . . absolutely. But I've got to say . . ."
"So are you going to help me?"
"Help you do what?"
Reznick went quiet for a few moments as a noisy family rushed past. He waited until they were out of earshot. "I want someone to hack into Miami-Dade police computer system."
Dorfman sighed long and hard down the line. "Leave this with me."
Then he hung up.
THREE
Twenty minutes later, Dorfman was back on the line.
"This is how it's gonna work. A friend of a friend uses him. He's a private investigator and is fanatical about his security. And this investigator, he vouches for this guy. Cyber security expert, apparently. One of the best in America."
"I need to know more about him."
A long sigh. "This is what I know. This guy is ex-NSA."
"Ex? As in fired?"
"As in, I can't stand working for peanuts anymore and I want to earn some real money."
"And he works out of Miami?"
Dorfman lowered his voice. "Here's the thing. This guy is using technology that's not even on the market. It's not even at the research and development stage. He's kinda out there, if you know what I mean."
"Is he good?"
"Good? Are you kidding me?"
"What I mean is, can he gain entry to highly encrypted computers, without leaving a trace?"
"Jon, listen to me. This guy will get you anything you want. He's dropped out of sight of the government. Likes to stay on the move."
"So how do I call this guy?"
"You don't."
"What do you mean I don't?"
"I mean you've got to speak to him in person."
Reznick didn't like the sound of the set-up. What kind of hacker wanted to meet in person? "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do I have to speak in person?"
"He doesn't know you. And he'll want to know that you're serious about wanting this information and not some time-waster."
Reznick ignored the last call for the flight to New York. He should have been boarding that plane and meeting up with his daughter. But then he thought again of his old Delta buddy and his last words and he knew in his heart of hearts, he needed to know more. He couldn't let it lie as it stood.
"So I have to meet this guy in person?"
"The guy's holding all the cards, man."
"Okay, set it up."
Dorfman sighed. "Sit tight. I'll pass on your info to my intermediary, and then we can see what happens."
The decision to change his plans at such short notice didn't sit well with Reznick. He hated having to cancel a trip to see his daughter. He hadn't seen her in months and he knew she missed him. But he also knew she was smart, resourceful and resilient and could cope with just about anything. He could see in her eyes the same steely determination he saw in her mother, his late wife. She seemed to internalize her doubts though like Reznick himself. He didn't show himself to the world. That came from his father. He couldn't abide histrionics. Reznick's father thought a person was unhinged if they flapped about being late or forgetting items things from a shopping list. No one died, so what's the problem? His father had hated the latter part of his life working in a soul-destroying job in a fish packing plant in Rockland. But he didn't bitch about it. He just put on that same impassive face and got on with it. He had seen death close up in Vietnam. His friends with limbs blown off, dying in agony, screaming for their wives or sisters or mothers. So why the hell would he bleat about how crap his salary was, how shit his supervisor was, he would philosophize with Reznick when he was a young man. That was all bullshit. You suck it up, and you move on. Deal with it. If you don't like it, shut the fuck up, or have the balls to leave your job. But his father couldn't leave his job even though he wanted to. He needed to provide for Reznick. He needed to put food on the table. And he did. He brought up Reznick when his mother died, and Reznick had absorbed his mannerisms and matter-of-fact detachment to life. It made him ideal for Delta. He could switch off his emotions almost at will and focus on the task in hand.
The sound of a loudspeaker announcing that the gate was closing for the red eye to New York snapped him out of his brief reverie.
Reznick knew his daughter would be just fine in New York. And he liked that.
His thoughts turned to the mysterious hacker.
Reznick wanted to believe Tiny was innocent. He wanted to believe he wasn't a drunk driver. Everything he knew told him his instincts were correct. But it couldn't stop a nagging doubt that maybe he was getting himself involved in something he didn't have to be a part of.
His father always told him only to get involved in a fight you knew you could win. But in this case, he didn't know where the hell it would end up.
His thoughts darkened as he headed back into Miami and booked into a room at The Tides on Ocean Drive, just down from the Marriott. He booked in for a night, dropped his bag in the room and changed into a tee shirt, shorts and his running shoes. He took a bottle of water from the mini-bar and set out on a morning run.
Around the streets. Along the boardwalk heading further away from South Beach and past the hotels and towers fringing the beach that headed away from the heart of the art deco district. He passed other runners, walkers, middle-aged fat guys, red in the face, bathed in sweat. He took a long drink of the cool water.
The endorphins began to kick in and they washed through his body. He felt lighter. Sharper. Fitter. And happier.
On and on he ran as the sun burned his neck and listened to the sound of himself breathing in the sticky air.
Reznick returned to the hotel a couple of hours later after doing some cool down exercises on the beach. He retired to his room, showered and put on some fresh clothes. Gray tee shirt, jeans and Rockports. He lay back on the bed and felt himself drift away. He heard the sea and he was floating on cool blue waters. He was back in Maine, down in the cove, his daughter and his late wife splashing beside him. He tried to freeze the image in his head. But almost as soon as it was formed, it dissolved to tiny fragments, blown away in the breeze, replaced by Tiny's voice. It echoed round the space. It seemed to bounce off the clouds. He thought again of the hopelessness in his voice as if he accepted his fate. The words played over and over. And reverberated in the darkest recesses of his mind.
He wondered what Tiny was getting at. Who was gonna kill us all? What made him say those particular words?
The beeping of his cellphone snapped him out of his deep sleep. Reznick took a few moments to come to. His room was dark. He checked his watch. 10:42 pm.
Then he leaned over and picked up his cellphone. He opened the message. Was this from the hacker? It read: People's Bar BQ, Overtown, Miami. Ask for Barbara. Be alone. And no phone.
Reznick went through to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. He took the SIM out of his cellphone and placed it alongside the phone in
the hotel safe, alongside his gun. Then he went downstairs and hailed a yellow cab on Ocean Drive. The driver, a white guy wearing a Guns N' Roses tee shirt, glanced in his rear-view mirror. "Where to, bro?"
"Overtown. You know it?"
The guy winced. "Overtown? Are you sure?" He smirked and shook his head. "You ever been there?"
"No."
He pulled away. "Bro, you better be careful. Are you sure it's Overtown?"
"People's Bar B Q."
"Yeah, that's in Overtown. It's a shithole, bro. Twenty-four carat shithole. Garbage dump for poor niggers. You know that?"
"You wanna just drive?"
The driver nodded. "Not a problem, bro. A lot of the guys wouldn't take you there. But I ain't afraid of those fucks."
Reznick said nothing.
"You going for some late-night food or something else?"
"Just drive and we're gonna get along just fine."
"Got to warn you, bro, those fucks don't value shit. Once dropped off a white kid who wanted to score some dope. Read about him in the papers three days later. Shot him in the head and dumped him in an alley. Overtown, man."
The driver turned onto the MacArthur Causeway and drove fast across the bridge that linked South Beach with Miami. He didn't say a word after Reznick didn't engage in conversation.
Ten minutes later, the roads became more potholed; overgrown front yards, vacant lots, and darker streets. Streetlights broken. A few black kids shuffling around on the sidewalks.
The driver pulled up outside the People's Bar B Q. He glanced around at the surrounding streets. "You want me to hang around, bro?"
"I'll be fine. How much do I owe you?
"Thirty okay?"
The driver took the money and shook his head. "Be careful man. They're fucking animals."
Reznick stepped out of the cab and walked into the restaurant. The smell of spicy cooking and barbecued meats filled the smoky air. He sensed everyone in the restaurant was looking at him. He met each of their stares and everyone looked away, a few mutterings under their breath.
A waitress came up to him. "Hey honey, you wanna take a seat?"
"I'm looking for Barbara."
The girl smiled, curling some hair behind her ear. "Not a problem, honey. Just go through the back."
Reznick headed through an alcove and into a side room. A small black twenty-something kid wearing a bandana was sitting on a ripped couch in the tiny staff room at the back of the restaurant. "You Barbara?"
"Only on the weekends, man."
Reznick said nothing.
The kid cocked his head for them to go outside. Reznick followed him out a fire escape door and into a shit-hole alley. He said, "You're not far. Three blocks from here, on the south west corner of Northwest Eighth Street and Northwest Sixth Avenue, is what looks like an abandoned warehouse."
"Who do I ask for?"
"That's all I know. Take care. And I mean take care, man."
The kid held out his hand and Reznick handed over a fifty dollar bill. He winked at Reznick and went back inside leaving Reznick in the alley, trying to get his bearings. He walked back down the alley and crossed over the street and headed away from the restaurant. He sensed he was being watched. Low-rise apartment blocks, an old black woman staring down at him from her open window. He looked up.
The woman smiled down. "God be with you, son," she said, as she shut her window.
Deeper into Overtown, past abandoned lots, boarded up shops. A car slowed down and a black guy shouted, "You want some coke, man?"
Reznick ignored him and kept on walking as the driver did a sharp turn in the street and blocked his path. The passenger jumped out and walked up to Reznick.
"I don't like people ignoring me, do you understand?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Reznick saw the driver grinning.
The passenger pressed his face in Reznick's. His breath smelled of liquor.
Reznick brushed past the guy and walked on.
"What the fuck you doing, man?" he shouted.
Reznick walked on. The passenger caught up with him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a knife. He swiveled round, pushed the knife arm away and kicked the kid hard in the balls. He fell face first onto the ground.
Reznick picked up the knife and threw it into an overgrown yard. He then kicked the guy hard in the head. He was out cold. He turned away as the driver skidded away at high speed.
Reznick left the man lying unconscious on the ground and walked the remaining two blocks to the warehouse. He turned into a badly lit street, broken glass and rubbish strewn on the sidewalk. Up ahead in front of the warehouse, the lights from a car flashed three times. He walked towards the car. A young white man stepped out with an airport-style wand scanner and ran it over Reznick's arms, legs and torso.
"Clean," he said, into a two-way metal radio.
The kid took out a key out of his pocket and opened a box attached to the wall. He pressed his thumb against a fingerprint identification scanner and an outer door of the warehouse opened. "Come with me," he said.
Reznick followed the guy inside as the door slammed shut. Fluorescent blue lights came on automatically. Into a metal cage elevator and up four flights to the top floor. The elevator stopped and the kid pulled back the metal door. He nodded for Reznick to leave the elevator and shut the metal door after him.
Reznick's gaze wandered round the space. As far as the eye could see was a loft-style apartment. Hardwood floors, white plasterboard walls, air-con ducts, jumbo TV screens showing CNN and Fox News. But right at the far end, at a huge desk overlooking the Miami River through tinted glass windows, was a thirty-something black guy wearing shorts, a white polo shirt and sneakers, Apple computer on a pale wood desk.
He turned round and stared across at Reznick.
Reznick said, "What is this place?"
"My office."
Reznick looked around.
"Bought it for twenty thousand dollars at auction. One of the benefits of rampant foreclosures."
Reznick said nothing.
"You made it here in one piece. I'm impressed."
"So you're the guy I need to speak to?"
"Could be."
Reznick walked over to him. "You mind me asking what you do for a living?"
"I'm in the information business for a price. I provide information to individuals, companies, and voluntary groups, pro bono so to speak, if I like what they're all about."
Reznick said nothing.
"Nobody bothers me down here. Who the hell wants to hang out in Overtown?"
"You do."
"Trust me, it's shit. I grew up here. But the nice thing about it is, you're left alone."
"What about the gang bangers? Just encountered a couple a few minutes ago."
"They're pretty harmless. Went to school with them. They don't bother me."
"What about the cops or FBI?"
"What about them?"
"Can't they trace your calls and stuff?"
"NSA recruited me straight out of MIT. I know how to mask what I'm doing. This warehouse doesn't appear on any Google map. It officially doesn't exist. Signal is jammed one hundred yards in all directions. Satellites can't pick it up. Encryption I use will be getting used by the military in five years time, if they're lucky."
Reznick nodded.
The hacker pointed to a sofa adjacent to his desk. "Take a seat."
Reznick walked over and sat down.
"Okay, I hear this is about a former Special Forces friend of yours. Sorry to hear about his accident. Read about it earlier. Said he was drunk as a skunk, right?"
"I don't believe a word of it. That's why I need your help."
The guy cleared his throat. "What kind of help? I need you to be more specific."
"I need original toxicology reports, traffic accident report and forensics report on the death of Charles Burns."
The guy nodded. "Interesting."
Reznick remembered a name from the Herald artic
le. "Sergeant Francis O'Brien. He's the chief investigator for traffic accidents at Miami-Dade."
The hacker swiveled round in his seat and faced the huge screen. He proceeded to punch in some keys and within a few seconds, lines of indecipherable binary numbers came up. Ten minutes later, the Miami-Dade Police computer had been accessed. "Voila."
He punched a few more keys and scanned the names on the monitor.
"Toxicology report from police lab."
Reznick got up from the sofa and stared at the screen. "Son of a bitch."
The hacker printed it out and handed it over to Reznick.
Reznick scanned it double quick time. "I don't understand. It says his alcohol count is three times the legal limit. That doesn't square with what I know about my friend."
The guy punched in some more keys. "I'll see what else we can find." A few minutes later. "Something else concerning your former friend. Two items."
Reznick leaned forward and stared at the screen.
The hacker said, "Looks like the main report from the investigating officer. And another from Rheinhart Traffic Forensics."
Reznick said, "You got that already?"
The hacker punched in more keys and the printer on his desk began to print O'Brien's report and he handed over the nine pages.
Reznick sat back down and read the report from O'Brien. It concluded that it was "reasonable to assume" that Charles Burns had been distracted or in some way contributed to this traffic accident because of his intoxication, hence no skidmarks.
Reznick felt sick. His buddy was getting blamed for his own death and that of his wife and kid. It stuck in his throat.
The hacker printed off the full forensics report on the car. It gave the Mercedes a clean bill of health.
Reznick shook his head. "Is that everything?"
The hacker gulped some coffee from a Dolphins mug. "One final thing. It's an addendum to the report."
"But not in the forensics report?"
"Not as such. But it's here on their files." The hacker printed off the addendum to the report and Reznick looked through it. On the final page there was a picture of a circuit board and a close-up of a one and a half inch part which drew his attention. The implications took a few moments to sink in.