by D. L. Wood
“That SUV that just pulled out—follow it. But don’t let them know you’re following it.”
“You’re the boss,” the driver said calmly, shifting gears with no real urgency.
“Go, go, go!” Jack shouted, waving a hand in the direction of the SUV.
The sluggish cabbie did a U-turn and pulled into the far right lane heading north, four cars behind the one that held Chloe.
“Just so’s you know,” the cabbie mumbled as he changed lanes to keep up, “running red lights’ll cost you extra.”
Jack tossed a fifty over the seat. “Just drive the car.”
Stepping hard on the gas, the driver sped right past the SUV.
“What’re you doing? I said follow it, not lose it!”
“Relax, man. Relax. You think I haven’t done this before? You’re not the first guy who tried to catch his girlfriend in the act. I know what I’m doing. There’s no side streets on this stretch. They aren’t going anywhere. And they sure won’t get suspicious if we’re ahead of them, now will they?”
“Just make sure you get behind them before they can turn.”
“Like I said, man. Relax.”
They drove for twenty minutes, the cab darting from lane to lane, alternating positions in front of and behind the SUV so as to avoid raising suspicion. It led them out of the commercial district, towards the bay, and finally onto MacArthur Causeway, the bridge linking Miami to the City of Miami Beach.
Palm Island Park, one of the posh residential islands between Miami and Miami Beach, rolled by on their left; on their right, the Port of Miami. A mammoth cruise ship sparkled, thousands of white lights strung on its massive decks, beckoning passengers to embark as dusk began to fall. Jack focused on a different set of lights—the glowing red taillights of the SUV three cars ahead.
As they neared the bridge to the next residential island, the SUV veered into the far left lane. It slowed, then pulled into the palm dotted median. Jack’s taxi sped by just as the SUV completed its left turn and headed across the bridge that separated the exclusive island from the not-so-privileged masses.
“Can’t you follow them in there?” Jack asked, whipping around to watch through the rear window as the SUV pulled up to the gate at the island’s entrance.
“No,” the cabbie said, shaking his head. “We’d never get past the gate.”
Jack turned towards the cabbie. “So which one is that?” he asked nodding towards the island.
“Star Island.”
“Tell me everything you know about it.”
As they sped over the remainder of the causeway, the driver gave a spotty lecture on Star Island, which consisted primarily of naming off the famous people who owned houses there. When the causeway deposited them on Miami Beach, Jack had the driver turn around and head west, back over the causeway and past Star Island again. As they passed by, Jack scrutinized it for as long as he could make it out, taking in everything he could at fifty miles an hour. When he couldn’t get a visual anymore, he flipped around and considered his limited options.
Chloe had mentioned once that the owner of Inverse Financial had invited her and Tate to stay at his house on Star Island when he was trying to persuade Tate to take his job offer. If that was where she was headed, getting her out of there would be more than difficult. There would likely be guards. A security system. Maybe even dogs. Not to mention the neighborhood’s own private security that likely patrolled regularly. At present, his entire armory consisted of a .45 caliber semi-automatic and one and a half clips of ammunition. Even with the edge his training provided, he didn’t have a rat’s chance of getting in there. Not to mention getting out with her.
Was going to the Feds really his only option? And if he did that, would they take him at his word? Would they storm the place or make phone calls first, alerting DiMeico’s people, giving them time to move her, or worse, get rid of her? She still had the tracker on her, but how long could he count on that? What if they checked her for devices? What if they made her change clothes? I know where she is now, he thought, eyeing the dot that had indeed stopped on a little spot on the backside of Star Island, but what about ten minutes from now?
He squeezed his eyes tight in frustration. Lord, please help me figure this out. I can’t believe you’ve brought us this far to have it end like this. Tell me what to do. Help me save her.
A back-numbing jolt from a particularly large pothole jerked Jack from his prayer, his eyes flying open. He was about to spout off when he noticed a billboard of a marine in full dress plugging for new recruits. A memory flashed in Jack’s mind, and he snapped forward, his eyes darting around as he engaged in mental somersaults. He’d be perfect . . . but that was years ago. Were the rumors he’d moved away from Miami true?
Try anyway. The phrase scrolled through his mind, and Jack felt an unexpected surge of optimism as he pulled up the white pages on his cell.
THIRTY-FIVE
Chloe sat wordlessly in the spare study of DiMeico’s mansion—at least that’s how he had referred to the room when he’d given her a tour of his estate months ago, when she’d come down for Tate. Long velvety drapes hung in deep folds, covering a solitary floor-to-ceiling window. The walls were paneled in wide sheets of some rich wood stained a reddish hue. Chloe sat in a thin leather chair positioned behind a glass table furnished with a banker’s lamp and leather blotter set. On her previous visit, the small room had seemed cozy; now it possessed a palpable chill that scuttled across her skin, making her draw her arms in close.
On the opposite wall, the man others called “Vargas” stood in front of an inset entertainment curio. He slipped a disc into the DVD player, then stepped away from a large, flat-panel television affixed to the wall. As he moved to stand obstructively in front of the study door, the silver DVD player whirred and the blizzard of black and white static on the screen flashed to solid bright blue. Then the picture flashed again, and suddenly, there was Tate, just as she had last seen him on the computer screen at the LeClaire.
Chloe stared numbly at her twin brother’s face as he began telling her his story for the second time. It only took a few minutes to get to the part they’d been watching when Sampson had shown up:
“I guess I should start at the beginning. I’d been in Miami about six weeks when I met this guy in a bar in Bayside. I never caught his name, but he worked for WorldCore Bank’s Miami office in some kind of management position. Anyway, he tosses back one too many and gets loose-lipped. We get to talking about our jobs, and when he finds out I’m in tech security, he launches into this story about how he’s in for a conference on system security, and isn’t that a coincidence. Tells me how they could really use a guy like me because so far they haven’t been able to come up with a reliable gatekeeping system. How they’re constantly crashing, getting invaded, hackers playing havoc with accounts. And apparently WorldCore’s not the only one with the problem. He even names names for me. He’s practically on the verge of tears because he had something to do with buying their current firewall program and his job’s on the line. Well, eventually, he wanders off, and starts blubbering to somebody else. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and suddenly, I realize that the universe has dropped the perfect opportunity into my lap.
“So, I started checking out some of the banks he’d talked about. It’s me, so, you know, it wasn’t even really that hard to hack in and cover my tracks. But it didn’t take long to figure out that I would need someone else, someone on the inside—”
Chloe’s ears perked imperceptibly, as she recognized this as the spot where they’d had to leave off back at the resort.
“—someone on the inside to help with the paperwork and transferring the money if I really wanted it to look good, and that was going to take time. And there were other problems, too. Banks are heavily regulated. They’re audited all the time. And of course, over time, people would notice the money missing from their accounts, even in minute amounts. Once the bank figured out that money was being sip
honed off, the Feds would have gotten involved. Which would mean trouble.
“So, I started to give up on the idea, figuring the risks were too high. I got pretty depressed about it. But a week later, right in the middle of my pity party, it hit me.” He paused dramatically for a moment, as if he expected Chloe to guess what it was that had dawned on him, then continued. “Inverse.”
Tate paused briefly, as if he wanted to allow time for the genius of his idea to sink in, before continuing.
“When it finally came to me, my first reaction was to kick myself for not coming up with it sooner. It was a perfect plan, with none of the kinks of the bank job. First of all, I was already on the inside. Second, I had total, unmonitored access to the financial records of the clients. What they deposited with us, what they invested, what the stocks sold for, their share of the net proceeds . . . With the right keystrokes I could skim a little here, a little there—and adjust the records to make it all jive. Third, I’ve got no outside regulation and audit hassles because, well, the operations I’m involved in aren’t exactly above board. Once a client’s money comes in, it’s combined with funds from legitimate clients, then invested corporately but tracked with my software—long story short, no one else on the outside ever sees the books I’m playing with. And fourth, even if DiMeico figured out something was going on, there’s no way he’d drag the cops in because the whole operation is illegal to start with.” Tate’s eyes were bright with confidence, as if he were certain he had thought of everything.
“Which leads me to this. Chloe, Inverse isn’t what you think it is. I mean, it is an investment firm—but it’s so much more. It’s basically a high-end money-laundering outfit with wealth management services tacked on. You always said DiMeico sought me because he wanted the best. But that was only part of it. He also needed someone who understood the benefits of breaking the rules in order to achieve results more quickly. When he asked some pointed questions about how far I was willing to go to see my dreams realized, I told him I was tired of being cheated. If by the world’s rules I had to bend the rules to get what I deserved, then so be it. That answer was the real reason he hired me. That and the fact that I can hack into anything running off electricity.
“My job really has very little to do with standard tech security work. A more accurate title would be professional hacker. The whole thing is brilliant, actually. But, it all boils down to the oldest trick in the book.” Again he paused for a guess that wasn’t coming. “Inside information,” he said with a smirk, letting the phrase roll of his tongue. “You always wanted to know what I do all day. Well, the truth is I spend most of my time hacking into hundreds of networks—Fortune 500 companies, law firms, accounting firms, investment banks—you name it, I break into it. Spreadsheets, e-mails, letters, draft press releases, internal reports. I read anything and everything that might tell us things the rest of the world doesn’t know yet. Things that are going to make a company’s stock go up—or down. Soon to be reported earnings, buyouts, scandals, bankruptcies. Our clients’ recently laundered money is easily doubled, sometimes even tripled, in very short periods of time, and Inverse is able to take a hefty percentage on each transaction.
“Well, everybody was happy with what I was doing. Especially DiMeico. He was making it hand over dirty fist. Since I was the key to the hacking, I had the run of the place—the accounts, data entry, the division of the profits. That was his big mistake—”
“He trusted you,” Chloe mumbled.
“—he trusted me.” Tate finished. “Over the last few months I’ve managed to skim nearly seventeen million, and it’s growing daily. It could have been more but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to hide it well. I haven’t heard a word so far. Not so much as an awkward glance from DiMeico. I’m positive he doesn’t know.”
“Stupid,” Chloe muttered.
“When I hit twenty-five I’m calling it quits. I figure that with this kind of money we can both make the life for ourselves we always wanted. The kind of lives we deserve. I’m working on a story for DiMeico. Family ties and all that. Something to get me out without drawing attention. I figure we’ll have to lay low for six months or so, but after that, we ought to be good.
“But, just in case, I thought I should leave you with this. So you would know how to get the money.” His expression turned regretful. “It didn’t really occur to me at first—I didn’t consider that, well, if they ever found out what I was doing, they might not stop at me. That they might come after you, too, on the off chance you knew about it. On the chance that you were involved. I, um, hope you can forgive me for that. But,” he covered quickly, “that’s not going to happen. I figure it’s worth the risk. We’ll never get a chance like this again.”
“You already have everything you need to get the money. You just have to think about it. Go to Miami and just think about it. The money’s just waiting for you, but you and I are the only ones who can get it and, I can’t stress this enough, you’ll have to do it in person. This way, even if DiMeico gets his hands on this video, he’ll still need you to get the money. At least then you have something to bargain with.”
“This video tells you everything you need, Chloe. You just have to think like me. Which shouldn’t be hard for you. We’ve got that twin-brain thing going for us, and it’s always worked like a charm. Get this one right, and you’ll be celebrating our next birthday in high style. I love you, Chloe. And I’ll be there for you. Always.”
Tate promptly rose from his chair and walked towards the camera, his body increasingly filling the screen until the only thing visible was a close-up of the threads that crisscrossed to make up his powder blue, button-down Polo. After a few seconds, the screen reverted to solid electric blue.
From his spot at the door, Vargas raised the remote and started the video again. The furnishings of Tate’s apartment appeared on screen once more, followed by Tate himself.
Chloe’s stomach seized as she wondered how many times she’d have to watch Tate’s message before she figured out what he was talking about. Even more worrisome was the thought of what would happen to her once she did.
THIRTY-SIX
Aaron Riley opened the refrigerator door and pulled out his third beer of the night. He was generally cautious about his drinking, determined not to end up like his father. As he popped the tab and waited for the head to diminish, he glanced at the clock. It was just seven-thirty, and he had already reached his limit for the night. Still clad in his dingy, auto-shop jeans and the graying white tee he wore under his work shirt, Riley retreated into his den and sank into his chocolate leather Lay-Z-Boy parked conveniently in front of his wide screen television. On the schedule for tonight: a beer, a buzz, and basketball.
It was not the life he had imagined for himself. He owed that to an irresistible onyx-haired, onyx-eyed Cuban girl he met six years ago on Daytona Beach. After a tornado of a romance that spanned just one week, they spontaneously eloped on the steps of the Volusia County Courthouse—to the great shock and skepticism of all who knew him. Riley had no doubts whatsoever about his nuptials, wholeheartedly convinced that heaven itself had landed in his lap. But the bubble burst quickly when Rosie insisted on staying in Miami near her family. She gave him an ultimatum: either leave your beloved Philadelphia or this is over. Next thing Riley knew, he was a bona fide Dade County resident.
They bought a modest house west of the city, complete with a pool and fenced backyard for his beagle, Charlie. He opened his own auto repair shop, specializing in American cars, which finally turned a profit heading into the second year. But as business got better, things with Rosie got worse. He could never make enough money to satisfy her shopping habits. And money wasn’t their only problem. Riley was bored. Critically, bordering-on-comatose bored.
It wasn’t Rosie’s fault. The problem had existed long before she came into the picture. He was an addict. A full-fledged junkie for the spine-popping adrenalin rush he experienced every day during the military career that ended s
o abruptly eight years ago after his diving accident. Like everything else he tried, she failed to fill the void. One day, when she was through being a token distraction, she left without so much as a note on the pillow.
And so Riley was a born-again bachelor, living in a two-bedroom house in Miami Springs with Charlie, his best take in the split, and, once again tonight, his only companion. Charlie leaned against the recliner, letting Riley absentmindedly stroke his ear. After half a minute of this, the dog lazily reached his tongue over and licked the top of the can clutched in Riley’s hand.
“Hey!” Riley scolded, jerking the can out of the dog’s reach. “That’s not good for you. I’ve told you that about a hundred times.”
Charlie whimpered in protest and implored Riley with his soulful eyes. “No way, Charlie,” Riley answered adamantly, shaking his head as he rose from the recliner, walked into the kitchen and poured a sip or two of beer from the can into a plastic blue bowl on the floor. “You gotta drink it out of there, remember?”
Happily, Charlie trotted over to the bowl and starting lapping.
“You better slow down,” Riley warned, “‘cause you know that’s all you’re getting.” The dog ignored him, quickly finishing his treat. Riley shrugged. “Well, don’t come complaining to me in the morning when you have a hangover,” he said over his shoulder as he walked back into the den.
The Heat were winning by a landslide and the game had gotten stale. Riley repetitively mashed the remote control buttons, watching dozens of satellite channels blink by one by one. The television landscape was a wasteland of reality shows, game shows, or those stupid ‘Lifetime for Women’ movies where somebody always gets some horrible disease. He was just about to give up and stick in his Black Hawk Down DVD when a flash of military uniforms caught his attention. It was a re-run of a show about lawyers in the JAG Corps, investigating the murder of a Navy pilot. He had followed the storyline for several minutes when there was a rapid knock on the front door.