“Four.”
“Yeah, four. Not many. This one’s got legs. I can feel that there’s something here. Let me run with it.” He smiled sheepishly. “Everyone gets a DUI. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re a day late and a dollar short, pal. I told you to read that letter.”
“One DUI. Come on. It’s a misdemeanor.”
Soletano snapped a finger at the arrest report. “You forgot to mention that it’s your second offense. Two DUIs in ten years. That makes it a Class A misdemeanor. Mandatory suspension of license for one year. Fine of up to ten grand. What you did is more than enough for rightful termination.”
“You’re firing me?”
“You fired yourself. You saw those suits in here. They get a chance to knock a hundred grand off their liabilities, they’re going to jump on it.”
Tank threw up his arms. His severance package gave him one month’s salary for every year he’d worked at the paper. The total came out to a little over $100,000.
“Let me have this story, Al. I’ll prove to you I’m the reporter I used to be.”
“What story?” said Soletano. “Just because the Bureau isn’t divulging the name of the informant doesn’t mean there’s a story. They’re probably waiting a day or two to get their ducks in a row, inform the guy’s family, and then they’ll release it. This isn’t Waco or Ruby Ridge. There’s no Pulitzer at the end of the rainbow. It’s just a case of an agent making a dumb mistake.”
“I’m not so sure…”
“I am,” said Soletano. “There is no story. You’re done. You blew a point thirty-four. You’re not some cute first-time drunk. You’re a monster. Don’t you get that? A point thirty-four. I’m surprised you didn’t spontaneously combust. I can’t have a reporter driving drunk all over town. The word liability mean anything to you?” Soletano opened the door and motioned for Tank to leave. “Get out of here. Go away. Get some help. You’re a sick man.”
—
Tank walked back to his car, hands in his pockets, arms stiff as ramrods to make sure he stood straight in case Soletano was watching. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. All spirit went out of him and he laid his head against the steering wheel.
His hand dropped to his backstop and he took a healthy slug. Screw Soletano. He could watch all he wanted.
He dropped the bottle and grabbed the copy of the day’s paper off the passenger seat. The headline read: “FBI Agent Dies in Dripping Springs Shoot-out.” The story carried an AP byline, no name attached. The future of print journalism, he thought ruefully.
The lead paraphrased the Bureau’s press release, and the body offered nothing that indicated any actual reporting. No suggestions about what case the agent was working or any background on him besides the boilerplate info, no quotes from the widow, and, most important to Tank’s mind, not a whisper about the informant’s identity. He could have filed it from the holding cell.
Tank banged his fist against the glove compartment and took out the envelope with his name on it. An hour ago the letter had held the promise of a new life. A hundred thousand dollars went a long way. After expenses, he’d figured he’d have enough to hit Pedro’s five nights a week, go hunting in Nacogdoches in the fall, head down to South Padre Island at Christmas, maybe even get a haircut once in a while. It was a recipe for high living.
He started the car and gave it a little gas.
A decent journalist.
Soletano’s words scratched at something buried deep. He wasn’t sure if it was pique or pride. Whatever, they dug at something he’d suppressed for a long time. He suspected it was ambition, which he’d once possessed in abundance.
He kissed the envelope, then tore it in half and threw the pieces out the window. The future he’d dreamed of was gone. It was up to him to make another.
He unscrewed the cap of the bottle of tequila and brought the bottle to his lips.
Hell, he’d been a crackerjack journalist.
Tank took the bottle from his lips. For some unknown reason, he chucked it out the window, too. Al Soletano could clean up his mess.
Tank put the Jeep into gear and punched the accelerator. By the time he pulled out of the lot, he had his phone to his ear. Don Bennett was stonewalling about something, and that something was the informant. Tank still had one contact who might be of help.
“Austin Medical Examiner’s Office.”
“Give me Carlos Cantu,” said Tank. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
18
Mary stood inside the foyer of her home, the blast of air conditioning doing nothing to cool her temper. Forty minutes after leaving Don Bennett, she remained incensed by his behavior. One moment he was ripping the phone out of her hand, the next he didn’t want to glance at it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something or someone had changed his mind.
Mary shook her head, vowing action, and walked into the kitchen. She dumped her purse on the counter and took a bottle of water from the fridge. Her eye stopped on the colorful cans of energy drinks neatly arranged in the back corner. Joe’s drinks. She thought about throwing them out, then changed her mind. She needed him with her for a while longer.
Her phone buzzed. The number belonged to an old friend. Another condolence call. She let it roll to voicemail. She had more important items to attend to. There were the funeral arrangements to make, flights to book, hotel rooms to reserve. She couldn’t mourn. She had too much to do. But before any of that, something else required her attention.
If Don Bennett wouldn’t tell her what Joe was working on, she’d damn well find out herself.
—
Mary nudged open the door to Jessie’s room. “Hi, sweets. Can I come in?”
Jessie lay facedown on her bed, arms splayed over the edges. “Go away.”
Mary took a step closer. It was no time to argue. A truce had been declared between all mothers and their teenage daughters. “I need your help,” she said. “I’m looking for my in-house IT squad.”
A groan was the only response.
She entered the bedroom tentatively. Clothes covered the floor. A glass of root beer sat on Jessie’s desk, and next to it an ice cream wrapper. The posters of horses and boy bands were long gone. On one wall, done up as a lithograph, was a quote from Julian Assange about “information wanting to be free,” and on another a street advertisement for DEF CON, the hackers’ convention in Las Vegas. The room was essentially a battlefield. The frontline between adolescents and parents.
Mary sat down on the bed. She waited for an outcry, a command to get off, or just a plaintive “Mom!” Jessie was silent. Progress, thought Mary. She ran a hand along her daughter’s back. Fifteen years old. Already taller than her mom. Mary’s firstborn was a young woman.
“It’s about my phone,” she went on. “I think I lost a message.”
“So?”
Mary fought the reflex to pull her hand away. “It was from your dad.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
A moment passed. Still Jessie didn’t move. Mary gathered a measure of the sheet in her fist. She gave Jessie until three to move or to show the smallest hint of civility.
One…two…
Jessie grunted, then pushed herself up to an elbow. “Give it.”
Mary handed her the phone. “I thought maybe you could tell me how I lost it or if I can get it back.”
“Maybe.” Jessie sat up and put her feet on the floor. She cradled the phone in both hands, head hunched low over it like a priest blessing the sacred host.
“He called at four-oh-three,” said Mary. “But I didn’t check the message until around five-thirty.”
“I see it.”
Mary’s heart skipped a beat. “The message?”
“No,” said Jessie. “The call.”
Mary tamped down her disappointment. She caught a glimpse of the screen. Lines of letters and numerals and symbols as alien as cuneiform or Sanskrit. Her daughter, Champollion.
&nb
sp; “Not here,” said Jessie.
“I thought maybe I deleted it by mistake.”
“And then deleted the deleted messages? That would be lame.”
“I didn’t do it. You can check—”
“The older messages are still there,” said Jessie. “I can read.”
“I listened to it once at home and then before I went into the hospital to see your dad. I told Mr. Bennett that I’d gotten it and—”
“Why?” Jessie sat up straighter, a hand pushing the hair from her face, tucking strands behind her ear. For the first time she looked directly at her mother. Mary found her gaze oddly innocent, frightened.
“I thought he would be interested in what your father said.”
“What did Dad say?”
“It doesn’t matter. It was about his business.” Mary took a breath. “And so when I came back for my phone, the message wasn’t there anymore.”
“Then why are you so hot on getting it back?”
Mary hesitated, suddenly slack-jawed. How had Jessie managed to take control of the conversation? “Dad said that he might be in trouble. He said that he loved us all very much.”
“He was in trouble? Like how?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t entirely remember. I was upset when I heard it.” Mary gestured to the phone, anxious to get clear of dangerous waters. “Do you think you can—”
“So he called when I was unlocking your phone?”
Mary nodded.
“And it was before…” Jessie stopped. Her eyes flitted around the room, gathering pieces of the puzzle. “So you’re saying it was my fault.”
“No, sweetie, of course not. I’m just asking for your help to see if we can get the message back somehow.”
Jessie tossed her the phone, stood, and brushed past her. “You’re trying to tell me that if I hadn’t been unlocking your phone, you would have gotten the call and maybe we could have done something to help Dad.”
Mary rose. “Of course not. You have nothing to do with it.”
“Really? Then why are you telling me about it?”
“Because the FBI won’t help me. Because I don’t know who else to ask.”
“He’s dead. What does it matter? Daddy’s dead.” Jessie threw herself back onto the bed. “Why did you tell me about the message?”
Mary sat down and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Jess, please.”
Jessie knocked the hand away. “It wasn’t my fault. Get out.”
“Jessie.”
“Did you hear me? Leave.” Jessie dug her head into her pillow. A sob racked her chest.
Mary walked to the door. Grace was there, peering in, eyes wide. Mary returned to the bed and knelt by Jessie’s side. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “Don’t you ever believe that.”
A cry escaped the pillow. A plea to break a mother’s heart.
“Why did you tell me, Mommy? Why?”
19
The man named Shanks drove down Pickfair Drive. Late in the afternoon, the neighborhood was alive with children riding bicycles and mothers pushing strollers along sidewalks. No one looked twice at the work van belonging to the nation’s largest phone and Internet provider.
Shanks parked at the corner of Pickfair and Lockerbie, across the street from the target’s home. “We’re here,” he said.
No response came from the work bay. He looked over his shoulder at the Mole, seated at the surveillance console, eyes locked onto the monitor.
Shanks climbed out and walked around to the sliding door. He was big and muscular, his pecs straining against his technician’s uniform. He rapped his hand on the door before sliding it open. “Let’s get this done. Too many eyes on the street for my liking.”
“Target is inside but not currently using her phone. Same goes for the girls.” The Mole didn’t avert his eyes from the monitor. He was small and wiry and pale. If Shanks’s uniform was too tight, his was too loose. Tattoos of snakes and daggers and skulls covered every inch of his thin, gangly arms.
Shanks poked his head inside the van to get a glimpse of the monitor. A dozen nine-digit phone numbers filled the screens. It was a wireless capture protocol called Kingfisher and worked by transmitting signals that mimicked the nearest cell tower to pull all nearby mobile calls out of the air. “What girls are those?” he asked.
“She has two daughters. They have phones, too.”
Shanks stepped outside. He didn’t ask how the Mole knew about the girls. “Just concentrate on the woman. Mr. Briggs said level two. Don’t get carried away.”
The Mole shifted his gaze to Shanks. “You giving me orders?”
Shanks came out of Cabrini-Green on the Near North Side of Chicago. He’d served his time in the Corps, and then harder time in Florida State Prison. He’d seen his share of hard types. No one had eyes like the Mole. Black as day-old blood and set a mile deep in their sockets. “Just do what you got to do and let’s motor.”
The Mole left his seat and grabbed his work bag as he stepped out of the van. He walked to the junction box, a beige pillar standing three feet tall a few yards from the corner, and pried off the plastic cowling. Penlight in his mouth, he scanned the connections terminus, moving down the handwritten addresses posted next to each. He paused, teeth clenching metal, hands holding an ordinary laborer’s tools. Once upon a time he’d been a star student at the MIT Media Lab. Negroponte’s favorite acolyte. Now he was the Cable Guy.
The Mole stopped at “10602 / Grant” and unscrewed the fiber-optic cable that delivered telephone, television, and Internet service to the home. With his free hand he drew a Y-cable from his bag and screwed the tail onto the terminus. He attached the fiber-optic cable to one fork and his black box to the other, checked that the connections were firm, then replaced the hood.
“Keep going,” said Shanks, who acted as lookout. “No eyes on you.”
The Mole selected a sturdy oak tree nearby with a clear view to the target’s home and affixed a micro hi-def camera to the bark. The camera was no larger than a shirt button and once camouflaged with a bit of putty would be invisible.
The camera and the black box were only superficial measures. The camera wirelessly transmitted high-definition images of the home in a five-mile radius. The box captured all digital traffic to and from the target’s house and passed it on to Peter Briggs: landline, television, cable, Internet. It recorded what numbers the targets dialed, what phone conversations they had, what websites they visited, what articles they read, what shows they watched on streaming content services like Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime, what books they ordered—you name it.
Neither provided a granular view of the target’s activities or, more importantly, her intentions. E-mails could not be decrypted. Banking transactions likewise. Anything requiring a password was beyond their grasp.
There was a better way. The Mole’s way.
He stared at the house, imagining its occupants. One adult. Two children. He’d done his research. It was so easy to find out all about them. Mary, Jessie, and Grace were their names. He could be at the front door in three seconds, and inside ten seconds after that. There would be at least one laptop, maybe a tablet, a phone for every member of the family. Each presented an entry point, a means to burrow into their lives.
The Mole thought about the girls. One was fifteen, the other eleven. How interesting it would be to know more about them. Whether they liked boys or girls, whether they drank or took drugs, whether they looked at pornography. The older girl was dark and tall. The younger was fair and delicate. He liked to imagine her fine wrists, her vulnerable neck.
“You done?” asked Shanks. “I don’t want to have to answer questions about what movies are on special this month.”
The Mole climbed into the van without answering. A moment later he was back in his seat, those deep dark eyes locked onto his machines as if he were some kind of droid powering up.
Shanks knew w
hat he was thinking about.
Nothing good.
20
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Jessie sat on her bed, staring out the window. She had her Beats on, the music loud enough to crowd out any ugly thoughts. Her mom’s words played like a loop over the dark electronic groove, louder than the bass, louder than the guitars, overpowering everything. Everything except Dad.
Dad understood. Dad knew about code and software and how cool tech was. He didn’t think it was weird that she liked what she liked. He totally got the part of her that liked to disappear into the Net, the part that came alive when she held a phone in her hand. When she was connected.
Now he was gone. Dead. And dead meant forever. She tried to understand forever, but she couldn’t. It was too scary.
Jessie picked up her own smartphone—a cheap Android platform—and opened the mail she’d sent herself containing the screenshot of the log from her mom’s phone. Smartphones remembered everything. Somewhere there was a record of every call, every website visited, every keystroke the user ever made. You might erase texts or e-mails or voice messages, but you could never erase the traces they left behind. Not unless you destroyed the phone, and by that she meant grinding it up into a thousand pieces. Even then, there was a record at the ISP and maybe even the wireless carrier.
She brought the screen closer in order to read the blizzard of letters and numbers and backslashes. The notation showing all traffic to the number was clear enough: calls made, calls received, calls missed, voice messages, time, duration. She spotted the incoming call from her dad at 16:03:29 and ending at 16:04:05. (Phones used the twenty-four-hour clock.) She calculated that his message had lasted twenty-five seconds, because her mom’s greeting took forever.
“Hi. This is Mary. Please leave a message and I promise to get back to you as soon as possible. Have a great day.” Jessie mouthed the words. So cheerful, so original…so boring. Hey, Mom, she thought, news flash: they know it’s you. They dialed your number.
Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Page 9