by Tim Dorsey
“What do you really think?”
“I feel threatened.”
“Me too,” said Quint. “They grew up with all this technology and know it inside out. The important thing is we can’t let on . . . Where were we?”
“These printouts.”
“Let me see that.” The boss flipped pages. “Okay, it looks a little weird. You’ve got a few statistical clumps that may or may not be random. What’s it supposed to mean?”
“That’s the point. Who knows? I just have this vibe,” said Benmont. “Dealing with all that raw data can get a little dry. Other than the police stuff, I rarely find anything interesting.”
The boss held up the printouts. “And now it takes very little to amuse you?”
Benmont shrugged again. “I like puzzles. That’s why the Social Security numbers caught my eye. You know how the government randomizes them?”
“Yes, I know they do.”
“I mean, do you know how?”
“No.”
“The first three digits are assigned to states, and the next two are group codes. To mix things up for security reasons, the groups go zero to ten by odd numbers, then eleven to ninety-nine even, then zero to ten even, then on up odd—”
“Stop. My head’s starting to hurt,” said Quint. “Someone got paid to think of that?”
“It’s actually pretty clever,” said Benmont. “Keeps the crooks guessing, and that’s how fake numbers are spotted. All states have a bunch of unused groups scattered throughout the spread, so you can’t just bet on low digits. Match the middle two digits to an empty state code group, and you got your bad guy.”
“Now I’m getting bored.”
“Maybe this will grab your attention. One of the client’s requests is pretty suspicious. They wanted me to filter all adjoining Social Security entries with the same birthday.”
Quint thought hard a moment, then a sudden look of understanding. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? And I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out yourself. It’s simply an ingenious way to create a large database of twins. They would have the same birthdays and consecutive Social Security numbers. Perfect for assembling some medical study, nature versus nurture, or a double-blind test on research drugs for a genetic disease . . . Well then, that’s it. Mystery solved. There’s nothing suspicious here at all.”
“No, you’re not following me,” said Benmont. “They weren’t asking me to filter and save the names. They wanted me to filter and delete. That just leaves non-twins.”
“But that makes no sense.” Quint looked back down at the data. “Why would anyone want such a list. Even odder, why would non-twins appear to be twins?” He reclined in his chair. “This is a new one on me.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying all this time.” Benmont passed another piece of paper across the desk.
Quint sat back up. “What’s this?”
“My theory. I also e-mailed you a copy.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know what was going on.”
“I don’t. That’s why it’s just a theory,” said Benmont. “I realize it’s pretty wild, so I wanted to warm you up first with all the background information.”
Quint read down the page. “You’re right. This is a pretty crazy theory. I think you’ve been watching too many action movies.”
“It just hit me when I was driving to work. There’s probably nothing to it, but I thought you might find it interesting.”
“You do understand that if this is true, a lot of people are in serious danger, not to mention our company’s legal exposure. But like you said, probably nothing.” Quint set the page down. “Okay, I’ll play with this. Now it’s bugging me, too. I have an old friend at the Social Security Administration who might be able to help.”
“So you’ll send him my theory?”
“Not remotely,” said Quint. “Your theory goes through our legal department. And don’t give this to anyone else unless I say so. I’m just going to send my government friend your initial work product and see what he makes of it independently.”
Another headphoned kid bopped in to drop off a file, then departed.
“Wine corks?” asked Quint.
“They seem happy,” said Benmont. “I think we’re the problem.”
“Don’t let them know.”
Chapter 6
Sarasota
Early mornings in the retirement park were almost religious. Especially just before sunrise. Still cool out, quiet enough to hear distant seagulls. The fountain hadn’t been turned on yet, and the man-made lake remained still enough to see the occasional ripple from a turtle. A lone heron hunted insects in the reeds. A three-wheel bike circled the water with a poodle in the front basket. The cyclist waved at an oncoming pair of women power-walking in size-six sneakers. Fresh newspapers sat in plastic bags on dew-covered St. Augustine lawns. But most important: the beginning of a whole new day. Possibilities. The poodle’s name was Banjo.
A sliding glass door opened onto a screened-in front porch facing the lake. Buster and Mildred Hornsby never missed a sunrise, never disappointed. Buster came out with his cane and Mildred in her slippers, carrying a tray of English muffins and orange juice. They sat in a pair of patio chairs with plastic straps. The chairs were the kind that mildly swung forward and back. They watched the swans in the lake, waiting for the fountain.
“Those sure were a couple of nice visitors we had yesterday,” said Mildred, pushing the floor with her slippers to make the chair swing. “We don’t get many—I mean, that aren’t selling something.”
“Serge was a good Joe,” said Buster. “A mite rambunctious, but all in all.”
“I hope we get to see them again.”
“He promised we would.”
“I wish I could have said good-bye. When did they leave?”
“I don’t know.” Buster swayed. “I fell asleep.”
A peek of light to the east.
“Here comes the sun,” said Mildred.
They stopped to appreciate the first warm, orange rays spreading out across the park. They hit the tops of the coconut palms first, and worked down to the sea grapes and birds of paradise.
The light glinted off the polished metal shaft of Buster’s flagpole. He glanced up for the first time that morning. “Mildred, look.”
“Someone raised a new flag,” said his wife.
“It’s bigger than my old one.”
They stared as an immense rendition of the Stars and Stripes flapped gloriously in the onshore breeze.
“But why is it upside down?” asked Mildred.
Some people who don’t know the protocol of displaying the flag might have considered it disrespectful. But those who revered it like Buster knew the real meaning.
He stood with his hands on his hips and gazed skyward. “It’s a distress signal.”
Later That Morning . . .
A man in a dress shirt and tie pulled into the parking lot of a sketchy motel in a long line of sketchiness on the Tamiami Trail. This particular length of road had officially been designated by the state as a scenic highway, and the scenery was undercover female police officers strutting the sidewalks in hot pants and arresting johns. Rigid rule of thumb in north Sarasota: If a hooker isn’t meth-head ugly, she’s a cop.
It was unusual to see a white-collar executive driving one of those large contractor vans, but there were always exceptions. The man behind the wheel was forty-four years old with a forty-five-dollar haircut. A laminated badge clipped to his pocket. Carl. The badge had a photo. The photo was meant to put senior citizens at ease about not being robbed and raped like all the talk.
Carl stopped the van in a small dust devil of blowing trash near the end of the motel. He checked the address on his clipboard and looked up at the room. “This can’t be right.”
The salesman had thought it was too good to be true at the time. Since when did customers cold-call him? And now it appeared his initial impression was correct. It w
as all a mistake. He threw the van in reverse.
Suddenly the door of the room opened, and someone in a tropical shirt enthusiastically windmilled his arm for the driver to come on in.
Carl glanced around. “I’ve already written off this sale, so what’s to lose?” He got out, crunching broken glass under his oxfords, and approached the man in the doorway. Another look at his clipboard. “Are you Hank McKenna?”
“Nope; Serge.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet.”
“Sorry, I’ve definitely got the wrong address.” He turned to leave.
“No, you’re at the best place of all,” said Serge. “Let me guess. You got my brand-new X5000 Quantum Humidifier in the back of your van! Can’t wait to check that baby out! So let’s just roll that beauty right in here and rock my world!”
The man turned back around. A pause of confusion. “But you’re not Hank McKenna, and . . . you’re in a motel room. I thought this was getting delivered to a retirement park.”
“It is,” said Serge. “Hank’s my grandfather and he told me you visited and left this.” Serge flashed Carl’s own business card at him, and returned it to his pocket.
Hmm, thought Carl. That is my card, so this is starting to look legit after all. “Then why not meet at his trailer?”
“It’s a surprise. I’m planning to have it waiting in his driveway when he steps outside on his birthday. With a giant ribbon and bow on it, like on those new cars that people get as presents. But where do you even start looking for gift wrap that freaking size? Any help in this area would be most appreciated.” Serge walked around to the back of the van and began hopping in excitement. “You want to sell this thing or not? There are plenty of other salesmen knocking on doors. It’s like a goddamn conga line whenever I visit dear old Granddad.”
“No,” said Carl. “I’ve got your unit. I’ll just follow you over to your grandfather’s.”
“Negative.” Serge pointed at the open doorway. “It’s not his birthday yet. In the motel room.”
“But—”
“I’ll provide final transport myself. You just point me toward the giant ribbon-and-bow store.”
“I don’t think it will fit through the door.”
“Already measured from the specs in the brochure you gave Grandpa. Inches to spare on each side.” Serge whistled. “You always drag your heels like this on a sure sale? Maybe you need to go back to salesman school. Always be closing, man! Even if you have to ram that cocksucker through the door! So let’s put some elbow grease into this endeavor, shall we?”
Greed overcame Carl’s skepticism as he opened the back of the van. The humidifier slid out on a rolling steel grate that became an electric lift lowering it to the ground. The unit had wheels, and they easily navigated the handicap ramp.
Serge flipped the beds upright against the walls, making room for the X5000 Quantum that now stood shimmering in the middle of the room. Coleman squinted at it and yawned.
“There she is,” said Carl. “Just like you ordered. So I guess it’s that time when we get out the checkbook.”
Serge slowly closed and locked the motel room door behind him. “Yes, it is that time.” He formed a toothy smile.
“Uh, okay,” said Carl. “Where’s your checkbook? That’ll be sixty-eight hundred. I threw in delivery for free. And I’m sorry, but I’ll need to see a driver’s license.”
“Oh no, no, no,” said Serge. “Not my checkbook. Your checkbook.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Buster and Mildred Hornsby, Boca Shores.” Serge pulled out a spreadsheet. “According to my calculations, you’ve taken them for a whopping total of twenty-seven thousand.” He handed Carl a pen. “You can make that check out to ‘Cash.’”
“What the hell is going on here?”
“Customer service, and you’re looking at the serviceman,” said Serge. “That couple is very old and you took advantage of them. They neither want nor need what you sold them, so I’m asking for a good-faith refund. Believe me, this is as polite as it gets.”
“I get it now. A do-gooder.” Carl shoved Serge in the chest, knocking him against the wall and a dusty painting. “Well, fuck you and fuck the fucking Hornsbys! I work hard for a living. I was totally ethical! So what if they’re old? They didn’t save up all that money not knowing how to make decisions for themselves! And now it’s mine!”
“How did you end up like this?” Serge calmly rehung the painting of ducks trying to take off from a pond. “Did your mother spit in your food? You saw that Marine Corps hat on Buster, and it didn’t slow you down even a second?” He held out his hand. “I’m still waiting. Refund please.”
This time Carl socked Serge in the jaw, dropping him to the floor. He reached down and grabbed a handful of Serge’s shirt, jerking him up. Then he got nose to nose. “And you’re paying for that stupid humidifier behind me! Nobody wastes Carl Effluent’s time!”
Serge pulled the pistol from his waistband and stuck it in the salesman’s gut. “Ding! Ding! Ding! That signals the end of our politeness round! . . .”
. . . Carl found himself hog-tied on top of the X5000 Quantum humidifier.
“On second thought, forget the check. I like the idea of hard cash much better,” said Serge. “My tax position.”
“But I don’t have that much money in my account!” said Carl.
Serge slapped him with the back of his hand. “Wrong answer.” Another wicked slap returned the other way. “What about your retirement account? I like the irony of that.” The barrel of a gun pressed between Carl’s eyes. “Do you have a retirement account? I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Yes.” Carl began sobbing. “But there’s a penalty for early withdrawal.”
“And right now there’s an even bigger penalty for late withdrawal.”
“Okay, okay, yes, I have enough in my account.”
“That’s much better.” Serge pulled out a pocketknife and sliced the ropes. “We’re taking a little pleasure drive. And don’t think I won’t shoot you because we’ll be in a bank full of people. I’m crazy! Ask anyone. Ask Coleman.”
Coleman chugged from a bottle of Jack and nodded. “He’s batshit.”
Fifteen minutes later, Carl’s legs barely functioned as he stiffly entered the bank. Serge whispered over his shoulder: “Remember what I told you to say. And remember I’ve got this gun on you, so no funny stuff! Especially not this!” He danced a wacky jig in a circle around Carl, before returning to his original position and poking the pistol in his back again. “I’m loony tunes.”
Carl sheepishly stared down at the counter as he handed the teller his request.
“Sir, you do realize there’s a steep penalty for early withdrawal . . .” She stopped to look closer. “Are you okay?”
“Medical emergency in the family,” said Carl. “No other way we could get the money.”
“But you’re sweating like I’ve never seen.”
Serge peeked over Carl’s shoulder at the woman. “He sells humidifiers.”
“Please, could you just hurry,” said Carl.
“A life depends on it,” said Serge.
“All right,” the teller said warily. “How would you like that? Certified check?”
He shook his head. “Cash. Hundreds.”
“Sir, are you sure everything’s okay?”
A gun poked.
Carl slapped a palm on the counter. “Dammit! Can’t you tell when someone’s having a bad day?”
“Well! There’s no need to be like that,” huffed the teller, turning to get a money bag.
Chapter 7
Baltimore, Maryland
Leafless trees and brown grass surrounded a sprawling government office building at 6401 Security Boulevard. It was chillier than normal, and people became subconsciously irritable about not bringing the right coats from home.
The dormant landscaping could not be seen from a certain windowless office where a man named Symanski pressed a button on his
computer that pulled up an e-mail.
“Shit.”
He stared at a message from an old friend in Florida. One of those friends who continued to send Christmas cards every year, even though he hadn’t sent one for the last five. Awkward.
But this was the kind of e-mail that required a response. He couldn’t just ditch it.
He ditched it.
After lunch, the bureaucrat had second thoughts and called the e-mail back up. “What am I looking at?” Twins and non-twins and the last four digits. Made no sense.
To cover his butt, he took it to the division chief.
“What am I looking at?” asked his boss.
“I don’t know,” said Symanski. “Just got an e-mail from an old friend at one of those identity-protection companies. He doesn’t understand it either and just passed it along out of due diligence. Probably nothing. But given all the recent memos about hacking . . . I mean, nobody’s tried anything serious with our agency yet, but if it isn’t a coincidence that these Social Security numbers look screwy—”
The supervisor held up a hand. “Say no more. I’ll take care of this personally. Nice work, Symanski.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Symanski left, and the supervisor ditched it.
Sarasota
Serge and company arrived back in their dicey motel room with a bona fide sack of cash.
“Carl, have a seat. On top of the humidifier will do.” Serge pawed through the canvas bag of stiff U.S. currency and zipped it closed. “You did great!”
“S-s-s-so you’re going to let me go now?”
“You must be thinking of the politeness round.” He tossed the bag in the corner. Then bashed Carl on the side of the head with a pistol butt. His inert body rolled unceremoniously onto the floor. “Coleman, come over here and give me a hand.”
“I’m busy.”
“Dammit! Take off your beer vest. I can’t do this alone.”
“Allllll right.” Coleman mustered the resolve to rise from the floor. “What am I supposed to do?”