Outfoxed

by David Rosenfelt

Way back in the day I would have stayed at the gate, watched the plane taxi out to the runway, and followed it as it soared into the sky. Now the best I can do is watch Laurie step into what looks like some kind of time machine and raise her arms over her head, so that some people in another room somewhere can see a picture of her through her clothing.

  I leave and go straight to the FBI offices, where I discover that I’m the last to arrive for the meeting. Present are Assistant Director Stanley Brasso, two other agents whose names I don’t catch and whose main functions are to stand and look ominous, Tony Costa, and his lawyer, Wilbur Stetson.

  Also, much to my surprise, Cindy Spodek has flown down to be at the meeting, no doubt to try and keep me in check. It’s unnecessary, since I have no intention of causing any problems. I want this to go smoothly.

  Assistant Director Brasso starts by thanking Costa for coming in and explaining the ground rules, including the meaning of use immunity. It’s no doubt unnecessary, since I know his lawyer, and I’m sure he’s adequately gone over it all with his client.

  Costa receives the written immunity grant from Brasso, and he hands it to Stetson to read. Once the attorney nods his agreement, Costa signs it, and we’re off and running.

  He takes them through the story as he understands it, including Joseph Russo’s meeting with Mazzi, which started Petrone’s moving in on his territory. Costa also relates how he knows that the same thing has happened in other cities.

  Costa does not go near the murder of Mazzi, or the attempted murder of Petrone. Brasso tries to get it out of him, but he disclaims knowledge of it. The truth is that he knows it was Petrone’s people that killed Mazzi, and he knows that someone alerted Petrone to the impending attack on his own life.

  So he’s lying, and I must admit that I don’t care, because it really has nothing to do with my case. I’m not even sure the FBI cares; it’s enough to get Petrone on massive drug dealing. The Al Capone tax evasion case comes to mind.

  By the time we’re finished, everybody seems happy, and I’ve been a good little boy, barely saying a word. Cindy is beaming at me; I’ve got a feeling she’s going to give me a lollipop.

  Costa leaves, and per our agreement, I take the FBI people through what I know about the cyberoperation behind all of this. They bring some technology people in to hear it, and my sense is that they’re skeptical it could all be real.

  I offer to have Sam take them through the same information. He’ll speak their language, and they’ll understand it better. Then they’ll believe.

  Before I leave, I ask if any of them are familiar with Steven Thurmond. Brasso and Cindy are not, but the tech guys definitely are. “Thurmond is involved in this?” one of them says.

  “His name has come up,” I say. “I’m not sure exactly how he fits in.”

  “That’s something we would be very interested in.”

  I promise to keep them informed on what I learn and then head home, where I’m greeted at the door by Tara and Sebastian. So I grab the leashes and take them for a long walk through the park. We come back down to Park Avenue and I stop to buy us all bagels. If Marcus would make an appearance, I’d buy him one as well, but that’s not his style.

  Tara chews her bagels slowly, savoring each bite, while Sebastian sort of vacuums his up. The net result is that he finishes way before her, and stares at her while she eats, hoping that she’ll share it with him. Good luck with that, pal.

  All in all, the walk takes an hour and a half, and all three of us enjoy every second of it. I don’t want to get home for a number of reasons. I hate to curtail their enjoyment, plus getting home means having to prepare for court by again digging into case documents. But most of all I hate getting home because Laurie and Ricky won’t be there.

  I used to love an empty house. I could watch television in my underwear, leave clothes and dirty plates strewn around the house, and belch if the urge hit me. I’ll still do that stuff on nights like tonight, but I’ll somehow feel guilty about it.

  But the bottom line is that I used to cherish “alone time,” and now I don’t. Now I want Laurie and Ricky with me.

  Love is a pain in the ass.

  My focus tonight is on Denise Atkins and Steven Thurmond. He clearly is an important player in whatever scenario I come up with.

  Denise was worried about what was happening with Gerry Wright; she had learned something wrong was going on, and that it included Dominic Petrone. She also knew that Thurmond was somehow involved; that’s why she was googling his name and searching for information on him. That Thurmond was mixed up in this does not come as a surprise, but this new information causes me to wonder just where Denise Atkins fit in.

  If she was trying to uncover and maybe stop the wrongdoing, is it possible that she was the target, and not Gerry Wright? Was Gerry actually trying to protect her, and that’s why he died also?

  Denise’s death has always left me wondering who was running the tech side of the Petrone operation with Gerry gone. Thurmond fits that bill perfectly.

  It’s midnight when I finally put down the case documents and get into bed. Tara never used to sleep in bed with me, but she began doing so when Laurie came into the picture. Now, when Laurie is away, Tara plants herself back on the floor.

  “You like Laurie better than me?” I ask Tara, then think better of it. “Don’t answer that.”

  Jason Mathers has put on a suit and tie to come to court. It doesn’t quite fit; it looks a little snug and the sleeves are a bit short. My guess is that it’s been a while since he dressed up.

  Sam has assured me that he’s told Mathers everything, and that he fully understands all that has gone on. Sam says it as if getting Mathers to understand was a personal triumph, as if Mathers is his young protégé. Of course, Mathers was head of technology for Starlight, so he had some insights going in.

  I take Mathers through his résumé. He dropped out of MIT, though he subsequently finished his degree at Cal Tech. He had two jobs in Silicon Valley before coming back east to work at Starlight.

  About three years ago, he assumed the job as head of technology, and he only left the company when CFO Ted Yates was temporarily named to replace the deceased Gerry Wright as CEO. It was obvious that Yates was going to get the position permanently, so Mathers took his ball, or his data, and went home. He could afford to: he made a huge amount of money there, and had a lucrative buyout as well.

  The best thing that Mathers has going for him, other than his tech ability and knowledge, is his ability to explain it in simple terms. Like most average citizens, this jury doesn’t strike me as being particularly computer savvy, so Mathers is the perfect guy to talk to them.

  Mathers basically gives them a tutorial on how the Internet works; it’s painstaking and slow, but the jury seems interested and alert. I’m watching them carefully, and if at any time I see their interest starting to wane, I’ll speed things up.

  Eventually I lead Mathers to the key points, and I use an overhead screen to show the gambling and drug sites, briefly mentioning Daniel Bowie and Joseph Westman. I ask him if there is anything technical that distinguishes them from other sites, other than the content.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “They can’t be traced to a source.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’re masked. It’s as if they reside in an area of the Internet that can’t be reached, by law enforcement or anyone else.”

  “How is that done?”

  He smiles. “The truth is, until yesterday I wouldn’t have thought it possible. But it’s very real. The how is something I don’t quite understand.”

  “So the people that created this would have to be very good?”

  “They’d have to be better than good, and better than me,” he says.

  “Was Gerry Wright better than you?” I ask.

  “Gerry was the best I’ve ever seen. He had a gift, an instinctive understanding of the way the cyberworld operates.”

  “So he could have set th
is up?”

  “I can’t answer that. But if anyone could, he’d be at the top of the list.”

  I then switch topics and ask him if I gave him computers to examine, and he says that I have.

  “Did one of those computers belong to Denise Atkins?”

  “Yes.”

  With very little prompting from me, he talks about how an outside force had occupied her computer, as a result of her downloading a program that she no doubt did not realize was there for that purpose.

  “So whoever was responsible for that program could see everything she was doing on her computer?

  “Yes.”

  “Was that the only computer that this was done on, to your knowledge?”

  “No. The same was true of the personal computers of Mr. Bowie and Mr. Westman.”

  Something about his answer triggers something in my mind, but I can’t identify it, which means I can’t use it to my advantage, so I move on.

  I’ve taken Mathers as far as I can in the tech area; the jury is either going to get it or they’re not. I wrap up with some questions about Brian Atkins; Mathers testified on Brian’s behalf in the first trial.

  “How long have you known Brian Atkins?” I ask.

  “Almost six years.”

  “Have you ever known him to show a temper?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “Ever known him to be violent?”

  “No.”

  “Do you consider him a friend?” I ask.

  “A mentor and a friend, yes.”

  “You’ve never felt threatened by him?”

  “I would trust Brian Atkins with my life,” he says.

  I couldn’t have written a better closing line than that, so I turn him over to Trell.

  “Mr. Mathers, that was a fascinating presentation; I learned a lot,” he says. “Thank you for sharing your knowledge.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You said that you learned about these illegal sites yesterday, is that right?”

  Mathers nods. “Yes.”

  “Yet you worked at Starlight for years?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Gerald Wright?”

  “Yes.”

  “You worked closely with him?”

  “I did.”

  “Yet you saw no evidence of any wrongdoing in all that time?” Trell asks, feigning surprise.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Never suspected anything?”

  “That’s correct,” Mathers repeats.

  “Did it bother you that your close friend and mentor, Mr. Atkins, stole a fortune from the company where you worked?”

  “I don’t believe he did.”

  “So the jury that convicted him beyond a reasonable doubt was wrong?” Trell asks.

  “I believe they were. Maybe they weren’t presented with all the facts.”

  “You testified in that trial, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you have facts pointing to Mr. Atkins’s innocence that you forgot to tell that jury?”

  “No.”

  “Is it fair to say that you do not believe Mr. Atkins would commit a serious felony?”

  “It’s fair to say that, yes,” Mathers says.

  “Are you aware that it’s already been stipulated by the defense that he committed a serious felony by escaping from jail?”

  “He must have had a reason.”

  “Mr. Mathers, let’s end this examination on that note of agreement. I also believe that Mr. Atkins had a reason for escaping from jail.”

  Trell has done a very effective job on cross, and my redirect is of limited value. Mathers has been on the stand for most of the day, and rather than start with a new witness at this late hour, Hatchet adjourns.

  “Please thank Jason for me,” Brian says, before the bailiff takes him away.

  “I will,” I say. Once Brian is gone, I take a photograph of Denise Atkins out of the file. I’ve got an important stop to make before I go home.

  It takes me twenty minutes to get to Harbor Towers in Fort Lee. I didn’t want to call ahead and alert Steven Thurmond to the fact that I was coming, so I just have to hope that he’s home.

  I catch a major break when the same doorman I met last time I was here is again on duty. When I was here before, he could not conceal his disdain for Thurmond and delighted in letting me up unannounced.

  “Well, you’re back,” he says. Doormen have to be good at remembering faces, and this guy clearly is. “Thurmond again?”

  I nod. “Thurmond again. But first I have a question.”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  “Last time I was here, you said something about sending up someone else that Thurmond didn’t want to see.”

  “Right … a woman.”

  I take out the picture of Denise Atkins and show it to him. “Was it her?”

  He looks at it for about fifteen seconds, then puts on his glasses and looks again. “Definitely,” he says. “No doubt about it. I remember she might have been pissed off about something; she was just really intense.”

  “She was here to see Thurmond?”

  “Yup.”

  “How many times was she here?”

  “Just the one time that I know of. But I’m not on all the time, so I can’t say for sure.”

  “That one time, how long did she stay for?”

  “I … maybe twenty minutes?”

  “Do you know when she was here?”

  “Not off the top of my head, but I can check through my lists. I mark down every person who comes in. What’s her name?”

  “Denise Atkins.”

  “I’ll check it out and let you know,” he says.

  The doorman says that he thinks Thurmond is home, so I thank him and head upstairs. I ring the bell on his apartment door, and after a few seconds I can sense someone is on the other side. He must be looking at me through the eyehole.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asks.

  “We need to talk, Steven. I’m here to help you.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Steven, just talk to me. Believe me, it’ll go much better for you if you do.”

  A good thirty seconds go by, and finally the door opens. “Goddamn doorman,” he says, as he lets me in. “What do you want?” he asks, after he closes the door.

  I decide to hit him with both barrels. “Steven, here’s what I know. I know you were working with Gerry Wright to create Web sites for Dominic Petrone, Web sites that have allowed him to conduct illegal activities. I know that Denise Atkins learned of your involvement, and came to see you. I know that Petrone had Wright and Denise killed.”

  “You’re crazy,” he says. “Get out of here.”

  He looks and sounds scared, and I want to scare him some more. “Steven, you think you can handle this yourself, but you can’t. You’re in way too deep. I can help you; I’m the only one that can help you. But you have to help yourself. You have to tell your story.”

  “I said get out!” he says, yelling now, his panic evident.

  I nod and put my card on a table. “Okay, it’s your call, Steven. But here’s my number if you change your mind. You can call me twenty-four seven.”

  With that I leave, at least for the moment having accomplished nothing.

  As I exit the building, I thank the doorman again. He smiles. “Come anytime.”

  The phone rings at two thirty in the morning. It is not something I will ever get used to, but I’m relieved when I see a local number that I don’t recognize. It’s not Laurie calling from Wisconsin.

  Tara and Sebastian have no reaction; they don’t even bother opening their eyes or lifting their heads. They are obviously better able to handle a crisis than I am.

  “Hello,” I say, demonstrating that my conversational eloquence is with me around the clock.

  “Carpenter, it’s Steven Thurmond.”

  “Steven, I’m glad you called.”

  “What kind of deal can you
get me?” he asks. I can hear the panic in his voice.

  “It depends on what you have to say. Are you ready to tell what you know?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got no choice.”

  “Are you at home now?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  This is getting frustrating. “How do you want to play this, Steven? You need to trust me.”

  “I’ll meet you in the morning,” he says. “You tell me where.”

  “My office,” I say, and I give him the Van Houten Street address. “I have to be in court at nine, so I’ll meet you there at seven.”

  He hesitates. “Okay.”

  “Steven, you’re doing the right thing.”

  “Yeah,” he says, without sounding close to convinced. Which in turn means that I’m not convinced he’s going to be there.

  I go back to sleep, no easy task after that phone call. Steven Thurmond sounds like he’s standing on the edge, and can fall either way. I need him to fall our way at seven o’clock.

  I’m up at five thirty, have some coffee, and take Tara and Sebastian for a quick walk. Once I bring them back, I head down to the office, because I want to be there when Thurmond arrives.

  If he arrives.

  My office is a second-floor walk-up above Sofia Hernandez’s fruit stand. She and her daughter are setting up for the day, preparing to open at 7:00 A.M., in twenty minutes.

  I open the ground-floor door, and that’s when I hear the noise. It sounds like a firecracker, but I’ve heard that sound enough times to know that it’s a gunshot.

  My first thought is that Thurmond is up there, and he’s killed himself. But I still pull back; it’s not exactly a natural instinct of mine to head toward the sound of a gunshot.

  I almost get run over by what seems like a speeding bus, but it’s actually Marcus Clark, running by me and through the door. It closes behind him, leaving me standing there like a jerk.

  After a few seconds of paralysis that seems like an hour, I grab for my phone and call 911. “I want to report a shooting,” I say, and give my address.

  Just then two more shots are fired, even louder than the earlier one. “Is the shooting continuing?” the operator asks.