The Suitcase

by T V Scribner

  "Yes, sir," Boone replied, “it's a shame I haven't been able to make connect with our informant, yet. We really need to find out what he’s offering, and I assure you, I will take every precaution."

  After ending the call, Boone grabbed the folders off his desk, threw them into a briefcase and walked down the hallway. As he passed through the break room, several of the officers eyed him, giving each other furtive glances, which Boone noticed, but ignored. He knew they sensed something was off about his presence, at the precinct.

  His credentials were impeccable, but a detective, is a detective, and some have a sixth sense. He could see this especially with Officer Smith. Boone could tell his back-story wasn't completely fooling Smith. Boone glanced at the group, as he walked by the room and gave a slight nod, as he continued into the corridor.

  Rounding the corner, Boone entered the locker room to change into more casual attire—faded blue jeans, a dark tee shirt, a blue denim jacket and his boots. Grabbing his Glock, he stuck it in the back of his waistband, chuckling to himself, as he remembered his buddies at the CIA, chiding him about carrying it that way--a round in the chamber and safety off.

  This bad habit had developed in years past, when he worked undercover, in Syria and Afghanistan. He couldn't help it, he liked the feel of the gun in the back of his waistband, he knew it was unorthodox, but he was off duty now. Raised in a military family, he was around guns all his life, and learned to use them at a very early age. His first gun was a little .22 rifle, with a carved butt, which belonged to his Grandpa Boone.

  Grandpa Boone, gave it to Deedrick, on his tenth birthday, and with this gift, came tall tales on star-filled nights, around a campfire on camping trips taken when Boone was young. Smiling at these recollections, Boone left the precinct, heading home to wrap up plans for the arrival of his task force, before time to leave for Casa Café.

  Once Millie left for the day, Paisley became even more engrossed in the flash drive, and after she backed up its contents, she ran a malware/virus check, to be on the safe side. Now that she was about to open it, she felt anxious about what the drive had to offer. She hoped it would hold clues about Gregore, and perhaps even the killer!

  Sadly, it probably contained the ordinary contents of some college or high school student's class notes, who'd been studying at Ben's Burgers. With a guilty feeling, Paisley assuaged her conscience, by telling herself, she would find information that would help return the drive to its rightful owner.

  She opened the drive. It contained ten files, which she began to open one at a time, only to find nothing of interest. The first nine files, contained benign documents, concerning complicated computer game strategies, school schedules, work schedules for Ben's Burgers, etc. The drive might belong to Kamorov, or some other worker at Ben’s.

  However, when she clicked on the tenth file, it was password protected. "Aha!" Paisley whispered excitedly. "Maybe this will reveal something interesting!” She sat tall in her chair, leaning towards her computer, and with trepidation, tried to decide which approach to use, in breaking the password.

  The password was short, according to the number of dots in the password box—perhaps a minimum of eight characters or less, so she decided to use something simple, like the Brute Force method, which tries all possible combinations. The corner safe in her office contained the tools of her trade, and she procured the special disc for such a purpose, inserted it in the DVD drive, and pressed start.

  After waiting forty-five minutes with no results, she decided to try another method, and moved to the Dictionary Attack, which has a dictionary of words, numbers and characters, to crack a password. Using some of her forensics' software, was right up her alley, because as a CFS, legal hacking is what she did—she hacked into computers confiscated, by the police.

  After a little over an hour, the computer stopped and a password appeared on her screen. She stared at the password now revealed—the letters spelled a strange word—chemodan. She thought, "What kind of word is this?"

  CHAPTER 16

  Although puzzled by the word chemodan, Paisley proceeded to enter the password to open the document before her. The document displayed a more difficult-looking encryption, which might be harder to crack. She used the same software to try and decipher it, and while the software worked its magic, Paisley googled the word chemodan, on her work computer.

  The word displayed in Cyrillic characters, which surprised Paisley! Scrolling the list for something in English, she found a music group named chemodan, a restaurant in Russia of the same name, and finally, did the Russian-to-English translation. The Russian word meant suitcase. How weird, she thought?

  She became impatient with the time it was taking to decrypt the document. But suddenly, the computer whirred to a stop, and as if a key had been put in a keyhole to open a door, the screen sprang to life revealing some coordinates and a crude map. The map contained Cyrillic characters, as did, the body of the document, just like the password. There were no clues contained in the document produced, as to what the narrative included. This was a more sophisticated encryption, and would need to be handled later, when she had more time.

  Paisley felt as if she found a treasure map, and was captivated by this turn of events! Copying everything on the file to her computer, she then encrypted it, to save to a private, password-protected file on her laptop, and also saved a copy to her private, password-protected external hard drive.

  She printed several copies, one of which, she put in a manila folder, to place in the office safe, but decided to bring the other hard copy with her, to show Boone. The thought of Boone, caused her to glance at the office clock, "Ahh!”she said out loud. She hadn’t planned to spend so much time on her computer, because she agreed to meet Boone, at half past six.

  According to the clock, she should have left twenty minutes ago, and here she sat, with a desk still needing to be straightened, before she could leave. She texted Boone, letting him know she’d be a few minutes late, and grabbed the second printed copy of the file. Will I share these papers with Boone? I’ll need to make a judgment call, once I get to the cafe.

  Instead, she stuffed the folder into her aged purse/briefcase/computer bag, which was like an old friend. It had accompanied her everywhere, for years. Thank goodness it's leather, she thought, or it probably would have disintegrated long ago. Over the years, the leather, had aged, and cracked on the corners, yet was supple and soft from use. The leather was the equivalent of the patina on copper. Throwing its strap over her shoulder, she grabbed her jacket and ran out the door.

  Boone waited for Ingles in the entry of the crowded cafe. The waitress directed him to a table and he asked for two menus, then ordered a beer. The waitress delivered it, and he took a sip, looked around the room and decided to go over his case notes, while he waited.

  His cell phone lit up in his pocket with the text from Paisley, but his phone was off, so he didn't notice, nor did he receive her call to apologize for being so late, which went to voicemail. While he waited, he delved into his notes, unaware of the passing time.

  As Paisley drove, she puzzled over the information on the flash drive, and the effort it took to crack the file's password. Her imagination went wild. Maybe the murderer dropped it? Or maybe it belonged to the mystery man, who had appeared in her office, earlier in the day. However, it was probably Gregore’s, and the encrypted part was a love letter to his girlfriend, or something. Anyway, she still wanted to know what it said.

  But what about the mystery man who'd tried to claim it? Could he be the killer, or just a friend? Pondering this, she realized both Ben and Millie, said the mystery man called it a thumb drive. Coincidence? I'll have to compare the descriptions of both men tomorrow, to see if they are one-in-the-same.

  Other things bothered her too. I wish I hadn’t picked up the flash drive that morning, because now I’ve compromised fingerprints. I meant well when I picked it up, but now I can’t help it…I want to see what else it contains, on the chance th
at it reveals a clue. If it does, I’ll have to turn it over to the police.

  Eager to get to Casa Café, she drove a little faster, because missing this dinner meeting was not an option. Along with a discussion of the day's events, Boone would be interested in what she’d discovered, she was sure of it! Perhaps he would advise her about turning over the flash drive, or would he scold her? Ten minutes later, she pulled into a parking place.

  Before exiting her car, she twisted her pony tail into a bun, and stuck in several bobby pins to hold it. Scurrying towards the entrance, she failed to notice the older car following her into the parking lot, and parking further back in the lot, hidden in the long shadows of the tall trees, at the far end of the lot.

  Paisley rushed into the little Mexican cafe, ignored the stares she received from her whirlwind entrance, and glanced around until she spotted Boone. Unfortunately, as she headed towards his booth, she almost knocked down the waitress, attempting to seat her. The flurry of excitement and noise created, startled Boone, and he looked around to see what caused such a stir, only to find it was Ingles, arriving at his table.

  She apologized to the poor waitress, who finally succeeded in handing her a menu, only to notice that two menus were already on the table. So much for low-key and covert, Boone thought, amused by this spectacle. People stared, as Paisley sat down and took off her jacket, and settled into the comfortable leather booth.

  Resting her arms on the light-oak, heavily varnished table-top, with its glassy appearance in the dim light, water spots were noticeable, where the table had been wiped, with a too-wet, rag. Finally, the people returned to their meals, and the chattering increased in volume, once more.

  When the waitress returned, Paisley ordered a Diet Coke, before turning towards Boone, to say, with a sheepish look on her face, "So sorry I'm late. I apologize."

  "No problem," he smiled, glanced at the menu and said, "Let's order."

  Casa Café, was Paisley’s favorite, and although she didn't come often, she loved the atmosphere created by the cow skulls and serapes hanging on walls, and the large faux cactus plants in terra cotta pots, placed strategically around the dining area. There were miniature sombreros sitting on baskets of napkins, next to the bottles of fiery hot-sauce, as Mariachi music filtered through the speakers and blended with the room chatter. It seemed a quirky place to be found in the middle of Minnesota, she thought.

  The waitress brought salsa, with chips, which were warm and crisp, and Paisley ordered her favorite dish, chili rellenos, while Boone ordered fajitas. The waitress headed to the kitchen to place their orders, and Paisley relaxed, as they progressed from how-was-your-day, to other topics.

  "So, do you think this is a random murder?" She began. "Is there any speculation as to whether it will be investigated as premeditated? Or, do you think it was accidental, as in collateral damage from a robbery-gone-bad?"

  She waited for his response with a questioning expression on her face, as she selected a tortilla chip from the basket the waitress had deposited on the table. When she bit into it, it fractured into pieces, which rained down on the table. She ignored the mishap, while brushing the crumbled pieces into her hand and making a small pile on the right side of the table.

  An amused look appeared on Boone's face, as he watched her do this. "Well," he paused, and looked into her beautiful amber eyes, then answered, "I think you and I both know that there's something unusual about this case," and having said this, he turned his attention to his food which had just been delivered, and added after several bites, "What do you think?"

  Her meal arrived also, but she was still reeling from his blue eyes, that stared right into her being. This caused her to pause a moment, until she recovered and said, "I don't consider it a robbery, since the registers weren't touched. Perhaps Kamorov had enemies, and they decided to attack him?"

  Boone didn't respond, but took several more bites of his food, instead. She fell silent just as the waitress arrived to see if everything tasted all right. They both answered yes, then concentrated on their meals.

  Boone appeared more interested in her knowledge and thoughts about the case. This surprised and annoyed her. She gave opinions to his questions, but couldn't figure out why he avoided answering hers? When she asked a question, he found ways to change the subject to avoid answering, then turned the questions back to her.

  "This food is delicious," she said, when they were both finished. But she really wanted to say, “I thought the we were working together!” Instead she asked, “What about the autopsy? You said you wanted to talk to me about it?”

  "Yes, I thought you might like to go down to the Ramsey County Medical Examiner's Office with me." He put his napkin on the table and pushed his plate away. "The body was sent down there yesterday and I received a call from the coroner that the autopsy would be performed at 10:30, in the morning. So, if you'd like to come...?"

  "Yes, I would!" she said excitedly, and they agreed to meet the following morning at 7:00 a.m., which would give them plenty of time to get down to Ramsey County, by 10:30.

  At least the invitation to the autopsy made her feel more included, yet her intuition told her something else was going on with him. She decided to do a little checking on his background, when she had a moment. She thought he seemed different from the other detectives she worked with at the PPD, but then again, maybe it was because he came from back East, where things were done differently.

  Even though she wanted to tell Boone about the information found on the flash drive, her instincts told her not to discuss it with him just yet, because after all, even she wasn't sure of its relevance. The flash drive would need more probing. Besides his matter-of-fact-ness, made her feel as if he had one-upped her. During the meal, she divulged more thoughts on the case than he did!

  Nevertheless, she was unable to mask her excitement, when he said she could attend the autopsy. She knew the hint of a smile on his face, appeared to be more of amusement, than mirth, because it was obvious to her, that he totally read the her facial expression, and knew she was pleased. Darn, she thought!

  Paisley’s competitive nature was activated. Now she wanted her fair share of reciprocal information, but before she could say anything more, the waitress arrived with the check. Boone stood, glanced at the bill, pulled money from his pocket and handed it to the waitress.

  "Ready to go?" he asked, as he turned to Paisley, and she stood.

  "Thank you," she said, and attempted to leave a tip.

  "No, no," he said and stopped her hand, "I'm taking care of this." He smiled at her, then turned and led the way out of the restaurant. Once outside, they said their goodbyes, and went their separate ways.

  On the way back to her Aunt's farm, Paisley re-played the dinner in her head, and it occupied her mind until she made the turn, onto CR 38. Again, she felt someone was following her, as another pair of headlights made the same turn. After several miles, she dismissed it, as being her imagination. Paisley noticed a car, lagging further and further behind, and ten minutes later, turning into the farm's driveway, she parked and switched off the engine and headlights, then waited to see if the other car would drive by.

  Several minutes later a car came down the road and continued south, so her fears evaporated and she breathed a sigh of relief, then climbed out of the car and entered the farm house. After the busy day, she felt exhausted. When she entered the mudroom and headed into the kitchen, to put her things on the table, she saw a note propped against a small vase on the table.

  Paisley read the note from Aunt Olga, with great concern:

  My dear Paisley,

  Uncle Vlad being taken to hospital in cities, for more tests. Good friend to drive me down to be with him, and I stay with her or at hospital. Might be gone for a while, but no worries for you. Number to call me is on refrigerator.

  Love, Aunt Olga.

  Paisley felt saddened by the news, but maybe her Aunt's presence would comfort Uncle Vlad, making his stay at the hospital easie
r. He would certainly get the help he needed from a bigger hospital, with its specialists. The note was left on the table, and she went to her room, for the night.

  CHAPTER 17

  Russia

  Zolotov had tasked Ivan Belenski, to take his message to the Public Library, to be sent to Tazvoshenko, in a small town near Moscow, in Russia. Russia is eight hours ahead of Minnesota, so it would be 2:30 a.m., Wednesday, in Russia when the email arrived. It wouldn't be seen until Tazvoshenko arrived at his office, around seven in the morning.

  The location of Boris Tazvoshenko's small, drab office, existed within the confines of an old warehouse, located in a dilapidated area, on the outskirts of Moscow. His assistant, Nestor Yakimov, usually the first to arrive, let himself in and entered his cubicle, then booted the computer on his desk. Typing in his password, he saw one message in the inbox, which according to the time stamp, arrived very early that morning.

  He clicked on it, and noted the encryption and address, and knew Tazvoshenko, was the only one who could open it, with his personal password. Yakimov jumped, as Tazvoshenko burst through the door, into the ante-room where Yakimov sat at his desk.

  Yakimov said, "Important message came in last night, for only you to open."

  Boris growled in response and continued to power across the small ante-room to his office, where he entered, then slammed the door behind him.

  Yakimov, scurried over to a metal counter and sink, with a small cupboard above it, to begin making his boss a morning cup of espresso. Before he finished, he heard a muffled roar from the office, and knew his boss was more upset than usual. With the espresso ready, he poured a cup, set it on a tray, and with wobbly legs, walked to the office door, and timidly rapped on it—not sure what to expect.