A Dangerous Identity

by Russell Fee

  The manager offered a detailed and unflattering description of Danny: a boney snot of a kid with dirty straw hair, a pinched face, baggy clothes, and an attitude. Danny leaned against a column of used tires in the dockyard smoking a cigarette when Amanda walked up to him, identified herself, and showed him her badge. He blew a cloud of smoke at her and then turned to the side and spit on the ground. “What do you want?” he asked. His voice was pitched to the edge of a whine.

  “I want to ask you about the night the Raggedy Anne pushed a barge to the island and you saw something happen on the yacht Odyssey.”

  “What? How did . . . He said that . . . Shit. Am I in trouble?” asked Danny.

  “No, and you’re not going to be in trouble. I just need answers to some questions about what you saw. That’s all,” said Amanda.

  “I need this job. I don’t want to lose it. I can’t afford to,” said Danny, the whine in his voice rising. “My girlfriend wants to get married,” he added.

  “You’ll be fine. You won’t lose your job. I’ll make sure your employer knows you’ve done nothing wrong and aren’t implicated in any way in any wrongdoing. You’re just one of several people we’re interviewing who may have witnessed something. We’ll be interviewing the captain and engineer too. It’s routine,” said Amanda.

  “I’m trying to change my life. My girlfriend said I should tell what I saw. That it was the right thing to do. I shouldn’t have listened to her,” said Danny, unconvinced.

  “Your girlfriend was right, Danny. You should listen to her. Now please tell me what you saw that night. You’ll be a better person for it, and your girlfriend will be proud of you,” said Amanda.

  Danny shook his head and Amanda thought he was refusing to talk. Then he said, “I don’t need to tell you.”

  “It’s true you don’t have to answer my questions—” began Amanda, but Danny interrupted her.

  “No, you don’t understand. I don’t need to tell you,” said Danny, emphasizing the word tell.

  “Why not?” asked Amanda, confused.

  “Because I videoed everything. It’s all on my smart phone,” said Danny.

  * * *

  Danny had emailed the video to Amanda, and Callahan and Nick watched as she played it for them for the third time on her phone. Danny had a new, high-end, dual-camera phone with a telephoto zoom, not a digital zoom. His girlfriend gave it to him for his birthday, and he had started videoing the Odyssey to show her what life on the lake was like for him and how well the camera worked. When he showed the video to her, she was adamant—he had to tell someone about it.

  The camera had worked very well. It captured and magnified the ambient light of the evening to illuminate the ship and surrounding water like early dusk. Danny had used the telephoto function for part of the video, which significantly enlarged the image without reducing the resolution. When the video started, the silhouettes of two people could be seen standing near the railing of an upper deck. From the size and shape of the shadows, one appeared to be a man and the other a woman. As the video played, the two began to struggle, and the woman fell overboard into the water. She disappeared before resurfacing behind the yacht. The man vanished from the deck, and the yacht slowed and began to make a turn. Searchlights scanned the water before converging on the woman who was swimming away from the yacht. The yacht then completed its turn, picked up speed, and churned over the spot where the lights had found her. The video ended there.

  God bless that girlfriend, thought Callahan.

  Chapter 84

  Nick set the blue index card on Callahan’s desk and slid it toward Callahan.

  “What’s this?” Callahan looked up from the notes he was making and examined the card.

  “These are the listening devices I found at the station,” said Nick.

  Callahan peered at the card again and then shrugged. “I don’t see anything,” he said

  “Here, take a closer look,” said Nick and handed him a small magnifying glass.

  Callahan slowly moved the glass over the card. Barely visible were three strips of clear tape with what looked like a human hair attached to each. “How— ” Callahan started to speak but Nick jumped in with the explanation Callahan wanted.

  “I found them on the windows of the station. They were all but invisible. Each has a tiny chip—it’s almost microscopic—with a super thin wire attached. That’s the transmitter. The tape picks up vibrations from the window glass. When anyone talks in the station, the sound waves strike the glass causing it to vibrate. The vibrations are transmitted to a receiver somewhere outside the station. The receiver converts the vibrations to sounds. Those sounds are the words of your conversations. These devices can detect and distinguish the vibrations from separate voices even when people are talking at the same time.”

  “How long have they been here?” asked Callahan.

  “It’s hard to say. This technology has been around for a while, but these are the latest versions. And they are very, very expensive. They’ve not been on the market long. Less than a year,” said Nick.

  “Did you—”

  Nick interrupted Callahan again. “Yes, I did. I checked all the windows in your house, and they’re clean of listening devices. I thought you might want me to do that. I hope you don’t mind,” said Nick.

  Callahan wondered, not for the first time, how Nick could anticipate what someone was going to say and either answer their unspoken question or complete their thought for them. He found it an annoying idiosyncrasy but fascinating. Nick was rarely wrong.

  Callahan gestured toward the chair in front of his desk, and Nick sat down.

  “What about the two women?” he asked.

  Nick cleared his throat and then said, “They served time together at the Logan Correctional Center in Illinois, a prison for female offenders. They both received a college associate degree in computer science there.” Nick reached into his back pocket and took out a folded wad of paper. He fumbled with it until he’d separated three sheets of paper. “My notes,” he said.

  “No offense, Nick, but for a techie isn’t paper and pen a bit prehistoric? I was expecting to be dazzled with the latest in electronic presentation,” said Callahan.

  Nick glanced up from his notes with a worried look. “You’re kidding. Right?” he said.

  Callahan smiled.

  Nick chuckled uneasily. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “Moving on, things get interesting. Upon their release, they hooked up in Illinois for a time where they worked concessions at demolition derbies. After a while, they worked their way up and into the cars and begin participating in demolition, drag, and entry level circuit racing. Then they moved to LA. There, they become stunt drivers for TV. Their careers in high crime begin after that. There’s apparently a vigorous market for getaway drivers, especially female.”

  “Who hired them?” asked Callahan.

  Nicked squirmed in the chair and then sat up straight. “Here’s how that worked,” he began. “Criminals who specialize in high-skilled and high-paying crimes advertise their services on the dark web. So, I began my search there. Normally they don’t do the advertising themselves. It’s done through surrogates.

  “These intermediaries find clients for those they represent, those who want violent, dangerous, or high-risk crimes committed. Payments for services rendered are made through these surrogates. The surrogates conceal their identities behind firewalls and by other protective measures. The criminals also mask their identities. Further, those who hire on the dark web disguise the source of their payments. Jobs get done and paid for, but no one knows who anyone is. Also, all communications are conducted through encrypted sites that eradicate communications within a set time. In other words, everything disappears and is virtually untraceable.”

  “So, we’re at another damn dead end,” said Callahan.

  “Not necessarily. I discovered something. It’s not what you were after, but it’s critical and may involve Susan Gibbons’ case.” Nick paused
.

  “What did you find out?” asked Callahan.

  “You need special software to gain entry to the dark web. I hacked the software, and then posed on the web as someone who needed a job done quickly that involved females with the skill set of our two women. Several surrogates with cloaked identities contacted me. They directed me to different encrypted sites and then asked for specifics. I described a job that required our women’s exact skills and experience. One surrogate said that the pair I sought wasn’t available. I suspected then that I’d flushed out their intermediary. From there, I tracked his or her presence on the web. It wasn’t difficult. He or she surfed every site I’d been directed to.

  “On one of those sites I came across an ad for a job that also had to be accomplished quickly.” Nick folded his notes and stuck them back in his pocket without taking his eyes off Callahan. “The ad was incomprehensible to anyone outside of a select group that knows how to interpret it. I had to penetrate similar ads when I worked for the NSA and recognized it for what it was. You must submerge to the deepest levels of the dark web to gain entry. You undergo a vetting process before you’re let in. I created a digital shadow that eventually passed muster. It took time, but, after several tries, I was successful.”

  “And what’s the job?” asked Callahan.

  “A contract has been placed on Bland’s life. There’s a bounty on his head. Someone is offering two million dollars to have him killed.”

  Chapter 85

  When Elizabeth Chambers entered Callahan’s office with Bland, she instantly shoved the room’s atmosphere into its four corners and replaced it with her presence. With no preliminaries, she began beating a drumroll of conditions for the interview and rearranging the seating in the office. She pulled the two chairs facing Callahan’s desk farther back into the room and positioned them so one was to the side but in front of the other. She angled the chairs toward the door, forcing Callahan and Amanda to move their chairs around from behind the desk. She ordered Bland to sit in the rear chair. She then assumed a commanding stance beside her client and laid a protective hand on his shoulder. Amanda struggled to stifle a laugh.

  Chambers and her client were a study in contrasts. She posed, statuesque, in a bone-white designer pantsuit. The partially unbuttoned silk blouse under her slim-collared jacket revealed the glitter of a gold necklace. A large diamond blinked on her left hand. The lattice of her black sandals dressed two ranks of perfectly pedicured ruby-red nails. And what did her billion-dollar client wear? Cargo shorts, a faded red t-shirt (torn at the neck), flipflops, and a three-day beard. They looked like the setup for a skit on Saturday Night Live.

  “If we’re all agreed to my stated conditions we can start; if not, this interview is over before it begins. My client is here voluntarily, so it’s up to you.” Chambers swiveled her head, looking first toward Callahan and then Amanda.

  Amanda glanced over at Callahan with a look that said What the hell? and waited for him to react.

  “Good morning, Miss Chambers. I hope you had a pleasant trip to the island. If you’ll sit down, we can begin,” said Callahan.

  Chambers sat. “That’s Ms.,” she said, dragging the s out as a series of z’s.

  “Certainly,” said Callahan, opening the computer on his desk and turning it to face Chambers and Bland. “We’re investigating the death of a Susan Gibbons, an island resident. We’re going to show you a video that was taken by a deckhand on a tug in lake Michigan. Then I want to ask you some—”

  “Hold on a minute, is my client implicated in her death?” interrupted Chambers.

  “We believe he may be able to help us in our investigation. He is not a suspect at this time,” said Callahan.

  “You’ve already questioned him about her death. Why more questions now?” she persisted.

  “We’ve recently discovered what may be evidence involving her death. We want to ask him what he knows about it, if anything,” said Callahan.

  When Chambers didn’t respond, he said to Bland, “Please note the date and time imprinted on the video.”

  Bland nodded, and Callahan wormed the cursor to the play icon and clicked.

  As the video began to play, both Bland and Chambers scooted their chairs closer to Callahan’s desk. Neither said a word as the video continued.

  When it ended, Callahan said to Bland, “You recognize the ship in this video, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Bland. “It’s the Odyssey.”

  “Do you recognize either of the two people captured in this video?’ he asked.

  “No. How could I? They’re little more than shadows,” answered Bland.

  “Were you on the Odyssey at the time shown in this video?”

  Chambers reached over and put her hand on Bland’s arm to silence him.

  “It’s okay,” he said to her; then to Callahan, “No. I wasn’t.”

  “Where were you?” continued Callahan.

  “As a matter of fact, I remember the date well. I was on Mackinac Island. I was a guest of the governor, one of several. I stayed in his summer residence there. I’m sure you can check with him or anyone on the guest list to verify it.”

  “Do you know who was on the Odyssey at the time shown in the video?”

  “I have no idea. As far as I know, it was supposed to be at anchor in your harbor. Only crew members should have been on board. You’re free to check the manifest, however.”

  “We have,” said Callahan without elaborating. “The company that provides the ship’s officers and crew is cooperating with our investigation,” he added.

  Amanda leaned over and whispered into Callahan’s ear. When she sat back up, he said, “Were you subsequently told, or did you hear or otherwise learn about anything that happened on the yacht that night?”

  “No, as I’ve said, I thought it was in the harbor,” answered Bland.

  “He’s told you he doesn’t know anything about the yacht’s passengers, whereabouts, or what may have happened on it that night. He wasn’t on the ship or even the island. So, is there anything else, or are we done here?” said Chambers.

  “There’s one more thing,” said Callahan.

  Chambers slumped in her chair and sighed with exasperation. “What is it?” she said.

  Callahan turned to her client. “Mr. Bland, there’s a contract out on your life. Someone is willing to pay two million dollars to have you killed.”

  There were several moments of shocked silence. Bland’s jaw literally dropped.

  Then Chambers said, “Who? Who has put a contract out on him?”

  “We don’t know that,” answered Callahan.

  Chambers leaped from her chair and rushed at Callahan. She stopped a foot from his chair and bent over him, her arms at her side with fists clenched.

  “Is this some goddamn ploy? Are you trying to scare my client into revealing incriminating information? Is that it?” she snarled.

  “It’s no ploy Ms. Chambers,” said Callahan, looking up at her. “We have creditable information that your client’s life is in imminent danger.”

  Bland mumbled something, stood up, and started walking out of the office. “I knew it,” he said louder. “The son of a bitch wants me dead.”

  “Who wants you dead?” said Amanda, stepping in front of Bland to block his exit.

  “Get out of my way,” he said and pushed her aside.

  Amanda started to follow him, but Callahan grabbed her arm. “Let him go,” he said.

  “If this is a stunt, Callahan, I’ll have your badge,” Chambers shouted over her shoulder as she trailed her client out of the station.

  Chapter 86

  The war of words between Mrs. Hannity and the revelers at the Back Door had escalated. The two parties now employed missiles and explosives. Mrs. Hannity had taken to lobbing raw eggs at the cars parked on the road in front of her house. The revelers retaliated with fire crackers thrown in her front yard and on her porch in the dead of night. Heaven only knew when the guerrilla tacti
cs would spiral into open warfare, thought Callahan. He wanted to put an end to the conflict before that happened, and he hoped he had the solution. It sat right next to him in the cruiser as he drove to Mrs. Hannity’s property.

  ‘You sure she’s okay with this?” Seamus Kennedy leaned closer to the open window and let the stream of air blast his face for a few seconds. “And the county is on board?” he added.

  “Absolutely, with respect to Mrs. Hannity,” said Callahan. “She’s anxious to talk to you. As far as the county’s concerned, parking is legal day or night on the road in front of her house. So, it won’t allow property owners to obstruct parking. However, a No Parking warning that qualifies as art . . . Callahan let Seamus come to his own conclusion on that one.

  Seamus scratched the whiskers on his chin. “And I’m getting paid?” he asked just for reassurance.

  “You are,” answered Callahan.

  “This is a sweet deal,” said Seamus.

  “It is, and it will promote your art,” said Callahan.

  “I was thinking of putting Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson on two benches on Mrs. Hannity’s front lawn abutting the road. Beside them will be a working lamp post with a hanging sign that reads, Photo Op, Do Not Block,” said Seamus, musing on the composition of his future work of art. “Only a clueless fool would block a view of Michael and Elvis. Anyway, no one’s likely to park in front of the benches day or night because they’ll want to look at or sit and have their pictures taken with sculptures of famous people and won’t want the opportunity prevented by parked cars,” added Seamus.

  “That’s the plan,” said Callahan, having banked on Seamus’s artistic talents being both brilliant and crafty.

  * * *

  Callahan parked the cruiser on the street by the gate that separated the public walkway from the ferry dock. The ferry had just rounded the southern tip of the bay and people were exiting their cars and entering the gate to greet arriving visitors. Passengers to the mainland began to mill about the boarding area. Julie, Max, and the dog were on the ferry; and he was excited to see them. Julie had not wanted to leave the island, but he had insisted, worried beyond reason about her and Max’s safety after the kidnapping. Julie had put her foot down. Being shoved out of harm’s way was no longer in the playbook. She was coming home, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Her job was on the island; he was on the island. It was where she belonged no matter what. But he still worried.