Network of Deceit

by Tom Threadgill

  24

  Amara spent the rest of the afternoon going through Zachary’s bank statements and phone records and doing more research on the teenagers. Three hours after beginning the review, she had one additional piece of solid information. His bank account was completely normal. Regular direct deposits from his job at Target, but not near enough to explain the hidden cash. No overdrafts, nothing unusual in his spending habits. However he’d gotten the money, the answer wasn’t in the bank statements.

  The cell records weren’t much more helpful. More texts than phone calls, but not many of either, and all of those came from his mother, father, or grandmother. Nothing on the day of his death.

  As for Liam, Matias, and Haley, zilch. No arrest records. No speeding tickets. No social media. Some of those big-time commentators on TV news would say the lack of any suspicious activity was fishy enough to prove they were doing something wrong. Good luck getting a DA to sign off on that.

  She stretched, performed her shut-down pack-up ritual, and headed for her car. In the parking garage, a trio of cops—two in uniform and the unmistakable profile of Rutledge—stood near the door. She angled away from them and kept her head low. A confrontation now wouldn’t do her any good. Her reaction might be career-ending.

  “Alvarez!”

  She stopped, closed her eyes, and sighed. “Have a good evening, Travis.”

  “Get over here. Got some people want to meet ya.”

  Her neck tightened in a vise. Maybe he didn’t mean it that way. Like she worked for him. Or was somehow less than he was. Nah. He did. She smiled and walked toward the group, picturing with each step where she would stand, what defensive posture she would assume, and how she would attack. Travis didn’t realize it, but the fight was already over. All he had to do was say the wrong thing.

  The two officers extended their hands and introduced themselves. After an awkward moment, she gave the nice-to-meet-you wave and turned back toward her car.

  “Hold up,” Rutledge said. “What you two boys might not realize is that Alvarez here is the Queen of Cotulla. You’ve heard of her, right? Couldn’t miss that pretty face splashed all over TV and the paper. Goes to show you that looks can get you places.”

  “Yeah?” Amara said. “Guess that explains why you never got anywhere.”

  One of the cops laughed and Rutledge’s face reddened.

  “I earned my way,” he said. “Something you wouldn’t know about.”

  Her tension faded as she stared at him. This was too comical to deal with. Rutledge was a caricature inflated by his own self-importance. Not worth the effort. There’d be no stereotypical big bad bully taken down by righteous little girl. “Nice to meet you two officers,” she said. “Detective, I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

  As she walked to her vehicle, Rutledge’s laughter echoed through the garage. The sound was loud, grating, and alone.

  She crawled into bed shortly after midnight. An almost two-hour workout and a one-hour apology session with Larry had kept her up later than planned. The lizard finally caved and accepted her apology, but not before she’d offered spinach and mango as a peace offering.

  The drive home had been uneventful, but she found herself checking the rearview mirror often. Rutledge wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow her or “accidentally” run into her away from work. Too much could go wrong for him. She knew that, but did he?

  She scratched her nose, switched off the lamp on the end table, and scooted under the covers. Exhaustion weighed on her and the anxiety had returned. Dinner tonight at Mama’s would be emotional. Questions and no answers. Fear and no relief. This was going to be one of those nights when she stared at the clock and told herself that if she went to sleep right now, she could get five hours of rest. Then four and a half hours. Then four . . .

  She stirred and checked the time on her phone. 4:15. Falling asleep had been easier than expected. Her body insisted on another hour in bed, and her mind capitulated without a battle. In a little bit she’d roll out and throw on some clothes for an early morning jog but for now, a few more minutes in the quiet of her bedroom were in order.

  The quiet.

  Why was it so quiet? She blinked several times and propped herself up on an elbow. No whir from the ceiling fan or electrical hum from the heaters in Larry’s room. No night-light reflecting from the bathroom. None of the tiny red or green or yellow lights from the assortment of devices plugged in around the space.

  Great. The power’s out.

  She shuffled through the hall into the living room and peeked out the front curtains. Weird. Lights were on in some of the other apartments.

  No.

  She clenched her fists and strode to retrieve her cell phone from the bedroom. They’d had her power turned off. Bad move. Lack of sleep always made her grumpy. Today that would be taken to a new level.

  The utility company confirmed that yes, someone had phoned with her account number and password to have the service turned off as soon as possible. And yes, they’d be happy to turn it back on after she paid the reconnection fee. She was welcome to do that now with a credit card or with any form of payment at any of their convenient locations around town.

  Amara informed the customer service rep that she’d changed all her passwords recently. How could someone without the newest code access her account?

  The rep said that if someone had her account number and the answers to her security questions, the power company would accept them as the actual customer.

  The security questions? Where she went to grade school? Her pet’s name? Anyone with any skill could find that info easily enough. Her hands shook as she disconnected the call. She’d seen the old telephones in the movies. The ones where the bulky object sat on a desk and a person could slam down the receiver if they were angry. The bell would ring from the force, accentuating the effect. It would not be a bad thing to bring those phones back.

  Her credit card was locked by choice, so she’d have to wait until later in the morning to get the power turned on. Lucky for whichever representative had to wait on her. She’d have time to double up her morning run and work out some of the aggression before then. Or more accurately, add the anger toward the ever-growing arrow aimed directly at the three teens.

  Someone was talking. Liam or Haley or Matias.

  And they were doing it soon.

  She smiled as the idea blossomed. If she couldn’t apply enough pressure, she knew who could.

  Three teenagers. Two living at home with their parents.

  Wonder how Mom and Dad would feel about a homicide detective visiting them at work?

  After a long run and a short shower in her dark bathroom, she waited in an all-night diner for the power company to open. The coffee was strong and bitter, the kind you drink because you need it, not because you like it. She opted for wheat toast, unbuttered, no jelly. The dryness of the bread forced her to wash it down with the coffee. She could dunk the toast and let it disintegrate, then down the whole thing in a few gulps. Combine two evils into one disgusting elixir. She shoved both away. Not that desperate. Yet.

  Still an hour to kill before she could get the electricity turned on. Might as well get some work done. Track down the teenagers’ parents and try to figure out if and where they worked. She followed the usual security procedures to log onto the diner’s Wi-Fi, then opened her email program. First thing was to clear out the 95 percent of daily generic office communication. Reminders that if you haven’t filled out this or that form for HR yet, now is the time. Tips on communicating effectively with the public or your coworkers. Should mark that one urgent and forward it to Rutledge. Links to articles with volunteer opportunities.

  And an email from Eugenia Coleman, Zachary’s grandmother, sent an hour ago. The woman sure gets up early. Probably goes to bed before dark though. Sounds wonderful.

  Ms. Coleman gave her address and phone number. Said she wanted to ask a few questions and wondered if there was a time they could get together t
oday? Um, not likely. The woman was a low priority. Talking to her might reveal some insights into Zachary’s life but not enough to bump her to the top of the interview list. Besides, the grandmother would want all the details about the investigation. Information Amara couldn’t give, either because she didn’t know the answer or the woman didn’t need to know. Maybe when this was all over, but not now.

  She typed a short response saying that she had a packed schedule but would touch base if she had any questions. In other words, Don’t call me, I’ll call you. How’s that for communicating with the public? She hit the send button and coughed as a toast crumb embedded itself in her throat.

  An email from Eduardo Sanchez, sent late last night, said he hoped to have the security consultant’s report this morning. Once he’d had a chance to review it, he’d contact her to discuss. She fired off a quick “thanks” to let him know she’d received the message. Short and to the point. Nothing that could be interpreted as anything other than what it was.

  His invitation for a dinner date once the investigation ended still hung out there. She’d have to deal with that then. Once she figured out exactly what her relationship with Starsky was. Brother or confidant or boyfriend. Everything seemed to be in place for the third option except the physical attraction. Sweet guy, great friend. Not what you’d call classically handsome though. Nice, Amara. Shallow enough for you?

  She punished herself with another sip of the coffee and searched the internet for Bexar County property records. Each of the teenagers’ homes would be listed there, along with recent appraised values and owner names.

  One person, Nicole, for Liam’s address. Single mom? Two names, Daniel and Silvia, for Matias’s. And the owners of Haley’s house had a different last name, confirming Amara’s suspicions that the place was a rental. She jotted down the information to contact later if needed.

  Nicole Walker’s social media listed her as a physical therapist at a privately owned clinic not far from here. The facility opened a few minutes ago, though no guarantee Ms. Walker started that early. Worth the drive to kill time until the power company opened.

  She slid out of the booth and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. Way more than necessary but best get her good deed done early.

  Tonight’s dinner at Mama’s promised a rough end to the day.

  25

  Amara studied the young man at the receptionist desk. Midtwenties, coiffed dark hair with blond highlights, and too-small round glasses. His khakis, dress shirt, and tie said professional. The cheek stubble, bloodshot eyes, and still-damp hair said late night and early morning. She nodded. “Is Nicole Walker in yet?”

  He leaned forward and tapped on a clipboard resting on the counter. “She is.” He clenched his jaw and forced a yawn through his nose. “Sign in, please, and I need to make a copy of your insurance card. Are you a new patient?”

  “I’m not a patient. I just need to speak to Ms. Walker for a few minutes. In private.”

  The corners of his mouth dropped. “I’m sorry, but policies prohibit anyone except employees and patients from going beyond the waiting area. I’d be happy to let her know you’re here, Ms. . . . ?”

  “Alvarez. Amara Alvarez.”

  He stood and took a step backward. “And will she know what this is regarding?”

  The automatic door behind her slid open as a woman, her right knee resting on one of those rolling crutch things, scooted in line. Amara lowered her voice. “I doubt it. She’s not expecting me.”

  “She’s not? Perhaps you could leave your name and number and she can call you later?”

  “Unfortunately, that won’t work for me. I just need a couple of minutes. Family emergency thing, okay?”

  His eyes narrowed and the tiniest of frowns appeared. He didn’t believe her. “I’m sorry, but as I said earlier, Ms. Walker is very busy today. If you’d like to leave your information, perhaps she can contact you on her lunch break.”

  Her muscles tightened. Today just gets better and better. Fine. Playing the cop card might work to her benefit anyway. She counted five breaths, each slower than the last, before flipping open her SAPD identification and raising her voice. “Here’s my insurance card. Alvarez, Homicide. Want to make a copy of it?”

  His head flinched backward and he hurried around the desk to open the door leading to the back. “Second room on the left, please. I’ll let her know you’re waiting.”

  “Thanks.” She tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows. “Uh, sorry about the scene back there. No offense.”

  The cold look on his face was his only response. He ushered her into a small office and strode off to find Ms. Walker. A pair of beige leather chairs with brass tack outlines sat on this side of a wooden desk. She maneuvered them until they faced each other, then sat in the one that allowed her a view of the entrance. The squeak of tennis shoes on tile floor echoed her direction and a moment later, a woman stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

  Amara stood and extended her hand. “Nicole Walker?”

  “Yes.” The woman closed her fingers into a fist and held it out. “Sorry. Germs and all.”

  “No problem.” Amara gave her a fist bump. “I’m Detective Alvarez. Sorry to bother you at work, but I was hoping you could help me with a case I’m investigating.”

  Ms. Walker blinked rapidly and scrubbed her palms on her thighs. “What’s this about? Darryl said you worked in Homicide? Is Liam okay?”

  Amara motioned to a chair. “Your son is fine. Please, sit. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  The woman sat on the edge of the seat, hunched forward with her hands clasped and her left knee bouncing. “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

  “I’m trying to resolve a few questions surrounding the death of Zachary Coleman. He was a friend of Liam’s. Did you know him?”

  “Um, I maybe met him a couple of times in passing. Liam’s friends don’t come over very often. He OD’d, didn’t he?”

  “Has Liam ever said anything negative about Zachary? Any fights between them that you’re aware of?”

  “No, I, uh, none I can think of.” Her leg stopped moving and she straightened. “What’s this about? You think my son had something to do with that boy’s death?”

  Here we go. “Ma’am, has Liam made any large purchases recently? Done anything out of the ordinary? Acted strangely?”

  “What? No. Of course not. I can assure you he had nothing to do with the young man’s death.”

  No, you can’t. Amara stood, handed over a business card, and walked to the door. “Ms. Walker, I believe your son has knowledge that could help me in my investigation. I’m not saying he did anything. I’m also not saying he didn’t. What I do know is there are at least three people who have information about Zachary Coleman’s death. Someone is gonna tell me what I want to know, and that person will be labeled as cooperating with police. The others go to the back of the line.”

  “Detective, please, wait. Liam doesn’t know—”

  “I’ve taken enough of your time.” She opened the door and stepped into the hall. “And I have several other people to see. Have a nice day.”

  She stopped by the power company’s customer service location to change her security questions and get the electricity turned back on, an ordeal which lived down to her expectations. Technology was supposed to make things easier. Less complicated. Uh-huh.

  Afterward, she drove to a park and found a bench in the shade. Her energy level sagged as the caffeine and emotions gave way to the lack of sleep. She’d either have to stay busy or schedule a nap.

  A squirrel inched toward her, pausing every so often to rear up and scout its surroundings. “Sorry, buddy. Got nothing for you.” The rodent chattered and moved within a few feet before abandoning its quest and returning to a tree.

  Her phone’s ringing jump-started her heart. Sanchez. “Good morning.”

  “And to you, Detective. I just emailed you a copy of the report from the
consultant. Wasn’t sure if you wanted to review it before speaking?”

  “Can you bottom-line it for me? Got kind of a hectic day going.”

  “Of course. As you suspected, we were hacked. Or, as the expert put it, there were signs of unauthorized network intrusions.”

  “Yeah? Could she tell what they were after?”

  “She said she discovered two back doors. Ways for whoever broke into the system to easily return whenever they wanted. The initial hack seems to have been caused by an employee opening an email attachment. As for what they were after, we’re not sure. The report has a lot of talk about using checksums to compare the original programs to what was on our server.”

  “Sorry. You said checksums?”

  He chuckled. “I had to ask too. When a software developer issues a new program or update or whatever, they run an algorithm that spits out a long number called the checksum. Say you’re downloading software. You want to make sure what you downloaded is what the developer put out. Nothing lost in transmission. The checksum of the file on your computer should be identical to the checksum of the original file. If anything’s different, a period missing, an extra space, an a instead of an e, the checksums won’t match.”

  She massaged her forehead. “So the numbers didn’t agree. That’s how she knew something changed.”

  “Precisely. And that’s how she was able to identify where the hacker went. Or at least what they modified. They could look at anything, and as long as they didn’t make any changes, we wouldn’t know they were there. For example, employee data and guests’ credit card information weren’t breached.”

  “So did she identify any specific areas of concern?”

  “They obviously got into our security software. Cameras and keycards mostly. We’ve reset all the codes and she closed the back doors. They were also in the programming that controls our rides. We triple-checked everything and there’s no evidence of any tampering.”