Broken Genius

by Drew Murray

  Okay, I also went out with his sister. It didn’t work out.

  “It’s for work,” I say.

  A pause. He knows where I work now.

  “Someone’s in danger,” I add, echoing the words Burke once spoke to me on the night of the tsunami. “A young woman. She’s been kidnapped. I can’t say more.”

  “Is this official?”

  This is tricky. He’s more likely to agree to an official request than a personal one, but it would still put him, and his employer, in a difficult position, compromising the privacy of their users.

  “Yes,” I reply, “and we’re on the clock.”

  Rick sighs. We were all young when I dated Trish. I’m counting on him to remember those times, and make a connection in his heart between his sister and a kidnapped girl he’s never met.

  “What do you need?” he says, finally.

  Closing my eyes, I silently fist pump the air.

  I waste no time laying it out for him. He listens while I fill him in on the picture, the Google doodle, the browser, the time, and where I am. Then I tell him what I need him to do with that information. It’s possible I spent more time than necessary describing Amanda’s terrified expression and restraints, but I want to make sure he’s committed.

  “Okay,” he says finally. “That’s all the info I would need for what you want. There’s just one more thing.”

  Oh no. Not one more thing. I thought we were going to make this work. This can’t fail because of something I did in the past. Amanda’s life depends on it.

  “I need something from you first—”

  “I know,” I blurt before he can finish. “It’s a lot for me to ask. I’m really sorry about what happened with Trish. She’s terrific, I swear. I didn’t appreciate that and I should have. She can take comfort from the fact that she’s not missing out on anything, though. The last few years haven’t been great.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Then Rick does something I’m not expecting. He laughs.

  “Oh, believe me, she’s not missing out,” he says, taking a breath. “She married a colleague at SpaceX. They went to Musk’s birthday party.”

  I close my eyes and rub my face. This isn’t happening. This is torture. Did I just do that for nothing?

  “Listen,” says Rick, when his laughter fades. “What I need from you is an Electronic Communications Privacy Act warrant. You’re asking for a list of potentially user-identifying information. With how hot privacy and government is right now, my hands are tied. That said, I do appreciate the apology. And I know you’ve had a rough go of it.”

  There’s another pause. Getting a warrant is going to take time, which is in short supply. If Rick won’t move until we have a warrant, the answer may come too late to get Amanda back safely. I pinch my eyes shut and shake my head. I don’t know what else to do.

  When Rick speaks again, there’s a kindness there I’m not sure I deserve. “What you’re doing now, Will. Helping people. It’s a good thing. I’m glad you’re doing it. So, I’ll tell you what, while you’re getting a warrant, I’ll get started on the data pull. You’re talking about moving a mountain of data in search of a pebble. It’s going to take a while anyway. I’ll ping you when it’s ready. And, Will? Thanks.”

  He hangs up. I gasp a deep breath, letting it out slowly through pursed lips. My face is hot and my ears are ringing. I look out the window at the Convention Center again. The tall hotels. The office buildings. And beyond the downtown core, miles and miles of suburbia. Amanda Caplan could be anywhere, but now we’re on the way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Decker’s already there when I get to the station, having set up shop in a conference room. A pad and paper with scribbled notes sit next to a Bureau-issued laptop on the table in front of him. The rest of the floor is unusually quiet. Just a couple of detectives at their desks, slogging away on their computers. No sign of Dana.

  “Nice of you to join us,” says Decker without looking up when I walk in.

  “Had a late night. Where’s Dana?”

  “Detective Lopez is bringing in Farber,” Decker says with a smirk. “Should be here any minute.”

  Griffon and Nassar arrive next, looking spectacularly well rested, paper coffee cups in hand, a familiar green logo peeking out around their fingers.

  “Whoa,” I say, holding up a hand as they enter the room. “There’s a Starbucks?”

  Nassar chuckles. “Amanda Caplan’s hotel is way out by the airport. By the time we were finished talking to the front desk staff, we decided to just stay out there. Don’t worry, Will, you’re not missing anything. This—” she holds up the paper cup—“was courtesy of a machine in the lobby.”

  “Forget the damn coffee. What did you find out?” Decker asks. He’s jumpy today. Irritable. More so than normal.

  “We were lucky,” says Griffon. “We got there just as the shift was changing over. The morning guy remembered Amanda. Early check-in request. Said she’d come straight from the airport.”

  “Why didn’t she stay in the same hotel as her father?” Decker asks, scratching his chin. “It’s downtown, closer to the Convention Center.”

  Nassar shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t want to stay too close to her father’s hotel, if the divorce was ugly. Strained relations?”

  “Or maybe he was protecting her,” says Griffon. “He was here to sell this Fukushima Unicorn after all. He had to have some awareness it was risky.”

  “Or she just booked too late and it was sold out,” I say.

  “Fine, that’s her into the hotel. Then what?” asks Decker, bringing us back to the timeline.

  “All we’ve got is what the front desk clerk told us,” Nassar says, putting her hands on her hips. “There’s no surveillance at all. Like I said, budget. And being out by the airport, this isn’t the kind of place where people hang around in the lobby. So, no other witnesses.”

  “He said she dropped her bags and left pretty much right away,” says Griffon.

  “How? Did she have a rental?” Decker asks.

  “Nope. A car picked her up,” he answers. “The clerk thought it was a ride share. It wasn’t in taxi livery, but Amanda got into the back seat. Nondescript vehicle. Sedan. Light color. Possibly gray, possibly silver, possibly beige. The guy wasn’t real specific. Didn’t see the plates.”

  I pull out my phone. “There can’t be a lot of the ride sharing apps operating in this town.”

  “That’s what we thought, too,” says Griffon, “so we already looked into it.”

  Nassar catches my eye and casts a sideways glance at Griffon. The nod that follows is her way of telling me Griffon’s a solid agent.

  “There’s one,” he continues. “I called them last night and tech support got back to me this morning. They had a no-show at Amanda’s hotel, five minutes after she left. When the driver went to contact the fare, the request was gone. He figured it was a glitch in the system and opened a trouble ticket. If the clerk saw her get into a car, and it wasn’t the ride share, then it had to be the kidnappers.”

  “What about other businesses in the area? Maybe we can get some video footage?” Decker suggests.

  “We looked around. There was a gas station with a camera but it doesn’t have a view of the road,” says Nassar tilting her head at the door. “You may have noticed, this isn’t exactly Midtown Manhattan.”

  Decker continues asking Griffon and Nassar questions about the clerk’s story, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing more to be learned there. Whoever scooped Amanda did it in broad daylight by pretending to be her ride share. Bold. Slick, even. No violence. No resistance. Just took her. Hacking the ride sharing seems too sophisticated for Golovchenko.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Bradley with more info on Hicks. Flew in two days ago. Checked into a hotel. That’s it. That’s all he could pull together without a warrant and without alerting Hicks that he was digging.

  It’s not enough. I need more.

  “Griffon, I’m going to n
eed a couple of warrants.”

  Decker shoots me a dark glare. Apparently, he wasn’t finished asking his repetitive questions.

  “What do you need?” asks Griffon, taking out his phone to take notes.

  I lead off with the Google request. It’s the most important, and may take a little time to secure the warrant under the Electronic Communication Privacy Act. Rick was right, user privacy’s a hot topic. For some reason it’s okay for advertisers to know everything about you: from your sexual preferences to where you order your takeout. But as soon as the government makes a request, such as a list of who’s using a service like Search, people lose their minds.

  “And the other?” asks Griffon as he finishes making notes on his phone.

  “Let’s get a sneak and peek warrant for Martin Hicks’ hotel room.” I don’t want Hicks to know we’re looking, and that type of warrant will let us search the room when he isn’t there.

  Decker huffs at the front of the room, but doesn’t say anything. He said I could look into Hicks and that’s what I’m doing. But I can tell by the way he’s biting his lip that he wants me to drop it, and get back to hunting Dragoniis.

  “I’m on it,” says Griffon. “It may take a bit to get a sneak and peek. But don’t worry, I’ll get it done.” He takes down the details and leaves to find a quiet place to call and set the legal wheels in motion.

  “In the meantime, we need to know where Hicks was last night. We should ask around at his hotel,” I say. Decker’s already vexed, might as well get it all out of the way.

  There’s a commotion at the doors to the squad room. A small crowd of people bursts out of the elevators. Dana’s in the lead with Farber, hands cuffed behind his back. Two uniformed officers follow behind, faces set in grim expressions.

  “I can check on that while you two handle the interview with this Farber guy,” says Nassar.

  I catch up with Dana as she guides Farber into one of the interview rooms, closing the door behind him.

  “Good morning, Agent Parker,” she says.

  Agent Parker? What happened to Will? She reaches out and grabs my arm. To anyone watching, it’s a gesture of camaraderie, but the slow squeeze she puts on it seems like more to me. Last night, when I told her about Bruce Sterling and Kate Mason, it felt like we had a connection. Something deeper than a couple of cops working the same case. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

  Before I can speak, Decker pushes between us to get to the observation room. “Don’t worry, Parker, I’m sure we’ll find Amanda today and get back to why we’re here.”

  “I’m not sure it was Farber,” I say.

  “What the fuck, Parker?” Decker blurts out, pulling at the fuzz of shorn hair on his head.

  “Come again, Will?” Dana says, shaking her head and holding her hand up in front of her. “You’re the one that proved he was there.”

  “I did. He was there all right. But he definitely doesn’t have the Fukushima Unicorn, and almost certainly didn’t kidnap Amanda.”

  “Bullshit he doesn’t,” says Decker, rubbing his eyes.

  Dana’s a bit more patient. “Why not?” she asks.

  “Farber knows Caplan. This isn’t their first convention together.”

  There’s a long, pregnant pause while they digest what I’ve just said.

  “Shit,” says Dana putting her hand to her forehead and gazing up at the ceiling.

  “He knows Caplan is a lone wolf. No assistant. Even if he was a bidder, he’d know kidnapping Amanda isn’t going to get him anything,” says Decker smacking a fist into his open palm.

  “He could still be a murderer, Agent Decker,” says Dana. “I know you’re all about catching your hacker-spy, and Parker’s after his Unicorn, but I still have a homicide to close.”

  It takes some time before Farber’s lawyer, a guy with whitened teeth, fake tan, and a ten-thousand-dollar suit, can be found on the golf course. Dana tells me he’s some big, local hotshot, exactly who you would expect for a guy like Farber.

  When it’s time to begin, Dana takes the lead. Decker and I watch through the one-way glass of the old-fashioned observation room. There’s no sign of Chief Wilmont today, and I’m not surprised. Farber’s a political hot potato the chief isn’t going to touch.

  “Mr. Farber, where were you on Thursday night?” Dana asks, putting down her pen. She’s got her notebook in front of her, but she isn’t looking at it. She’s looking straight at him. Sweating him out.

  “At my office, working late. Where I should be now, taking care of my event, not sitting here talking to some policewoman.”

  Out of the gate hostility, mixed with sexism. Not how I would have started the interview. The lawyer obviously thinks so, too, reaching out to place a hand on his client’s elbow. Dana takes it in stride without flinching. This isn’t her first rodeo.

  “About what time did you leave your office?” she asks.

  “Midnight.”

  “Where did you go then?”

  “Home.”

  “Straight home?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t go anywhere else? Make any stops?”

  “My client answered the question,” says the lawyer. “Asking him to repeat the answer is harassment.”

  Dana laughs. “Actually, it’s being thorough.”

  “Unless he exercises his right to not answer during questioning.”

  “We can skip questioning and go right to charges.”

  “Such as?” asks the lawyer.

  “Bear with me,” says Dana. “Now, Mr. Farber, answer the question.”

  This time the lawyer nods.

  “No, I went straight home,” Farber says, still clearly annoyed.

  Dana slides a picture of Caplan out from underneath her notepad.

  “Tell me, Mr. Farber, do you recognize this man?”

  “Should I?”

  “You tell me,” says Dana, holding it up at eye height for him. “Take a good look.”

  “I think he’s one of the vendors. At the Comic Con. He sells the junk that these people buy. He’s a Bedouin.”

  “A what now?” asks Dana.

  “A Bedouin. A nomadic people in the Middle East,” explains the lawyer.

  “A gypsy,” says Farber, spitting out the word in disgust.

  “Right,” says Dana looking down at the picture. “So, tell me, Mr. Farber. Did you have any problems with Mr. Caplan?”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with my client,” says the lawyer.

  Dana pulls out another picture of Caplan. This one from the postmortem, his cranial ridge crushed, a long red gash indelicately sewn shut.

  “Because this is what he looks like now,” says Dana.

  “This is the guy? From the bathroom, at the Convention Center?” blurts Farber. “You’re asking me about him? Why me? I don’t talk to these people; I just cash their checks.”

  Farber stops when the lawyer once again touches his hand.

  “This lawyer keeps breaking the momentum,” I say to Decker. “It’s letting the pressure off Farber, giving him a chance to cool down.”

  “We need something to really rattle his chain,” he says. “Get him to shed the act and lose control. What do we have on him?”

  Distracted by the image analysis on the ransom photo, I never read the background Bradley worked up on Farber. I check it now.

  “Charles Farber. Fifty-two years old. Born and raised in St. Petersburg, Florida. University graduate. Moved up here after. Owned and operated various businesses over the years, most recently a dry cleaner, before moving into property in ’09. Good timing. Snapped up properties all around the city, mostly commercial, and turned them into rentals. Steady revenue stream. Taxes paid. Model citizen.”

  “I don’t buy it,” says Decker. “He’s unclean.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  As I look over the details, the pace of property buying seems high, even for 2009. At the height of the financial crisis, banks to
ok dramatic steps to reduce their exposure to risk. For a time, they stopped lending money, especially for real estate. They were too busy bracing for Armageddon.

  Me: Farber. Pre-09 tax income?

  Bradley W: Businesses all in the black. Netted around $100K.

  Me: Value of current properties?

  Bradley W: Owned by Farber, $10 million. Owned by his REIT, $200 million.

  A Real-Estate Investment Trust is a fund that uses money from investors to buy properties. Which explains how he was able to snap up so much in ’09. No banks involved. The Trust maintains and manages the properties. The investors each own a percentage of the total value, based on their initial investment. Where did they get that kind of capital in the middle of the financial crisis? Who were Farber’s initial investors?

  Me: Investors? Nothing in report.

  Bradley W: Just came in from IRS. Foreign. Israelis.

  Me: Legit?

  Bradley W: Yup. Techies sheltering.

  Makes sense. There’s a booming tech sector in Israel, especially around industrial and security software. Lots of guys in Tel Aviv running big shops, making good money. But Israel is still Israel, surrounded by enemies that want to push them back into the sea and all that. So wealthy Israelis, like the wealthy people of any country with instability, want to shelter their money somewhere safe. Offshore.

  I fill in Decker.

  “Farber set up that kind of operation here? For Israelis? That’s how he went from dry cleaners to senators?” Decker shakes his head. “Millions of dollars of other people’s money.”

  He walks over to the window and stares through it like he’s got laser vision that would melt through the glass. “People that far away only care about the stability of their investment. Russians shelter billions in New York real estate, and they do it without drawing attention to themselves. But Farber’s flashy. He enjoys being a big shot. Something doesn’t fit.”

  Me: Why is Farber running a Comic Con? Clearly not a fan.

  Bradley W: Cash flow? Media reports say he had a deal to buy the old courthouse from the county, fix it up, then lease it back to them. Construction took too long. County backed out. Went and built something cheap and cheerful, leaving Farber high and dry.