Broken Genius

by Drew Murray

  Me: In REIT?

  Bradley W: No. His own deal.

  In the interview room, Dana’s leaning forward.

  “Here’s the thing,” she says. “We know that you’re lying about where you were the night that Roger Caplan had his head bashed in at your event. So why not come clean and just tell me where you were?”

  “This again? You people are wasting my time, and unlike you, my time is worth something. I’m out of here.” Farber makes a show of standing up.

  “Sit down,” says Dana. “We’re not done.”

  “Unless you have something new to say, Detective, I think we are,” says the lawyer.

  There’s a knock at the door behind Decker, and a uniform walks in carrying large, clear plastic evidence bags filled with small shiny objects. When he plops them down on a table by the wall, they make a metallic clinking noise.

  “What’s that?” asks Decker.

  “Found all this stuff in the trunk of his car,” says the uniform. “Thought you might know what it is.”

  Peering through the plastic, I know what I’m looking at right away. There’s a Deathly Hallows pin. A time-turner necklace. Jewelry made from chain mail. Some brassy steampunk-looking stuff. All the sorts of things commonly found on sale at Comic Cons.

  Showing Decker the last texts from Bradley, I explain what’s in the bag.

  “Finally,” says Decker. “I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  He grabs a bag from the table and stomps out the door. A moment later, through the one-way glass, I see him enter the interview room, throwing the bag of merchandise down in front of Farber, who recoils.

  “What’s this crap?” he says, sinking down into his seat.

  “You tell me,” says Decker. “We found it in the trunk of your car.”

  “Who are you?” asks the lawyer.

  While Decker gleefully identifies himself as a Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Dana sits stock still, staring down Farber. Eventually, he shifts around in his seat. Dana keeps staring, making sure he knows his bravado isn’t working. His face stays locked in a scowl, but the fidgeting suggests he’s feeling the pressure.

  “So, Mr. Farber, where’d you get this ‘crap’?” demands Decker.

  “I don’t know, my wife maybe,” he says, shrugging and holding up his hands. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Well, I believe that,” says Decker. “Because I don’t get this stuff either. But I know where it came from, and so do you.”

  Farber stays silent this time.

  “Let me paint a picture,” says Decker, holding his hands up like a Hollywood director framing a shot. “It’s late at night. The first day of the Comic Con is in the books. The vendors have all set up their wares. Enter Charles Farber. After everyone goes home, you wander up and down the aisles, doing a little shopping. It’s discount day. Five-finger discount, that is. You lift anything you think is high-buck. Am I close?”

  “You better have something to back up these accusations,” says the lawyer defiantly. But he doesn’t stop the interview.

  “I have witnesses,” says Decker.

  “You’re lying,” says Farber.

  “I have this,” says Decker, pointing at the bag.

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Come on, what year is this? Fingerprints,” says Decker.

  “What would I want with this junk?” Farber asks, changing angles.

  “You’re broke,” says Decker.

  “Fucking lies,” says Farber. “You only wish that were true. You’re jealous. Policeman’s salary doesn’t go very far, does it?”

  Storm Decker suddenly falls forward, leaning on the table, his face a foot from Farber’s.

  “We do have an eyewitness that was there that night. They heard shouting, like an argument, from the bathroom where Roger Caplan was murdered. And not a minute later, you know what they saw?”

  “No idea.”

  “They saw you, running away like you’re on fire. You killed Caplan and then you ran!”

  “It wasn’t me, you lying peasant,” says Farber.

  Still trying to bluster his way out of this. If in doubt, say something shocking to distract from the answer. Unfortunately, what might work for a politician doesn’t work when you’re staring down one of the hardest asses in the FBI. Especially when you’re guilty. I choke back a laugh at what’s coming.

  Decker smiles, cool as a cucumber. The eye of the storm. I swear he enjoys this.

  “The old courthouse,” he says quietly. “You bought it. Not your investors. You wanted this one all to yourself. But you blew it. Spent too much, and now the county doesn’t want it.” He takes his time, never breaking eye contact. Farber’s forced to look up at him. “That’s what my momma used to call a ‘white elephant.’ Something you put a lot of money into and you’re stuck with. So, you did what any sleazy businessman would do. You skimmed from your investors. You robbed Peter to pay Paul.”

  Decker wraps his speech by pointing a finger at Farber’s chest. I hold my breath. It’s a solid guess. If he took on debt for the renovations on a building he can’t rent, he has to cover it somehow. A few collectibles alone won’t cut it. So, he borrows from the REIT, intending to pay it back with proceeds from the Con, before his overseas investors notice what he’s done. Which explains why he’s so desperate for the show to go on. The only problem is, we don’t have direct evidence of Farber stealing from the REIT investors.

  “You’ve been paying it back ever since,” Decker continues, circling the table. “Running this convention. Stealing things you think you can sell for quick cash to keep the flashy lifestyle going. How deep are you? A million? Two? Then Caplan walks in on you. If word gets out you’re the thief, the other vendors all pull out. No vendors means fewer fans, which means less money. Before you know it, the whole thing implodes, leaving you with your hand in the Tel Aviv cookie jar.”

  “No,” says Farber, quietly.

  “Caplan caught you red-handed. Nothing more than a petty thief!” Decker raises his voice to a resonant booming.

  “No.”

  “You argued. You fought,” accuses Decker, standing beside Farber now. “You pushed him down into the counter, cracking his skull open.”

  “No.”

  “You left him bleeding. You left him there to die!” Decker slams his open hands down on the table. “Tell me the truth! That’s what happened. You killed him!”

  “No!” Farber bellows.

  “Bahhhh,” says Decker, heading for the door. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got the evidence we need. Book him through for murder, Detective. He can sit in a cell until Monday.”

  Farber turns to his lawyer, who shrugs. I get it. This guy’s no criminal attorney. He’s a white-collar corporate lawyer. I’ll bet he’s never defended a shoplifting case in his entire career, let alone murder.

  “Wait.” Farber’s shoulders slump, his hands falling to his lap. “What do you want?”

  Decker stops at the door and turns around. “I want to know what happened.”

  “I didn’t kill that guy,” says Farber.

  “Okay, then tell us what did happen,” says Dana.

  “Hold on,” says the lawyer, finally catching his breath. “If Mr. Farber cooperates, what assurance do we have that he’ll be released?”

  “Assuming he’s not a murderer? I think if he hands over the stolen property, we can let it go with a warning,” says Dana.

  “Fine,” says Farber. “I don’t know who killed that guy, but I can tell you what I saw.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Farber might be slimy and obnoxious, but he’s not stupid. With Dana staring him down across the table in the interview room, and Decker looming over his shoulder, he takes a minute to gather his thoughts. Dana’s given him an out, and he’ll take it. Guys like him always do.

  While Farber contemplates his immediate future, I check the time on my phone and perform a mental calculation I’ve done a million times b
efore, adding the hours to Tokyo. Night. A good time to catch Han when he’s ready to do some gaming.

  Turns out Ashley Brewster, the teenage girl we caught sneaking in for Wasteout 3, is addicted to Big Fish Pyramid. According to her, not many people make it past level 42 because there’s a glitch in the game, but she’s figured out how to work around it. Clever girl.

  Quickly, I fire off a message to Han on how to beat level 42. There’s no better way to learn if and how Caplan got the Fukushima Unicorn into America. Han will be faster than formal requests through State or Interpol, and have access to what I need without red tape on the Japanese side. He’ll take the time to beat the level, then pull together the information. Even as specific as I made my request, it may take digging.

  Han does things on his own schedule. There’s nothing I can do to rush him. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to do.

  Farber looks like he’s ready to continue, though with his hands in front of him and shoulders rounded, he looks nervous in a way he didn’t before. Perhaps he’s now fully processed the situation he’s in. His Israeli investors are going to hear about trouble with the police relating to a murder. When they start pulling out their money, I wonder how long it will take for them to expose his embezzlement. Once they do, he’ll be in real trouble. Just because his investors are legit, doesn’t mean they’re passive.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks, glowering at Dana. He won’t make eye contact with Decker who is standing against the side wall with his arms crossed.

  Decker’s bulk is intimidating enough, but having him hovering at the edge of your peripheral vision would even stress me out.

  “Everything,” says Dana. “Tell me how you got in there in the first place.”

  “I gave a guard a tip years ago, and he told me about a way in through a blind spot.”

  “What about the victim, Roger Caplan? Where did you see him?”

  “At the end of Row K.”

  “What’s Row K?”

  “One row over from where Caplan had his booth,” he says, with a frustrated sigh. “He was coming out of that row, and heading to the back wall, where the washrooms are.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “He had a black fabric bag, you know, like at the grocery store. But it had that geek stuff on the side. Some kind of advertising.”

  “What did he do with the bag?”

  “He took it with him to the bathroom.”

  “What was in it?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You didn’t see where he came from?” Dana asks.

  “No, I told you, I only saw him at the end of the row. I don’t go down that row.”

  “Why not that one?”

  Farber hangs his head and looks at his hands, which he’s wringing in front of himself on the table. “There’s a security camera.”

  “But you already worked all that out, with the guard,” Decker says.

  “Not the Convention Center cameras,” says Farber with a tone that says he thinks Decker’s an idiot. “There was one at the top of one of the junk booths.”

  Dana perks up, obviously remembering the dummy camera Webb uses to scare people off. The one he said he never plugged in, just put up there as a deterrent, like an owl statue.

  “On the wall behind Caplan’s booth?” she asks. Her tone is light, but I see her shoulders tense. “Are you sure it was on?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “How do you know?”

  “There was a light on it. On the back where the power cord plugs in.”

  “And the light was on?”

  “How would I see it, if the light was off?” Farber throws his hands up in front of himself.

  “Just answer the questions,” says Decker.

  “Then don’t ask stupid ones,” says Farber. His lawyer reaches out and puts a hand on his elbow, but he shakes it off. “Who cares about this light, that light? That’s not important.”

  “Then tell me what is important,” says Dana.

  “After I saw Caplan disappear into to the bathroom with the bag, I kept walking the floor.”

  “Stealing,” says Decker.

  “Let’s call it collecting,” says Farber with a squint of his eyes. “Then I heard the doors open again, and someone came in, heading right for Caplan’s booth.”

  “How do you know where they were headed?” Dana asks.

  “Because they were making a lot of noise. Big loud footsteps. Huffing and puffing.”

  “What do you mean huffing and puffing?” Dana asks.

  “Like they’re carrying something big and heavy. They make this racket all the way to Caplan’s booth.”

  “What happened next?” Dana asks when it’s clear Farber isn’t continuing.

  “Isn’t that enough? Can’t you figure it out from here? That’s a good clue, yes?” Farber smacks his hands on the table.

  “I’ll tell you when it’s enough,” says Dana, putting down her notebook. “Once again, what happened next?”

  “Yelling. A fight.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  Farber’s quiet, but it’s not sullen this time. He’s thinking, remembering back. He rubs his chin and closes his eyes.

  “If I had to say … someone was upset at being cheated. Something about a deal, but that’s all I could make out. It was too much noise, too much drama, so I left as fast as I could. I really couldn’t tell you any more about what happened back there.”

  “Then where did you go?” asks Dana.

  “You wanted to hear about this Caplan guy. I told you.”

  “And I told you, you’re done when I say you’re done.” Dana leans back and crosses her arms. “I’ve got all day. And all night. And all day after that. Do you?”

  A long, tense silence fills the room. Dana sits still with that amazing patience. Decker picks at his fingernails. Farber looks back and forth between them.

  “Fine,” he says finally. “I backtracked through the blind spot and out to my car in the alley.”

  “What kind of car?” asks Decker.

  “Why?”

  “Paint a picture for me.”

  “Cadillac. Black. Tinted windows.”

  “And what did you do when you got to your car?” Dana asks, picking up her notebook and pen.

  “I was getting organized.”

  “You were looking through what you stole,” she says flatly.

  “Yes, whatever,” says Farber with another one of his irritated sighs. “That’s when the guy on the motorcycle showed up.”

  “What guy on a motorcycle?”

  “I don’t know, the guy. The guy! He rides up to the building. By the door.”

  “Okay, hold on,” says Dana. “You were parked by the alley door. Which alley?”

  “By the loading dock. Where they leave a door open.”

  “So, who’s this guy on the motorcycle?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Some guy on a bike.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Red bike. Red and white leather jacket and pants, like racers wear. White helmet with red stripes on it. Don’t ask me about his face, he never took his helmet off.”

  “That’s a good description,” says Decker. “You seem pretty confident.”

  “I am.” Farber grabs the top of his head in frustration. “I had to sit there for a while. He didn’t notice me when he rode up, and I didn’t want him to see me, so I waited while he did whatever he was doing.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “I don’t know. Where’s that nerdy one of you guys—it’s more up his alley.”

  In the observation room, I perk up, moving closer to the window.

  “What do you mean by that?” Decker asks.

  “This guy, on the bike. He was some tech nerd. He takes out this thing, this white plastic thing, looked like a megaphone or something. He clips it on the front of his bike and points it at the building. Then he takes
out this keyboard and starts typing on it.”

  “Sorry, a keyboard? You mean a laptop?” asks Decker.

  “If I meant a laptop, I would have said a laptop,” says Farber, rolling his eyes. “I mean a keyboard, just a keyboard. He takes it out from somewhere inside his jacket, puts it on the gas tank, types on it for a bit, waves his hand around, and then packs it all up.”

  I quickly do another image search on my phone. What I’m looking for doesn’t come up right away. It’s rare. If it’s what I think it is, then another piece of the puzzle just clicked into place. Growling in frustration, I try a few variations on the search terms while I listen.

  “How long did he do all that for?”

  “Eleven minutes.”

  “Pretty precise,” says Dana, eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “I wanted to get out of there. I watched the clock in my car. Eleven minutes.”

  “Then he leaves, this motorcycle guy?”

  “Yeah, and then I left.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Who?”

  “The motorcycle guy,” says Dana. “Which way did he ride off?”

  Bingo. Found what I’m looking for. Zooming in on the image, I head for the door. It takes me a few seconds to get to the interview room and I miss Farber’s answer.

  “Sorry, which way did he go?” I ask, standing in the doorway. “FBI, Special Agent Will Parker,” I add hastily as the lawyer opens his mouth.

  “I just told her, he went inside,” says Farber.

  “Inside the door that’s always open. By the loading dock?” I ask, closing the door behind me.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Okay, just one more question,” I say. Dana glares at me. “Was this what he had on his motorcycle? The plastic thing?”

  I show Farber the picture on my phone.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Exactly. He had one of those and he clipped it to the handlebars.”

  “Pointed at the building?”

  “Yeah.”

  My hands are shaking so badly as I go back through the door, I almost drop my phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Me: Need you.

  Ace P: Call you in 5? In a meeting.