Broken Genius

by Drew Murray

  Decker looks at Nassar with wide eyes, and before he can put his foot in his mouth, I answer. “No. The kidnapper’s a Unicorn bidder, which means they came from out of town. A ball-gag is common for BDSM, but generally speaking, a pretty specialized piece of kit. You have to get it from a sex shop. Which isn’t something you do if you’re planning a kidnapping. Too few customers and too easy to be remembered. There are plenty of more ordinary items that could do the job. All easier to come by.”

  “They brought it with them,” says Griffon.

  “Give the man a star,” I say, pointing at him.

  “They planned the kidnapping?” Decker asks.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, sitting down at the table. “Working human trafficking cases, I’ve seen a lot of restraints. They never use a ball-gag, even when it’s sexual slavery. It’s almost always what they have easiest access to. Then there are her wrists.”

  “Leather cuffs,” says Griffon.

  “Good memory. Well done, Peter.”

  Griffon seems really familiar with this stuff.

  “Will said people use whatever they have easiest access to, suggesting the kidnapper had it with them anyway,” says Dana. “And if the kidnapper is into BDSM so much that they travel with their gear, then chances are …”

  “They’re visiting kink porn sites,” finishes Nassar. “Genius.”

  “Thank you,” I say, sending her a nod and a smile.

  “So, they’re going to kinky porn sites, so what? A lot of people go to them,” says Decker, adding under his breath, “including everyone in this room but me.”

  “You’re right,” I say, watching him look like he smelled something sour. “We needed to narrow it down. Fortunately, we’ve got four factors to cross-reference.”

  Pulling the map of the Convention Center off the whiteboard, I pick up a marker and draw a large circle. Somewhere behind me Decker says something about using the map.

  “These are the people that use Google,” I say, pointing to the circle.

  “So pretty much everyone,” says Griffon with no small amount of sarcasm.

  “And Firefox,” I add, drawing a smaller circle inside the first.

  Griffon leans forward.

  “Who were using computers within a hundred miles of here.” I draw an even smaller circle inside the second one.

  “That are Macs,” I say, drawing a fourth circle inside the third.

  Decker cocks his head as understanding dawns on him.

  “And who visit bondage porn sites,” I add, scribbling a tiny speck at the center.

  Nassar claps her hands. “Nice.”

  “Now we have a very short list,” I finish, laying down the marker.

  “How short?” asks Decker. Typical. Never takes the time to admire the brilliance.

  “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug.

  “I sent you the Google ECPA warrant,” says Griffon. “Didn’t you get anything back?”

  “From Google, yes, but they can only give us the first four circles.”

  “How do we trace this back to a physical location?” Decker asks.

  “Google sent us a list of IP addresses. Bradley can translate them into physical addresses. That info’s easy to come by,” I say.

  “What if this person was surfing anonymously?” Nassar asks. “What if they had the privacy mode on?”

  “We would have seen that in the image. But even if we did, that just hides the browsing history on the computer. Google still needs to know where to send the packets.”

  “They track every single IP that hits their page?” asks Griffon. “That has to be billions of times a day.”

  “At least. And, of course, they do, that’s why it took hours for them to parse it down.” I hold up my phone. “Here it is. Just over a hundred people in the local area that used Firefox for Mac to hit Google search in that minute.”

  “There has to be millions of porn sites,” says Griffon. “How do we cross-reference?”

  “Just like the gear, this is specialized porn,” says Nassar. “The majority of the individual kink sites are owned or hosted by only a few people.”

  “Mostly one,” I correct her. “A company run by a guy named Kumar Patel.”

  “Who just happens to be a friend of our own Will Parker,” finishes Dana holding her hands up in the air.

  “Of course, he is,” says Decker.

  “The thing is, we don’t know when they would have hit the site. It certainly wasn’t when they were taking ransom photos. If we assume they’re here for the Comic Con, that gives us a window of the last forty-eight hours.”

  “That’s also going to be a big list,” says Griffon.

  “When do we get the data from this Kumar guy?” Decker asks.

  “Whenever he sends it to us.”

  “Let’s speed that up,” Decker says, smacking his fist into his open palm. “Griffon, can we get another warrant? If we turn up the pressure—”

  “Hold on,” I interrupt, waving my hand in warning. “Kumar’s doing this as a favor. An underling who’s already leaving the company is going to send it, as soon as it’s ready.”

  “All right,” says Decker after a long pause. “Then we’re going to have to add to the plan. I have some ideas.”

  With all the cards now on the table, the planning process continues into the night. Along the way there are several reviews and go/no-go decisions with Burke and Chief Wilmont. We go over the meet at the Comic Con. We connect with the local SWAT team and review tactical entry procedures. We go over the security plans for the Convention Center. And then we do it again. And again.

  The good news, coming late in the day, is that Miller is out of the ICU. There’s a long road of recovery ahead, but he’s going to make it. Everyone’s relieved to hear it and, on the heels of a workable plan to get Amanda Caplan back safely, everyone seems just a little more optimistic.

  Repetition isn’t my thing. It’s unnecessary for my retention of information. As the day goes on, it wears on me, to the point I’m just about to start banging my head on the table or walk out the door when I’m saved by a familiar vibration from my phone.

  Ace P: At the hotel.

  Me: Good.

  Ace P: Next?

  Me: Wait for my signal.

  Ace P: What, are you Batman now? Reclusive almost billionaire …

  Me: Did you bring security?

  Ace P: Of course.

  Like most Silicon Valley CEOs, Ace has around-the-clock armed bodyguards. When you become a public figure, an alarming number of angry, dangerous whack-jobs come out of the woodwork. I had more than my fair share, before I dropped out of the public eye.

  The others have momentarily left the room, leaving me alone with Dana. She’s looking over the blueprints for the Convention Center. While she may not celebrate it like Decker, she also seems to appreciate repetition. This must be the tenth time she’s reviewed them. I sit down next to her.

  “I’m impressed that you managed to convince Chief Wilmont,” I say, cracking open a bottle of water left over from lunch. “For a while there, I didn’t think we’d be able to persuade him to take the risk on a public venue.”

  “He has a daughter,” she tells me. “She’s a little older than Amanda, around twenty, I think? But close enough I knew there’d be an emotional connection.”

  “You didn’t mention that when we were talking to him.”

  “Some things are best left unsaid.” She picks up her own bottle of warm grocery water and licks her lips. Locking her eyes on mine, she says, “Sometimes you just have to trust that the connection is there.”

  Wait. Is she still talking about the Chief of Police? Before I can come up with an answer, she turns away and changes the topic, asking me if I really think we can keep people from getting hurt.

  “We should be able to,” I tell her, thinking it over yet again. “The biggest danger comes from stray bullets. But, if the uniforms do their screening properly, including staff, the chance of
a gun making it in is low.”

  We’re using Jerry Oldham. Reaching out on a Twitter direct message, I told him we may need his help and to be ready in the morning. His response was immediate and enthusiastic. I saved the details of what we need him to do for tomorrow, because actors love to talk about their upcoming roles. Not knowing who the bidders are, we can’t risk word of our operation getting out.

  “What if the kidnapper takes another hostage?” Dana asks.

  This worries me, too. If we don’t do this right, we may end up trading Amanda Caplan for another victim. There’ll be no shortage of innocent people to grab.

  “Separating the bidder from the crowds reduces the chance of that happening. There’s not much more we can do.”

  In the ransom response, I said our assistant would be wearing a red fez. Decker immediately lost his mind, demanding to know where we’d possibly find something so unique. He worried for nothing, of course. We’re at a fan convention. Doctor Who, one of the biggest sci-fi shows on British television, made that style of hat iconic. Easy enough to find at one of the vendors. But it’s also been years since Matt Smith was on the show, so the chance of a fan cos-playing him is low.

  Jerry’s scheduled to sign autographs first thing in the morning. Fans pay $20 to $100 per signature, but it isn’t just the scribbled note on the photo that makes it worth it. They crave the precious time they get to spend one-on-one with their favorite celebrity. For a few seconds or even minutes, it’s just them and the star, separated from the crowds. Exactly what we need the bidder to be. Thus, while Jerry signs autograph after autograph, perched on his head will be a brand-new, bright red fez. When the bidder approaches for the Unicorn, the closest people, aside from Jerry and his handler, will be Dana and I, behind the curtain, ready for the takedown.

  “Are you sure this Oldham guy is okay with this?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” I answer.

  The fact that he’ll be facing off with a dangerous kidnapper, possibly also a killer, is something else I saved for tomorrow. No sense in him getting worked up about it. Before I can explain that to Dana, my phone vibrates again. A distinctive pattern. One I’ve been waiting for. My heart leaps so hard it feels like I’m going to choke on it.

  (In Japanese)

  Han: Level 42 complete!

  Han: Thank you, Parker-san.

  Han: Here’s what you are looking for.

  Han: images attached

  Me: Many thanks.

  Han: Good luck!

  Without delay, I flip through the pictures Han attached. A member of Japanese intelligence, he’s a pro, and knew exactly what I needed. Excitement of the kind I haven’t felt since the Fukushima deal was about to close, awakens inside me. I’m on the edge of something huge. A turning point in history. I force myself to look again, to be absolutely sure. There’s still no doubt in my mind.

  The first photo confirms that the Fukushima Unicorn passed through Narita International Airport in Tokyo. The second photo confirms that it was Roger Caplan who had it with him. The third photo tells me exactly where it is now.

  It also tells me someone has been lying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Me: Convention Center.

  Me: Comic Con. Door 4.

  Me: Tell them you’re with me.

  Me: Bring $ and security.

  Me: Go now.

  Ace P: OK.

  I’m halfway out the door, slipping my phone back in my pocket when Dana stops me.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  To get the Unicorn. Which is in the hands of a killer. I look back over my shoulder at where she’s sitting at the conference table, blazer over a chair, hair pulled back out of the way for a clear view of her suspicious frown.

  Dana’s not a federal agent. She can’t make the Unicorn disappear into a government cyber arsenal. But she is a homicide detective, with experience arresting murderers.

  “Give me a lift and I’ll tell you,” I offer.

  Her eyes narrow even further. After a moment, she shrugs, releasing the frown and grabbing the blazer from the chair. “Let’s go.”

  We arrive at the Convention Center with only a few minutes until closing. People stream out of the brightly lit building, hundreds more still visible inside. But there’s only one that matters to me right now, and I spot him standing by the escalators.

  Ace Prior cuts a tall, slim figure in a crisp, white oxford, tucked into a pair of well-worn Levi’s. The first impression that leaps to mind is “unobtrusive.” Even his glasses are rimless so that nothing stands out about him. But imagining he’s unremarkable is a mistake. Beneath the bland outward appearance, Ace has one of the sharpest minds I know. Which he needed, to take over from me. Three big, squat guys in jeans with rumpled navy-blue blazers surround him. His security detail.

  While Dana stops to talk to the uniformed officers at the doors, I seize the opportunity for a moment alone with Ace. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he pulls me into a warm hug. On some level this is worse. That he’s still my friend, despite leaving him in the lurch, salts me with guilt. And yet, mostly, I’m just happy to see my friend again.

  It doesn’t take long for me to lay out what I need him to do. Ace listens alertly, nodding his understanding at each key point. For a moment it feels like old times, back in the Valley, making magic happen.

  But there’s no time for nostalgia, and Ace disappears quickly into the vendor hall along with his guards while I wait for Dana.

  “All right, what are we here for?” she asks, catching up with me at the escalators.

  I hand her my phone, open to the first photo from Han.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Still frames from security footage at Narita International Airport. Two weeks ago.”

  She zooms in on the image. “That’s Roger Caplan,” she says.

  “It is. The others? What do you see?”

  She swipes to the next photo. “This looks like an X-ray scan of luggage, but what’s that big black square in the center? Is it redacted? Where did you get this?” She turns the phone sideways and back again, trying to orient herself to the image.

  “Big Fish Pyramid.”

  “The video game? The one you talked to Ashley Brewster about?”

  “The very same.” I nod, leading the way to the vendor hall. “I have a contact in Japan with access to video footage from Narita. But he’s a quirky guy. To get these shots, I had to tell him how to beat Big Fish Pyramid.”

  “Which Ashley showed you last night.”

  “Right.”

  “Why look at Narita?”

  “Caplan drained his account two weeks ago, before getting on a plane for Tokyo and coming back a week later. The timing coincides with his annual collectibles buying trip, but he never took that kind of cash before.”

  “You think he took it to Japan to buy the Fukushima Unicorn?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

  “I don’t think, I know. Once he had it, he needed to bring it back.”

  “You think he took it in carry-on?” She taps the phone screen. “Here, behind the redacting?”

  “It’s not redacted. The X-rays are blocked.”

  “By what?”

  “The kind of material you need to surround something radioactive, like a quantum computer from Fukushima.”

  “There’s no way they’d let this through screening without looking in it. They would have found the Unicorn.”

  Silently, I swipe the phone to the final picture.

  Dana gasps softly. “No shit,” she says. “But that’s not Caplan’s.”

  “It was, then he sold it.”

  “Oh my God, that means—” I cut her off with a hand on her arm as we turn onto Row K.

  Halfway down the long aisle is Spider Webb’s booth, surrounded by a dozen other vendors of collectibles, comics, and fan art. Pulling Dana into a booth filled with playful water colors of well-known genre characters, I lean over to tell her we need to blend in.


  “Fine, we’re just another couple browsing for art,” she says, taking my arm. “But do you mind telling me why?”

  Peering through the racks of paintings, I can make out Webb waddling around his booth, getting ready to close for the night.

  “Any second now, a guy with a red nylon bag is going to come up and offer cash for the Han Solo statue,” I say, pointing.

  “I thought he didn’t want to sell it,” she says, leaning in close to get a look.

  “That’s what he said. But being an almost-billionaire has taught me an unpretty truth: everything has its price.”

  “How do you know what that is?”

  “I don’t. But I’m betting a million should cover it.”

  “Did you say a million? As in dollars?” Dana whispers in surprise, turning toward me.

  A shiver slides slowly down my spine, goose bumps rising on my arms as her breath hits my neck. The scent of soap and lilac fills my nose again.

  “I did,” I answer, breathing in deeply. “After they make a deal, and the man walks away with the statue, we move in and arrest Webb.”

  “For murder?”

  “Terrorism.”

  She squints sideways at me, but before she can say anything, Ace arrives with the red bag slung over his shoulder. His security detail lurks a couple of booths back, keeping an eye on him in rotation.

  Beyond his unassuming appearance and natural easygoing nature, Ace has a gift for communication. Which makes him one of the best salesmen I’ve ever seen. Not only could he convince you to sell the shirt off your back, you’d also gladly throw in your pants for free. Watching Ace negotiate is like watching Picasso paint.

  After a brief conversation, Webb laughs. It’s a deep and rolling sound that fills the aisle. Shortly after, Ace scratches his head, signaling he’s cracked Webb’s complete refusal. Now it’s a matter of price.

  I want to walk over, shove the bag with the million into Webb’s hands, and call it done. But if we’re too aggressive, he might refuse to sell it at all, until he knows why we want it. We don’t have time for that. It’s now or never.