Broken Genius

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Broken Genius Page 25

by Drew Murray


  The SWAT team moves in single file, hard and fast, shouting commands about hands and getting down on the ground. That means someone’s there. Is it Amanda? I got us here, to this location. But was it soon enough? Or is a dead, young woman inside, my fault again?

  Leaning back on the wall in the hallway, I sink to the ground, face in hand. Deploying every mental technique and trick I learned in Okinawa, I try to slow my heart, but I can’t shake the image of Kate Mason, the knife, and Sterling’s sickening grin from my head. Nothing can separate me from this moment, where Amanda Caplan lives or dies.

  Shouts of “clear” ring out. The room is secure. I can go in.

  Forcing my rubbery legs to respond, I climb to my feet. My stomach churning like an angry badger running laps, I take a step toward the door, then another. Using every ounce of willpower I can muster, I turn the corner and walk into the room.

  Right away, I have a sinking feeling. The colors are wrong. The furniture’s wrong. The photos posted online by the hotel are different, showing newer, fresher rooms than this, with neutral-colored walls. Here, there’s wallpaper. The doorframes are nicked, exposing wood underneath. The carpet is a faded but rich pattern, and the curtains, sun bleached. The photos we looked at online, that matched the ransom note, must be newly renovated. This is an old room.

  Dana comes out of the bedroom.

  “Agent Parker, I know,” she says, holding up her hands.

  “This isn’t it,” I say in a rush. “The room’s all wrong. They didn’t say anything about renovations online. We didn’t ask about renovations?”

  “Take it easy,” she says poking a warning finger into my chest.

  “Who’s in there?” I push forward around her to take a look at the bedroom.

  Perched on the edge of a messy bed is a pudgy white guy wearing boxers with pale blue stripes and nothing else. He’s got short-cropped hair that doesn’t quite hide that he’s mostly bald. Sitting next to him is a middle-aged woman with obviously colored, jet-black hair. Her entire face is made up like she works at a makeup counter at Macy’s. She’s wearing a black leather corset over a matching black leather thong. Her pale cleavage overflows the top. Her hands are empty now, but judging by the redness of the pudgy guy’s back, when SWAT came in, she was holding the cat-of-nine-tails now sitting on the dresser.

  “Robert Johnson and Kaitlyn Morris, both of Toledo, Ohio,” says a SWAT officer holding two driver’s licenses in front of him. “Separate addresses, though.”

  “You’re not going to tell my wife, are you?” The pudgy guy leans forward putting his head in his hands with a mewing sound like a distressed cat.

  “Fuck. It’s just some guy cheating on his wife,” I exclaim in disgust. Not at the couple’s infidelity, but at the fact that we chose the wrong location. Pivoting on the ball of my foot, I go back out to the living room with Dana hot on my heels.

  “We have to get to the other place,” I tell her. “The condo. How long until they can set up?”

  “There’s no time, Will,” she says, looking at her watch. “We lost too much getting set up here. The other location is way out in the suburbs. Whoever the bidder is sending is already on the way. There’s no way we can get out there, hit it, then get back down to the Convention Center in time to meet them.”

  “Fine, we’ll have Decker handle the meet, while we hit the second location,” I say. I’m agitated. Jumpy. “It can be done, but we have to be fast.”

  “I know you want to be there, Will, but that’s not the best place for you,” she says, her tone low and strong. “They’re going to need you at the Convention Center. It’s your CEO that has the Fukushima Unicorn. It’s you that knows the technology. You know the Convention Center inside and out. And the whole connection with that actor is you. What if he won’t follow through for Decker?”

  Good point. I wouldn’t.

  “But that’s not where I want to be.” I want to be there because I’m responsible for Amanda, just like I was responsible for Kate Mason.

  “You don’t trust the SWAT team?”

  “They’re fine,” I say, looking around the room. “I still think I should be there.”

  “Of course, you do. And we both know why that is,” she says. “But the question I have for you is this: Do you trust me?”

  In any other situation, hearing that question from a woman I just spent the night with, after knowing her less than forty-eight hours, would be terrifyingly psychotic. But in this situation, it’s exactly the right question.

  “Yes.”

  “Then go,” she says. “I got this.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I don’t do well with waiting.

  Stuck behind a curtain at the Convention Center while Dana sets up at the second location, I peek through a seam at the crowd on the far side. And wait. Of the thousands of people pouring into the building, one of them is the bidder holding Amanda Caplan’s life in their hands. In a matter of minutes, they’ll be expecting us to hand over the Fukushima Unicorn. I’m under no illusions about what will happen to her if they don’t get it.

  In the wrong hands, the Unicorn could hurt millions. But if I don’t give the bidder the Unicorn, Amanda’s going to die. Right now. Today. I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to decide between the Unicorn and Amanda. If Dana succeeds, I won’t have to confront that choice so, for now, I put my hope there.

  I found the address of the condo on a home sharing website. The owners may actually live there and travel a lot. Or they may be operating an unlicensed B&B. I don’t know, and I don’t care. What’s important is that it’s available and out of sight. Just the kind of thing mercenaries look for. I feel good about our chances of finding Amanda, but Dana getting there in time is another issue.

  Decker wanted to find out who’s renting the place right now, but even I can’t pull a string to answer that question in the next few minutes. We’re just out of time.

  On the other side of the curtain, Jerry Oldham sits at a table, signing autographs for his legion of adoring fans, a red fez perched on his head at a jaunty angle. Beyond the table is a red carpet serving as a buffer between the crowds and the celebrities. I’m as close as I can be while remaining hidden, only a few feet away.

  Next to Jerry is a handler whose job it is to take the fans’ money and let them pick out a glossy 8x10 photo to be signed. The whole thing works like a well-oiled machine. Fans get their celebrity experience and the celebs get cash. Dance monkey, dance.

  Beyond the carpet, Farber’s assistant, Sally Park, controls Jerry’s line of fans. Decker wouldn’t let us tell them who was coming and why, just that it was important to the investigation of a murder. Sally’s relieved to have Farber off her back. Jerry’s excited to be working on a “real case.” And his assistant loves her job, happily doing whatever he asks.

  The Unicorn is hidden at the handler’s feet, locked in its carbon fiber case. She’ll protect it until Oldham says a code phrase. When he says, “Oh, I have that right here,” the moment will have arrived to decide between Amanda Caplan’s life and letting the most dangerous cyber weapon in history walk off into the wild.

  Decker argued with me hard to let it go this far. He didn’t want Oldham to touch the case with the Unicorn inside. And that was before I programmed the case to also open for Jerry. Giving the bidder a chance to verify the Unicorn could buy us another minute, possibly two, for Dana to get her back. I’ll be fired if Decker finds out what I’ve done, but if that’s the price of getting Amanda Caplan home safely, I’m ready for retirement.

  Easily a hundred people have lined up to see Oldham already, and more arrive all the time. With lines beginning to form for the other celebrities, it’s becoming difficult to scan the crowd from my spot behind the curtain.

  “How are things looking, Bradley?” I ask into my earpiece. Two channels are currently active: one listening in on the SWAT team so we know what’s happening at the condo; and the other for us here at the Convention Center. Bradley’s
tapped in remotely from LA.

  “Nothing yet, Boss,” he says amid the crumbling of a candy wrapper. “I’m logged into the building’s security and automation systems. Everything seems normal.”

  “Where is he?” Decker’s voice grumbles in my ear. “We said the meet would be at opening.”

  Through the seam, I spot Decker on the mezzanine level above, leaning over the railing. In an effort to blend in, he’s wearing a Battlestar Galactica t-shirt with “What the Frak?” across the front in bold font.

  “The Unicorn’s here, he’ll be here,” I say into the radio, adding, “Looking good up there, Decker.”

  From a hundred yards away, I clearly see him raise his middle finger.

  “There are some huge lines to get in,” says Griffon. “It’s taking a long time for everybody to get past the screening.”

  “Any sign of our Russian friends?” I ask.

  “Not yet, but there’s a lot of people out here.”

  “Making any money?”

  As it turns out, Griffon is a musician. With an old guitar we found kicking around the police station, and some thrift shop clothes, he’s outside strumming the occasional few bars while watching for familiar faces.

  “Would you believe yes? And one phone number, so far.”

  “So far?” says Nassar. “I told you we shouldn’t have let him have the guitar.”

  She’s at the far end of autograph alley, near a broad set of fire doors, in case the bidder makes a break for it. Zipped into a Ghostbusters jumpsuit we bought before the doors opened, she fits right in with another lineup of fans.

  Like anyone else in the world running out of patience, I pull out my phone. But instead of passing the time with an endless stream of social media, I review the case notes until something catches my eye. The number Nassar gave me for the escort. A smile breaks out on my face as I remember Decker’s reaction. But then something else clicks. Opening messages, I paste in the number.

  Will P: Got your name from Darryl. Can I make an appointment?

  Unknown: When? How long were you thinking?

  Will P: Flexible on time. From out of town. Here for the weekend. Thinking an hour?

  Unknown: I generally prefer multi-hour appointments.

  Unknown: link

  Of course, you do. You get paid by the hour. Tapping on the link brings up her website. Typical for the industry, there’s a bio page, a gallery with tasteful erotic photos, and some tabs for more information. The photos are professionally done and, if accurate, she has an extremely attractive body. None of the pictures show her face. This is a high-end escort. To see how much Hicks paid, I tap on the rates tab. When the page loads, it also lists her services.

  I freeze.

  “Are we sure they’re going to take the bait?” Decker asks over the radio, yanking me back to the moment. “What if they’re not looking at this Oldham guy, expecting Caplan’s assistant to be walking around?”

  “It’s getting crowded fast,” says Nassar. “Maybe they can’t see him.”

  “Give me a second,” I reply, pounding out a quick message. Time to earn your keep, Jerry.

  Through the curtain, I see Oldham’s handler look at her phone. She leans over to Jerry while he finishes dazzling a preteen girl with his heroic hair and brilliant white teeth.

  In my pocket, I flip the switch on the radio, adding the SWAT channel. They can’t hear us, but we can listen in.

  They’re live at the Convention Center, people. Backup team, are you in position?

  Roger that, in position now.

  Sniper one. Any movement?

  Negative.

  Sniper two.

  Negative.

  Breach team, sit rep.

  In position. Deploying camera.

  Hearing Dana’s voice shrinks the distance between us. Knowing she’s there is the reason I’m not losing my mind.

  Jerry listens to the handler for a second, then stands, spreading his arms wide apart in the air.

  “How’s everybody doing today?” he bellows over the crowd.

  As one, a hundred voices rise in a cheer.

  “Do we have some Double Limiters here?” He makes a show of putting a hand next to his ear.

  The roar from the crowd is twice as loud. This time fans from neighboring lines, and the mobs just passing by, look to see what the excitement is all about.

  “There was a TIME!” Jerry shouts his character’s catchphrase, looking up at the ceiling as if he’s about to disappear, teleporting to another time and place.

  The crowd goes nuts. His line of autograph seekers jumps up and down, vibrating the concrete floor underneath my feet. Young female fans let out ear-splitting shrieks of delight.

  I’ll say this: the man’s a performer. A hush falls on the rest of the hall as everyone watches Jerry’s antics. Through it all, the red fez never leaves his head. If our bidder is in the building, he’s seen it now.

  The voice of SWAT at the condo crackles in my ear:

  Command, we have movement near the foyer. Partial view in a mirror. One unsub. White male. Mid-twenties. Beard. Large ear spacers. Bluetooth headset.

  That doesn’t sound like the owner of the suburban luxury condo. Maybe in the Valley, but not here in the Corn Belt. The hope in my heart burns a little brighter.

  Glancing down at my phone, I jump, remembering what I was doing before Decker interrupted me. Switching to the phone app, I dial. She answers on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “I was just texting you.”

  “Right. I don’t know if this is your first time or not, but most girls don’t answer calls from blocked numbers.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because Darryl gave you my number and he does a good job of pre-screening for me.”

  “Your name is?”

  “You can call me Eliza.”

  “Well, Eliza, please don’t hang up the phone. This won’t go well for either one of us if you do. You are not in trouble. My name is Special Agent Will Parker. I’m with the FBI.”

  “What? Is this a joke?”

  “My colleague interviewed Darryl Parr at work. You can text him right now to confirm that, but don’t hang up. We’re investigating the kidnapping of an eighteen-year-old girl. Time is of the essence.”

  “Is she in danger?”

  I swallow, hard. “Yes.”

  “Wait a sec.”

  Every second she’s gone passes so slowly I wonder if time is moving at all.

  “Okay, I sent him a message.”

  “Two nights ago, you had a client.”

  There’s a long pause. Caution is smart in her line of work, but I don’t have time for that.

  A moment of static in my ear and voices from the SWAT team intrude.

  Balcony team, do you have eyes on?

  Drone is in position. Curtains closed. Looking for a gap.

  The plan called for a second team to gain entry next door, and use the shared balcony to place a small, wheeled drone on the terrace.

  “Possibly,” Eliza finally answers.

  “You did. White male, late forties, from out of town.”

  “That’s ninety percent of my clients.”

  A low buzzing rumbles across the line. Vibration at her end. Another pause while she reads the text.

  “Darryl says you’re legit. Are you sure I’m not in trouble?”

  “I promise. The Bureau has no interest in your professional activities beyond this particular client.”

  “Okay, Special Agent Parker. What do you need to know?”

  “Heads up,” says Decker in my other ear. “Crowds are moving again.”

  Resisting the urge to poke my head out through the seam, I make do with trying to see through the thin material itself.

  “On your website it says you offer dominatrix services. Is that correct?”

  “Sure. I see a lot of business travelers. Some are subbies that have a regular Dom at home. Some just want to try it. It’s a popula
r service.”

  “The client you had two nights ago; did he request Dom services?”

  “Let me check my call notes. How much detail do you want?”

  “Bondage? Yes or no.”

  Another pause, this one short, while she looks it up. “Oh yeah, that guy. Yes, to bondage.”

  “You probably don’t have a name, but was there anything unique about him?”

  “Oh no, I have a name,” she says quickly. “Discretion is important, Special Agent, but my safety is top priority. For Dom services, I always check IDs.”

  Why didn’t you tell me that at the beginning? Clenching my free hand into a fist, I pace away from the curtain.

  “What was the name?” I ask as calmly as possible.

  “Martin Hicks.”

  “Decker, we need eyes on Martin Hicks, right now. He’s the kidnapper,” I say, the words coming out of me in a rush as I hang up the phone.

  “Who can get to the Pyntel display?” Decker asks.

  “I’m just outside it,” answers Griffon.

  “Move!” Decker commands.

  “Bradley!” I call into the radio, my voice low but urgent.

  “I’m on it, Boss. Looking. But there’s a lot of people there.”

  “Facial recognition?”

  “No time to load the comparator,” he says, “and the camera feeds aren’t that good.”

  “I’ve got movement!” says Decker. “Headed up the Oldham line. Walking past everyone.”

  “Is it Hicks?” I push the words out around the thickness in my throat.

  “All I see is his back. White male. Phone to his ear. That’s all I’ve got,” says Decker. “Stay alert,” he adds, unhelpfully.

  “I’ve got him,” says Bradley, “but I can’t make out the face. The cameras are too far. Sorry, Boss.”

  The SWAT channel comes to life in my ear. The voices are faster, more urgent.

  Command, Balcony Team, hostage confirmed in the bedroom.

  Say again, Balcony, can you confirm ID?

  Confirmed. It’s her. Bound and gagged in a chair.

 

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