High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  After driving around the same one-way streets three times, Georgia wanted to drive her rental car into the Potomac River. As the city’s population exploded over the years, the clogged streets created a permanent rush hour. City officials had tried to accommodate the traffic by making many of the narrow DC streets one-way, which meant visitors like Georgia who didn’t know the ins and outs of DC geography could circle forever without knowing how to untangle themselves.

  That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, she thought. L’Enfant, the French architect who’d laid out the nation’s capital—she was surprised his name popped into her head; it must have been buried there since her high school trip—had designed a sense of order into the plan. Downtown streets were either numbers or letters and ran perpendicular to each other in a grid, while avenues, named for each state, cut across the grid diagonally. All three came together at circles in an impossible snarl of cars, buses, and pedestrians.

  Finally she arrived at a small boutique hotel on Connecticut that Erica Baldwin had recommended. Naturally, there was no parking available, so she was forced to hunt down a parking lot, which took another twenty minutes. Exhausted, she collapsed in her room, grateful she would only be in DC two days.

  • • •

  Around six that evening Georgia reached the affluent suburb of Chevy Chase, Maryland, where she parked across the street from a modest two-story colonial. Like the other homes on the block, Willie Remson’s home was too close to his neighbors’, but it perched at the top of a tiny hill, and the setting sun shot beams of rosy light into the windows. A two-car garage on a lower level was occupied by a minivan. Georgia was prepared to stake out as long as it took, but luck was with her, and barely ten minutes later, a young boy and girl skipped out a side door, followed by a woman in jeans and an all-weather jacket. She recognized his family from Remson’s Facebook photos. The girl, who Georgia estimated was nine or ten, shouted to her brother. “Mommy won’t let you eat anchovies. It gives you a tummy ache.” Georgia rolled down the window.

  The boy, who couldn’t be more than six or seven, stuck out his tongue at his sister, which provoked an immediate response. “Mommy . . . Wills stuck out his tongue at me.”

  “Wills, cut it out. Janet, get in the car and stop tattling on your brother.” The harried, monotone voice said their mother was having a bad day.

  They piled into the car, backed out the driveway, and took off. Despite the fatigue and frustration of travel, a surge of energy pulsed through Georgia. She was on the move.

  She made sure to stay half a block behind the minivan, which as far as Georgia could tell, doubled back to the street, Connecticut Avenue, that she’d driven out on. But when the minivan reached East-West Highway, it turned and headed west to Wisconsin Avenue, where it turned several times, eventually pulling up to a pizza parlor. The kids spilled out and skipped to the door in high spirits. Georgia let a few minutes go by, then followed them in, pulling a ball cap down on her face.

  The place was exceptionally clean and modern, with a honey-toned hardwood floor that looked spotless. The warm honey tone carried through to the chairs, and marbled slabs of Formica topped the tables. The booths were upholstered in navy, and photos of pizzas sprawled across the walls. A chalkboard with the daily specials hung above the counter. The familiar aroma infused Georgia with pleasure, and she was almost as excited as the kids.

  The family commandeered a booth on one side. Happily, in the center of the room was a pizza bar with stools for singles, and a couple of people were already there. She took a stool with her back to the Remsons but within earshot.

  The wife settled the kids, then made a call. “Hi. We’re here. Where are you?” A pause. “Should I go ahead and order?” Another pause. “Mushrooms, bacon, onions on half. Okay. See you soon.”

  The Remsons’ tastes were similar to hers. She smiled to herself. She got up, pulled the ball cap farther down, and sauntered up to the counter. Mrs. Remson was there also, ordering a large pizza and four Cokes. Then she added mozzarella sticks. Remson’s wife was petite, with short dark hair cut in a pixie style. She wore no makeup, and her denim suit and sneakers said she was in “working mom” mode. Unlike Dena Baldwin, Georgia thought.

  Georgia ordered two slices and a Diet Coke. She was just polishing off the first slice when the glass door opened, and a small, compact man with a mustache compensating for a bald spot on his crown walked in.

  A chorus of “Daddys” greeted him, and the two kids ran over to hug him. He blushed but gamely returned the hugs. As they returned to the booth, he leaned over to kiss his wife. “How are you, sweetheart?”

  “Great. But don’t move.” For an instant, Georgia froze, thinking she’d been exposed. But when she turned around, she breathed a sigh of relief. A waiter had come over with the pizza and cheese sticks and was only inches from Remson, who backed up despite his wife’s warning. The waiter flailed, and the tray of pizza slipped from his grasp. Georgia dove for the pizza and managed to grab it before it wound up on the floor. The mozzarella sticks didn’t make it, though, and spilled onto the floor.

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” Remson said loudly. “Are you okay?” He turned to survey the mess.

  “It’s okay.” The waiter looked over at Georgia, who was still crouched on the floor hanging on to the pizza. “¡Eres un ángel!”

  He held out his hands and Georgia handed him up the pizza. “Tuve suerte,” she said.

  The waiter shook his head. “¡No! ¡Es un milagro!”

  Georgia felt her cheeks get hot. Remson and his family were watching them. From their confused expressions, it was clear they didn’t speak Spanish. The waiter placed the tray on the table and left, returning with a broom and the manager in tow.

  “We are so sorry,” the manager said. “Thank you, miss.” He gestured to Georgia. “Both your meals are on the house. And we’ll bring you a fresh plate of mozzarella sticks,” he said to the Remsons.

  “No need,” Remson’s wife said. “It was our fault.” She angled a glance at her husband, indicating it was his fault, not theirs.

  But the manager fussed and brought them a fresh order of cheese sticks. Remson’s wife called to Georgia, who had returned to her stool at the bar. “Miss, how can we thank you?”

  “Not necessary,” she said. “Glad I could help.”

  “That was some catch. Are you sure you don’t play for the Nationals?”

  Georgia shook her head politely. She wasn’t happy her cover had been blown. But it had been her own damn fault. Then again, things happened for a reason. Didn’t they?

  Chapter Forty

  Georgia was back in Chevy Chase the next morning before seven. A cold rain that had begun overnight drummed on the roof of the Toyota. But she’d slept well. Her hotel room turned out to be a delight: a king bed, flat-screen TV, audio system, whirlpool bath, and refrigerator stocked with everything she could imagine, all in a renovated but dignified older building.

  She was prepared to stake out Remson’s home as long as it took, but he exited his house thirty minutes later, opened his garage door, and, a moment later, backed a white Volvo down the driveway. She followed at a discreet distance as he crisscrossed streets and ended up on Wisconsin Avenue heading northwest. Wisconsin eventually became Rockville Pike, and he kept driving past a huge shopping mall. Outside the dense urban area, rain mixed with ground-level fog, which made Georgia think of Chicago’s Forest Preserve on a cold, rainy day. Finally Remson pulled into a parking lot about the size of a football stadium. Behind it a five-story building with a neon sign said they’d arrived at DataMaster.

  She waited for Remson to stop, then parked a few rows away. She noted video cameras attached to poles every few rows. She should have parked elsewhere. Too late. Using her umbrella to shield her face, she followed him into a businesslike lobby. It was still early, and she watched as he got on the elevator alone and punched a button. The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. It was too risky to follow him up, but she spo
tted a coffee shop in the lobby and went in to plan her next move. After ordering a latte, she headed to an area with a view of the elevators. She sat in a roomy upholstered chair beside a fake fireplace with soft lighting, which some coffee shops were now adopting so that their atmosphere oozed “cozy and comfortable” rather than the ultrasleek of Starbucks.

  She sipped her drink and looked up DataMaster on her phone. Its website proclaimed it was a total Internet security firm that offered ironclad protection of corporate systems and provided a host of cybersecurity solutions and services. What services? And what solutions? Based on what had emerged about companies like Cambridge Analytica and the Israeli-owned Black Cube, companies like DataMaster might be offering much more.

  From talking to Zach Dolan, Georgia had learned that some data-protection companies had one mission for some clients, but another for others. Companies that sold data-protection systems might also offer data-mining services and, in some cases, actual intel gathering for political and corporate clients. Was DataMaster one of those? Were they harvesting data while masquerading as a data-protection company? Was Willie Remson a geek who stole Facebook data? Is that why he hung out on Dena’s ResistanceUSA page? Maybe he’d maintained the flirtation with Dena only as long as it took him to get all the group members’ information, and then disappeared. The timing worked.

  Or was Georgia just paranoid?

  Judging from the fact that the entire building was leased to DataMaster, whatever the company was doing was working. She sipped her drink, glad for the umpteenth time she’d never joined Facebook. She and Sam had discussed it. Sam’s graphics business depended on a robust online presence—Sam called it “branding.” Her social media accounts, including her company’s Facebook page, showcased examples of her work. But Georgia didn’t want to be found. She was the “finder.”

  The issue was how much information data miners had on the individuals they targeted. But finding out what company had what data was, according to Zach, “pissing in the wind.” This was a new industry, and there was no oversight. On the other hand, Sam argued that organizations like Facebook made Georgia’s work easier. As a hunter, Georgia profited by the accumulation of data in one place. Why complain?

  Sam had a point. In the past, only law enforcement or the alphabet intelligence organizations had the resources to pry into people’s lives. Now the same information could end up in the hands of anyone who paid for it. Including Georgia. In fact, Zach complained that the price for data, especially on the dark web, had shot up ever since the EU enacted stricter privacy laws. Whether that was good or bad was a question Georgia ducked. She didn’t have the answer.

  She caught up on emails while she waited. Nothing from Jackie, the woman who’d sold Jarvis the yurt, but she hadn’t expected much. She checked in with Jimmy, then Paul Kelly. Carl Baldwin was still AWOL.

  “Anything on Kitty, Jarvis’s sister? Do we know if she’s back in town?”

  Kelly hadn’t heard anything. Georgia called Betsy Start, the manager of Kitty’s building. She hadn’t seen or heard anything, and Kitty’s mail was piling up. But the store had called, and they would be picking up the yurt in a few days. She thanked Georgia for her help.

  By the time she finished her calls, the lunch hour was approaching, but a steady rain persisted, and she hoped the lousy weather would keep people inside. A deli-style sandwich place stood next to the coffee shop, and by half past eleven, people were lined up out the door. Thirty minutes later, Willie Remson appeared alone. He went to the back of the line. While waiting, he took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. What guy carries a hankie these days? Georgia waited until he’d paid for his sandwich and a pop.

  She intercepted him at the elevators. “Willie Remson?”

  He spun around. “Yes?”

  She wasn’t wearing her ball cap, and it took him a moment to recognize her. Surprise flooded across his face. “You!”

  He tipped his head to the side. “Do you work—” He cut himself off as comprehension dawned. His eyes narrowed, and he looked around in every direction, as if he wanted to cut and run. “You’ve been following me.”

  “My name is Georgia Davis and I’m an investigator for an attorney in Chicago. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

  “I—I don’t really have a minute. I’m on a deadline.”

  She ignored him. “The coffee shop will work. There’s a private alcove in the back.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  She gestured for him to lead the way. A small table near the restrooms was available, and they sat. “Please”—she pointed to his lunch—“feel free to start. This won’t take long.”

  Remson pushed the bag a few inches away. An act of rebellion? She smiled again. “So tell me about your relationship with Dena Baldwin.”

  Remson froze for an instant, then massaged his mustache with his fingers. He folded his hands together on the table. “I didn’t have a relationship with Dena Baldwin.”

  “No?”

  “I signed up for the group she started. I don’t even remember the name of it.” He refused to make eye contact with Georgia.

  “Does ResistanceUSA ring a bell?”

  He fidgeted in his seat, then looked at Georgia. “What do you want from me?”

  “What did you want from Dena and her group?”

  He hesitated. “Look. My wife doesn’t know anything about this. I scrubbed my Facebook account. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “So you do know what this is about.”

  He straightened his spine and raised his chin defiantly, and for a moment, Georgia thought he might show some mettle. Then he slumped. “She knew what she was getting into. I never hid the fact I was married.”

  “Yes. All those pictures of your family on Facebook were a good cover.”

  “I’m not a sexual predator, you know. I love my wife and kids.”

  “Right. You just dabble.”

  Remson folded his arms. “I assume you’ve read through the correspondence. If you have, you’ll know that she started it.”

  Georgia nodded.

  “Well?”

  “You jumped right in. Hardly took you a minute to reply.”

  A spit of irritation flashed in his eyes. “Then you know nothing happened. She was a real piece of work. As soon as I figured that out, I got out.”

  “I see. So she was the predator.”

  He kept his mouth shut.

  “You volunteered to do some work on the site. IT stuff, right?”

  If his eyes could have narrowed any more, they would have been slits. “What of it? I hate the president and what he’s done to this country. I was happy to do my part.”

  “And what exactly did you do?”

  “Actually, not much. I didn’t get the chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dena was always picking fights with people. Especially her admins. She liked to play victim. When she wasn’t having fantasies about us,” he added.

  “How do you know she picked fights with the admins?”

  He shrugged.

  “Because you hacked into her private messages?”

  Remson reddened from the neck up. He’d stepped into his own shit.

  “What else did you hack into?”

  “Nothing.” He squirmed. “Really. That’s the truth.”

  “But you were planning to.”

  He left the question unanswered. Then: “Dena was a player. I guess she got bored . . . I mean, she was already sleeping with Dixon. Or maybe it was a habit. Our—our conversations only lasted a week or two.”

  “Three weeks actually. Plenty of time to harvest data from members of the Facebook group.”

  Remson opened his mouth, then shut it.

  “I mean, here you are working for a highly successful data-protection company, which just might have a data-mining business on the side.” She leaned forward. “You and your company could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “What are you going to do?�
�

  “What are you going to tell me about who killed Dena Baldwin?”

  “You already know. It was that ex-military creep. Jarvis.”

  “And he blew himself up so there wouldn’t be much of a crime scene afterwards. Pretty convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I swear.” Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Was Remson telling the truth?

  “Ah, I see. You were just trying to steal data for a client. And coming on to Dena was the easiest way to get what you needed.” She paused. “Who was—or is—that client?”

  He bit his lip. “I’ll get fired if I tell you.”

  She sat back, trying to suppress her triumph. She was right. DataMaster was hacking for a client, mining data for a probably nefarious purpose. She reacted with what she hoped was a casual wave of her hand. “You’re going to get fired anyway, once I call the FBI.”

  “Wait. Wait a minute. You can’t! I mean, please don’t.”

  “But you and DataMaster are breaking the law. Bigly.”

  He sucked in a breath and looked down. Then he met her eyes. “If I tell you who it is, will you keep me out of it?”

  “I might be persuaded to call you a confidential informant, but eventually it will come out. And whether your company figures out you were the informant is entirely out of my hands.”

  “I was just doing my job,” he said miserably.

  “If I had a quarter for every person who told me that, I’d be a millionaire.”

  Remson looked down at his hands again. He spoke quietly.

  “It’s a congressman. From Pennsylvania. Jackson Hyde.”

  “And why would he want the Facebook data of the ResistanceUSA members?”