by Jack Bowie
The weather was getting worse. He had just enough time to dump the stolen Pontiac, change clothes and get to the dinner party in McLean.
* * *
The Phone Phreaks had been a unique phenomenon of the 1970’s. Rejecting the social consciousness of the previous decade, they chose an alternate method of rebellion: electronic terrorism against the nation’s telecommunications system. The Phreaks had been surprisingly innovative in their approaches, given that they were primarily asocial high school dropouts. They had started simply enough, using tenacity and wile to ferret out the secrets of the old mechanical telephone switching systems. They learned how to divert billing and place untraceable calls all over the world.
As the telephone companies updated their analog switching centers with digital technology, the Phreaks had evolved as well, learning the internal sequences of signals and tones used to control the new system. Their repertoire expanded significantly: they could disconnect lines, automatically bill calls to an unfriendly reporter, or access internal circuits to monitor lines and reroute calls.
The Phreaks eventually became victims of their own success. They began to enjoy the spotlight and notoriety, claiming credit for their increasingly public activities. They cultivated media attention, promoting childish ideas of information freedom and open access. During the late seventies and early eighties, Phreaks using the pseudonyms of Captain Crunch and the Cheshire Catalyst had been on the top of most-wanted lists from national law enforcement agencies and telephone security departments. Another Phreak, with the incongruous moniker of Tom Edison, documented their secrets in an underground New York newsletter published under the name of the Technological Assistance Program.
By 1983, the TAP began to unify their knowledge of the telephone and the computer and describe it to the public. Some organizations felt such disclosures could not be permitted. A sensational burglary and arson in a New Jersey condo destroyed all remnants of the TAP. The destruction was generally attributed to either ATT or the FBI.
By the mid-1980’s, the social misfits of the next generation had found a new toy, the personal computer, and a new bureaucratic world to conquer. Hackers and Crackers replaced Phreaks in the anti-social hierarchy. All that remained of the Phreaks was their legacy of telephone arcana, much of which had been documented in the TAP newsletters. Greystone had, to his knowledge, the only complete set in existence.
* * *
At exactly 7:30 p.m., Greystone’s computer accessed Verizon’s main switching system and reinstated the dial tone at Keane’s estate. Thirty-five seconds later, Keane’s ProTec 7500 custom alarm system, still noting a zone violation, tried again to initiate an emergency call. Finally sensing a dial tone, it completed a call to Blue Ridge Protective Services, who immediately notified the Warren County Police. A squad car was dispatched, coincidentally the same one that was currently investigating a fatal auto accident on Scenic View Road.
Charles Keane’s body was discovered at 7:53.
Chapter 14
Great Falls, Virginia
Wednesday, 12:05 a.m.
GREYSTONE”S ANSWERING MACHINE blinked three messages when he returned home. Each caller expressed an increasing level of concern and anxiety. The first was from an Agent Jefferson, Virginia State Police. He calmly explained that there had been some kind of accident and he would like Greystone to call him when he returned. The second was from Julius Flitterman. He sounded slightly agitated and wanted Greystone to return his call “ . . . immediately. It’s about Charles.” Finally, Victor Sutherland, Theater’s chief counsel, left a frantic, incoherent message about an accident, murder, and probable serious liability.
Greystone quickly triaged the calls.
“Robert, thank you for getting back to me so quickly,” Flitterman began. The banker was as cool as ever. “There’s been some kind of an accident and Charles has been killed.”
Greystone paused appropriately then responded. “Killed! How did it happen?”
“I don’t know the details, but apparently he died at his home earlier tonight. The police seem to believe that an employee, a Ted Lombard, had something to do with it. Do you know him?”
“Ted? Yes, I do. He’s my assistant. How could he have been involved?”
“I certainly don’t know. See what you can find out from the police.” Flitterman had obviously recovered from any initial shock and was ready to take charge of the situation. “I’m flying back down in the morning. We can talk after I arrive. I’ll also call a special Board meeting for the afternoon so we can work this thing through. We have to protect the company as much as we can.”
“Yes, Victor already called me.”
“Victor’s called everyone. I tried to calm the man down, he sounded completely unhinged. I sent him off to check some legal issues and stockholder precedents. We’ll review those tomorrow as well. Find out everything you can from the police before we get together.”
“Certainly, Julius. Should I cancel my testimony in D.C.? It’s scheduled for eleven o’clock.” He held his breath waiting for the banker’s response. The meeting with Potterfield was crucial for his plan.
“No,” Flitterman replied after a moment. “It’s important we show that the company can still operate effectively. Just get back as soon as you can.”
“Thank you, Julius. See you tomorrow.”
Greystone’s call to Jefferson was routed to the policeman’s car phone.
“Agent Jefferson.”
“This is Robert Greystone.”
“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Greystone. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mr. Charles Keane was killed tonight.”
Jefferson was certainly all business. “Yes, I heard that from our Chairman, Julius Flitterman. It was a tremendous shock. What can I do for you Agent?”
“It appears that a Mr. Theodore Lombard may be involved. I believe Mr. Lombard worked for you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I was wondering if we could get together. As you can imagine, I have some questions that I would like to ask about Lombard.”
“Certainly.” Greystone visualized his morning schedule. It would certainly be an interesting day. “Tomorrow, say nine o’clock?”
“That would be fine, Mr. Greystone. At your headquarters in Reston?”
“Yes. I’ll see you at the office, Agent Jefferson.”
That was enough for tonight. He wouldn’t bother with Sutherland that was Flitterman’s job. Greystone needed a good night’s sleep for his next performance.
* * *
Braxton arrived at the Municipal Center promptly at 8:00. He called Fowler’s number and was told to wait in the lobby. The Center was already crowded, with both cops and civilians roaming the halls, hunting for the right office to transact their business. It looked like opening day at Fenway Park.
He found an empty wooden bench by the front door and sat down.
Braxton was anxious to see the files. The FBI apparently hadn’t discovered any evidence they cared about, but there had to be something to help with his investigation. He just hoped Fowler wouldn’t get in his way.
After yesterday’s meeting, he had spent the afternoon in the National Gallery’s new Early Syrian Art exhibit. As he had wandered through the corridors filled with carvings, statues and drawings, the tensions of the incident melted away and he became mesmerized in the magnificence of the relics. He certainly wasn’t an expert in antiquities, but he appreciated the skill and artistry required to create such beautiful, and long-lasting, artifacts of a civilization. He had wondered if anything created by his generation would stand this test of time.
After the Gallery, he had grabbed dinner at a Thai restaurant in Dupont Circle and finally arrived back at his room at 7:30. He had scanned his email, then reviewed the outputs from his monitor programs. The results had confirmed those of the previous days: suspicious messages were being sent by one of the gateways. But there was still no obvious explanation. Had Ramal discovered something he had m
issed?
In addition to a voice mail, Flanagan had sent another, more pointed request in email. Braxton had composed a very consultant-like, information-free response, promised more information soon and fired it off. Ten minutes later he had been sound asleep.
“Braxton?”
He looked up and saw Fowler glaring at him from across the lobby.
“Follow me,” the detective ordered as he motioned Braxton down a well-travelled marble staircase. “I hope you’re rested. I can only give you access for the morning. You gotta get done by noon.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” Braxton replied with a frown. This was great. No pressure.
One long story down was the building’s basement. Its main purpose appeared to be storage; rusty file cabinets lined every available wall and loose folders were stacked on every available surface. After walking through a maze of the cabinets, seemingly positioned to disorient any unwanted visitor, they finally arrived at a large open area, the rear half of which was protected by a floor-to-ceiling wall of heavy chain link fencing.
“That’s Charlie Waters,” Fowler said, pointing to a cop sitting on the far side of the enclosure. “He’ll pull the stuff for you.”
Waters was an ancient black, thin and wizened, his uniform hanging on his body like it was meant for a cop twice his size. Sitting motionless behind a makeshift counter, he looked about seventy-five and much too feeble to still be on active duty.
“Charlie,” Fowler said walking up to the man, “this here’s Mr. Adam Braxton. He’s a hotshot out-of-town investigator looking into that Ramal explosion. I’d sure appreciate it if you could set him up to take a look at the files. Just between us, okay?”
“Sure thing, Sam.” The old man winked at the detective. “Just between us old-timers. How’s Pat and the kids?”
“Doin’ just fine, Charlie. How many grandkids you and Maggie got now?”
“Seventeen, Sam. And three great grandkids.”
Fowler shook his head. “Don’t know how you keep up with ‘em.”
Waters smiled, showing a mouth with as many empty spaces as teeth.
“I’ve got to go back upstairs, Braxton,” Fowler said turning to the consultant. “Charlie here will take good care of you. When you’re finished give me a call.”
Fowler turned back into the maze and vanished.
Waters carefully pushed himself off his stool, unlocked a gate in the fence, and limped out toward Braxton. The old cop had a permanent list to the right, likely compensating for an arthritic hip. He waved for the consultant to follow him.
They continued into one corner of the open area where Waters pointed to a dusty, metal desk.
“Y’all sit down,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Can I help you?” Braxton asked. He was afraid the old man might get hurt carrying anything.
“Ain’t no need,” Waters replied with another toothy smile.
He disappeared into the evidence holding area, returning a few minutes later with two large cardboard boxes that he dropped on the desk. Braxton opened the first and found it filled with notebooks and files. He had no idea how the old man had hefted the load.
“Give a yell when you’re done, sonny,” Waters said, and slowly limped back to the cage.
Chapter 15
Theater Electronics, Reston, Virginia
Wednesday, 9:00 a.m.
GREYSTONE HAD PICKED up a Washington Post outside Theater’s headquarters and now sat in his office reading the front page story.
Theater Electronics’ CEO Murdered in Blue Ridge Estate
Charles Keane, Founder and President of Theater Electronics, a supplier of military electronics components, was found murdered last night in his home outside Riverton, Virginia. State troopers at the scene stated that they had responded to a silent security alarm at the Blue Ridge estate around 7:30. On arrival, they found Keane dead in his study, the apparent victim of an intruder. He had been fatally struck once on the head. There were no other occupants of the house at the time and no signs of any struggle. Police have been unable to determine if there was any property stolen.
Charles Keane founded the company in 1986, . . .
Sources close to the investigation are linking the murder with a fatal automobile accident on Scenic View Road, only two miles from Keane’s estate. The driver, Theodore Lombard, 29, of Arlington, Virginia, was an employee of Theater Electronics. There are unconfirmed reports that a fireplace poker, matching a set in Keane’s home, was found in the wreckage of Lombard’s late model Audi. Residents near the scene placed the accident around the same time as Keane’s security alarm. No motive for the attack on the well-known executive has been presented.
So far, so good.
Elizabeth, Greystone’s secretary, called on the intercom and announced that Agent Jefferson had arrived. The executive made him wait an additional five minutes as he prepared for the interrogation. He knew he should be questioning, but not pushy; helpful, but not too much so; concerned, but not obsessive. And he couldn’t volunteer answers that would imply too much knowledge. He’d let Jefferson take the lead and direct the conversation from there.
Elizabeth escorted the man into the office. Greystone motioned to the couch and the six foot four inch State Police officer sat down at one end. He was dressed comfortably in a herringbone sport jacket and khaki pants, but no amount of casual attire could hide the powerful neck and shoulders, huge leathery hands, and tell-tale bulge under his left arm.
Greystone sat in one of the adjacent chairs.
“Thank you for seeing me this morning, Mr. Greystone.”
“Of course. Is it Agent Jefferson? I had expected someone in uniform.”
“The Troopers are in uniform, sir. Agents from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation may wear civilian clothes.” Jefferson pulled out his notebook. “I think we can keep this fairly short.”
“That would be appreciated. As you would expect, things are a little upset this morning.”
Jefferson nodded and began. “How long had you worked for Mr. Keane?”
“I joined Theater in 1998. I have worked for Charles since then.”
“What kind of a man was he?”
“Charles Keane was the consummate business man. He was completely committed to this company. Since his wife died, he didn’t take time for much else.”
“Did he have any enemies that you knew of?”
“Charles had made his share of enemies in the business sense, but I can’t think of anyone that would want to harm him.” Time to get some information of his own. “How was he killed?”
“The coroner hasn’t released an official cause of death, but it looked like a severe blow to the head.”
Greystone puckered his face. “How awful.”
“As I’m sure you know, Theodore Lombard was also killed last night in a car accident. I believe he worked for you?”
Greystone nodded. “Yes, Ted was my executive assistant. I hired him about three years ago.”
“It appears that Mr. Lombard was at Mr. Keane’s estate last night. Do you know why he would have gone out there?”
“No, I can’t imagine. I thought he was doing some work for me last night.”
“What work was that?” Jefferson flipped a page in his notebook and wrote something.
“I’m testifying at a Senate hearing later today. Ted was helping me with my testimony.”
“You weren’t working with him?”
“No. We had developed a final draft, but there was some background data that I needed. Ted was supposed to do the research while I polished the draft.”
The Agent flipped another page. “It was rather late when you returned my call last night. Were you home all evening?”
Jefferson was finally getting to what Greystone knew was the point of the interview: his alibi. He paused, then began the script. “Actually, I had a dinner engagement in McLean at 8:30. I had just returned home when I got your message.”
“And before that?�
�
“Home, working on my testimony. I started about 5:30. I checked some data on our corporate files, then did some additional Internet research. I was on until approximately 8:00.” Greystone paused, letting the officer complete his notes. Then he added, “You should be able to check the access logs.”
“I doubt that will be necessary, sir.” Jefferson went back to the beginning of his notebook and continued in the same monotone. “I understand you and Mr. Keane were in a meeting yesterday?”
Greystone’s heart beat a little faster. He was surprised Jefferson had found out about the meeting. Who else had the cop already interviewed?
“Ah, yes. Our Board of Directors met yesterday afternoon.”
“Did anything unusual happen in the meeting?”
Greystone considered his response. There was no point in raising anything that would lead to further questions. Keep it simple. “Not that I remember. It was a fairly typical agenda.”
Jefferson sat back in the chair, then looked directly into Greystone’s eyes. “I understand you and Mr. Keane had a disagreement over a proposal.”
Greystone managed to hold back his shock. Where had the cop gotten that detail? His pulse crept higher as he tried to put on a smile.
“Hardly a major disagreement, Agent Jefferson. Like most senior executives, Charles and I disagreed in some areas and agreed in others. I think we got along fairly well most of the time.”
“I see,” Jefferson replied with a slight nod. “Who will take over the company now that Mr. Keane is gone?”
“That’s entirely up to the Board,” Greystone replied confidently. This, at least, was a question he had anticipated. “I would expect Julius Flitterman will take the reins initially. He is already the Chairman. But, that’s a topic that we will be discussing at our meeting this afternoon. There are a number of legal issues that we have to resolve.”
Time to turn the discussion to a different direction. “When would you expect the investigation to be complete?”