James Swain - The King Tides

“Let’s find out,” Sergey said.

The thin laptop sat on the coffee table, still connected to the recently purchased Droid using a USB connector cord. This allowed the laptop’s hacking software to test passwords without them having to manually type them into the Droid. Sergey picked up the laptop and the Droid and balanced the two devices on his lap. Lancaster read off the information that Karissa had given him, and Sergey entered it into the laptop.

“Excuse my ignorance, but how does this work?” he asked.

“It’s fairly simple,” the Russian said. “The software program on my laptop will test hundreds of variations of each word you give me. The program will try the word in all lower case, then the same word in upper case, and all sorts of variations. If none of those work, the program will try the same words with the number one in back of it, which is common when people are creating passwords. If that doesn’t work, the program will try the word with the numbers one and two in back of it, which is also common. This will be done with every word. If none of those combinations produces the password, the program will connect the various words and start the process over.”

“How long will it take?”

“It could take five minutes or it could take several hours; there’s no way to know. I hope you are not in a hurry. There’s no way to rush this.”

“I’m here for the duration. I’m running over to Lester’s Diner to grab some dinner. You want anything?”

Sergey grunted no. His fingers danced across the keyboard like a pianist.

“Call me if you crack the password,” he said.

“You will be the first to know,” the Russian replied.

There were two twenty-four-hour restaurants in Fort Lauderdale where cops went to eat. The first was Lester’s Diner on State Road 84, which was known for its big coffee pours; the second was the Primanti Brothers by the beach, which had made its reputation serving mouthwatering sandwiches piled high with coleslaw and french fries. Because Lancaster had worked the beach area as a cop, he’d done his eating at Primanti, but had never tried Lester’s Diner. But he’d heard that the food was good.

Lester’s was doing a brisk business, and he stood in line to place his order. The diner was over fifty years old and a reminder of a bygone era, with a long stainless-steel counter with stools that faced a row of booths. Every seat in the place was taken. There were no TVs hanging on the walls, and not a single patron was looking at a cell phone. It was all about good food and good conversation.

At the counter sat a pair of uniformed cops. Lancaster had made a lot of friends during his time on the force, but this duo was unfamiliar. Both were pushing forty and had receding hairlines and sun damage on the back of their necks. They were engaged in a silent game of tug of war, with neither willing to pick up the check, which their server had slapped down between them several minutes ago.

His turn came. He ordered a tuna melt for himself and a corned beef sandwich for Sergey. The Russian claimed he wasn’t hungry, but there was no harm in bringing him a sandwich anyway. He paid and was given a receipt with a number.

There was a small alcove by the entrance where he stood to wait for his order. He had a clear view of the two cops and the unpaid check on the counter. Back when he’d had a partner, it was standard procedure to alternate paying for meals. It beat the hassle of splitting the cost and trying to calculate how much each owed on the tip.

The server walked by and eyed the unpaid check. She asked the cops if either wanted a refill on their drinks. Both of the cops declined.

He was starting to smell a rat. The sheriff’s office had clamped down on cops asking for free meals from local restaurants, but the practice still went on. Another minute passed with neither of the cops reaching for his wallet.

A cook came out from the kitchen and spoke to the cops. The cook had graying hair and a droopy mustache. A picture of the original Lester hung in the alcove, and the cook had the same jawline — either one of his kids or a younger brother.

The conversation was brief between the three men. The cook slid the check off the counter and made it disappear. The cops smiled and hopped off their stools. As they walked out, Lancaster read the names on their name tags and memorized them.

His number was called. He went up to the register to claim his food. The cook stood next to the cashier, talking under his breath.

“Excuse me,” Lancaster said. “I used to be a cop. What those two officers just did was wrong. I’m happy to make a phone call, and get them straightened out.”

The cook shifted his attention to Lancaster and scowled.

“That won’t change anything,” the cook said.

“Are you the owner?” Lancaster asked.

“I am. Do you know how many times I’ve had to pay for cops eating in my place? Over fifty in the past year alone. I’m not running a food kitchen here. It’s no different than if one of them stuck his hand in the till and robbed me.”

“I got their names as they were walking out. I can get them in trouble.”

“No, you can’t. We’ve complained before.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. They were back a week later acting like nothing happened. The cops stick together.”

“This time will be different.”

“No, it won’t. Enjoy your food.”

The owner turned his back and returned to his kitchen. Lancaster told himself he’d tried, and he went out to his car and ate his melt and the juicy pickle that came with it. The food was tasty, and he licked his fingers when it was gone. The conversation with the owner bothered him, probably because what the owner had said was true. The sheriff’s office internalized problems instead of airing them out in public. Cops broke the law on a regular basis and most of the time didn’t get properly punished for it. It made him wonder what would happen after he reported Vargas and Gibbons for pushing cocaine at the Booty Call. Would the department bust them, or would they limit the arrest to the canine instructor who was doing the actual stealing? By doing that, the PR department could issue a statement saying that it was an isolated incident, and not reflective of the upstanding men and women who protected Broward County.

He had to rethink this. His cell phone vibrated, and he tugged it from his pocket. The number was unfamiliar, but he answered it anyway.

“Hi, Jon, this is Karissa,” the caller said. “Can you talk?”

Her voice sounded different, less playful.

“Sure. Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine. Thanks for asking. I’m at work. Cell phones aren’t permitted in the ER, so I’m calling you from a pay phone in the lobby.”

“I didn’t know they still had pay phones,” he said.

“They do inside of hospitals. I remembered something about Zack that might be helpful. I don’t know why I didn’t remember before when we talked.”

Because victims of abuse often suppressed memories of their abusers, he thought he knew the answer, but he knew better than to say this.

“That’s great. What is it?” he asked.

“Zack was obsessed with a woman named Cassandra,” she said. “That might be useful when your hacker is trying to gain access to Zack’s cell phone.”

Cassandra was the name the Canadian had called Nicki on the phone. He’d found another link, even if he wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

“That’s very helpful. How did you find out? Did Zack tell you?”

“It was nothing like that. One night, Zack was staying over and I caught him mumbling her name in his sleep. He said it over and over. Cassandra, Cassandra, Cassandra, like he was longing for her. The next morning, I asked him and he flat out denied it. I wasn’t happy about it, you know?”