David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“It appears that Leitz’s brother-in-law, Walter Coryell, may have a hidden identity, Franklin Druce. Victoria thinks Druce is behind a payment processor for kiddie porn sites. We want to check him out.”

“Which one’s asking?” Foos said with a grin, planning to enjoy the moment.

Victoria looked at me.

“We both are,” I said. “I still want to know what Nosferatu and the BEC have on Coryell. There’s also my new client, Taras Batkin, stepfather of Andras Leitz’s girlfriend, Irina.”

“You’re working for Batkin?!” Victoria cried. “You didn’t say anything about him.”

Foos’s grin broadened. Pig Pen climbed the mesh in his door, attracted by his nemesis’s distress.

“That a problem?” I asked.

“He’s… He’s… Shit. You know what he is. What the hell are you doing for Batkin?”

“That’s between us. But I might be persuaded to tell tales out of school if you do the same about Efim Konychev.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? Batkin can be very useful to me. He thinks his stepdaughter’s up to some kind of trouble and wants to know what. We made a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Like I said…”

Pig Pen picked the wrong moment to take another shot. “Bayou Babe…”

“Quiet, parrot!”

He shook his feathers and went back to his radio.

Foos said, “You think this trouble could involve the Leitz kid?”

“Their bank accounts say it does.”

“What bank accounts?” Victoria said.

“Remember I told you about the two kids with eleven mil each in the bank—back when we were sharing? What about Konychev?”

“Dammit, I…”

“And how is Coryell connected?” Foos asked.

“Andras and Irina were supposed to meet him at the Black Horse. He didn’t show. Andras has been trying to contact him ever since. The guy’s gone underground—maybe as Franklin Druce.”

Foos nodded. “Your lucky day, Bayou Babe. We’ll make an exception to the no-Fed rule, just for you. But…” He looked at me. “Stay on the reservation.”

Foos went back in his office. Victoria said, “What did I ever do to him?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Be glad he likes you.”

“He likes me?”

“He would have reset all the passwords if he didn’t. Come on—before he changes his mind.”

Pig Pen thought about trying again as we passed his cage, but when Victoria shot him a look, all he said was, “Route Three, fuel spill.”

It took less than ten minutes for the Basilisk to confirm Walter Coryell and Franklin Druce were indeed Jekyll and Hyde with plastic. In addition to the address, which Druce listed as both home and office, their driver’s license photos showed two poor images of the same ordinary-looking, brown-haired man. Druce was CEO of ConnectPay, and the company deposited forty-four grand a month into a checking account at B of A. He spent a big chunk of it online, mostly with ConnectPay, at a long list of what looked to be child porn sites. A consistent three to five K a month. Bricks-and-mortar charges were at gas stations and restaurants all over the Northeast—Connecticut, New Jersey, Vermont, New York, sometimes Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, or Delaware.

I told the Basilisk to line up the food and gas purchases. The beast whined and hissed— You already know the answer to that —but did as instructed.

“One-night stands from the looks of it. He buys gas and food in the same town. No hotel or motel charges, though. Must pay cash for those. Thinks he’s clever.”

I could almost hear the Basilisk snort with contempt.

“What do you mean?” Victoria said.

“Druce is a pedophile. He’s using the money he makes from ConnectPay to support his own habit. Every few months, when he gets bored just watching kids online, he sets off around the countryside to hook up with one. That explains the extra mileage on his car, remember?”

“Christ.”

“In fact, looks like he’s been on the prowl this week. Bought gas last Wednesday in Rockville, Connecticut. No meals though.”

I asked the computer for the phone number for Coryell’s garage. A Hispanic voice answered. “ Sí. ¿Hola? ”

I went with Spanish too. “ Hola. This is José at Manhattan Volvo. We’re supposed to pick up Walter Coryell’s car Monday for service. Have it ready at eight, okay?”

“Wait a minute.”

I could hear him talking to someone else in Spanish in the background.

He said to me, “ Sí, that’s okay, but it’s not here now. Hasn’t been since Wednesday.”

“Oh. Maybe there’s a mistake. I’ll check with the customer and call you back.”

“What was that all about?” Victoria asked.

“Coryell took his car out of the garage Wednesday and hasn’t come back. Julia told me Friday her husband was traveling on business. I wonder if maybe…”

I sent the beast back to its cave. It returned in an instant, blowing fire, triumphant.

“There’s your answer,” I said, pointing to the screen. “No one could find Coryell because he’s been cooling his heels, as Martin Druce, in the Tolland County slammer in Rockville. He was busted on Wednesday. Take a look.”

“Goddamn,” Victoria said. “That explains a lot.” She leaned in to read the screen. “Attempted rape, solicitation of a minor, indecent exposure, the list goes on and on. At least we got him.”

“Don’t count your Coryells too quickly.” I sent the Basilisk after his bank records. “I’d move fast if I were you. He wrote a check for five hundred thousand yesterday. Looks like he bailed himself out.”

“No!”

She pulled out her phone, found a number, and was soon giving orders to someone on the other end.

While she talked, I went back to Druce’s bank information. A handful of withdrawals, all cash, all five figures. The dates went back four years. A quick check confirmed they corresponded with Thomas Leitz paying off his shopaholic debts.

“GODDAMMMIT!” Victoria cried. “How the hell…? Never mind, I already know.… Get a man back on Fourteenth Street.… Yeah, I won’t hold my breath.”

She put the phone back in her bag. “Sometimes I think FBI stands for ‘Forever Behind It.’”

“Flew the coop?”

“Yesterday. Had a kid in his car when he got nabbed, but the kid got smart and ran. Cops found condoms, K-Y Jelly, all the usual paraphernalia. Only good thing is no one was hurt. Could be a tough case though, parents are already backing away—don’t want the attention and publicity.”

“He have any ID other than Franklin Druce?”

“Apparently not.”

“What’s your next move?”

“Hope he shows up back in Long Island City. I’m betting he’s halfway to Shanghai.” She banged her hand on the desk. “Dammit!”

“Don’t be too quick. He’s been doing this for a while. If he’s smart, and the record so far shows that he is, then he’s planned for this. He’s probably got another identity lined up, ready to go. He sheds Franklin Druce like an old snakeskin, reemerges as Walter Coryell, and goes back underground as John Q. Sleazeball. He’s out half a mil, and fingerprints are a problem, but no one has Coryell’s prints on file, and his won’t match Sleazeball’s in the event someone has them. He’s still at liberty.”

She looked at me with skepticism. “Why is it that you always know every scumbag’s next move?”

“Misspent youth, as we’ve discussed.”

“Don’t discount the rest of your life experience.”

“There is a risk Coryell/Druce takes on a new identity and disappears entirely, but somehow I doubt that. Too much money tied up in ConnectPay for one thing. And he’s got his partners to worry about. They don’t like surprises. That fact might give us some leverage.”