David Duffy - In for a Ruble

Something was wrong, aside from the body. A printer and a copy machine against one wall. A cheap table against another. No computer. No servers, a staple for any Internet firm, but also no desktop machine, no laptop, no nothing. YouGoHere might be a rundown sham of a business, but even a sham needs the basics, if only to put up a credible front.

Holding my breath, I made a quick circumnavigation. Next to the copier, against the wall across from the window, I found a patch of floor, two feet by four, where the color was darker than the surrounding linoleum. The size of two server racks placed side by side. They would have shielded the floor from the sun. I eased the copier away from the wall. A half-dozen cable connectors stuck out of a plastic plate in the Sheetrock. The servers had been here.

Coryell’s corpse wore a white shirt and khaki pants, both stretched tight by bloated skin. Running shoes on the feet. A navy blue ski jacket hung on the back of the chair. A bulge in his rear pocket. I reached for it. I don’t know why it felt creepy—there was nothing he could do now, except stink and breed more flies—but it did. I worked the wallet out and went back to the window.

Eight twenties in the billfold, a New York driver’s license, two credit cards, Visa and American Express, and a B of A bank card, all in the name of Franklin Druce. I found an identical wallet in the desk drawer with a license and bank and credit cards issued to Walter Coryell.

The other drawers yielded nothing. Neither did the file cabinets. I replaced the wallet, eased the copier back against the wall, took off my jacket, and wiped everything I’d touched. Holding my breath again, I put down the blinds and shut the window. The stench closed around me in an instant. I let myself out and took the stairs two at a time down to the street. The cold, wet air outside was about the sweetest smell ever.

“Russky!” Pig Pen called when I emerged from the server farm. “Tiramisu! No gigolo.”

He was grinning, if parrots can grin, custard hanging from his beak.

Victoria and Foos sat opposite each other over a chessboard on the coffee table. She jumped up and ran to me. She was wearing jeans that had been sewn on, boots, and a black T-shirt advertising Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge in Nashville. Tootsie had made it to fit her. We hugged tight, and some of the misery of the last thirty-six hours fell away, until she pushed me back.

“Phew! You stink, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

I didn’t mind. I’m sure she was right.

“Bayou Babe. Tiramisu! Russky gigolo,” Pig Pen said.

“Pig Pen and I are bonding,” Victoria said.

“I’m not so sure I’m going to like this.”

“You jealous?”

“Now that you’ve demonstrated yourself to be a soft touch, he’s not going to let go easily.”

“Bayou Babe,” Pig Pen said.

She turned to face him. “Quiet, parrot, or you’ll be eating rice pudding before you know it.” To me, she said, “You smell like death, not warmed over.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

It wasn’t what I said but how I said it—more hard-edged than I intended.

“Uh-oh. This that stop you mentioned?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Careful, Turbo, she’s a much better chess player than you are,” Foos said, coming in our direction.

“I never claimed to be any good at chess.”

“Neither does she.”

“Hey! All I said was…”

“That you were only a beginner?”

“Did you beat him?” I asked. If she had, she was seriously good. Foos wasn’t grand master material, he didn’t have the discipline, but he wasn’t too many levels below.

“We drew twice,” Victoria said. “We were just starting the rubber match.”

“Go back and finish. I’ve still got stuff to do.”

“Uh-uh. I want to hear what you’ve been up to—and how many laws you broke.”

“To be continued,” Foos said. “I got all that material you asked for, Turbo. How’s Andras?”

“Okay, physically. In a shitload of trouble otherwise.”

“Maybe more than he’s aware,” he said. “Let me know when you want to take a look at those servers.”

“First things first. Drink.”

“What servers? And what about a shower?” Victoria said.

“Has to wait, I’m afraid.”

“Always thinking of yourself,” she muttered.

Foos grinned and headed for his office. I went to the kitchen and poured a large glass. Victoria raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

“Food next,” I said as I went rummaging through the mostly empty fridge.

“Want to talk about it?” she said.

I was leaning over the vegetable drawer. I stopped. Being asked to talk about it was new to me. I’ve lived a lonely life in those terms. No parents, and as a kid, my friends were usually looking for a way to climb up my back, as I was theirs. I could talk to Iakov, until I found out I couldn’t, but his sons were worse than the kids in the Gulag. When I was married to Polina, I didn’t discuss my work. The Cheka demanded secrecy and loyalty. Foos and I discuss work-related matters but he’s not long on discussion generally and about as sympathetic as a cinder block.

On the other hand, as soon as I started talking, I’d be headed down a street with no way out at the other end. Too many crimes had been committed—not just by me—for her to ignore. The kids were in it up to their necks, and she’d rightly demand they go to the cops. I’d already sent one into hiding, and the other’s stepfather—my client—was unlikely to look kindly on a request to serve her up to the law. I could tell her what happened, but I was in no position to do what she’d want done—although I doubted she’d see it that way. I told myself to stop rationalizing and play the hand. I closed the drawer and unbent myself.

“Coryell’s dead. That’s the smell. Just spent enough time with the corpse to confirm he’s your man Druce.”

She didn’t blink or act surprised. “Where?”

“His office. No sign of FBI outside.”

“We pulled him. You had to go there tonight?”

I nodded. “Those kids are in life and death danger, and he’s the link—or was. I didn’t know he was dead. Correction—I expected he could be but wasn’t sure. His neck’s broken. Several days ago, judging from the stink and the flies.”

“I already know the answer to this, but I’ll ask anyway—you call the police?”

“Believe it or not, I did. From a pay phone.”

“You leave a name?”

My turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Never mind. Take what you can get. Hang on.”

She took a cell phone from her pocket and gave someone a short list of orders about the NYPD, Coryell, and his office.

“Want to hear about the computers?” I said when she finished.

“What computers?”

“ConnectPay’s. The ones that probably have every transaction the company ever made recorded on their hard drives. Not to mention customer files, money flow, BEC data…”

She’d been pacing the kitchen while she made her call. She stopped and faced me. “What about them?”

“They’re missing. Not in Coryell’s office. They used to be, I saw where they were. Somebody took them. Maybe the same somebody who killed him.”

“Goddammit. You got any good news?” She paced some more.

“I’m alive. And you know a lot more than you did two days ago.”

That stopped her again. She came back toward me.

“How the hell did I get myself shacked up with a serial felon?”

“Felonious sex appeal?”

“Don’t start with the humor—and don’t give yourself airs, especially not tonight. How’d you get into Coryell’s office?”

“You don’t really expect me to answer that.”