David Duffy - In for a Ruble

She shook her head. “No, I don’t. You touch anything, take anything?”

“No one will find fingerprints.”

“I’m sure that’s true. Answer the question.”

“I opened the window. I moved the photocopier away from the wall and put it back. I checked Coryell’s wallet. It’s in his hip pocket, where I found it. I interrupted several hundred musca meals.”

That got me a look.

“Flies—there’s lots of them.”

“Ugh.” She resumed her pacing. “You know, shug, aside from your own criminal intent, which I’m trying hard to overlook, all this information you serve up, I don’t know if we can even use it. We’ve got laws, conventions, rules of evidence.”

“You’re a prosecutor. I’m an ex-spy. If what Foos just said about your chess acumen is true, I’m guessing you’ll find a way.”

“You’re an ex-spy bullshit artist.”

She put out her arms. I stepped into her embrace.

“No! My mistake. I think that smell’s growing. You need a bath, maybe disinfectant. If that doesn’t work, one of us is definitely sleeping on the couch.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got one more job to do. It’s why I came back here. It’s ugly and unpleasant and probably involves your man Konychev. I’m also going to need your help with something.”

“Do I anticipate more laws being broken?”

“Can’t say no. But law or no law, there’s no good way out of this particular swamp.”

“Remember I grew up in a swamp.”

“Doesn’t mean you want to return.”

She put a hand on each cheek and planted her lips on mine—briefly.

“You’re not the only who can take a selective approach to truth telling. Let’s go—that is, if he’ll let a Fed sit in.”

“If you really drew him in chess twice, he’s too devastated to say no.”

I grabbed the bottle and two glasses in addition to my own, and we went to Foos’s office.

“Showtime,” I said.

“I was afraid of that,” he said.

He moved his desk chair aside to make room for the two I brought around. He made no comment on Victoria’s presence. Pig Pen wasn’t the only one she’d been bonding with.

I put the glasses and the bottle on the desk. Foos poured a drink. Victoria shook her head, no.

“First stop, see if WildeTime.com is still online.”

“No need. Whole BEC network is down.”

“Again? That’s not good for the kids.”

“The kids—or kid—are the ones who took it down. That’s what I meant when I called.”

“Andras really took down the BEC?”

“Uh-huh. He’s been toying with ConnectPay for months, starting last summer. He spent weeks looking around, figuring out what’s what. He tried a few minor data-corruption programs, nothing too serious, more experiments than anything else. Then he found his way through the BEC firewall. A few more data-corruption forays, reconnaissance missions, enough to cause some glitches. Then he clipped them for that three mil in August and the five at Thanksgiving. Like he was ramping up. A couple weeks ago, he planted a real worm, nest of worms actually. Data corruption big time—designed to make a total mash of everything. The first time it twists a few files—as a warning. That was the little hiccup a few days ago. The second, if it isn’t disabled, the worms bore their way through everything, eat it all from the inside out, leaving a long trail of cyber-shit in its wake.”

“Let me guess. The second launch was today.”

“Correctomundo,” Foos said. “They may have backup systems unconnected with their main servers, but if not, the BEC is well and truly cooked. And even if they do, they’ve got a big job getting back in business. Could take weeks, probably months.”

“That’s a lot of income.”

“Billions.”

“Did he cover his tracks?”

“He did inside the ConnectPay servers, but all the activity is clear as day on his own system. Didn’t reckon anyone would be looking at it, I guess.”

“Naïve.”

“He’s a kid, a smart kid, but a kid.”

“And the guy this morning could see it?”

“If he’s remotely competent, he saw everything I did.”

“You’re right about buried alive. If they don’t dismember him first.”

Victoria was watching silently, a mix of surprise and thoughtfulness on her face. I reached for the phone and called Leitz.

“You get your son somewhere safe, like we discussed?”

“Working on it right now.”

“Don’t delay. It’s worse than I thought. And don’t tell anybody—not your wife, your family, anybody where he is. Anybody who knows is in the same kind of danger.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain when I see you.”

Victoria said, “That kid’s a suspect. You’re aiding and abetting.”

“That kid’s dead—as soon as they finish torturing him—the moment anyone in the BEC knows where to find him.”

“You can’t keep him in hiding forever.”

“I know.” Problem was, that’s exactly how long Karp and Konychev—Batkin too?—were going to keep looking. She was giving me her best prosecutorial glare.

“Suppose I need to talk to him?”

“We can discuss that.”

“Uh-uh. You get no special dispensation from me. Not when it comes to doing my job.”

“I understand. I’m not expecting any. But there may be other answers.” I did my best to sound confident. I could see she didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself. I turned to Foos.

“If the ConnectPay servers were disconnected before the data destruction program launched itself, there’s a chance they weren’t infected, right?”

“If they were offline, and Andras didn’t trash them too, they’re probably okay.”

“Looks like you still have your case, if we can find those servers,” I said to Victoria. “Although we may need them to bargain for the kid.”

“Hold on, shug. You can’t…”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said quickly. “We have to find them first. And if Nosferatu killed Coryell, it’s a moot point—he’s already got them.”

“You still can’t…”

Time to change the subject, even if it was only a temporary reprieve. I said, “Let’s take a look at the WildeTime data. Start with e-mail. Search on Newburgh.”

I could feel Victoria’s glare as I watched the computer. Foos was cool as a cucumber—once again declining to take sides, at least overtly. It took a minute to find an exchange between someone named frankyfun and Salomé—a half-dozen messages arranging a five-thousand-dollar private “in-person audition” at the Black Horse Motel for the night of January 15.

“Who’s that?” Victoria asked.

“Frankyfun is Walter Coryell.”

“You sure?”

“Dead certain, actually.”

“Doesn’t your sense of humor ever take a night off?”

“Carpe diem.”

“Carpe my ass. Who’s Salomé?”

I resisted the temptation to carpe the obvious comeback. “Salomé is Andras’s girlfriend, Irina. What else is there on franky?”

Foos worked the keys. Franky was a regular. He’d paid for “private auditions,” mostly with Salomé, about once a week for the last six months. All recorded.

One of the worst things about this kind of investigation, it makes you question your own motives. Are they based on prurience? How much do I need to see? We all have tendencies, I’m told, but most of us keep them buried. For those who don’t, and have the funds, here was a menu, just like a diner. Cute underaged Russian blowjobs in column A. Sweet-faced American boy pulling his pud in column B. For kiddie doggy, choose column C. Got a thing for teenaged lesbians…

Victoria muttered, “Jesus, I can’t believe this. You weren’t kidding about the swamp. I’ll take that drink now.”