Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“We’re — he’s part of an investigation.”

“I gathered that. Into what, exactly?”

Surely this must be a member of Tolevi’s mafya clan, posing as a spy to try and get him off. That was a good thing — he could get this asshole, too. Surely he’d be easier to break than Tolevi, who right now was staring blankly at the mirror.

“I’m not going to discuss this over the phone,” said Jenkins. “If you want to come down and talk about it in person, I’d be happy to share what I can.”

“I’m afraid it would be difficult for me to do that. I’m in Europe at the moment.”

“Well, I guess that’s that, then.” Jenkins hung up.

Borya woke with a start, disoriented. The sheet and blankets had tied themselves around her so tightly that her right arm was numb.

She stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom, trying to regain her sense of where she was. The tiny LED on the power button of her laptop was blinking next to her, half obscured by the edge of the covers.

Her father must not be home if the laptop was still here. He always turned it off and put it on the desk, generally with a murmured lecture about how expensive it would be to fix when it fell off the bed as she slept.

Not home yet?

Borya raised her head to look at the clock. It was a little past three.

What was he doing?

Whatever it was, it represented only a temporary reprieve, the calm before the storm as her ELA teacher said when discussing Moby Dick.

That made her father the whale. But he was more like Captain Ahab, relentless.

Not cruel, though he would definitely yell when he got home.

The account. She had to kill the account.

Borya unraveled the covers. Was her father home already? No lights were on in the hallway — he habitually turned them off — but hadn’t she done that when she got home, part of the ruse to pretend she was sleeping?

“Daddy?” she heard herself say. “Papa?”

No answer. Don’t push it.

Borya retrieved her laptop and typed in the password. She hated to kill the account, but there was no other choice. Besides, it was time to move on to the next thing. Maybe she’d write her own video game, something she’d never tried. Or maybe hack an airplane control system. She’d read that it could be done.

Borya typed furiously, her fingers pounding the plastic keys of the laptop. Finally she stopped and stared at the screen, where a cursor blinked in the open program box. There was a long delay between when a command was given and when it was acknowledged as executed, due to the need to traffic the commands through a set of anonymous servers.

Executed

A sudden shiver ran through her. It was cold in the house.

Where was her father?

“Daddy?” she said again, this time louder, though she sensed there would be no answer. “Daddy, where are you?”

“…backward and forward, every which way you can think of and a few I’m sure you can’t. There is no special coding on that ATM card. Zilch. It is no different than any other bank card. Including mine.”

Jenkins pushed the receiver closer to his ear. “What are you saying, Dryfus? We got the wrong guy?”

“I’m saying there’s nothing on this bank card that makes it different than any other bank card.”

“But Chelsea Goodman showed you the string of extra commands.”

“There’s nothing special on the card.”

“How can that be?”

“Well… maybe the theory was wrong.”

“Can you access the account?” asked Jenkins.

“Well… Technically, I need a warrant.”

“Forget about that. Just access it.”

“ Boss .”

“We have a card used in the commission of a crime. We’re investigating the crime.”

“The ATM owner hasn’t reported any unusual activity. There is no complaint. There’s no crime — I can’t.”

“Just take a look at the account.”

“Boss, really. I need a warrant. Otherwise I’m hacking into an account. Even if I find something, until there’s a complaint—”

“Where are you now?” asked Jenkins.

“Our lab.”

“Wait there for me. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

“But, Trev—”

“You want coffee? I’ll stop at Dunkin’ on the way over.” Jenkins hung up without even bothering to hear the answer. He looked through the mirror into the interview room. Tolevi was still sitting there, staring at the table. Every so often he flexed his fingers, but otherwise he was a stone Buddha, without emotion or movement.

“So what are we doing?” asked Hightower. She was leaning against the wall next to the door, eyes drooping.

“I’m going to try to figure out a way to access his account,” said Jenkins.

“How?”

“Maybe he’ll do it for us. He’s cooperating. Kind of.”

“Maybe because he knows there’s nothing there.”

He was so close. It was just a matter of time before he came up with something he could use as leverage to break him. If they could only get the god damn search warrant.

“He told me I could examine the card,” said Jenkins. “That means I can see if it works.”

“You didn’t ask specifically if you could look at the account.”

“I don’t think I have to.”

More importantly, thought Jenkins, he hadn’t been told he couldn’t.

I’ll look at the account, then go from there.

“I’ll be back in a half hour or so,” he told Hightower. “You want something?”

“We can’t keep him forever.”

“We’re not going to.”

“He has a kid.”

“I realize that. But he left her here in the country, right? She’s what? Seventeen?”

“I think fifteen.” They’d used a commercial credit-rating database to look up Tolevi’s personal details, and they’d filled out more of the information with a simple Google search. The information was not definitive, but a girl with the same last name had been pictured in the newspaper the year before, after being elected to the Honor Society as a freshman.

Borya Tolevi.

“We could be accused of endangering the welfare of a child,” added Hightower.

“Come on,” said Jenkins. “That’s not going to happen. I’ll be back.”

He stalked from the room, determined to break Tolevi, break this case. And when he did that, when he finally got the scumbag Buddha in there to talk, he was going to find the bastard who had killed his brother.

Jenkins was nearly to the front hall when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and saw that the number belonged to Paul Smith, his boss in D.C.

He’d want an update. Jenkins considered putting it off — he had nothing to tell him. But maybe he could suggest a shortcut to getting the warrant. The warrant would make everything much, much easier.

“This is Jenkins,” he said, sliding the answer bar on the touch screen.

“What’s the status of your suspect?” barked Smith. He wasn’t happy.

“We’re still working on him.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“He was at the ATM when the card was used.”

“OK. And the card is definitely tied to the scam?”

“We think so, yes.”

“ Think so?”

Jenkins didn’t answer. “It’s just a matter of time now.”

“Release him,” said Smith.

“What?”

“You have nothing to tie him to your case. That’s what you’re telling me. How can you hold him?”

“I’m just questioning him. He’s suspect. And he’s cooperating. Voluntarily.”