Full Tilt

38

New York City

Sirens echoed in the night when Kate got out of the cab at 6th Avenue near Times Square and walked along West 46th Street.

A few hours ago, Hugh Davidson had called her at home, excited that he’d arranged a meeting with a computer network security expert who was an ex-contractor with the CIA and the NSA.

“We have to meet him tonight,” Hugh said. “We’re lucky. These people rarely step out of the shadows. Our guy’s been involved in some nefarious projects.”

The bar where they’d arranged to meet was slivered between the Cafe Ocho and Samantha’s Hair Salon. Kate arrived early and stayed outside to scan the street for people coming and going. There was nothing unusual, just another night in Manhattan after spending a frustrating, fruitless day following leads.

This meeting with Hugh’s contact could be something.

Now, while waiting on the street for him, Kate used her phone to check on the competition. She read the latest Associated Press story on Rampart, a situational piece containing no real news. It emphasized the challenges of identifying the staggering number of new victims. It’s only a matter of time before they identify my sister. Kate pushed the thought aside and stood firm, drawing on Nancy’s encouragement to never give up her fight to learn the truth about Vanessa.

That’s why she’d come down here tonight. Plus, she was still on the story. She followed her personal rule to avoid taking the subway after dark. Having been alone much of her life, she knew how to take care of herself. When it came to meeting news sources who were strangers, especially those with questionable backgrounds, she kept her guard up.

My name and face are out there, along with a lot of freaky people.

Twenty minutes and still no sign of Hugh. Kate texted him. Maybe he’s in the bar already? When she didn’t get a response, she went in.

Live piano music was playing above the laughter of the after-work crowd blending with the conversations of the night crowd. As the TVs above the bar flashed with sports and news, Kate searched for Hugh.

It was futile.

Fortunately a booth nearby was emptying and she moved fast to claim it. A server cleared the table, Kate ordered a diet cola, then her phone vibrated with a text from Hugh.

A pipe burst in my bldg. I’m flooded. Can’t make it. Sorry.

Darn, Hugh. How will I know him?

He’ll know you.

What’s his name? Appearance?

I’ve never seen him before.

What!?!

He goes by Viper.

Seriously?

Yes. Sorry, Kate. I have to go. Good luck.

Great. Shaking her head, she set her phone on the table.

Her drink came with a bowl of peanuts. She munched on a few as she took inventory in a bid to spot her source. The place was packed with Manhattan white-collar types. She noticed a man nearby warming a stool at the bar. Tie loosened, he was stealing glimpses of her while pretending to watch the TV overhead.

What? Now he was grinning and offering Kate little waves.

He couldn’t be Viper. No chance.

She turned away, sipped her drink and checked the time on her phone.

Viper was half an hour late.

This was starting to feel like a washout.

Well, she still hadn’t exhausted the Denver angle. She had more work to do following up on the information Will Goodsill had sent her. Maybe there was a link to Nelson and who he really was. She consoled herself with the belief that the Colorado case still held promise, before she glanced at one of the TVs showing a news report on Rampart.

A sudden wave of sadness rolled over her. For the first time she realized that she’d have to think about planning a funeral for Vanessa.

Kate shut her eyes tight for a second.

How much more of this I can take?

“Kate Page?”

A man in his twenties-early twenties-materialized at her table.

“Yes.”

“I’m a friend of Hugh Davidson’s. We were to meet.”

The stranger was about six feet tall with a medium build. He had dark, slicked-back hair cut short, a stubbled goatee and stud in his left lobe. He was wearing a polo shirt under his leather jacket.

“I suppose I should ask you your code name.”

He started to grin, nodding to himself.

“Viper. But you can call me Erich.”

“All right, have a seat, Erich.”

As he removed his jacket, Kate noticed small tattoos on his toned arms.

“May I get you something?” A waitress set down a coaster.

“Tomato juice with ice.”

After the server left Kate asked why he’d ordered the juice.

“Are you under twenty-one, Erich?”

“I’m twenty-two.” His eyes went to Kate’s phone. “May I?”

She pushed it his way and he inspected it without touching it.

“What was that all about?” Kate asked.

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I have an interest in the types of phones people use.”

“You’re twenty-two, and Hugh says you did some work for the CIA and NSA. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work?”

“Network security.”

“What exactly did you do?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“Figures. Oh, Hugh couldn’t make it because-”

“I know why.”

“Who are you working for now?”

“I’m freelancing here and there. I do okay.”

After Erich’s juice arrived, Kate waited until the server had left.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Hugh told you why I need help.”

“You’re trying to find Carl Nelson, the guy the FBI’s looking for.”

“Yes. Are you willing to help me, to help me confidentially?”

Erich nodded.

“Hugh told you that neither I, nor Newslead, can pay you?”

“Not a problem,” he said.

Kate sipped her drink, heartened to have help.

“All right, so what can you do, how does this work, because I can’t tell you how badly I want to find this guy.”

“It’s about your sister.”

“That. Yes. And all the other victims.”

Erich looked off at nothing. “I’ll give you an overview, how’s that?”

“Yes.”

“For starters, I’ll tell you what’s going on. The FBI will have secured IP addresses of every computer Nelson’s had access to.”

“Home and work?”

“Right, cell phones, laptops. They’ll look at his online history, with every site he’s visited, every email he’s sent, every online transaction. They’ll get warrants or subpoena the networks he’s been on.

“Sounds exhaustive.”

“It’ll likely be useless and the FBI knows this, given Nelson’s line of work and his mind-set.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been following the case. He’s supposedly a network security expert. He’ll know some tricks of the trade, and he’s already attempted to cover his tracks. So he’s likely taken steps not to leave any digital trail.”

“Oh.”

“Additionally, if he never touches a computer and goes off the grid, he’s gone. Then it becomes the proverbial needle-in-a-haystack search, leaving police to rely on traditional evidence like fingerprints, license plates, DNA and eyewitness sighting, or anticipating and leveraging who he might physically contact.”

“Right.” Kate’s heart sank.

“However, I don’t think that’s the case with Carl Nelson.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, he’s stolen access to private financial data for some forty million people, which is child’s play, by the way.”

“For you, maybe.”

“My guess is Carl’s going to use that data while he’s on the run.”

“What if he doesn’t? What if he stays off the grid and uses cash?”

“It’s possible, but today there are places that won’t take cash, increasing the chances that he’d use one of his stolen digital identities.”

“If that’s true, then how would you know who, what or when?”

“There are some protocols I could run.”

“I see. Okay.”

“Look, I have to go,” Erich said. “I’ll work on this, I’ll keep in touch.”

“Wait, I’ll give you my cell phone and email-”

“I don’t need any of that.” He smiled.

“Or course,” she said. “Before you go, tell me something. Why agree to help? Is this sport for you?”

“Sport?”

He looked into his glass of tomato juice.

“No, a few years ago a friend of mind, who was quite troubled and naive, had been lured over time by an online predator who eventually raped her. She committed suicide. I was a pallbearer.”

“Oh, God.”

“Police couldn’t find the man responsible, so I looked for him with a vengeance. In my zeal, I attacked a few places, intruded-guess you’d call it hacking. But I found him.”

Erich nodded and finished his juice. Kate suddenly noticed that he’d been drinking it with the napkin wrapped around the glass so he wouldn’t leave any fingerprints. He pulled on his jacket to leave.

“You got this?”

“Yes. Wait. Erich, what happened? You found the creep, what happened to him?”

“He’s dead.”