Afraid of the Dark

Chapter Thirty-six

Jack entered the MLFC Computer Center through a fireproof door and in the company of Chuck Mays, Vince Paulo, and a security guard who made the other men look like Lilliputians.

“Watch your step,” said Mays.

Boxes of records and supplies cluttered the ramp, and it impressed Jack the way Paulo negotiated his way with just a walking stick. The guard left them at another glass door, which Mays opened with a passkey. It led to a large open space that was so well air-conditioned that Jack felt an immediate chill. Inside, rows of supercomputers hummed beneath an expansive drop ceiling with cool fluorescent lighting.

“This single computer center is bigger than my entire first company was,” said Mays.

Jack didn’t fancy himself a computer whiz, so rather than interrupt with a stupid question, he simply let Mays keep talking.

Mays continued. “If you pulled up these floors, you’d see miles and miles of cables. That’s our information pipeline. Every minute of every day we’re sucking in new names, ages, addresses, phone numbers, IP addresses. We get records on your marital status, employment, home values, estimated income. Your children’s ages, your ethnicity, your religion, the books you read, the products you order by phone or online, and where you go on vacation. And that’s just the purchase behavior and lifestyle data.”

“There’s more?” asked Jack.

Mays smiled. “Follow me.”

He led them around a pod of work cubicles to another row of smaller computers.

“Don’t let the size fool you,” said Mays. “These are my fastest ever, and they hold more information than you can fathom. Ever heard of a petabyte, Swyteck?”

“No, but I’m sure a shot of penicillin will clear you right up.”

“Funny. The computer memory here is measured in petabytes.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Imagine a stack of King James Bibles that’s fifty thousand miles high. That’s one petabyte.”

“That’s a lot of ‘thees’ and ‘thous,’ verily I say unto you.”

“We call it grid computing, which is basically a network of supercomputers. All day long we’re analyzing and matching the information we gather to create a detailed portrait of hundreds of millions of adults. And it all happens in seconds, because each portrait has its own sixteen-digit code unique to each person.”

Jack’s gaze swept the room. Each computer looked identical to the one beside it, except for a somewhat goofy motif that was unique to each machine. Some were marked with the characters from The Simpsons or SpongeBob SquarePants. Others were identified by muscle cars, like Maserati or Ferrari.

“What kind of information is collected here?” Jack asked.

“I can’t tell you,” said Mays. “But you might have guessed that the shark fins are for legal actions-divorces, foreclosures, and bankruptcy filings, mostly.”

Jack wondered what nuggets from his own divorce were in there.

“So that’s the end of our tour, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mays. “Now let’s talk settlement.”

“Settlement?” said Jack.

“Jamal’s mother wants to know who killed her son,” said Mays. “I want to know who killed my wife and daughter. My friend Vince wants to know who turned him into the only guy in the room who can’t see what’s going on. So let’s cut through this bullshit about Jamal’s mother suing my ass because it’s somehow my fault that her son is dead.”

“What are you proposing?” asked Jack.

“After you left my house the other night, something stuck in my mind. Basically, we shared information. I gave you a copy of a text-message exchange between my wife and the man who the police think was her killer. You told me something that Jamal said to you in private.”

“That his interrogators in Prague threatened to kill McKenna if he didn’t talk.”

“Exactly,” said Mays. “You said that it was technically still covered by the attorney-client privilege even though Jamal was dead.”

“Fortunately, it was something that Jamal had already authorized me to make public, so I was free to share it.”

“Yeah, brilliant,” said Mays. “Jamal’s dead. Now we want to nail the son of a bitch who killed him and the two most important people in my life. So fuck the attorney-client privilege. You have information straight from Jamal that I can’t get from any other source, am I right?”

“That’s a fair statement,” said Jack.

“Here’s the deal: We pool our knowledge. Everything Vince and I know about McKenna and Shada goes into the pot. Everything you and Jamal’s mother know goes right in with it. And I mean everything. Anything you learned from anyone about Mr. Chang who died at the Lincoln Road Mall. Everything you know about the girl who called you from London. And most important, everything Jamal ever told you.”

“It’s the broadest net possible,” said Vince. “We realize this might include some things that Jamal’s family might not want to tell the police. That’s why we’re doing this privately, through Chuck. Not through the police.”

“We plug all of it into my supercomputers,” Chuck said with a wave of his hand. “We run the same kind of searches I run for Homeland Security when they ask for help finding terrorists. And we find this fucker.”

Mays’ emphasis was on finding the killer, but Jack was hung up on the first point. “Wait a second,” said Jack. “You run searches for the government?”

Mays chuckled. “No offense to my friend Vince here, but do you think the government has this kind of capability? The fires were still burning in the World Trade Center when the FBI came calling on the major players in information technology for clues about the nineteen hijackers and their accomplices. For a stretch, half my company was on it, all on my own dime.”

“Are you still doing national security work?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Is that what Project Round Up is about?”

“I said it’s none of your business.”

Jack glanced at Paulo. With a cop for a best friend, Mays was already connected to law enforcement. Jack probably shouldn’t have been surprised that the ties ran deeper than the Miami Police.

“I believe there’s a proposal on the table,” said Vince.

“Let me say a couple of things,” said Jack. “First, I have tremendous respect for you, Vince, even though it may not have seemed that way in the courtroom.”

“I’m over that,” said Vince. “You did what you had to do. I understand.”

“It’s important to me that things are cool between us.”

“We’re cool,” said Vince.

“Good,” said Jack, and then his gaze swept across the computer center. “But I have to be honest. This business gives me the creeps. Not just your company. I’m talking about the whole information revolution. Call it a Big Brother complex. There’s a bias in me, and that bias makes it hard for me to trust guys like Chuck Mays.”

Mays was completely unfazed, as if he’d heard that speech before. “You probably weren’t whistling that tune on September twelfth. But that’s another debate. Does your client want to find out who killed her son or doesn’t she?”

“I understand what you’re saying. And I will speak to Maryam about your offer.”

“You do that. And here’s something to sweeten the pot. Tell her that if she agrees to my proposal, I’ll pay her five hundred thousand dollars.”

Paulo looked surprised, which Jack noted.

“You’re actually going to write a check to Maryam Wakefield?” said Jack.

“Not exactly,” said Mays. “I would sign over my rights as beneficiary under Jamal’s life insurance policy.”

Jack did another double take-but it was mild compared to Paulo’s visceral expression of disbelief. Like a smart cop, Paulo had the good sense to hold his tongue until he and his friend were alone. Jack felt no such constraint.

“Are you saying that you took out a half-million-dollar life insurance policy on Jamal Wakefield?” said Jack.

“Actually, it was a million. But I’ll give his mother half, and I’ll keep half. That’s fair.”

“Chuck, let’s talk about this later,” said Paulo.

“What?” said Mays. “I have life insurance on everyone who works for me.”

Jack said, “A million dollars on a nineteen-year-old employee who also happens to be dating your daughter? That strikes me as a little

… awkward, shall we say?”

“A lot of companies have life insurance on their employees. It’s cheap, especially on the young guys, and it pays a nice benefit. What’s the big damn deal?”

“No big deal at all,” said Jack, his stare tightening. “So long as you had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance and murder of the man who was accused of killing your wife and daughter.”

Mays narrowed his eyes with anger, and Jack got the distinct impression that, had Paulo not been in the room, Mays would have grabbed him by the throat.

“My offer is good for twenty-four hours. Get me an answer from your client-before I change my mind.”