Desperate Measures

23

Furious, Brian turned on the computer, then locked a phone into a modem. His cheeks were flushed. “Which system do you want to access first? Your newspaper’s?”

“Criminal records.”

Brian didn’t react to the change in priorities. Instead, he touched buttons on his telephone.

“You know the criminal-records number by heart?” Pittman asked in amazement.

“No. This is a friend of mine. I don’t hack anymore, but I keep in touch with friends who do. This guy’s obsessed about eavesdropping on the police. And he never talks on the phone. I always have to go through his computer.”

Words appeared on Brian’s computer screen.

YOU HAVE REACHED THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE.

“He’s also crazy about Star Trek.” Brian tapped letters on his keyboard.

MR. SPOCK TO CAPTAIN KIRK.

“Spock’s my code name,” Brian said.

Words appeared in response.

KIRK HERE. WHAT IS YOUR PASSWORD?

Brian typed more letters.

TRIBBLES.

New words appeared on the screen.

PROCEED, MR. SPOCK.

Brian typed:

TOP SECRET MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND. FEAR THAT KLINGONS MAY TRY TO INTERCEPT TRANSMISSION.

The response came quickly.

ACTIVATE SCRAMBLER.

Brian turned on a machine next to the phone.

SCRAMBLER ACTIVATED.

For the next few minutes, Pittman watched with fascination as Brian tapped his keyboard, read and responded to queries on his screen, and finally wrote down a series of numbers.

“Got it.”

MAY YOU PROSPER. SPOCK TO KIRK. OUT.

Brian pressed other numbers on his telephone. “I’m routing this through Fairbanks, Alaska, and Key West, Florida. Even then, the call can be traced. If the criminal-records computer senses an intrusion, I’ll have to unplug right away.”

“How will you know?”

“That’ll tell me.” Brian pointed to another machine beside the telephone.

He pressed more numbers and nodded toward the screen. “Okay, we’re in. What do you want to know?”

“Access the file for Sean O’Reilly.” Pittman spelled the name.

O’Reilly had been the master thief whom Pittman had interviewed some years ago. The tool knife with its lock picks that Pittman had used to get into Jonathan Millgate’s room had been a gift from O’Reilly.

“There,” Brian said.

Pittman read the screen. Earlier, when he had tried to find Brian’s name in the phone book, he had also looked for O’Reillys, with no success. Either O’Reilly was back in prison, had moved to another area, or…

“Yes.” Pittman picked up a pencil and notepad.

According to O’Reilly’s file, he’d been released from prison three months previously-on parole-which meant that he was required to keep the authorities informed about where he was staying.

The address was on the Lower East Side. Pittman quickly wrote it down, tore off the piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.

“Now what other computer files do you want?” Brian asked.

“I thought so,” a steely voice said behind them.

Pittman and Brian spun toward the noise.

Gladys must have been listening at the door. She had thrown it open.

She stormed in. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute. You can’t stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“You are hacking. What’s the matter with you? Do you like prison so much that you want to go back there?”

“You’re mistaken,” Pittman said. “I was showing Brian some work I’ve been doing.”

“Get out of my house.”

“We accessed my files at-”

“Don’t lie to me. Your name isn’t Ed Garner. It’s Matthew Pittman. CNN just did a story on you. I recognized your picture.” Gladys yanked the phone from the modem. “I’m calling the police.”

As words vanished from the screen, she raised the phone to her ear and pressed 911.

“Gladys,” Brian objected.

From another room, the baby started crying.

“Please,” Pittman said.

Gladys spoke to the phone, “My name is Gladys Botulfson. I live at-”

Pittman pressed the disconnect button. “You’re doing something stupid, Gladys.”

“I don’t want any killer near my baby.”

“You don’t understand.”

They stared at each other.

The phone began to ring.

Gladys flinched.

“That’ll be the police,” Pittman said. “They have an automatic record of the phone number of anyone who calls them.”

Gladys tried to pry his hand from the disconnect button.

Pittman used his other hand to grip her wrist. “Don’t do it. Think. How would you like your baby’s father to go to prison again.”

“What?”

The phone kept ringing.

“Aiding a fugitive,” Pittman said. “Helping him illegally access computer files. Brian could be put away until your baby starts high school.”

Gladys’s eyes bulged.

The phone rang again.

Pittman took the receiver away from her and lifted the disconnect button. “Hello?… Yes, Gladys Botulfson lives here.… I know she called. We were having a bit of a quarrel, I’m afraid. She… Here. Let me put her on.”

Pittman stared at her, then handed her the phone.

Gladys squinted toward the wailing baby, then toward Brian, finally toward Pittman. Her lips were so pursed that the skin around them was white.

She parted them. “This is Gladys Botulfson,” she said to the phone. “I’m sorry for troubling you. What my husband says is true. We were having a fight. I thought I’d scare him if I called the police.… Yes, I understand it’s a serious offense to abuse the emergency number. It won’t happen again.… We’re calmer now. No, I don’t need any help. Thank you.”

Gladys set down the phone. She rubbed her wrist where Pittman had gripped it. Her voice was disturbingly flat. “Get out.”

Pittman picked up his gym bag. “Brian, thanks for letting me get into the newspaper’s computer files.” His look toward Brian was direct and meaningful: Don’t let her know what files we really accessed.

“Sure.”

“I won’t tell you again,” Gladys said.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

Pittman left the apartment and shut the door behind him. When he got in the elevator, he could still hear Gladys’s loud, accusing voice from behind Brian’s door.