Gone Before Goodbye

Chapter Thirteen

Porkchop spreads the printouts on the bar. Sharon stands over him. They are at Vipers for Bikers. It is eight a.m. Last year, Porkchop started opening for a Full Throttle Breakfast with specials like Rise and Ride, the Biker’s Breakfast Slam, and the house specialty, Pit Stop Pancakes. It’s proven to be a hit with the tourists.

“Okay,” Porkchop says, “explain to me what I’m seeing.”

“There is a proprietary beta UX app I created on Maggie’s phone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It contains certain features involving the Doppler effect, CDRs, GPS, triangulation—”

“Sharon,” Porkchop says.

“Yes?”

“Are you saying you can track Maggie?”

“Yes. No. Well, I could. Maggie didn’t explain what my new program can do, did she?”

Porkchop gives her a look. “You know I don’t own a smartphone, right?”

“It’s why I took the first train here,” Sharon says.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“So Maggie never mentioned an app?”

“An app to me is chicken wings,” Porkchop says.

Sharon nods. “Of course she wouldn’t,” she says, more to herself than to him.

“I’m not following.”

“It’s...” Sharon shakes it off. “Never mind, it’s not important. What’s important is that the app was on her phone. It’s an important app. For her. For me. It could one day also be worth a lot of money. She visited you when she came up to see Doctor Barlow, right?”

“Right.”

“And then she took some job. Something very lucrative. All of a sudden, all my debt was gone.”

Porkchop nods. “I know. He flew her someplace.”

“Russia,” Sharon says. “A remote region near Gelendzhik north of the Black Sea.”

“She told you this?”

“No. Look at the printout. It follows her route.”

“Your, uh, app does this?”

“Yes.”

“Sharon, I don’t know much about technology, but wouldn’t you lose the ability to track when it’s in the air or off Wi-Fi or whatever?”

“If you used strictly Wi-Fi or cellular services, yes. But I’ve been able to keep the app active by tying the frequency into governmental satellite LEOs — that’s Low Earth orbit—”

“Sharon.”

“Right, sorry. Here’s the point. Someone tried to delete the app off Maggie’s phone.” Sharon raises her hand as though to stop him. “No, it wasn’t Maggie. She would know that it couldn’t be done this way. The most rational reason is that someone took away her phone, didn’t like that app being on it, and tried to delete it.”

“What’s on the app?”

Sharon hesitates.

“Sharon?”

“You wouldn’t understand. And it’s not really important. What does matter is that someone took possession of Maggie’s phone, undoubtedly against her will.”

“So she’s in trouble,” Porkchop says.

“Yes.”

“Can you use the L-E-whatever to tell us where she is now?”

“Here’s where she was yesterday. I brought the satellite image.”

She reaches over him and turns the page.

Porkchop studies the page. “I assume the red dot is her?”

“Yes.”

“I only see trees.”

“I know. I had to zoom out. There are roads, but whatever building is there, it’s being blocked.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means someone rich and powerful lives there. He doesn’t want his house seen via satellite. He wants to stay hidden.”

Porkchop says nothing.

“So at 2:13 a.m. local time yesterday,” Sharon continues, “someone tech savvy found a way past Maggie’s facial recognition and got into her phone. Forty-eight minutes later, someone tried to delete my proprietary beta app. It’s tricked up so that the person who does it will think they succeeded, but they didn’t. That triggered an alarm that reached me around three in the morning.”

“What else do you know?”

“The app was later reinstalled.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the experts are better than I thought and figured it out. Or maybe Maggie got her phone back. I don’t know. The estate has a cell phone jammer. In short, the phone has not been used at all since her arrival. No calls allowed in or out. No emails or messaging. No Wi-Fi or internet access.”

“But your, uh, app. That still works?”

“Yes. Because it uses LEO satellites. That’s how I can still track it. Most people believe that if you are off Wi-Fi or cellular service, you can’t be tracked. That’s not true. You can be. Even if a phone is off, you can be tracked.” Sharon shakes it off. “Let me get to the point.”

“That would be helpful, yeah.”

“Someone took Maggie’s phone. Someone broke into it. Someone tried to delete the app. That sent me the warning. Several hours later, the phone, which had been in a location where cellular access was blocked, moved out of that bubble long enough to make a call.”

“Who did Maggie call?”

“We don’t know it was Maggie,” Sharon says. “But it’s a Lithuanian phone number. It’s the kind designed to be untraceable.”

“Okay, so where’s Maggie’s phone now?”

“That’s another issue,” Sharon says. “I can’t trace it anymore.”

“So, what, it ran out of batteries, or someone turned it off?”

Sharon shakes her head. “I told you. Even if a phone is off, you can track it.”

“So?” Porkchop asks.

“So,” Sharon says, “someone destroyed it.”

As he does most mornings, Dr. Evan Barlow says goodbye to Hector the doorman at his apartment building on Fifth Avenue between 61st and 62nd Street and slides into the back of his Mercedes-Maybach.

From down the block, two men on motorcycles watch. One is a big squat man known to his friends as Pinky. The other is Porkchop.

Porkchop nods and then they both follow. They stay back, but Porkchop isn’t particularly worried about being spotted. When they get within six blocks of Barlow Cosmetics’ main office, Porkchop becomes certain that that’s Barlow’s destination. He sees no reason to stay behind. He and Pinky speed up, find parking, wait inside the expansive lobby.

There is security, of course. No New York City building is without security nowadays. But the guards leave you alone on the ground floors of most buildings as long as you don’t loiter too long. It’s if you want to get on an elevator that all the security and badges and passes and IDs kick in.

Five minutes later, Barlow’s car pulls up to the front. He steps out of the back and enters the lobby. Porkchop doesn’t hesitate. He approaches Barlow from the back and slaps his shoulder in a gesture that may look friendly from a distance but is hard enough to intimidate. Barlow startles at the blow and looks behind him.

“Remember me?” Porkchop says.

Barlow’s eyes narrow as he looks the old biker up and down. But only for a second. Yep, he knows. Still, Porkchop adds the reminder.

“You were at my son’s wedding.”

“I remember,” Barlow says. “You’re Meatloaf or something.”

“Don’t try to piss me off, Evan.”

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

“I have a full schedule this morning.”

Porkchop throws his arm around his shoulder and neck area. Two good buddies. “This won’t take long.”

Barlow shrugs him off and straightens his shoulders. “You don’t scare me.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

Barlow raises his chin, sticks out his chest. “There’s security everywhere.”

Porkchop nods and then punches Barlow deep in the stomach. It’s a short jab, no fuss, no big windup or any of that. The hand forms a fist near the waist and shoots up fast. You don’t need that much power to make this effective. It’s more placement than strength. Porkchop’s knuckles land flush on the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of Barlow. Barlow bends at the waist. His mouth is open in a silent scream because the air is gone from his lungs. Porkchop grabs him and gently leads him to the ground. Pinky steps in front of them, blocking the security guard’s view.

“Just relax,” Porkchop whispers. “Your breath will come back in a moment.”

No one saw the blow. No one rushes over. Part of that is the speed and relative stillness of Porkchop’s move. Part of it is that you don’t expect something like this on the ground floor of a fancy Manhattan high-rise. Whatever, no one reacts at first, but with Barlow on the floor struggling to regain his breath, a security guard finally notices. He starts to hurry over.

“If you tell him anything other than you’re fine,” Porkchop says in his calmest voice, “you’ll need a doctor better than you to put you back together.”

The guard, a bony guy with a prominent Adam’s apple, arrives. “Doctor Barlow?”

“He slipped,” Porkchop says.

The guard ignores him. “Doc?”

Barlow finally catches his breath. “I’m fine, Darryl,” he manages. Then: “I’m going to need a security pass for my friend here.”

Darryl ends up getting a pass for Pinky too. They use the barcode to get through the turnstile and into the elevator. All three step inside. When they do, Barlow snaps, “What do you want?”

“First off, I’m sorry,” Porkchop says. “Not about the punch. You deserved that. But the ‘you’ll need a better doctor than you’ line. I can’t believe I said that.”

Pinky says, “It was bad.”

“I know. Way too arch.”

“Even the delivery was off,” Pinky adds with a disappointed shake of his head. “I expect better from you, Porkchop.”

“I know,” Porkchop agrees. “Just know that I let myself down too.”

The elevator opens with a ding. Barlow’s assistant, Mrs. Tansmore, greets him as he comes into the office. Porkchop, decked out in full biker garb, winks at her and kisses her hand. You can’t get away with this anymore. But Porkchop can. Mrs. Tansmore blushes.

“They call me Porkchop,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Porkchop,” Mrs. Tansmore says.

“I bet Doc Barlow never told you he used to be in a motorcycle gang.”

“No, he never did.”

“We used to say Barlow set the Bar Low, if you catch my drift.”

She doesn’t. Pinky frowns and shakes his head at Porkchop. Then Pinky raises both his hands. One is a fist. The other is two fingers. This is signaling 0–2, meaning that between the “you’ll need a better doctor” line and the “Bar Low” pun, Porkchop is one strike away from being out.

Porkchop nods. “Fair.”

Porkchop follows Barlow into his office. Pinky stays out with Mrs. Tansmore and guards the door. No one in, no one out.

“What do you want?” Barlow snaps.

Porkchop frowns. “Can we skip this part?”

“Skip what part?”

“The part where you pretend you don’t know I’m here about Maggie.”

Barlow nods. “There’s nothing for me to tell you,” he says.

“You hired her for a job.”

“Do you understand what HIPAA violations are?”

“I do.”

“Do you understand patient confidentiality?”

“Again: I do. So who hired her?”

“If she wants to tell you—”

“She’s in Russia. She’s in trouble.”

Barlow blinks. “What makes you think she’s in trouble?”

“Four days ago, you travel down to Baltimore. You tell Maggie you have some big reason to see her. She comes up to New York. You two meet. Suddenly debts are paid. Lawsuits are settled. She gets on a private plane at Teterboro. She ends up in Russia. I get it. It’s some kind of surgical concierge service. Off the books. I don’t know whether it’s all legal or not, and I don’t much care.”

“I’m not going to confirm or deny—”

“Don’t make me punch you again, Evan.”

“Look,” Barlow says. “She’s safe. She’s fine.”

“I have reason to believe otherwise,” Porkchop says. “But you can allay my fears. Call the client. Get Maggie on the phone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“She’s in trouble, Evan.”

“How can you know that?”

“Call the client. Say there’s an emergency at home, that I have to talk to her.”

“How can you know something’s wrong?”

“Tell them you need to speak to her for a moment. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“You do know I care very much about Maggie,” Barlow says. “That she was a prized and beloved student. That I was very close to her mother.”

“Yeah, I know all that,” Porkchop says.

“Do you really think I’d do something to put her in harm’s way?”

“If you did...” Porkchop stops. “Wait, I don’t want to come up with another arch threat. So let me state this plainly. If you did indeed put Maggie in harm’s way, I’m going to kill you. Not sure how. I may throw you through that window. I may strangle you to death. I don’t know. I don’t care. I lost my son. You know that, right?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not losing Maggie. Do you hear me?”

Barlow nods. “We’re on the same side here.”

“Good. Then call. I want to hear her voice.”

Barlow heads over to his desk and sits down. Porkchop takes the chair across from him. Barlow opens his phone and checks phone numbers. He puts speakerphone on and calls one. No answer. He calls another. The same.

On the third number, a voice answers with one word. “What?”

Porkchop jolts up. He recognizes the voice. It’s the guy who was in the car with Maggie.

“It’s Evan Barlow,” Barlow says.

“Yes, I know. My phone has caller ID. What do you want?”

“I’d like to speak with Doctor McCabe for a moment.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“She can’t come to the phone right now. Don’t call back.”

The call disconnects. Porkchop has Barlow try again. No reply. One more time, the same. Porkchop says, “Tell me everything.”

Barlow stands up and starts pacing. “Why are you so sure something is wrong?”

“Someone destroyed her phone.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I don’t want to waste time explaining this to you. Tell me what you know.”

“It’s not that complicated. Or uncommon. It’s like you said. Über-rich people come to me. They want the best, and they want full discretion. I’ve traveled on my own a few times. A Saudi prince once. A rich man in Brunei. They fly you in on private jets. They pay you a fortune. It’s all off the books.”

Porkchop nods for him to continue.

“I’m sorry about your son. I met Marc several times. He was a brilliant surgeon. And I know, well, when he and Maggie were together, you could feel the connection, you know what I mean?”

Porkchop gives him nothing.

“So when Maggie lost him and then her license... I wanted to help. She’s a brilliant surgeon too. You probably know that. I figured this was a good opportunity. They wanted the best plastic surgeon money could buy. Maggie needed money and wanted to get back in the game somehow.”

“What kind of surgery?”

“Cosmetic. There would be two patients, so at least two surgeries. The client’s mistress would be getting breast augmentation. And the client himself wanted some facial work. I don’t know the specifics.”

“Who was the client?”

Barlow shakes his head.

“What?” Porkchop says.

“I don’t know who the client is.”

“How can you not know?”

“That’s part of the discretion. They all have middlemen.”

“That was the middleman on the phone?”

“Yes. He calls himself Ivan Brovski. I doubt it’s his real name. He’s the one who contacted me. He’s the one who spoke to Maggie.”

“And you don’t know who he works for?”

“Right.”

“So before you send a doctor overseas like this, you don’t vet the client?”

Barlow says nothing.

“Then how can you know if they are legit?”

“None of them are ‘legit,’” Barlow half snaps. “That’s sort of the point. How did I vet him? A million dollars was deposited for me in an overseas account. Just for taking the meeting. That’s the vetting. I got another million dollars when Maggie agreed to take the job.”

“So they pay you that kind of money to, what, find a top-notch doctor who will work discreetly?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s what happened here?”

Silence.

“Evan?”

“No. This case was a little different.”

Porkchop doesn’t like the way Barlow is starting to squirm. “Different how?”

“Like you said, most of the über rich, they trust me to find them excellent medical care in the most discreet manner possible. That’s how it works — and it works well for all. It’s in all our interests to keep this as clandestine as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

“So what was different this time?”

Barlow opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I was going to suggest a surgeon,” he says. “A man I’ve worked with before. He’s an excellent physician right here in New York City.”

“And they didn’t want this guy?”

“No. They wanted Maggie McCabe.”

“They asked for her specifically.”

“Yes.”

“So you weren’t the one who recommended Maggie to them?”

“No. Ivan Brovski came to me. He said he needed a doctor — but that they already knew the perfect one.”

“Maggie?”

“Yes. His instructions were pretty specific. Maggie was the doctor they wanted. Period. They knew I was her trusted family friend.”

“So you didn’t recommend Maggie,” Porkchop says. “It was all a setup.”

“I don’t know if I would call it a setup—”

“This client. The oligarch or whoever. He requested Maggie personally?”

“Not the oligarch,” Barlow says.

“Who then?”

“His mistress. A woman named Nadia. She’s the one who specifically requested Maggie McCabe and only Maggie McCabe.”