Judgment

42

Later that afternoon, Juliana knocked on the Hersh Investigations door, and it came right open. Philip Hersh nodded as she entered the tiny office. He had already cleared off the ladder-back visitor’s chair. She sat down. “Here’s what I didn’t want to ask you over the phone. Do you have a way to hack into Noah Miller’s e-mail?”

He was silent for a couple of seconds. “Hack in?” He looked troubled. “Not really in my skill set. Also, I could lose my license. It’s illegal.”

“But surely you have someone who can do it. Someone you work with.”

He hesitated. “No, I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“But—”

“Off the record, I can give you a name. But it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Okay...”

“You can talk to the guy, see if he’ll do it. But you might not want to tell him who you are. A judge.”

“You mean, I can’t trust him?”

“It’s not in his interest to tell anybody about you. But I’d give him as little as you have to.”

“Who’s your guy?”

Hersh smiled wanly. “Ukrainian, I think. He’s just a computer PI who does pen testing and vulnerability assessments. I think he used to be a hacker, but he went legit. Mostly legit. He needs the money — I don’t think he has a lot of clients — which is why he’s willing to overlook his morals, and the law, for some cash. And if he won’t do it, I got other names.”

“Why are there so many Ukrainian hackers?”

“Because hacking is legal in Ukraine. There are whole buildings full of people who generate spam and send it out to make money.”

“But you say he’s good.”

“He knows what he’s doing. Again, just to be clear, this doesn’t go through me. You hire him, you deal with him, my hands are clean.”

“Understood.”

“I’m happy to look over whatever he finds.” Hersh scrawled a name — “Sasha” — and a phone number on a Post-it pad. He pulled the top note off the pad and handed it to her. “Long as I don’t know where it came from. Why do you want to hack into Noah Miller’s e-mail?”

“I want my life back.”

He nodded. “What do you hope to get?”

“Who knows. Information is power.”

She heard herself. Information is power. Who had she become, what kind of person? There she was, planning to hire someone to break the law for her. Which meant, of course, that she was breaking the law.

She was doing something that she’d sent people away for doing.

“In the meantime, I talked to a buddy of mine on the job who got a look at the medical examiner’s report on Sanchez’s death. The ME’s ruling it a homicide, based on the autopsy.”

“Not surprised.”

“The lack of contusions around the neck or petechial hemorrhages — it’s pretty clear evidence the guy was already dead when he was hanged. He was strangled. And then hanged.”

She took in that sobering detail, nodded.

“So that’s who you’re dealing with here, Judge. A guy’s been murdered. You have to make sure you’re not next.”

She closed her eyes, exhaled. “Then I need protection.”

“Correct. But not a gun.”

“No. But I need... something.”

He nodded, pulled open a desk drawer and took out something small and dark, about five inches long and an inch wide. He held it in his right hand, and with his thumb he pressed a metal button. A long blade shot out, gleaming and sharp. “You want protection, here’s protection.” He pulled out something on the knife’s handle, and the blade retracted.

“Jesus. What is this, a switchblade?”

“No. A tanto-point Microtech.” He handed it to her. “Be careful with this. You could really hurt yourself.”

He showed her how to use the knife, giving her painstaking instructions.

She said, “Thank you. As you’re always saying, prepare for the worst.”

“Yeah, you take every precaution to prevent disaster but know you may fail.”

She smiled. “The elevator shaft.”

“Yeah, the elevator shaft.”

“Mr. Sunshine, as usual. I’m assuming your wife is used to it.” She’d noticed his wedding ring, a fat gold band.

His smile faded. “My wife’s gone. She died.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “She must have been young. What... happened?”

“What happened is what happened.”

She waited for a long moment. Then she said, “Okay.” She didn’t want to pry into his unhappiness. “Thank you,” she said, wagging the knife. “May I never have to use it.”