Pitfall (8 page)

Chapter Ten

D
on’t you hate it when you get a snatch of a melody lodged in your head, and the thing just won’t leave? That was happening to me now as I slunk through the back door of the Brighter Day clinic.

The song was, of all things, one from Gilbert and Sullivan’s
The Pirates of Penzance
, occurring as the aforementioned pirates were in the process of sneaking up on General Stanley’s castle in the dead of night. They were silently slinking along when suddenly the whole bunch of them burst out at the top of their lungs, “WITH CAT-LIKE TREAD …!” I couldn’t recall right then how the rest of the ditty went, but I know it was howlingly funny.

Well, it wouldn’t do to start laughing now, that was for sure. If the police caught this particular cat, I’d have a lot of time in the clink to ponder just how the rest of the song went.

I’d arrived about ten minutes earlier, right about midnight, after first parking my car a few doors down at a closed BP gas station. I’d then made my way along a trash-covered rear alley, finally coming up on the clinic’s back door. Nearby I wasn’t surprised to see a sodium vapor security light mounted high up on a wooden pole, flooding the area in stark relief. Seeing that light, I was glad I’d come prepared. Above everything else, there’s one main tenet when you set out to burgle: plan ahead. To that end I’d dressed for the part before I left home, donning my night camo—mottled gray fatigues, gloves, boots, and face paint (most people have the idea all-black is better, but that’s not true).

Reaching into my dark gray field pack I pulled out my Crosman air pistol, which I’d loaded earlier with pointed steel pellets. Cocking it, I drew a bead on the globe at the top of the pole. As a kid back home I could knock the eye out of a squirrel at twenty yards, so extinguishing that light with one shot was easy work. The only thing I hadn’t counted on was how loud the breaking glass was as it fell. I crouched down after the shot, waiting.

Sixty seconds sauntered by while I counted each of them, one by one. Gratefully I realized the sound must have gone undetected, so I stood and started moving, and in three quick steps I was at the door, where I did a quick visual check for wires; so far so good.

Taking another glance around, from my bag I pulled out an instrument that’s saved me more than once, a device that not only detects wireless alarms, but sends out a cross-oscillating pulse wave that cancels them out. I did a slow scan across the door and frame with it, closely watching the screen. No spikes, no dips. Nothing.

Putting it back in the satchel, I then drew out a black and yellow lock-release gun. It’s quick to use, but not exactly quiet, so I needed to get this done and inside in a hurry.

I placed the front of the gun tight against the lock and pulled the trigger, attempting to stifle the noise with my own body. There was a short, muffled ratchet sound, and then a click. Three more times, and the last tumbler released. Slowly I twisted the knob, my body as tense as stretched elastic. At the first electronic whoop I’d be off like a scalded ape. But silence still reigned. Easing the door open, I stepped through.

The room looked different in the dark, as most do. The moving rectangles of yellow light on Manfred’s floor caused by the passing cars outside gave the place a surreal feel, like a funhouse at a deserted carnival.

Stopping again, I sniffed. That same funky odor that had made me sneeze earlier in the day was still here, albeit not as strong. Maybe I was right, and it was Manfred himself that had been the source of it; could be his pheromones were as sour as the rest of the man. Whatever, there were still enough particles in the air to make my nose tingle and twitch.

Closing the door I passed the desk, halting at the filing cabinets behind it. I turned to the first one and gave it an experimental tug, fully expecting it to be securely locked. To my surprise it slid out smoothly. Too smoothly. Either the man had an overweening trust in his door locks, or this cabinet didn’t contain anything important. I shone the penlight inside.

Empty.

I did the same with the other three drawers, and after those checked the remaining two cabinets. They were all as hollow as a movie star’s head. Frowning, I slid the last one closed. I really shouldn’t have thought it would be that easy. Had anything on this jaunt gone that way yet?

Drawing out Manfred’s desk chair I sat down and glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes after twelve. I’d really hoped to be done and gone in another five minutes.
Really
hoped. As I began opening the desk drawers and examining them one by one, I recalled something an old cat burglar had said to me years ago.

One humid night during my rookie year on the CPD, Sergeant VanDerBeek and I had been walking our beat, both of us trying to ignore the itchiness of our serge uniforms, and not having a whole lot of luck. Passing a darkened drycleaner’s, a sudden banging coming from inside caused us both to instantly stop, hands on our weapons. We glanced at each other. Whoever was whanging around in there was either deaf or stupid.

I opened my mouth to yell out the standard “Freeze! Police!” line, but never got the chance. A second later the door flew wide and a rickety, old baldheaded codger backed out, the take from the day’s register held loosely in a pillowcase in his hand.

He fell straight into Sarge’s arms.

Later as my partner and I were booking the burglar back at the precinct house, he looked up at me from the prisoner’s chair where he was chained, and did something surprising. He winked. Sarge was filling out the paperwork and missed it, but I didn’t.

Lifting his manacled hands, the old man crooked one finger, motioning for me to bend down. Shrugging, I did. The codger’s smile was toothless, his sour breath harsh enough to fry my sinuses. “You know what today is, sonny? Today’s my birthday.”

What did he want me to say? Congratulations? Wanting to get above that fetid aroma, I stood. “Well, happy birthday.” I shrugged again. “I guess.”

“Huh. Ya don’t get it, do ya, boy?” He squinted up. “At eleven forty-three this morning I turned eighty-one.”

“Eighty-one. How about that.”

Sarge caught my eye and just grinned, shaking his head.

The old man pressed, “That’s pretty good, ain’t it, to make it this far without croaking?”

My reply was still deadpan. “If you say so, Pop.”

Not missing a beat, he charged ahead. “In all that time I ain’t never been caught, until tonight. And ya know why?”

I figured I’d play along. “No. Why?”

“Speed, boy.” He nodded in ragged dignity. “Years and years ago the guy that taught me the trade said there are only three rules I had to never break. Just three.” Before I could reply, he stated them. “Get in. Get it all. And then get out.” Dropping his hands he leaned back, beaming as if he’d just passed on the wisdom of the ages.

Who knows? Maybe he had.

I pulled open Manfred’s center desk drawer, shining the light inside. At first all I could make out was the usual detritus all of us accumulate: paper clips, rubber bands, broken mechanical pencils, dried bottles of Wite Out. But then I noticed something further back, and maneuvered my fingers beneath it. Drawing it out, I discovered it was an envelope from a local bank.

The stamp cancellation showed last week’s date, and it was already slit open. Reaching in a glove-clad hand, I pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. I shined the penlight on it, and saw it was Manfred’s statement. Now we were getting somewhere. And it was for a personal account, not one belonging to Brighter Day clinic. Even better. Keeping two sets of books, are we? With my right index finger I began following the entries down.

The document seemed straightforward, just deposits from patients, none of the drops larger than a hundred dollars. But then halfway down I found another entry. The amount shown was for three thousand, drawn on something called GeneSys Technologies.

The next few entries were mundane, just more patient fees. And then, exactly two weeks after the first GeneSys deposit, I found another: for another three thousand dollars.

Son of a gun. Reaching back inside the drawer, I felt for more envelopes. Behind some chewed-on Bic pens I found a handful and pulled them out.

They were like the first, all containing statements from the same bank, all going back a year. And every one of them showed biweekly deposits from GeneSys. Each deposit was for the same amount as before, all of it going straight into Manfred’s personal account.

Mentally I calculated the take. Multiply three grand biweekly times twenty-six weeks, and that equaled over seventy thousand dollars a year. Add in his earnings from his practice, and old Doc Manfred was, as we say down South, walking in tall cotton. He was also as stupid as they come. Leaving easily-found personal information like this showed either incredibly sloppy planning, or imperious disdain against it ever being discovered.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out my Blackberry, quickly entering the routing and account numbers from both Manfred’s bank and the one GeneSys had drawn the checks on, taking pictures of the statements as well. I had no idea if they were important, but I’d find out. Bank on it. Heh. Heh.

Putting the envelopes back where I’d found them, I flipped on Manfred’s computer. Waiting as it booted up, I checked my watch again. Going on twelve-twenty. This deal was taking an obscenely long time, but I was in too deep; I just hoped it would be worth it.

A minute later, fate was kind. Right where they should have been on the system Manfred’s patient files came up. Lips dry, I typed in
Cahill, Sarah M.
, and hit enter. A short whirring was heard as the screen went blue. And then, in neat Arial at the top of the page the words
Cahill, Sarah Michelle
, flickered into life, along with her date of birth, address, blood type, and patient number.

And that’s where things fell apart.

Right after the patient number the words Locksmart Systems glowed, and then the biggest mishmash of numbers, symbols, and letters I’d ever seen. The effect was as if Manfred had allowed a chimp to do his data entry. With a sick feeling, I knew exactly what this was.

The doctor had encrypted the girl’s files.

I tried to make things gel in my head. Okay, we have a moderately successful family practice physician running a small clinic and is being paid under the table for something else by a shadowy company. For what, I didn’t know, but couple the fact he needed to conceal that with Sarah’s disappearance, and it made me wonder if the two weren’t linked. And if that was true, could that mean she was being held at wherever GeneSys was located? It seemed a stretch, but maybe it was true.

I checked the clock at the bottom of the screen. Twelve twenty-five. A feeling of dread was breathing down my neck. I was out of time. Somewhere a game whistle had blown, and I knew if I stayed just five minutes longer, I was going to get caught. Before I blasted out of there, though, there was one more thing to be done.

Earlier that evening I’d tossed a new flash drive in with my gear. Pulling the drive out, I located the port on the computer’s back, inserted it, and ran my fingers over the keys. Seconds later I had a copy of every patient file had. And whatever they contained.

Trying not to rush too fast, I pulled the drive out and shut the system down. After taking a few more moments to police Manfred’s office, ascertaining I’d left no evidence of my visit behind, I made my way back outside. The last thing I did before I left was rub some dirt into the scratches I’d made on the lock with my release gun. Leaning back, I gave it a final critical look. It would have to do.

Three minutes later I was back in the rental car, heading down the road. As I said, I had no idea how to decode Sarah’s file.

But I knew who could.

Chapter Eleven

“I
ce-cold Stoly.” The slim, elegantly dressed bearded man in front of me smiled, lifting high the thin clear bottle. “There’s really nothing in the world quite like it. But I can’t even get you to try.”

I regarded him with a wry look. Marcellus Tertius Plumb: bon vivant, raconteur, gourmand of gracious dining, computer genius of the first water. And an unashamed pusher of that vile and nasty stuff he always drank, Stolichnaya vodka served at a mean temperature of no more than thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit.

“Keep that liver-dissolver to yourself, Marsh,” I said.

“Yes, I know.” The twinkle in his burnt umber eyes took the edge from his words. “It’s all about keeping control, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. A humble vice. But mine own.”

Marsh’s sigh was full of exaggerated defeat as he poured a glass for himself. “Well. Have it your way.”

We were at my friend’s Tudor-style house in Kenwood—in his living room to be exact—a space opulent enough to impress Marie Antoinette. Still holding his glass, he turned to his well-stocked, teak liquor cabinet. When he faced me again he was holding what he knew I couldn’t resist: a cold Sam Adams in a frosted bottle.

Handing it to me, his tone turned mock-scolding. “So you keep your provincial ways, Johnny.” He calls me that only because he knows how much I hate the diminutive of my first name. “See if I ask again.”

He would, of course. He always does. We ramble through this vaudeville routine every time I visit, which isn’t nearly often enough.

It was now nearly two in the morning, and Marsh Plumb, still trim and youthful at fifty, remained dressed in evening finery he’d donned before a night of wining and dining one of his many lady friends. I was lucky to have caught in him at this hour; I’ve known his trysts to sometimes run until dawn and after.

The two of us go back a ways, nearly ten years, when Marsh was asked to testify as a government expert against a guy in my unit, a man I knew only peripherally, and who’d been accused of treason. It was a weird experience. Marsh was working for the ones who wished to crucify our soldier, while I was doing everything I knew to keep him out of Leavenworth. But in the midst of it all Marsh’s honor had impressed me, even as I disagreed with him.

And in the end he’d been proven right. Our guy was convicted of selling secrets to the Libyans, of all people, and to this day he’s enjoying a second career playing Solitaire in the jug. And his chief accuser is one of my true friends. As Marsh always says, go figure.

His soft gray suit tonight was Armani, naturally fitting him like a glove, his black Bally shoes shining up like mirrors. The man continually gives new meaning to the term “fashion plate.” I’ve never seen him in anything less than designer shoes and clothes, shined and pressed and starched to perfection. For all I know he sleeps propped up in the corner, like a pool cue.

All I can say for certain is he’s a great friend, an inveterate sucker for jazz and blues albums, especially old 78s, and he has one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever encountered. And he uses it very well. He’s a stone ace at cracking computer codes.

His house is a one of a kind architectural oddity, a meandering little number left to him by his deceased parents nearly twenty years ago, and nestled deep in the environs of one of Cincinnati’s most posh neighborhoods. To this day I don’t know what Marsh does for a living, though if needed I could find out easily enough. With his abhorrence of manual labor and his opulent lifestyle, I figure it has something to do with investment banking. Or maybe organized crime. Same difference.

He hadn’t commented about the lateness of the hour when I’d shown up, or of the way I was dressed. I’d known he wouldn’t. He has a singularly sanguine approach to living and let live.

“Enough of this tomfoolery,” he said with finality, taking another sip of his Stoly. “As to why you’re here, seeking my electronic wizardry…”

“Right.” Reaching in my pack, I pulled out the flash drive. “See what you make of this, Gandalf.”

He took it from me, peering at it. “Let’s see. Two-inch rectangular aluminum tube, small LED light, removable cap …” He smiled in triumph. “I’d say it’s a flash drive.”

“Funny,” I scowled. “Did you ever consider taking your show on the road?”

Barking a laugh, Marsh put his hands out in front of him, still holding the drive. “Oh for pity’s sake, Johnny. Lighten up. It’s a beautiful evening.”

“Sorry.” But I wasn’t sorry at all. “You say it’s a beautiful evening. I’m seeing it differently.” I dry washed my now camo-free face and ran my hands through my thick mane. “You simply cannot believe how badly the last forty-eight hours have gone. And my client is way past being desperate for answers. So can the jokes, all right?”

“Okay, okay.” He waved the flash drive at me. “So what’s on this? Wandering wife? Unfaithful husband?”

“No. Medical records, I think.” I sighed heavily, sitting down. “Put it this way. I hope.”

“Medical records?” His ascetic face was marred with a frown. “The law takes a dim view of you having these. Unless they’re yours.”

“They’re not. They belong to the young woman I’m trying to find.”

He glanced at what he was holding, then back down at me. “I don’t want to know how you came by this, do I?”

“No. All I’ll tell you is that when you run it, you’ll find the girl’s name and a few of her stats, and the words Locksmart Systems. After that, it’s encrypted.”

“Locksmart Systems?” The furrows in his brow deepened.

“Yeah. Why? Are you familiar with that?”

“I am. And you’re right, it’s an encryption program. Very elaborate and very, very tough.”

“For you?”

His smile was wintry. “Never for me. Although breaking it down may take a while.” He stood and began making his way down the hall toward a room at the back of his house, a room I’ve never been allowed to enter. It’s where he keeps hundreds of thousands of dollars of the most up-to-date computer equipment and its attendant systems that can be had.

“With your shield or on it, Marsh,” I said to his back as he left. “Make me proud.”

“Help yourself to the Stoly, Johnny,” he called over his shoulder.

I got in one final shot. “Only if you have a barf bag handy.”

He waved and chuckled and kept moving.

“But I’ll tell you what I will do, old buddy.” Walking over to Marsh’s enormous oak entertainment center, I squatted down before his record collection. “I’ll drink more of your very good beer and enjoy some fine Billie Holiday tunes while you slave away in there.” Putting my finger on a record of hers that had to have been seventy years old if it was a day, I slid it out with a smile.
God Bless the Child.

It seemed appropriate.

*

Two hours later I was a happy camper. I’d progressed my way through my friend’s excellent music library, going from the aforementioned Miss Holiday to the buttery-smooth stylings of Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughn. After that I’d immersed myself for a time in intricate instrumental geniuses like Bix Biederbecke and Charlie “Bird” Parker. Now I was slumped deep in one of Marsh’s custom-made gray leather easy chairs, eyes shut and taking the occasional pull on my beer as I listened in awe to Leadbelly tearing out his wounded heart for all and sundry to hear.

My reverie was ended with a sharp tap on my shoulder.

“If you’ve scratched any of my 78s you’ll never make it to the front door alive.” Marsh’s tone carried dark promise.

I opened my tired eyes, regarding him. “That’s what those were? I was using them for coasters.”

“Not funny.” I swear the color had drained from my friend’s face. “Don’t even joke about such things.”

I stood up with a stretch. “So were you victorious?”

“I’m not sure.” His face was grave. “I suppose it depends on your definition of victory. I partially breached the firewall, and what I saw there is tantalizing. And not in a good way. There’s more there. A lot more.” He started to speak again, and then paused.

“And?”

Nervously he pursed his lips. “Johnny, this is one of the most puzzling things I’ve ever come across.”

“Good grief. What is it?”

“I hate to say for sure, not until I dig more.” Turning his head, he mused, “But maybe what I found is just a harmless file name.” He looked back at me. “I mean it would have to be, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“As I said, I’ll hold off on that until I’m sure. I will say this, though. GeneSys Technologies has one of the toughest firewalls I’ve ever encountered. Almost military grade, or like you might find used by a deeply-buried government agency. It’s far beyond what corporations normally use. Legal corporations, that is. And that makes me skittish.”

I gazed at him. “You’re serious.”

“I am. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’ll keep trying to crack it, of course. When I do, God knows what I’ll find.” Marsh took a deep swallow of his drink, as if he needed fortification before trusting himself to speak again. “But whatever this is, it’s going to be very, very bad.”