I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 Page 43

  “This is Yonkers, not Pennsylvania,” Owen griped. “He’s right up the road. For fuck sake! He’s about to walk out of there and vanish again and we’re sitting on our asses. We sit on our asses and that bastard gets away!”

  “Spencer will kill your Yonkers PD,” Miller stated bluntly.

  Owen fought the urge to scream. “Tell me how we’re going to stop him then! Your phantom commandos aren’t there! He’s right there, in real time!”

  Spencer’s live image was cast across the long wall. “That piece of junk killed my best friend. That guy—right fucking there!”

  But Spencer didn’t pay the cashier and didn’t walk out. He was directed toward the print center’s computer stations and sat down facing directly toward the security camera they were all watching.

  “Can you pull up what he is doing?” Miller asked Stephen.

  “If he is online and if we can get an IP address.” Stephen turned toward Dale and the others. They were already on it.

  Owen brought his 9mm out from its holster, released the clip, checked it and reloaded in a continuous fluid motion. “Watch your show, I’m going!” he shouted.

  “Hold up!” Miller ordered.

  Owen ignored him. On the run, he slammed his hand onto the bar mechanism and shoved the door so hard that it slammed against the outside wall of the building.

  “Turn around!”

  Owen accelerated. “I can’t do any good here!” he yelled behind him. “Keep me posted!”

  He drove seventy-five miles per hour. At the Fort Lee Bridge, he took out his gold detective lieutenant’s medallion and rubbed his fingers on it for luck. He was onto the Hudson Parkway heading north when Miller phoned. “He’s gone. You should thank Christ you never took him on. You’d die.”

  Miller went silent while he considered. “You’re up there now. Keep going and do some police work. We’re trying to find out from here what he was doing on the computer. See what you can get on your end then call me back,” he told Owen.

  “And Irish,” Miller added, “that was your mulligan. Don’t pull that twice.”

  *****

  Owen was pulling into the parking spot across from the copier store when he realized that he couldn’t remember anything between the George Washington Bridge and where he was sitting at that exact moment. Five or six miles of driving, a complete blank.

  He crossed the parking lot and entered the glass double doors and then he was in front of the same cashier, the cashier Spencer was speaking with in the video.

  “May I help you?” the man asked. He was a twenty-something overweight version of the techs, Kip and Dale.

  Owen looked back at the glass double doors, swept his eyes over the copy machines and the people using them, around past the computer area, and back to the cashier standing in front of him. He registered the signs: COPYING/COMPUTERS/PROJECTS/PAPER/CASHIER.

  “NYPD,” he announced. He broke PD rules, not giving a damn and displaying his gold medallion during a suspension. “There was a man here a few minutes ago, six feet, slim, light brown hair cut short. Used the copy machines then was on the computer.”

  The cashier nodded.

  “What can you tell me about him?” Owen asked.

  “Um,” he stammered. “This isn’t New York City. Are you supposed to be here?”

  Owen looked at him incredulously, repeating to himself to keep it together and tensing as though he might go off.

  “Would I be driving all the way here if it wasn’t important?” Owen yelled back. Eyes turned to look at him from every corner of the store. “Let’s start again,” he whispered. “What did he copy?”

  “I should call my manager.”

  “I can call Riverdale Avenue and bring in Yonkers Police right here,” Owen threatened. “You want to talk at the stationhouse or you going to cooperate?”

  “How would I know?” the cashier answered. “Five sheets: a couple canary, a couple pale sky, and a rose petal. I don’t know what was on it. He made copies. Then he used the computers for a few minutes. Doing business cards. He did a minimum order of 250.”

  “Show me.”

  The cashier shook his head. “It’s all online. I just rang it up. Cash payment.”

  He looked up on his screen and scrolled down to the receipt then spun the monitor around toward Owen. “Five sheets color, 40 cents; 250 two-color basic cardstock, $12.95; overnight delivery, $17.70; one pack of 3 X 5 index cards, $1.19; plus tax, total $34.93.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “The shipping address! When they’re finished, where are the business cards going?”

  The cashier spun the monitor back around and clicked through, while Owen waited anxiously for that address.

  The cashier turned the monitor back to Owen. Privacy Policy: MagicPrint, Inc. is not responsible for online security during or after customers utilize our services. We acknowledge that you may provide personal data or other information to its site via the Internet. No system is 100% safe. Despite the use of security software and other precautions, customers are advised to take care to minimize exposure to third parties. MagicPrint does not share or sell personal information to any outside parties. Your information may be shared or re-printed as required by law, rule, regulation, or court order.

  “Unless you have a court order, we don’t share customer information,” the clerk said. “But it’s not here anyway. Once they click send, it’s sitting in the production queue on a server someplace. Cleveland, probably. That’s the nearest print facility.”

  Owen called Stephen Nussbaum from the car. “He placed an online order for business cards to MagicPrint. Can you intercept it? We need to know what is going to be on those cards and where they’re heading!”

  *****

  Google Maps showed every street and building, every doorway with line of sight to Park Avenue. Spencer spotted three possible overviews. On the NYC building permit site, Spencer trolled until he located an electrical permit issued on E 71st. Zillow displayed Terraza’s recent sales. Several more clicks produced key details: one apartment per floor, rooftop deck common area, and building management. In fifteen more minutes he had photos and plans for all twenty-one floors.

  Not quite as much specific data on Park Avenue: number of units, board information, residents, limited floor plans.

  Spencer dialed the management company. “May I speak to your agent for Terraza?” he asked reception.

  “She is away on vacation through next Wednesday, I’ll forward you to her assistant,” the receptionist offered.

  “Nothing urgent,” Spencer replied. “I’ll email it. Can you give me her email address? Oh, does she have a direct line?”

  He thanked the receptionist for her direct line and email address before hanging up.

  Check. Now I need those business cards.

  *****

  Owen watched anxiously while meaningless chains of information flew down Dilip’s screen. Within two minutes, the sides of his mouth had turned up.

  “I have not seen this before,” Dilip announced.

  “What does it mean?” Owen asked.

  “Well, it means that I would be quite secure using MagicPrint, at least for the next month or maybe two, until somebody cracks this newer encryption. I can do nothing with this. Nothing at all.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “It’s very, very good work. Even using the NSA supercomputers, this mixed-symbol fifteen-digit encryption would take up to a day to break,” Dilip explained admiringly. “I won’t go into elaborate detail, but this system is designed to be constantly morphing. Essentially, it changes the data and inherently passes along the simultaneous interpretation code to approved end users. Mark my words, more and more entities will be using this technology and many of these
billion-dollar government systems we are using will made be totally redundant.”

  Owen looked to Miller, who seemed calm, bored even.

  “This client of yours won’t let us call in extra resources, won’t allow us to run an APB or utilize Yonkers PD or even call a sympathetic judge for a warrant for MagicPrint and do you even care? He was right there, right in front of your eyes, too,” Owen ranted.

  Stephen, Kip, and Dale all stopped to enjoy a screen-share with Dilip, who was salivating at some other nerd’s handiwork.

  “Leetness,” Dale mouthed in total awe.

  “Sweet,” Kip agreed.

  “Miller, I’m a Detective Lieutenant in the Intel Division,” Owen reasoned. “We need to get a warrant. Right now. Client or no client.”

  “And do what with it?” Miller shot back. “Where’s your evidence tying Jonathan Spencer to a crime? Unless you know something I don’t, you can’t even tie him to what happened in West Virginia. Not with anything admissible. Tell me what you are going to do, take this jigsaw puzzle outline to your new captain? Are you going to go higher, FBI? Al Hurwitz retired. It’s noise, detective. Don’t get yourself all pumped up for nothing.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Owen wanted to know. “You’re CIA, right? You flew halfway around the world to be here. Why? I don’t get it. Do you even care that he killed two dozen people?”

  “You’re older than I am,” Miller spat back. “Grow up, for Christ’s sake.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means every two minutes two dozen people are getting killed somewhere or another. Unless you’re one of ’em, what’s it matter? But you sure tried hard to be one today. Fool.”

  “Yonkers PD should be staking out that place,” Owen griped. “This is insane.”

  “Cullen, your old boss Christiana Dansk is getting seven figures for supplying drones to your precious police department. My unofficial official assignment in Afghanistan was to shut down competition for the heroin cartels our U.S. allies run so they can keep pumping their supply over their northern border straight into Russian veins. Are you getting my point?”

  “Screw you,” Owen said. “And screw your money, too. You don’t own me. I’m not here for you; I’m not here for the money. I’m here for Tremaine and I’m here because I was right! All along. I’m getting right with the department and I’m getting right with my wife, too. I owe that to my partner. I owe it to myself. As long as Spencer is out there, I’m not stopping. I’ll never stop! You couldn’t stop me if you tried!”

  “Are you done?” Miller asked sarcastically. “You think you can get to Spencer without me, walk out the door. Without this operation, my operation, you’re on your own.”

  After a long silence, he continued. “Wise up. Read your Nietzsche. Men cooperate when cooperation furthers our individual desires. There’s no such thing as a common cause. Mankind has no greater purpose. I take care of me and you take care of you. We’re animals. That’s all. Only a dead idiot jumps on the grenade to save the other guy.”

  Miller ran his fingers through his thinning hair and turned his back on Owen. “I’ll get Jonathan Spencer,” he said. “My way. Jonathan Spencer disappears, the client pays, and you and I move on with fat wallets. That’s how the grownups roll. Don’t bullshit yourself, detective. You’ll take the money. I saw your face when I handed you the ten grand.”

  *****

  The weather turned wet and cold, forcing Spencer to purchase clothes. He bought comfortable Timberland work boots in his right size and left the smaller running shoes at the store. He also purchased underwear, socks, undershirts, work shirts, one pair of Lee jeans, one pair of tan work pants, two more sweatshirts and a heavy orange-brown canvas work jacket with a thick woolen collar. He couldn’t find Emporio underwear.

  Inside the changing room, he slipped out of the sweat pants, pulled off the hoodie, then stared at the dirty pile that represented everything left from XMercy and Mouse; a filthy heap of worn-out cotton. Mouse’s struggles, Mercy’s dreams, dead on a scratched-up linoleum floor.

  The stick-thin pale-skinned figure in the Emporio underwear did not appear prepared to strike a blow for anyone.

  “You look like ready for the last act of a Passion Play,” he told the image looking back from the mirror. He turned away, then dropped the briefs and stepped out from them before putting on replacement clothes.

  Men were coming for him. He knew it. He could sense it in the deep aches along every fracture. Snakes have fangs. Snakes can strangle.

  Selecting specific, high-value targets lowered the already lean odds. But no more rich women in green dresses.

  He picked up a blue baseball cap before paying. Oddly, the cashier didn’t say anything about his wearing the merchandise. She asked him to turn around, scanned the tag on the back of the new jeans, and bagged the dirty sweats.

  With the undershirt, sweatshirt, and the jacket with the collar upturned, good footwear, and the cap shedding rain, he was good. Standing outside and looking back at his reflection in the dripping store window, he could have been anybody.

  *****

  Spencer descended the delaminating plywood steps at the back of the Yonkers Victorian to get to his rented basement room. Under the bare bulb he looked over the work order, now both yellow and pink copies seated inside the plastic report binder he had picked up at Staples. Inside it, he placed a copy of the blue work permit along with one of the business cards. He also bought a 5 X 3 pocket notebook out, from which he tore the first twenty pages then worked at the cardboard cover until it looked well worn. On the top page, he wrote out the agent’s name and direct dial number from memory.

  Electronics proved harder to find. RadioShack had nothing to offer. It would have been easy to get everything online, but online purchasing required him to supply a credit card and a delivery address. Using credit cards would leave a direct trail. Even if he held onto them, he couldn’t risk it. He finally located Micro Center, which carried the webcam he wanted. He also picked up a drill-driver and long sheetrock screws to go with it. But buying the unit was no answer in itself. There were a dozen pieces he still needed to work through.

  Sound carried through the thin plywood walls that separated the makeshift rooms. He could hear the junkies, the nutcases. That left him able to practice all night long if that’s what it took to get it right.

  Lying wasn’t his strong suit. “Pretend you are talking to a dog,” his course instructors had taught. “It’s all in the tone. Be confident. Be natural. You can get away with murder, just as long as you say it in the right tone.”

  Spencer hoped they were right.

  Intel drives mission success. Reconnaissance drives intel. Recon is mission one. Reconnaissance-Diversion-Attack.

  “Hi. I’m here to check the roof,” he practiced into the mirror. He thought it came off sounding weak.

  He tried again, this time more casually. “I’m supposed to check on the roof.”

  *****

  Miller approached AlliedHamilton to get his sniper teams moved up and the helicopter ready at the airfield in White Plains. The line dropped before the call went through. Before he could redial, a text came across.

  Locate alternative resource.

  The text was a quick reminder. Jeffers and APA monitored his every phone call, every text, and every keystroke.

  OK, Miller texted back, acceding to the checkbook. It was all a game of chess, really. He who thinks ahead of the opponent wins. APA might be close with AlliedHamilton. Fine. Commando talent was fungible. He’d bring up two squads from another resource. As long as the money was wired, that would take Spencer down. Then the entire issue disappeared out over the Atlantic inside a weighted body bag. The end.

  “Well I hope you enjoyed my dinner at Per Se, all nine courses,” Miller remarked, thinking of Jeffers
and the APA. “You paid for it.”

  $2.5 million in hand, $2.5 million ahead.

  *****

  “Gentlemen,” Miller announced with high energy following his successful telephone calls to North Carolina. “Let’s summarize what we know.”

  Per Miller’s order, Nussbaum had improvised a quick PowerPoint, now playing behind Miller’s shoulder.

  “A six-man team was annihilated, along with their pilot, here in southeast West Virginia,” Miller narrated as the slides covered the projection wall behind him. “West Virginia State Police have called it drug cartel violence and called for forensics help from both the FBI and DEA. Feds have no clue except that the deceased include two females suspected of being drug dealers and the aforementioned team, apparently all killed by the identical type of weapons they themselves were carrying. Said team, comprised of former members of U.S. Army Special Forces and using fully-automatic military assault weaponry, was hired through an off-shore middleman who could not be located.

  “We alone know the connection to former Master Sergeant Jonathan Spencer. There is no evidence to indicate that Spencer had assistance in taking out these seven ex-soldiers. This would seem implausible, but I know him, remember? He has a history of solo operations with at least one hundred military kills that have been confirmed on record. We also know, from sighting here, here, here, and here, that he moved five hundred miles to get from West Virginia to the latest sighting in Yonkers, New York, home town of Horace Vandergelder. So, is the loner acting alone? What is he doing in Yonkers?”

  “He is planning to attack?” Dilip offered, his voice rising on the last syllable.