Splicer (A Thriller) Page 4

"Not if you have an alibi."

  "You just said you wouldn't represent me."

  "If I'm going to help you find representation, a little background would help."

  Rusty shrugged. He wasn't happy. He felt he was being shopped around.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "You mean my non-existent alibi?"

  "Don't tell me you were alone on Wednesday night?"

  "That's my life now. Basically me and myself."

  "Where?"

  "I share an apartment on Hudson."

  "Roommate?"

  "She's a nurse. She works nights."

  "And you work fast."

  He looked like he had tried to answer this question before many times. "She's just a friend. Isn't this the 21st Century? A time where a guy can have a female buddy?" She looked down and wrote neatly in a leather-covered legal pad. "Looks like you don't buy it. Let me try again. We have separate rooms. I've known Beth for years and believe me, she needs me like a hole in the head."

  His lawyer still didn't look convinced.

  "OK! She's gay. She left her husband and I make a convenient cover. And because we have different schedules, we hardly see each other."

  "You don't understand," she said. "I wish you were part of a threesome or a foursome that night. Or a goddamn orgy. The more collaboration, the better. Did you call anyone?"

  "I wish I had. I wish I would have picked up the phone and called ABC Prime Time Live and asked to speak to Sam Donaldson. But, I was watching a movie and I have this thing about not being disturbed during a movie ...”

  "I remember. Too bad. What was the movie?"

  "You've got to ask that?"

  "Sooner or later someone will."

  "Great. Slam dunked by fate again. Listen, I'm a big fan of the classics. You know, Jimmy Stewart, Kate Hepburn, Myrna Loy... "

  "You were watching The Philadelphia Story?"

  "I wish. This night of all nights, I decided to rent something...different. The title was not that memorable. I think it was called something like Motorcycle Mama's from Hell."

  Jayne frowned. "Did you have popcorn?"

  "Is the prosecutor going to ask me this? Are they going to check stomach contents?"

  "It goes to an old story that everyone learns in law school." She tried again. "Did you have popcorn?"

  "Redenbacher’s. Salt, no butter. So what's the story?"

  "It's always the little lies that catch people up. Not whether they did the nasty deed or not - but what shirt they were wearing that day. What they had for breakfast. Did they have popcorn or not while they watched the show? People tend to have a hard time remembering the little details they make up as they go along. Easy to trip them up in front of a jury. I prefer butter. Lots of it."

  "You don't look like the 'lots of butter' type."

  "High metabolism. Now, right off, we've got an alibi problem. Ludd's death was placed at between 8:00 to 9:00 PM on Wednesday night. And you can't corroborate where you were. See any neighbors?" He shook his head. "No? Damn. Well - think about it. Now we have to deal with the evidence!"

  "Evidence?"

  "What do you know about Ludd's murder?"

  "From what I've heard on the radio, he was found in his car at the President’s Club. They didn't say how he was killed."

  "They withheld that."

  "How'd they get around Kozak?"

  "Kozak?"

  "Yeah. He seems to have a pipeline to the local press. He's always got his face on the front page. They must be all over him for the details. A whole street full of reporters attacked me as they were stuffing me into the back seat of the police car."

  "Christ! That can't be a coincidence. Did you say anything stupid?"

  "Probably. It's too late to change my basic nature."

  She looked him in the eyes and shook her golden curls at him. "I missed the news. They can use anything you say, Rusty. You know that. "

  "You're saying I should wrap my coat over my head like those other bozos? I didn't do anything. "

  "Since when does that have anything to do with anything?"

  "I love the law."

  "If Kozak is up to his old tricks again, Dimbrowsky will have an aneurysm."

  "Dimmy again?" Rusty put his head down on the interview table. Dimmy was the nickname of Walter Dimbrowsky, one of the cities most aggressive prosecutors. The same prosecutor involved in Rusty’s previous fraud case. "This is déjà vu from hell. I might as well just surrender now."

  "This is a very serious case you have yourself involved with. This is Murder One. That means this case will receive heavy attention from more than just the Crown Prosecutor, or the press or from the Homicide Division. And you are definitely a celebrity now as well. So I think it's time to give some serious thought as to how you want to defend yourself. And please don't ever call Ludd an asshole in public even if it was completely true. He's an icon to most people. Better loved than Mickey Mouse."

  "Defend? Jayne, I'm just a guy trying to get his life back to normal. I'm a rookie salesman on probation for God's sake. First week on the job, they haul me away. I live out of one bedroom, all my worldly possessions fit in the trunk of my car. I'm just a guy who's having a hell of a time escaping the shadow of Jeffrey Ludd. It's like he's toppled over and fallen right on top of my life. This is crazy. I can see them suspecting me because of that 'theft of company secrets' case a few years ago ... and our obvious love for each other, but how the hell do they get away with arresting me for murder?"

  "They have evidence."

  "Evidence?" Rusty's face turned the color of skim milk. "That's ridiculous ... what evidence?"

  "It's not a lot. But they've got Ludd's day calendar from his office computer." She pulled out a copy of the arrest report and scanned it with a gold Cross pen. "And just an hour or two before they placed the time of his death, you apparently both had dinner together."

  CHAPTER 10

  Kozak and Otter had known each other for a decade and worked Homicide as a team for a little over two years. Koz was thinner now. And Otter knew why - the old guy just wouldn’t eat. Otter could put away five donuts a day easily while his partner sipped black coffee, his ten-year-old suits hanging off his bones.

  Otter tried to act like nothing was coming down but he was a cop for Christ sake. And by the end of a shift he would be sweaty with frustration. But what could he do? He respected Koz, admired his determination. That he even gave a shit after 24 years on the force was a miracle of will. Add to that a struggling ticker that required a nitroglycerine pill every time a siren went off, and what have you got? A .38 in the mouth on Saturday night after a twelve pack of Moosehead beer? Or you contain it and just patiently wait for the big one? How did the guy hold up? What kept him going? It sure as hell wasn't the coffee at Donut Heaven.

  "You act like you know this guy Redfield?" Otter asked, chewing on a honey cruller.

  Kozak swallowed hard, his mouth full of coffee and blueberry compote. Otter was so happy to see him eat he forgot what a bad mood he was in. "I was in Vice. We arrested Redfield and an associate for possession and fraud a couple of years ago. The other perp, Grieves, the one that Rosenblatt mentioned, got two years."

  "And Redfield?"

  "Walked. Dimbrowsky let him be excused. They don't call him Dimmy for nothin'."

  "Dropped, eh?"

  "Like a warm kidney stone."

  "Any idea why?"

  "Yeah. Probably wanted McEwan off his back. She was tearing him a new one and for some reason he didn't feel he needed a backup."

  Otter sipped his coffee, his eyes on Koz who once told him he sounded like a sump pump that needed service. "I know Dimmy. He could use two. Is this the famous McEwan from Quinn?" asked Otter.

  "Not anymore. She's gone over to a smaller pack of weasels. Partner now. Still eats them alive, but at two-fifty an hour."

  "Something to look forward to," mused Otter.

  Kozak sat up like he just got a little adrenaline rush. Otter hoped it was
the muffin. "You know, some lawyers on cross, like Quinn, they're tough. But they still have a tee off date on Sunday with the judge, so they fade and draw a little. McEwan, she don't play golf. She don't play period. Had a tough childhood, I hear. Likes to take it out on everyone. Quite an experience, bud. And no charge."

  Otter was rubbing crumbs off the lap of his suit pants. "Tough time where?"

  "Father was a drunk. The worst kind. A rich lawyer drunk. All very tight with the board room boys. Mother disappeared when McEwan was a kid so they charged the old man with second degree. Surprised the shit out of him. I guess he figured he had the system licked. They never even found the body but the first jury said guilty anyway. They appealed and he was acquitted. Then they re-tried him again. That time he got life. At this point he gave up. Tired out is my guess. He died about five years later. A massive heart attack in prison. Kids ended up with the grandparents. And she comes from a big family, mostly boys. Two of them are lawyers too. And they all love it. Must be in the genes.

  “She doesn't look it, Otter. Doesn't look like someone who belongs with hookers, pushers and petty thieves, but she's definitely in her fucking environment, as they say."

  "They don't exactly say it that way," said Otter.

  "Close enough, pard."

  Otter looked around at the afternoon coffee crowd. He recognized a couple of street cops from downtown and nodded in their direction. "So Dimmy quits Redfield and gets two years on Redfield's partner. That about it?"

  "Christ I was bored to tears. Tons of evidence. Printouts of programs, circuits, all kinds of shit with GeneFab's name on it. Ludd freaked when saw it. He figured they just had some program of his, but it turned out they had a copy of every scrap of paper in his whole goddamn company. Case bogged down in all that garbage like a D50 Cat in a field of muskeg." He laughed, which was followed by a bout of coughing. "Some of the so-called evidence was a Dungeons and Dragons game. Made Tony look like a complete fool. You know Tony Hopper from white collar? He had his day with McEwan, all right. It turned out the suspects were on contract, which meant they had a right to have copies. Ludd kicked himself for that."

  "What do you mean, Ludd?" asked Otter, growing sleepy despite having just downed two cups of coffee so strong it could descale a commercial hot water tank.

  "Ludd was the plaintiff. He thought Redfield and Grieves might be trying to start up a new company or something. He was worth millions, but he was still a cheap bastard. He made a deal with Redfield and Grieves when he hired them to save costs by making it look like they were just on contract. That screwed us in court on the documents case."

  "They weren't technically employees then?

  "Nope. This guy Grieves was smart. He had all the angles figured out."

  "Those brainy types give me hives."

  "I can see why. Envy's an awful thing."

  Otter shook his head. "You’re a funny guy, Koz. Happy to be your straight man. So Grieves is a freaking master criminal genius. What about Redfield?"

  "Took the stand. Told the judge he knew nothing. Judge looked sympathetic. Dimbrowsky finished the trial without Jayne the Pain riding over him. And he won - which he needed badly. Hadn't won a case in over a year. Our Dimmy was in a bad slump."

  "Sounds like a deal was made."

  "Cheer up! You'll get your turn with her. And at the rate this thing is going, soon."

  "No shit, Koz. It sounds like a deal."

  "Deal. Schmeal. Who cares?” He tapped on his partner’s wide forehead with his index finger. Otter winced. "Anybody home?" Kozak knew it was a waste of time. Otter wasn't the type to let it go.

  "But, Grieves! What did he think about it? Did he feel screwed around? Did he hold a grudge? Did anybody check the guy out?"

  "Grieves checks in with his parole officer every week like a good boy. White Rock, British Columbia. Home of the yuppie. He's in his environment too. Probably using his computer to steal corporate secrets over the Internet. Anyway, I say who cares? What are you, deaf?"

  Otter held up his fists and punched his partner lightly in the shoulder. Under the material, the arm was as thin as a green twig. "Smile when you say that, Koz."

  Kozak was getting a cigarette ready. "I'd love to, but I left my dentures in the car." He winced then, some internal pain stabbing at his insides and Otter dropped the subject. He was thinking that though it was a cop’s biggest fear, it was infinitely better to just buy it quick in some grimy back alley. And it certainly wasn't outside of the scope of possibility. It never hurt to think positive.

  CHAPTER 11

  A covey of pigeons threw themselves up into the muddy sky.

  As the sound of their wings faded, Grieves worked the lock on the iron door that read WATKINS SUPPLIES SINCE 1891. He stood on an ancient loading platform, the rails just beyond it rusted from lack of use. The door, approximately ten feet across and eight feet high, rolled away from the opening on dirty steel tracks. Another pigeon, alarmed by the scream of metal against dry brick, took ragged flight.

  "Filthy flying rats," spat out Grieves. He looked about, listened for a noise from the rail yard beyond and then stepped into the dark and pulled the heavy door shut. He locked the inside latch with the same padlock, his actions practiced in the darkness. He felt to his right and flipped a switch. A lone fluorescent tube flickered and buzzed as if annoyed at being woken up.

  Along the back brick wall stood an oil-soaked workbench, which Grieves stepped up to, laying his package down. He pulled the brown paper bag away to reveal a new laptop computer, an expensive Sony with a swivel color screen. He swung up the display, which instantly flickered and came to life in a brilliant flash of reds and blues.

  He reached behind a row of dusty bottles and retrieved a modular jack connected to a plastic cable. He snapped the jack into the rear of the computer, struck some keys and then moved into the dark north corner of the space.

  On the floor lay a crumpled sleeping bag, a cardboard filing cabinet and a small camping refrigerator. He opened the door of the fridge and pulled out a drink box, shook it rapidly, and made his way back to the bench along the crumbling cement floor.

  Grieves' father had instructed him years ago to buy this warehouse. Grieves assumed it was some kind of cagey investment move, because to this day, he couldn't be sure if it had ever been used. His part in the purchase was peripheral - just a messenger really. After all, in matters of finance, Grieves couldn't really be trusted. This made the tired programmer laugh to himself. By those standards anyway, he was doing quite well, thank you very much.

  His father was an importer; an agent who made his home in a handful of American cities, returning occasionally to Toronto or his cabin at Red Lake in the wilds of northern Ontario. He claimed he came back only to renew ties with business acquaintances, but somehow he always found time for his favorite hobby - intimidating and berating his youngest son.

  Grieves had felt at times in his life that he almost understood his father, but these were troubling experiences; the fear he saw in the eyes of one of his father's subordinates once when Grieves was a young teenager; the harsh language he used, his hand cupped over the phone or behind a closed door - using a voice that didn't feel like it was attached to anyone he knew, like the voice of a cruel stranger.

  Being the youngest child also drew an unnecessary harsh scrutiny from his father that Grieves would often shrink from. And it was always there, even when the old man was a thousand miles away.

  They spoke twice a year, always on the phone; the older man's voice mixed with the sound of airport noise or the traffic sounds of cities like Berlin or Washington. Grieves believed at one point that he could actually identify most major cities by the sound they made over a phone line.

  The last time they had met in person was five years ago, probably longer. Time flies when you’re planning the destruction of mankind as we know it, Grieves mumbled to himself. He made a mental effort to push his father out of his thoughts. He didn't need the pain and he had an impor
tant task ahead. A deal had been made, and it was time to see that it was honored.

  On the computer screen moved a small animated bat, its leathery wings folding and unfolding, fangs shiny white. Grieves chuckled to himself, proud of his creation. Years before, tracking down a secret password or username could take hackers dozens if not hundreds of hours of mind-numbing drudgery. When you think about it, it was all educated guessing, patience and a lot of keyboarding. At some point it dawned on Grieves - why not make the computer handle its own dirty business? The digital bat, Dante, was born. It was only a piece of simple animation, but it represented a computer program that went out into the real world, via the Internet, and hunted down what Grieves wanted - while he slept or roamed the streets.

  "Dante, my little data sucking fiend. Let's go find Rosenblatt." He punched in a set of possible DNS numbers, gave Dante a couple of hints on how to find the data file, and tapped in a series of locations for Dante's consideration. Rosenblatt had become uncommunicative again. He wasn't returning Grieves' e-mail and had changed all the passwords at GeneFab. He'd upped security on their computer network, too. He didn't really think that would stop me, did he?

  The bat smiled, flashed a wicked grin, and then dove into a black hole at the bottom of the screen. A banner unrolled that said DANTE HAS LEFT THE BUILDING.

  Grieves watched the empty screen for a bit then shuffled off to his sleeping area, removed his scuffed loafers and crawled inside a sleeping bag that smelled vaguely of dust and urine. He listened for the scrabble of feet in the room, but only heard the wind whistling around the loading door. Through the gaps in the sides of the door, he could make out the smeared lights of the city just past the docks. He thought about Dante, pushing his way up the data stream like a little electronic juggernaut. He felt as proud as a papa. He thought about Redfield, the last missing piece of his puzzle. And he dreamed of Ludd, his eyes vacant and dull like those of a fish carcass left too long in the sun.

  :

  Two years before, the great Jeffrey Ludd had decided, in his wisdom, to press charges against two of his employees, now former, his Marketing Manager Rusty Redfield and his key programmer Malcolm Grieves. Theft of company property he called it. Hardware. Software. Client lists. Ludd really believed these two guys could hurt his company. There was a competition clause in Grieves contract; it was standard policy with programmers. With Rusty, they saw no need, he was only a glorified salesman - so it was going to be tougher to put him out of business. But Ludd felt confident, as he always did, that he would think of something. More importantly he felt that they had taken his property, his baby, and he wanted it back. Rusty was tired of the sweatshop atmosphere and reign-of-terror management style that GeneFab specialized in.