Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (41 page)

Ramos addressed Fraizen, “Come on out.”

“Take care of her first,” Fraizen said.

“She won't shoot with Maltizar in tow,” Ramos answered.

“That's right, Fraizen,” Hal added, realizing what his partner was up to. “Besides, she pokes her head up, I'll take it off.”

Incongruously, a jack rabbit suddenly bounded into the shooting area. He sat back on his haunches, aware that everyone was suddenly transfixed by his furry presence. The animal twitched its nose then bounded away.

The door to the shack creaked open, and Mooch was shoved out first, Fraizen behind him. The older man's hands were tied, and there was a clot
of drying blood alongside his face where Fraizen must have pistol-whipped him. Fraizen, a beefy man in expensive slacks, had one hand on Maltizar, the other pressed into his back. They stopped about a yard beyond the shack.

“He's told me the combination, Ramos.” Fraizen said, laying out his insurance policy. He kept Maltizar in front of him, facing the man in the Hawaiian shirt. This exposed his flank to Chainey.

“You pointing him in the wrong direction, slick,” Ramos chided.

Fraizen cocked Maltizar toward Chainey and walked sideways, heading over to the grouping of giant spools.

“You're almost there, Fraizen,” Hal goaded. “You're almost home free, baby.”

When Ramos took care of Fraizen, he was going to have control of Mooch, but there wasn't much Chainey could do at that the moment. The file gave her something of a bargaining chip, but a live body was the ultimate trump card.

“We're going to work this out, okay, Fraizen?” Ramos said soothingly. “Money is the great comforter.”

Fraizen and Maltizar were at the edge of the spools.

“Okay, Ramos,” Fraizen started. “Let's you and me go get the money. Hal keeps the girl pinned down, then we come back and take care of her.” Maltizar was positioned in such a way that he was now between Fraizen and the still-crouching Ramos. Part of the heads and shoulders of the kidnapper and her boss were exposed to Chainey. Even if she could make the shot and take Fraizen out, Mooch was still Ramos's prisoner.

Suddenly Mooch slumped and said, “Oh God.” He sagged against his captor, knocking him back a few steps.

“You old bastard!” Fraizen screamed, “don't you have a heart attack on me now.” The dead weight folded against him, and Fraizen let the body drop. Having a clear shot, Ramos shot him in the gut. Reflexively, Fraizen shot back.

“Ramos,” Hal called out. “Hey, man.”

“Motherfuckers,” Fraizen said. He staggered backward, away from the spools. “You lying motherfuckers.” Spittles of blood flew from his
mouth. He had one hand pressing his breached stomach, the other clutching his gun. His pant legs were soaked in crimson, and he was colorless as old parchment.

“You're bleeding out, Fraizen,” Chainey said. “You need a doctor.”

“No he doesn't,” Hal had stood up, and the blast from his Mossberg semi-auto took most of Fraizen's face off.

Chainey had also popped up quickly, and her round caught the tall man up high on his torso. He spun around then went down to the ground. She knew he was alive and wasn't going to rush the spot behind the Tahoe.

After a moment, Hal said, “So where does that leave us, girly? The ones we cared about are dead.”

“Fuck you to hell.”

“I'm sure that day will come.” She heard movement and chanced to look up from the top of the pickup's bed. Hal was inside the Tahoe and had started the engine. The vehicle was driving away as she ran to where Mooch Maltizar lay. She stood over his still form as the SUV's motor receded into the distance. Ramos died in a sitting position, his legs straight out, his back against one of the spools. Fraizen's bullet had punched a hole in his heart. Quite a shot for an amateur. Beginner's luck.

“The bad men say bye-bye, chica?”

“You goddamn faker.” She wiped the wetness from her eyes and helped him to his feet.

“It wasn't that much of a bluff.” He was shaking and unsteady, but he was alive. “I was about to,
come se dice,
stroke out,
que no?
”

“Whatever,” she said smiling, helping him to her car. Chainey never did get the full story from Maltizar about the relationship of Ramos and Hal to Fraizen. He hadn't survived since the days of running numbers for Moe Dalitz by being chatty. Though he did bestow a sizeable bonus in her bank account for saving him to enjoy more Cuba Libres.

Her friend, Rena Solomon, did an in-depth piece in the
Las Vegas Express,
the alternative biweekly, where she was a staff investigative reporter. From that and a few segments on the local news, Chainey learned that Fraizen had been the attorney for the missing developer of the Tender Oaks project, Rene Hillibrand. In her piece, Solomon pointed out that Hillibrand and Fraizen had lived lavish lifestyles but had come up bust in
both investments in the dot-com fever awhile back, and the more recent downturns in the stock market.

There was also, Solomon wrote, allegations that some of the operating capital for Hillibrand's business originated from less-than-Fortune 500 sources. The sort of folks for whom lawsuit might as well be Sanskrit for all the meaning it had for them. They believed in the direct approach in getting their monies back.

Maltizar and Chainey had to provide statements to the police and the accordion file—containing cashiers checks made to bearer totaling some four million dollars—was turned in. The story she and Mooch agreed to beforehand was that the file of checks was with Fraizen all the time. That he'd kidnapped Maltizar in a deranged effort to force him to get Chainey to deliver those checks to a boat off shore in Baja. Sure, the story was flimsier than a politician's promise, but who was around to contradict them?

Hal never turned up. And Chainey knew better than to persist in asking Maltizar who she was supposed to have delivered those checks to originally. About three and a half months later, a bit of stink was raised, as the checks disappeared from the police evidence locker. This on a weekend when Mooch Maltizar had gone to Scottsdale to relax, he'd said.

And later, Chainey noted a small item in the
Review-Journal
that a man vaguely answering to Rene Hillibrand's description was spotted boarding a transpacific plane at L.A. International Airport.

“We're going to sweat the bastard out,” Detective Sgt. Robert Loomis swore with a vengeance.

The head of the special task force to investigate Internet-based crimes frowned as he studied the faces of his team; two county sheriffs and an FBI agent. A second detective, Paula Douglas, had not yet arrived. Nothing of vital significance could happen until she did. Where the hell was she, and what was she doing?

Loomis was out for blood. His vanity would be pleased with nothing less. It had taken months of endless on-line sessions to draw out the target. The days and hours he had committed to this case had escalated into countless nights away from home.

The possible consequences of his steady absences were not a predominant worry. Another kind of man—a less self-absorbed man, in a far more passionate relationship might worry, with just cause—but Loomis did not. The swivel chair he leaned back in protested his weight with an oppressive squeal.

His pager buzzed.

It was the duty sergeant from headquarters. “How's it going down there?”

“What's up Tommy? Tell the boss that he need not be so concerned; we're going to get him this time. The Glitch was an arrogant-ass, hanging around hacker's chat rooms, bragging about his little scams. Paula and I will have him hardwired faster than a shockwave can cap a browser. The trace is ready to go.”

“Your boy is a smooth talker.”

“As smooth as snot on a windshield,” Loomis agreed.

“We got a call a few minutes ago from a man who identified himself as a Detroit Police Department detective. He talked the talk and knew all the right things to say. He wanted us to bring him up to speed on the SWAT team operation of a hacker that's supposed to go down tonight.”

“What? Nobody but us knows.”

“Obviously somebody else does,” the sergeant said. “He wasn't guessing. We didn't give him jack after he said he was you.”

“Holy Madonna,” Loomis whistled.

“Bob,” His friend's tone wavered. “There is one other thing. Your wife called.”

There was a weighty silence.

“Did she leave a message?” He asked. There was no sense in trying to avoid her any longer.

“She sure as hell did,” Tommy said.

“A bit edgy, huh?”

“You know it. She said you'd better turn on your cell phone or stop ignoring her pages.”

“Did you remind her that I'm in the middle of a damned important operation down here?”

“I got the impression that she understood that.”

“When did you get this urgent call of hers?”

“About ten minutes ago. Just before the other one.”

“Thanks again, Tommy—”

“Bob, I just promised that I would get the message to you.”

“Don't sweat it,” he told Tommy. “No foul, no harm.”

He began reflecting on his wife the instant he disconnected. It would be better he thought, if he beat her to the punch and called her now.

“Oh thank God,” she said. “You've got an extra suit and tie there,
don't you? You still have time to meet me at the theatre if you hurry. I'll leave your ticket at the box office.”

“I can't Judith.”

“Can't or won't?” She fumed. “Robert, I should have known better. If you had a heart or mind, you'd stop whimpering and try something different like keeping a promise for a change.”

“I never—”

“Oh yes you did,” she challenged. “You were just oblivious to my wants and needs, as usual.”

Now he was growing impatient and getting angry. Something about her tact had taken on a more blatant and demanding characteristic than usual. His mouth constricted in sudden fury. The harsh implication in her words made him consider the prospect that a drink or two had loosened her tongue. He denied himself any overt reaction and exhaled to check himself before speaking.

“All right, we need to talk, but it will have to be later. I have to go now.”

“So do I.”

“You're not listening to me. I'm not sure you ever have.”

“You had better listen to this. If you don't come now, whenever you do decide to come home, I won't be there.”

The line was silent.

Though she had threatened before, Judith's disquieting tone made him feel uneasy. Nothing would come of it, he thought, nothing ever did. Lately the extent of their communication rarely amounted to little more than a series of thinly disguised conversations that quickly escalated into squabbles. The quarreling had gradually evolved into a ritual. They'd had more disagreements in the past few months than they had experienced throughout their entire seven-year marriage.

A barren Judith had once wanted children. Robert would never have had the time. She teased him about his dedication to his job and accused him of making her bargain for every minute of time they did spend together. Maybe a child would have been a good preoccupation for her. Maybe he had not appreciated her as much as he might have. He resented the insinuation that something might really be wrong, far less than she probably resented his lack of presence around the house. She had found a
friend on the Net at one time, but obviously she did not feel like that kind of mingling tonight.

Quickly dismissing any implication that he might be lacking, Loomis convinced himself that he was a better detective than he was a husband.

Tonight he would triumph over the menacing hacker known as Deadly Glitch, a computer security specialist who had written software security programs. Glitch was the worst kind of electronic shoplifter and con man in the virtual universe.

Loomis knew that it required nothing less than his own tenacity to trap this cyber punk—a trap that was firmly in place tonight, with or without modification.

Through a small tinted window, Loomis observed the dark avenue, speckled with rundown buildings and shelters. The Cass Corridor was the home of the destitute. A man with an unkempt beard slowly pushed a rusty shopping cart full of bottles and other discarded gems.

What kind of game was Deadly Glitch playing, and why had he lured the detectives to skid row?

Detective Loomis looked at a laptop screen with a pervasive hunger in his impatient eyes. He stared at the blinking white cursor. His own background had yielded little indication ten years ago when he had gotten into law enforcement, that he would end up in a weather-beaten mobile command post with deceptive Water and Sewage insignia, complete with a dozen rack-mounted computers, in a cyber surveillance stakeout in a virtual room, where they became actors enticing strangers to give up their secrets. The anonymity of going undercover on the Internet made it easy for anyone to pretend to be somebody they weren't. He loved the pursuit and playacting almost as much as he loved fishing. That was the only other place that he wanted to be—sitting near the warm water with a cold beer.

Three mild taps against the tarnished vehicle startled the school of fish in his imagination, drawing everyone's attention to the back door, which sat in close proximity to an open manhole flanked with bright orange cones. The door opened. Detective Paula Douglas, a six-foot-four-inch brunette, came inside.

“Sorry for the delay,” she smiled. “I thought they told you that I was to take a bus over from headquarters so I'd look like a civilian.”

“Thirteen hundred Beaubien is less than two miles from here. So what happened?”

“The bus driver got a bit flirty.”

“Flirty enough to ignore his schedule?”

“So, I've got charisma,” Paula smiled with self-approval. “I didn't stop traffic all by myself. By the way, it looks like they've already shut the street lights out about an eighth of a mile in all directions of our target to help the SWAT team sneak in.”

Paula picked up a clipboard from the dashboard and faced the other team members.

“He's using a cell phone radio transceiver with his computer. We're picking up the electronic high-five with scanners. I'm going on-line to hold his attention long enough for us to track him. He's also got a program that can monitor me any time he suspects we're not on the up and up.”

“Wouldn't it be simpler to hit up his Internet provider with a court order to give up what we need?” Agent Chase, assigned to the case at the last minute, had a limited knowledge of the Internet.

“He's using false headers in his E-mail; the provider couldn't give us anything but the bogus name and address.” The Glitch was an Internet shoplifter, Loomis thought. He had access to corporate trade secrets worth billions. He was a cyber safecracker, the kind who could read your will and personal diary without your knowing he had been there. He had hacked and seized control of a Michigan phone system and wiretapped the authorities that searched for him. That made him a threat to national security.

“What makes you so sure that he's here?” Agent Chase inquired, with a strong suggestion of skepticism in his tone.

“Our boy just social engineered the desk sergeant,” Loomis told him.

“I'm nobody's mooch.” Paula smiled. “I can be incredibly persuasive when it comes to reverse engineering.”

“Paula,” Loomis said, “I'm from Missouri, it's show time. We need all the time we can get to trace. The second he bites, snatch that hook up in his jaw like he was a fat corn-eating catfish.”

“I think I can keep him engaged long enough.”

“We tossed enough ground bait in that chat room to choke a snake. They're going to be like leeches, so move fast.”

It was hot, and Paula's sunburned skin glistened with sweat. Loomis put his hand up and glanced at her. He wondered with growing curiosity if he could revive an old and brief affair with her. Almost short of breath, he had a yearning to feel her damp body next to him.

The only passion Paula shared with Loomis now was the inimitable passion to trap Deadly Glitch as bad as Loomis wanted to.

“You're a very naughty boy.” She winked.

Loomis glanced at the FBI agent.

“You do your job,” Agent Chase said. “My support unit will take him. All you have to do is find him.”

Paula positioned the laptop across her legs, caressed the keyboard with her fingers, and logged on as Trixie, just as she had the same time every night for more than a month. As she watched the other geeks in the chat room, she felt like a hooker on a street corner, waiting for Deadly Glitch. There was no sign of him. Within minutes she opened a dialogue. Several irrelevant conversations with curious computer geeks drew short and unconcerned responses from her. Loomis began to wonder if Glitch was on to them.

The computer suddenly shrieked like an alarm. The scanner locked on to a special call. There was the familiar static crackling sound of the modem connecting. A miniature box popped up on the upper right corner of the screen, which displayed the call data and the number dialed.

“Sweet Jesus,” Loomis's faint grin blossomed into a full smile of delight. “We've got activity,” he shouted. “He's coming out to play. Start that trace, now.”

A flurry of activity flooded the command center. All eyes were on the computer monitors. Everyone knew their assignments. One techie rotated a small directional antenna, while another punched the keys on a second keyboard, entering the frequency data of the Internet connection they were trying to seize.

With the touch of a button, Loomis put the scanner in an automatic trap mode. Little lights flashed as it skipped from one channel to another.

Loomis signaled to the driver. They began to move slowly. The
strength of the signal became stronger as the Cellscope got closer to the location of the target.

Typing feverishly, without error, Paula communicated with The Glitch.

Trixie: Hi guy.

Deadly Glitch: What's going on?

Trixie: I need your help with something.

Deadly Glitch: Eavesdropping?

Trixie: That's positive. You rock dude.

The Mobile Command Center made a left turn at the end of the block. The signal began to drop.

“Wrong direction,” Loomis screamed. “It's the other way.” He was as much a cyber dog as Glitch. He knew how to sniff out a hot modem and where to backtrack. In this instance he was certain it was somewhere in a six-block radius. “Make a left here,” He ordered.

They cruised by a four-story brick and wood building. The signal jumped. The decibel readings bounced. The red LED blinked fast at nine o'clock.

Deadly Glitch: Have you been lurking?

Trixie: I was waiting on you. Can we talk?

Deadly Glitch: You mean—alone?

Trixie: Please.

The cursor blinked for a very long moment.

Deadly Glitch: Join me in the green room for a more private chat.

Paula and Loomis looked at each other. “What can I give him?”