Unauthorized Access (19 page)

DYSART TURNED OFF the concrete ramp onto the top level of the parking garage. Only a few cars occupied this level and each one appeared to be empty as he drove slowly by them. Just as Landry had instructed, Dysart pulled into an empty spot far away from the other cars and waited.

This was not the first time Dysart had hired Landry, so he knew from previous experience it would take Landry a few minutes to arrive. He suspected Landry was waiting and watching to see if anyone was following Dysart. When Landry’s car appeared, it pulled into a spot at the far end of the structure. Landry glanced into each parked car as he walked to where Dysart waited, then opened the passenger door and got in.

“Mr. Dysart,” Landry said, extending his hand. “It’s been a while.”

Dysart shook his hand. “I didn’t know if you’d still be in business.”

“I saw your bank in the news.”

“You know about my problem, then?”

Landry shrugged lazily. “I know what the public knows. There’s always more to it.”

Dysart told him about the scrambled account records that seemed indecipherable, the outraged bank customers, and the evidence gathered by the FBI. When he got to Rob’s arrest, Landry interrupted.

“That’s quite a kick in the gut, him about to marry into your family and all.”

“I’d like to strangle him,” Dysart said with a scowl.

Landry grinned. “Maybe we could work something out.”

“You might get your chance. I need you to have a talk with him.”

“That could be a problem, him being in jail.”

“He’s not,” Dysart said. “I just bailed him out.”

“You paid his bail?”

“Absolutely.”

“Aren’t you the good Samaritan.”

“That’s what everyone else thinks. I just needed to make sure you could get at him.”

Landry chuckled. “Like I said, there’s always more to it.”

“I need you to get that keyword from him, and I need it fast.”

“Why hasn’t he given it up already? I mean, he’s caught, right?”

“That’s what I thought, but he won’t say a thing.”

“So talk to his lawyer and the prosecutors. Get them to offer Rob a sweetheart deal if he’ll cooperate.”

“Already been done,” Dysart said, “and still nothing.”

“He’s either stupid or the FBI caught the wrong guy.”

“No, they’ve got him cold.”

“Then he’s stupid.”

Landry lapsed into a thoughtful silence for a few moments. Finally he said, “So I snatch him up, make him see reason, and I hand the keyword over to you. Then Rob runs to his lawyer, who tells the feds someone’s been beating on his boy. They find out you fixed your computers right after Rob was kidnapped, so they know your bank was behind it, which means you’re fried. You give me up to save yourself, which means
I’m
fried.”

Dysart was already shaking his head when Landry finished. “Never happen,” Dysart said. “First of all, I’d never be stupid enough to give you up for any reason. I know I wouldn’t live long if I did.”

Landry inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Secondly,” Dysart said, “nothing Rob says will implicate me or the bank. There are plenty of people and companies who would be out big money if First Malden goes under. Shareholders, for instance—they need this fixed almost as much as I do. Or almost any other bank in the country for that matter. You can tell Rob you work for someone like that, without mentioning names, of course. He’ll buy it. He has no reason not to. Then First Malden gets an anonymous phone call and everyone’s happy.”

“It’s still risky,” Landry said.

“It’ll work fine.”

“But it’d be cleaner if Rob just disappeared. We can make up a farewell note that says he decided to give you the keyword. When he doesn’t show up, everyone will assume he jumped bail. You’ll be out the bail money but I’m guessing that’s small potatoes compared with what you’ve got on the line if your bank goes out of business.”

Dysart looked at him with horror on his face.

“No way. I’m a bank president, not a mafia don. It’s bad enough I have to hire you at all. I’d rather let the bank go under than arrange to kill somebody.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad. Rob’s the one who came at you, remember? Tried to take you down. There comes a point when you have to protect yourself.”

“Oh, perfect,” Dysart said. “Now when the FBI comes calling, they’ll be trying to pin a murder on me.”

“Like I said, they’ll figure he skipped bail, so they won’t even come looking.” Landry nodded knowingly. “Trust me. This way’s safer.”

Dysart shook his head. “Rob is still breathing when this is done or we forget the whole thing right now.”

Landry stared at Dysart in silence while he considered this.

“All right,” Landry said finally, “but it’s going to cost you.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand, with half up front.”

“Done.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Of course.”

Landry pulled out a plain white card, which he handed to Dysart. Written on the card was an account number and the name of a bank in the Cayman Islands.

“I’ll start when I have confirmation that a hundred thousand has been deposited in that account,” Landry said.

Dysart pocketed the card. “It’ll be done within the hour.”

“One more thing.” Landry pulled a cell phone from inside his jacket and gave it to Dysart. “That’s a clean phone, no way to trace it to you or me. And I have one just like it. Each phone has the other one’s number programmed into speed dial. We use these when we need to talk. If something bad happens to either one of us, the other one can pitch the phone and the cops have no way to tie us together.”

“What do you mean, something bad?”

“Getting arrested, whatever. It just pays to be careful. And don’t use real names when we’re on the phone.”

Dysart shrugged. “No problem.”

“Now how do I find this guy?”

Dysart picked up the envelope that had been sitting on the dashboard.

“There’s a picture of Rob and my niece, Lesley,” Dysart said, “along with his home address and the address of Lesley’s apartment. Rob also has a good friend named Tim Whitlock who works at the bank. His address is there too. You should be able to pick up Rob’s trail at one of those places. But—” Dysart raised a finger in warning. “—I don’t want Lesley involved in any way.”

Landry pulled out the photograph.

“Of course,” he said as he looked at the faces.

* * *

Rob paid the cabbie, and then trudged up the walkway toward the front door of his apartment building. He had never felt so spent in his entire life. His back ached from sleeping on a steel cot for the past two nights. His stomach felt like a dry hole. All of which was minor compared with the storm buzzing in his head. He wanted a hot shower and to escape into a long sleep. Maybe after that he would see things more clearly.

A man struggled up from where he had been sitting with his back against the wall of the building.

“You’re him, ain’tcha?” the man said to Rob.

Rob had no way of knowing the man’s name was Larry or that he was a problem gambler, but Rob could tell the man was drunk from the difficulty he had in achieving and maintaining an upright position. He also seemed to have received quite a beating recently. The bruises on Larry’s face were tinged with yellow around the edges.

Larry staggered over to the walkway and planted himself in Rob’s path.

“I seen you on TV,” Larry said, “and then looked you up in the phone book.”

From the self-satisfied pride on Larry’s face, it was as if he was announcing a major scientific breakthrough.

“Do I know you?” Rob said.

Larry lurched a half step closer.

“She left me,” he said. “Soon as I came home and told her it was all gone. She just packed and went. I couldn’t say nothin’ to stop her.”

“Look I don’t—”

“It’s your fault. You stole the money out of my bank account.”

The man’s eyes blazed with fury.

“I didn’t steal anything,” Rob said.

Rob realized quickly there was little use in trying to explain matters. Instead he decided to duck the looping punch Larry aimed at the side of his head. Rob had little trouble in doing so. He had plenty of warning because of the considerable balancing act Larry had to pull off so he could remain standing while he swung his arm.

Rob moved to one side and made for the door but Larry managed to recover. He caught up with Rob and pushed him away from the door.

“You owe me eight hundred and twenty-three bucks,” Larry said.

Rob was struck with an insane urge to laugh at the guy. He managed to stifle it.

“Have you gone in to the bank?” Rob said. “They can fix most people’s accounts, especially if you have your receipts.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

Rob thought it best not to answer that one.

“I went in,” Larry said. “They didn’t do nothin’ for me.”

“Well neither can I.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Look pal, it’s been a long day. Just get out of my face and let me by.”

Larry grabbed the front of Rob’s shirt with both hands.

“I want my money and I want it right now,” Larry said.

That did it. All the frustrations and indignities of the last two days boiled over. Rob broke the grip on his shirt by pistoning his hands up between the other guy’s arms, then pushed the man up against the brick building.

“Leave me alone,” Rob shouted.

Larry drove one knee into Rob’s gut, which partially knocked the wind out of him. Then Larry lashed out with another haymaker and this one found its mark. Rob let go of Larry and staggered back a couple of steps, trying to clear his head.

“How about that, huh?” Larry said, advancing on Rob once more. “Teach you to steal from me.”

Larry swung again, but now that he was away from the building he was considerably less steady on his feet. Rob was able to dodge the blow. He grabbed the guy’s shoulders and pushed him so the back of Larry’s head hit hard against the brick wall. Larry slumped to the ground. Rob stood over the prone figure for a moment to see if he was game for more, but Larry only rolled on his side and moaned.

Rob opened the security door and hurried up the stairs. Once he was on the first landing and out of sight of the lobby, he stopped and sat down on the stairs. His entire body trembled from the shock of what had just happened. He decided to stay away from his apartment as much as possible for a while. The next genius to come looking for him might not be as drunk as this one. Or for that matter, this guy could come back with friends. Or a gun.

Or both.

Rob dragged himself up the rest of the stairs. As he turned the key to open his apartment door, he wondered if he should pack a few things and find somewhere else to stay for a while. He walked inside to find dried pizza and the rest of the dinner mess on the dining room table. The two teddy bears still sat at their places, providing mute testimony to the futility of his evening with Lesley.

The mess wasn’t confined to the dining area. Displaced furniture, drawers left slightly ajar and stray piles of his belongings greeted him as he walked through the apartment. His computer was gone, along with the external hard drive that normally sat on his desk.

He pulled open a few desk drawers and found them empty except for stray pens and paper clips. All of the paper was gone—old bills, receipts, tax returns, everything. The FBI search team had been thorough, if not particularly conscientious about straightening up.

Rob felt numb. The invasion of his home was one more in a seemingly endless series of blows to his spirit. He wanted more than anything to wake up and realize the whole thing was a dream.

But that wasn’t going to happen. This was no game. His future was being shredded to pieces and there was nothing he could do about it.

Or was there?

After all, he hadn’t really tried, had he? Other than whining that he was innocent, Rob had done nothing to help himself. Of course there had been little he could do while he was in jail. But now he was out. He walked over to the living room window and stared out, his mouth twisted, deep in thought.

He had no alibi, none that worked anyway. The only way to clear himself seemed to be to uncover the real culprits. But if the FBI had aimed their high-powered abilities at the situation and failed to come up with the right answer, how could he expect to do any better? The feds had deep pockets, databases of known criminals—plenty of resources to throw at the problem. Rob was just one guy, a guy who was prohibited from approaching the scene of the crime at that. What could he possibly bring to the table that the FBI had not already tried?

The answer came back so suddenly that Rob blinked in astonishment. He had one advantage over everyone else when it came to figuring out who vandalized the computers at the First Malden Bank. Rob was the only one who knew—
knew
with absolute certainty—that someone else was responsible.

Everyone else thought Rob had done it. The evidence—the
planted
evidence, Rob corrected himself—had placed him squarely under Steeves’ microscope so quickly that Rob was willing to bet nobody else had received much attention.

And the other potential suspects were people Rob worked with. One of the factors that had helped convince everyone of Rob’s guilt was the overwhelming probability that only someone familiar with the system could be the saboteur. Rob was that type of someone, but so were his co-workers.