Blizzard Ball (13 page)

As Kirchner waited, he looked around. Casablanca-style fans wobbled on the restaurant’s tin ceiling. Large arched display windows kept hanging plants alive. Sand-colored brick walls enhanced the casual atmosphere. Customers sat zombie-like, alone, at mismatched tables and chairs and in old church pews set on the well-worn oak floor, their heads bowed deep into their laptops. “Used to call these people loners,” Kirchner mumbled to himself. “Can barely get a poker game together anymore. Most guys these days would rather gamble online in their underwear.”

More and more, it seemed to Kirchner that technology fostered personal isolation and a certain kind of societal numbness. A disconnect. He grew up on a farm in North Dakota where people embraced the natural world and took care of their elders and those that needed help. Today, everywhere he looked, people were getting boxed in or screened out: nursing homes for seniors, ghettos for the poor, hideaways for the mentally disabled and handicapped. The dead can’t even be dead anymore. Plastered with makeup and dressed in fine clothes, they look as though they were going to a party. When his wife died he brought her cremated remains back to the plains of North Dakota. They were set on top a scaffold built in the old tradition by her father. Kirchner sat with his wife’s relatives, smoked the ceremonial pipe, and watched the four winds dip into the open urn and broadcast her ashes to the universe. He wondered how long the high-tech, analytical, scientific, cyber-plumbed BCA would keep him around. He hoped somebody realized that common sense and insight into the nature of things was worth preserving.

Tyler, fifteen minutes late, made an unapologetic entrance and quickly ordered.

“You’ll never make it to thirty eating like that.” Kirchner pointed at Tyler’s plate stacked with cheese-loaded hash browns, bacon, eggs, and pancakes dolloped with butter. A large Diet Coke stood at the ready. Kirchner’s swollen face still hurt from his recent dental procedure. He ordered oatmeal with a banana and black coffee. “Whattya got?”

“In the BlizzardBall Lottery you pick five of fifty-nine red balls and one of thirty-nine white BlizzardBalls. There are 195,249,054 possible Pick Six number combinations,” Tyler said with his mouth full. “The lowest sum of these combinations is sixteen.”

Kirchner held up his hand to request a pause and plopped a notebook onto the table. “Give it to me on paper.”

“The lowest combination sum with the BlizzardBall is 16.” Tyler wrote out the figures:

1+2+3+4+5+BB1 = 16

“The highest combination sum is 324.” He added more figures to the paper:

55+56+57+58+59+BB39 = 324

Then he continued, “The sums between 140 and 180 represent only thirteen percent of the possible sums but deliver almost forty-two percent of the winning jackpot numbers drawn. Some folks call this winning range the hot zone.”

The waitress leaned over Kirchner, her bosom at his shoulder, to refill his coffee and took Tyler’s glass for a refill. Tyler’s attention momentarily tracked to her backside. “Sorry,” he said. “Where were we?”

“I think you’re in the hot zone.”

Kirchner resisted the urge to like the young analyst. The kid’s milky skin with its sprinkling of freckles and the reddish cheeks reminded him of Howdy Doody—a likeness certain to be lost on Gen X, Y, or Z. Most young hotshots didn’t last long in law enforcement anyway. They got tired of the long hours, lousy pay, and working in the cesspool of humanity. The job was a résumé filler on the way to law school, a private lab, or corporate gigs. Tyler, however, insisted he was in it for the long haul.

“Most people trust their luck to the Lottery Quick Picks, about eighty percent or thereabouts,” Tyler said, trading the pen for a fork. “A curious thing—over the past four months a large percentage of the hot zone combinations have not shown up in the Quick Picks. They’ve been suppressed.”

“Which means?” Kirchner asked.

“Keeping the combinations with the highest probability of winning out of the public’s hands increases the potential for the jackpot to roll over into bigger and bigger prizes and attract more players. Suppressing the numbers in the hot zone is not a guaran teed strategy, as potentially any number combination could win, but it’s a good ploy to juice the pot.”

Kirchner speared a banana slice off his plate and held it in the air. “And how is it that they suppress these numbers?”

“Every ticket terminal has a built-in random number generator. The operating software, based on numeric algorithms, and the equipment are provided by a third-party vendor. It’s not a big leap to suggest that someone who understands the random num-ber-generating Quick Pick code and has access to the transaction terminals, which the BlizzardBall operators do, could muck with the ticket numbers issued.”

“The suppression strategy could only benefit the state.”

“And the eventual winner,” Tyler added.

“At some point, with all the buying pressure, wouldn’t they have to release the numbers in the hot zone?”

“They would, and did,” Tyler said. “In the last drawing where the Cash and Dash produced the winning ticket, the Lottery authorities released all but a select few number combinations through the Quick Picks. The exemptions included twenty-five unique red ball numbers paired in every possible combination with one curious white BlizzardBall. This comprised a total of 53,130 number combinations. Lottery players call this type of number aggregation a ‘wheel.’ This isn’t many numbers in the whole scheme of things, but keeping these special number combinations out of the Quick Picks minimizes the risk of multiple winners. Not only did this pick scheme hit the six winning numbers for $750 million, it also yielded an additional one million four hundred thousand dollars in 5, 4, 3, 2, number and BlizzardBall match combinations.”

“If the numbers can be manipulated, why not just issue a ticket after the fact?”

Tyler signaled the waitress. “Can I get a caramel roll?”

Tyler informed Kirchner that as tickets are sold they are transmitted to two separate databases: one held by the BlizzardBall operators and the other by the vendor that supplied the ticket transaction terminals. Prior to the drawing, the two ticket databases are certified by an independent auditor to insure they balance and contain exact duplicate ticket transactions. An audit would quickly detect hacking into the ticket transaction files. The only way to truly win would be to hold a valid ticket that matches the winning numbers. Tyler volunteered that a visit to the independent auditing firm was high on his to-do list and licked his fingers.

“Anything else?”

“No, I’m full.” Tyler dragged his fork over the empty plate, leaving rake lines in the egg yolk.

“I mean about the investigation.”

“I suggest you talk to a Bonnie at the BlizzardBall Lottery office. She’s the database security manager. A Nervous Nellie. She and Morty are a real hush-hush pair. The guy has his hand glued to her ass. My guess is, if you put some heat on her, she’ll squeal.”

“You got her number? We’ll call her from the car.”

Kirchner settled in behind the wheel of his Crown Vic and Tyler dropped into the passenger seat. Kirchner dialed Bonnie’s number and introduced himself.

“Look, Agent Kirchner, I want you to know I don’t appreciate your pubescent technology brat. What’s his name?”

“Tyler,” Kirchner offered.

“Yes, he came into my office and demanded sensitive data files. So arrogant.” Kirchner could hear the tension in Bonnie’s voice. “I’ve got more to do than wait on him.”

“I take it you and Tyler did not hit it off. Manners seem to be a lost art.”

Tyler picked up on the conversation and waved a middle finger at Kirchner.

Kirchner sensed he had momentarily allied himself with Bonnie. He’d taken enough of the fight out of her to get a line in the water. “The agency has found some unusual patterns in the Quick Picks,” he said.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Numbers suppressed, not distributed, that could potentially cause the jackpot to run up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, irritated, “but there’s no harm building a big jackpot. How else are the animals to get protection?”

Kirchner balanced his notebook on the steering wheel. “Excuse me, Bonnie. Did you say animals?” Kirchner knocked on the dashboard to get Tyler’s attention and wrote the word animal with a big question mark.

“Nobody cares,” Bonnie said, ignoring Kirchner’s request for clarification. “Last year fifteen thousand dogs and cats were euth-anized—dumped into landfills or worse.”

Kirchner could feel Bonnie’s wheels slipping off the rails and attempted to get her back on track.

“What’s your personal relationship with Morty?” He would have preferred to ask the question in person and observe Bonnie’s body language. “Do you feel indebted to him in any way?”

“What are you getting at? He’s my supervisor, nothing else. How dare you!”

Kirchner knew he’d crossed the line and wondered whether Tyler had given him poor information with the fondling observation.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he quickly backpedaled. “I’m working on a murder case with a possible connection to your lottery. Not all the questions are polite.”

“Look, I have to go. I have a meeting scheduled,” Bonnie said.

“One more question.” Kirchner knew he was losing her and decided to toss a grenade into the interview. “Do you know what the penalty is for public fraud and theft by swindle?”

“Am I in some sort of trouble?”

Kirchner didn’t respond, letting her become uncomfortable with the silence. He looked over at Tyler thumbing away at a game, his head bobbing.

“Are you there?” she said nervously.

“Let’s just say you have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I’m afraid,” Bonnie whispered.

Kirchner covered the phone and nudged Tyler, “She’s buckling,” he mouthed. Kirchner could feel his pulse quicken. He had to contain himself, slow-play her. “What are you afraid of, Bonnie?”

“You,” she said. “Morty. Everything. I don’t know. I’m confused.”

“Bonnie, I can help you.” Kirchner’s voice was steady, deliberate, as if soothing a startled horse. “You have options.”

“I can’t talk during business hours,” Bonnie said.

“When can we meet?”

Bonnie volunteered that the BlizzardBall Lottery office was officially closed tomorrow due to the New Year’s holiday, but she had access to the building. Kirchner agreed to meet her at the Lottery office. He hung up and thought about the conversation as he stared through the windshield at the snow heaped up like mashed potatoes alongside the road.

“That woman’s crazy with animals,” Tyler said, without taking his eyes off of his mobile phone game. “She has cat photos and animal knickknacks all over her office. As I recall from the Lottery revenue distribution pie chart, a certain percentage of the revenue goes toward animal protection. Could be somebody catered to her pet interest in return for favors.”

Kirchner rubbed his forehead. The puzzle pieces were emerging, but he felt lost as to the picture they formed. He hoped Bonnie held the key.

The parking lanes in the Target lot were flanked by mountains of plowed snow. It took Roddy a couple of passes to find Alita’s beat-up green Camry. He pulled up next to it and surveyed the area. The store’s red-and-white bull’s-eye signs made him feel like he was in a shooting gallery. The sky, heavy and gray, touched the seam of the snowbound horizon. The owner of Lotto2Win needed a day-brightener and pulled a joint from his shirt pocket. Upon arriving in Minnesota from Vancouver, he had instructed Alita to identify her car and park it in a remote section of the retailer’s parking lot. She was to leave it unattended, doors unlocked, with the lottery tickets inside. No pleasantries required—except the tickets better all be there.

Out of his side window, Roddy could see black plastic bags stacked in the back seat. In the smoke-filled haze and warmth of his own car, he thought about the millions of lottery tickets he sold at inflated prices. Likening himself to a carnival ride operator, he thought of how the lottery slowly ratcheted people up the roller-coaster rail to the heights of possibility and then dropped them in a stomach-wrenching free fall. Instead of being sick from going around in circles, they came back for more. Sometimes angry at the source of their desperation, but ready for another ride. Spaced out, he lost the reflective thread and stubbed the roach into the ashtray. Fuck it. I just give ’em what they want.

He stepped out of the car, stuck out his tongue to catch some lightly falling snowflakes, and went to work. As he pivoted from car to car, transferring the tickets, the bottom of his unbuttoned full-length leather coat whipped and flared in the blustery wind like a whirling Dervish’s cape. Tossing in the last bag, he considered it only proper to leave a payback message. He popped the hood latch on the Camry and ducked his head into the engine compartment. He wasn’t a car guy, but he was pretty sure he could cause some mischief.

“Jesus Christ!” Roddy yelped as the hood came down on his head with a dull thud.

“What the hell are you doing to my car?” Alita demanded.

Blindsided by the attack, Roddy fixed his stunned gaze on Alita’s peep-toe pumps and red-painted toenails, and wondered where she’d come from. Had she been hiding behind the plowed snow mountains, or had she sprinted from the store across the icy parking lot in high heels?

He rubbed at the rising knob on his head. “Just a little taste of the bullshit you and your amigos put me through,” Roddy grumbled, inching in on Alita.

“Slimeball,” Alita said, eyeing him wearily. Roddy’s dilated eyes looked like burned pancakes.

“Bitch,” Roddy shot back, and with starling quickness, threw his weight against Alita, pinning her to the car. He grabbed her throat and throttled her like a chicken as he brought his thin hatchet-face next to hers. “Well, ain’t you a hot little tamale, eh?” The smell of patchouli oil and the hate in Alita’s dark eyes filled him with both resentment and sexual excitement.

Alita spit in his face. Roddy felt the sting of spittle in his eye, and squinting like Popeye, made no move to wipe it off as he tightened his grip.