Dog Bless You (21 page)

What had Rick avoided seeing about Paula until their
confrontation out at Crossing Estates? Was there something I wasn’t seeing
about Lili? How could any of us really know the object of our affection?

Thursday afternoon Lili was busy trying to put together
all the photos that the College Connection kids had been taking and working
with, so once again I was on my own with Rochester. I spent the afternoon with
her research materials on Friar Lake, beginning to write the narrative that
would accompany her photographs.

I was so engaged in the work that I didn’t notice the
time passing, until Rochester got restless and started thrashing around one of
his toys, a hard plastic starfish with blue-and-white ropes radiating from it.
He grabbed one of the ropes in his teeth and started shaking his head back and
forth.

That’s when I looked up and noticed it was after five.
“No wonder you’re antsy,” I said. I stood up and stretched, then closed down
the computer and got his leash. We took a quick walk around the campus for him
to sniff and pee, then drove back home. I boiled up some pasta and microwaved a
frozen container of sauce I’d prepared a bucket of a few months back, and while
the dinner cooked I climbed upstairs and retrieved Caroline’s laptop.

Once I was finished eating, I opened the laptop and
once more opened the link to the protected website Striker had emailed Owen. I
tried “owen” as the user ID to go along with the password Striker had emailed
him. The password window evaporated, and the website opened beneath it.

“Duh,” I said out loud. “I must have been dense last
night.”

Rochester didn’t say anything, just lay sprawled on the
kitchen floor behind my chair. It looked as if I was visiting some kind of eBay
clone: there was a line-up of products, each with one or more photos and a
brief description. But there was no heading on the page, and no indication of
how to bid on or buy any of the items. There were several dozen items on the
page, too, and it took me a couple of minutes to realize that they were all
religious artifacts of some kind.

The first item was a silver spice box of the kind used
at the havdalah services on Saturday evening, at the conclusion of the Jewish Sabbath.
A six-sided box sat on an embossed pedestal, with a silver spire atop it,
surmounted by a pennant with a Star of David on it. I’d seen pictures of
similar items, but since I had grown up as a Reformed Jew, mostly attending
only the High Holy Day services, I’d never seen one in use.

This box, though, was more special than the ordinary
ones I might have seen. According to the description, it was from the seventeenth
century and had been used in the main synagogue in Warsaw for several
centuries.

The items in the collection weren’t limited to Judaica,
though. There were gold patens and chalices from various Catholic churches, a
Greek Orthodox censer, and a Persian Quran, ornately decorated with ink,
watercolor, lapis lazuli, and gold, which was said to have been rescued by an
American soldier. The same soldier was said to have also listed several other
items of non-religious significance from the same area; details upon request.

The last item on the list was a reliquary said to
contain the thumb of St. Roch, patron saint of dogs. I zoomed in on the
picture. It was a lot clearer than the one we had seen at St. Mary Martyr, and
in color. Someone had placed a ruler in the shot to show the scale of the box. “This
item, long in the possession of a Benedictine abbey in Pennsylvania, has
recently come onto the market,” the description read. “Made of Spanish silver
in approximately the early 17
^th
century, it was part of the royal
treasures of the Spanish crown, looted by Joseph Napoleon and presented to the
abbey during his residency in New Jersey. The box is locked, and there is no
key, so its contents remain a mystery. Does it include the saint’s thumb? If
you buy this item you can determine for yourself!”

Somebody had done his homework, I thought. Or at least
embellished the story told by Brother Anselm.

There were a few more descriptive details, and photos
of the reliquary from several different angles—front, side, back, top and
bottom.

But that was it—no indication of who to contact to
purchase the item, or how much it would cost.

There was no domain name for the website as part of the
URL, only an IP address--
a 32-bit numeric address
written as four numbers separated by periods. This one was a dynamic URL—one
that was created in response to a query to a database. That meant in addition
to the IP address there was a question mark at the end followed by a series of
numbers and digits.

The IP address in this case was
10.140.205.60. I opened a new window for whois.com to see if I could find where
the site was registered. Only a post office box was listed, though, which I
copied down, and there was no administrative contact.

Then I sat back and tried to work out a
time line. DeAndre hung around the drop-in center and spoke to Brother Anselm,
who thought that the reliquary might be hidden at the abbey. Ka’Tar had told me
that DeAndre knew Striker through the drop-in center, and Striker had been in
Afghanistan with Owen Keely. I’d seen the Pinterest picture showing Brother
Anselm, DeAndre and Owen at Friar Lake.

Once the monks had left for western
Pennsylvania, DeAndre, Owen and Striker could have searched the property
without fear of being discovered. Something happened, though, and DeAndre ended
up dead. Had Striker or Owen killed him?

At some point the reliquary had been found.
I guessed that it had finally come to light during the most recent break-in;
otherwise, why keep looking? Then someone had photographed the reliquary,
written the description, and posted it online. Presumably there was a clientele
out there for discreet purchases of religious objects without concern for
provenance.

Striker had emailed that website address to
Owen. Striker had been a soldier in Afghanistan, and so I was willing to make
the leap that he was the soldier who had supplied the Persian Quran and the
other artifacts – or at least, that he knew that soldier.

I called Rick Stemper. “You home? I want to
come over.”

“Sure. But I’m out of beer.”

“Don’t worry, I have a six-pack in my
fridge I can bring over.”

I typed up the IP address, the user name
and the password, and then printed it out. I found a rubber glove in the
kitchen and used it to pull the paper out of the printer and fold it up. Then I
slipped it into a plastic bag. Then I returned Caroline’s laptop to the attic.

I grabbed the beer and put a leash on
Rochester, then piled him into the BMW. It was almost nine o’clock, late for an
excursion, but I wanted to pass this information on as soon as I could.

“What’s up?” Rick asked when he opened his
front door to me and Rochester. The dog bowled right past us and began chasing
Rascal around the living room.

“Can you check out a website?” I asked.

“Sure, but the computer’s in the spare
bedroom.”

I left the beer on the kitchen table and
followed him.

“What’s there?” he asked.

“The reliquary from Friar Lake.”

“How did you find that?”

“Inquisitive fingers.”

“In other words I don’t want to know.”

“Exactly.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Steve.
If you got this information illegally then I can’t use it because that would
make me an accessory to whatever crime you committed to get it. Oh, and by the
way, if you’re still hacking, then you’ve violated your parole, and as an
officer of the law I’m required to report that information to Santiago Santos.”

“When did you become such a boy scout?” I
asked. “You’ve been willing to use information I found for you in the past.”

“And I was wrong. I admit that. I see
what’s happening to you, Steve. You keep giving in to whatever addiction you’ve
got to this hacking business. As your friend, and as a cop, I can’t keep
ignoring that.”

“I haven’t killed anybody. I haven’t stolen
a 17
^th
century religious artifact and put it up for sale on a
website along with a whole lot of other stolen goods. So I broke in to Owen’s
email account. Big deal. You’re not interested in this? No problem. I’ll find a
way to get it to Tony Rinaldi so he won’t be able to connect it with me. And
since he isn’t my friend he shouldn’t have a problem with it.”

I turned to walk out but Rick said, “Steve.
Wait.”

“What?” I looked back at him.

He sat down at his desktop computer, on a
wooden door placed on two short file cabinets. “Where do I go?”

I opened the plastic bag and dumped the
paper out next to him, then put the bag back in my pocket.

“Even if your fingerprints aren’t on this
paper, I still know it came from you.”

“Your word against mine,” I said.

He sighed, then unfolded the paper and
typed in the address. When the log-in window appeared, he entered the ID and “owen”
as the password.

The list of items popped up, and he said, “Shit.
You weren’t kidding.”

“Check out the last item on the bottom
line,” I said, pointing.

He scanned through the site and then looked at me. “This
is big, Steve. Way bigger than Stewart’s Crossing or Leighville.”

“That’s what I figured.”

We were staring at the screen when a chat window popped
up.

“Shit,” Rick said. “Are we busted?”

u looking at something
the message read.

I leaned over Rick’s shoulder and typed,
yeah,
showing customer
.

“Steve…” Rick said.

b careful im watching,
our
mystery fence replied
.

I typed,
ok signing off,
and then closed the
window and the website.

“I can’t just sit on this,” Rick said. He turned away
from the computer. I sat on the edge of his spare bed, across from him. “I’ve
got to notify somebody. But how am I supposed to say I got this information?”

“Didn’t you say you searched Owen Keely’s room?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t find anything.”

I kept my mouth shut—I know, something new and
different for me.

“Steve. I can’t manufacture evidence.” He stood up. “I
need a beer.”

We went back out to the kitchen and we each opened a
beer. The dogs were lying next to each other on the living room floor.

“You know you could go back to prison for this,” he
said.

 “But I’m not, unless you – or somebody else – finds
evidence that I did something to violate my parole. You’re not going to find
that.”

“You can’t keep doing this, Steve. I’m telling you this
as your friend. One of these days you’re going to screw up and get caught. And
the consequences aren’t going to be pretty.”

I finished my beer. “I know. Believe me, I do. I wish I
could just stop. I keep telling myself I have to. But I can’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I hear those kind of excuses
from every criminal I pull in.”

The criminal tag stung, but that’s because it was true.
Was I any better than Owen Keely, DeAndre Dawson or the mysterious Striker?

Well, yeah, because I hadn’t killed anybody or stolen
anything that didn’t belong to me.

I stood up. “Rochester, let’s go.”

He scrambled up and rushed over to me.

“Talk to you later,” I said to Rick. “Don’t worry, I
can let myself out.”

As I drove back home from Rick’s, I kept coming back to
what he’d said—that he heard the same kind of justifications I spouted from
every criminal he arrested.

“Am I a bad person, Rochester?” I asked, reaching over
to stroke the soft fur on the top of his head. “I don’t think so. I’m trying to
do good things.”

He didn’t answer. But then, there wasn’t anything else
to say, was there?

We went for a long walk, and Rochester sniffed a lot of
trees and bushes. He peed and chased a squirrel. Business as usual for him.

I had a lot of trouble falling asleep. I kept squirming
around in bed, my brain full of conflicting thoughts. How could I justify
continuing to hack into websites and email servers when it was against the law?
But didn’t I have a moral obligation to do whatever I could to bring a criminal
to justice?

Who was I, though, to make those decisions? I wasn’t a
cop. I wasn’t a private eye or an insurance investigator or anything like that.
How could I justify my actions when I was just an ordinary guy? And how could I
stop when I got such a high from doing what I did?

There were no answers to those big questions, and I
finally drifted off to sleep in the middle of the night, only to be woken at
seven by a big dog sniffing and licking my face.

I yawned and struggled out of bed. I was still troubled
by my conversation with Rick the night before. What if he called Santiago
Santos and reported his suspicions? I could wipe out the hard drive on
Caroline’s laptop, then take it apart and discard the pieces in a dozen
different trash cans. Without evidence, Santos couldn’t send me back to prison.

The laptop wasn’t the problem. If I had to, I could
walk into any computer store and pay cash for a new machine, then go on line
and reload all the tools I needed. But that would be a final acknowledgement
that I couldn’t stop hacking. I was scared to see where that path would lead
me.

I’d rather take my chances with Santos. The worst he could
do would be to crack down on me, forcing me to report in more frequently,
subjecting me to an endless series of lectures about my behavior. Maybe even
make me go to some kind of addiction counseling.

Did I need that? It wasn’t like I was pulling out my
secret laptop every night and hacking random websites, or even doing the kind
of thing that had gotten me in trouble in the first place, breaking into credit
bureaus and changing records. I could not name a single innocent person harmed
by anything I’d done. Except myself – and I wasn’t innocent.

Rochester was not interested in philosophical
discussions. He just wanted to go out for his walk like usual, poop and pee and
sniff and socialize, then come back home for his breakfast.

We were halfway down Sarajevo Court when my cell phone
rang.

“I’m not lying for you,” Rick said. “Even if what you
did helps catch whoever killed DeAndre Dawson, it was still wrong.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Don’t get smart with me, asshole. I was up half the
night trying to figure out what to do. Hell, the murder isn’t even my case. All
I’m supposed to be doing is looking for Owen Keely to ask about the stuff he
stole from Mark Figueroa.”

I took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry if I put you in
a bad position. But I stand by what I did. Whoever killed DeAndre needs to be
caught, and punished. We owe that to Shenetta and Jamarcus and Ka’Tar.”

“Save me the moralizing. You provided some valuable
information, and I need to deal with that. After this is over, you and I are
going to have a long talk and come up with an action plan.”

I wanted to tease him about appropriating corporate
double-speak—but for once I kept my mouth shut.

“For now,” he said, “I know a guy with the FBI in
Philly, Hank Quillian. I worked on a case with him once. I’m going to give him
a call and pass on this website information. See what he has to say.”

“Why don’t you just call Tony Rinaldi? The murder is
his case.”

“And he’ll know just where the information came from. Hank,
on the other hand, has never heard of you or your itchy fingers. I’ll let him
know that the website is connected to DeAndre’s murder and he can contact Tony
himself.”

Rochester spotted a squirrel and took off, dragging me
along behind him. “Sounds good,” I said.

“I want you to do something before I do, though. Go see
Mark and show him the website, and see if anything that was stolen from him
shows up there.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t know. I’m flying with my gut here, and I want
to know everything I can before I call Hank. But I don’t think I want it on the
record that I spoke to Mark before I passed the info to the FBI.”

“All right. I’ll go over there on my way to work.”

When I got back home, I called Mark. “Hey, it’s Steve
Levitan. Can I come over and show you a website?”

“Something good or something bad?” he asked.

“Let’s call it neutral for now,” I said.

He said he’d be home until he opened the store at
eleven. “There’s an outside stair behind the store, that leads right up to my
apartment,” he said. “Come around that way. I’ve got a fenced yard back there,
if you want to bring your dog.”

“Cool. See you in an hour or so.”

I cut up some fresh strawberries into a container of
Greek yogurt and wolfed it down while I scanned the morning paper. There was an
article about the spate of robberies in Crossing Estates, and I knew that
wasn’t good for Rick. But the reporter hadn’t connected them to the ones in
Leighville, or to Owen Keely.

After a quick shower, I got dressed and loaded Rochester
into the car. I drove down Main Street, passing Bethea, our local crazy lady,
on the way. She had a habit of crossing the street very slowly, over and over
again, tying up traffic. Most people just accepted her as local color—unless
they were in a hurry.

I wasn’t.

I turned down Ferry Street and parked in the driveway
beside Mark’s store, behind his van. I opened the gate that led into the fenced
yard behind the building, and then let Rochester off his leash to run around.

Mark had the second-floor door open as I climbed the
stairs. “Is this about Owen?”

“Yeah. You heard anything from him lately?”

He shook his head, and stepped back to let me into his
kitchen. He had his laptop open on the table. “The things that you think Owen
stole from your store,” I said, as I sat down. “Any of them have any religious
significance?”

He thought as I opened a web browser and typed in the
IP address for the list of stolen items. “Just one,” he said. “A Russian icon—a
painting on wood, about the size of a three by five card. A saint in a red
cloak, with a halo over his head.”

“I found this website online, with a whole list of
religious artifacts for sale. The reliquary from Friar Lake is there. And I
think I saw that icon there, too.”

When the ID and password window popped up, I entered
the information I had used before.

The small window disappeared—but instead of seeing the
list of items I got a message that the password I had entered was invalid. “Crap,”
I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Striker must have figured out someone else had Owen’s
password, and he changed it.”

Mark was confused, and as I started to explain to him,
I called Rick. “Better get your FBI guy on that site right away,” I said. “Striker
changed the password.”

“Can’t you find the new one?”

“Excuse me?”

“If I’m going to tell Hank anything I have to give him
the right information.”

I looked over at Mark. I didn’t want to say anything
too explicit. “You know what you’re asking me, don’t you?” I said to Rick. “I’m
sure the FBI can do what I can do. And they’ll do it legally.”

“But if they can’t see the website, they won’t have
enough to get a warrant to investigate further.” He took a deep breath. “Where
are you now?”

“At Mark’s.”

“I’ll meet you at your house in fifteen minutes.”

“No, Rick. I’ll get you what you want. But you don’t
have to get your hands dirty.”

“That’s not the way I roll, pal.” He hung up.

“What’s going on?” Mark asked.

“I’ll have to fill you in later,” I said. “Trust me,
you don’t want to know anything right now.”

I hurried down the outside staircase, and Rochester
came bounding over to me. We got back in the car and drove back home. Rick’s
truck was already parked there.

“I’ve been turning my back on you and your little
adventures for long enough,” Rick said as I walked up to him. “I want to see
what you do first-hand.”

“Can you turn on the espresso machine?” I asked,
unlocking the front door. “I’ll be right back down, but we’re going to need
some coffee.”

Rochester followed Rick into the kitchen as I went
upstairs to retrieve Caroline’s laptop. By the time I got back downstairs the
machine was beginning its brew cycle.

“You have a special computer?” Rick asked, as I set it
up on the kitchen table in the breakfast nook.

“Used to be Caroline’s,” I said. “Santos doesn’t know I
have it.”

He just shook his head.

The machine started to whistle, and Rick got up to make
the coffee while I set up the password generating software. I left it running
and joined him in the kitchen. “You want a mocha?” I asked.

“I’ll stick to the cappuccino.” He foamed the milk
while I got out the chocolate syrup for myself. We made our drinks in silence
and then walked back to the breakfast nook. The password software was busy
running through combinations and permutations.

“What’s happening?” Rick asked.

I explained what I was doing, and he nodded along. “Where’d
you get the software?”

“Found a guy on a bulletin board who had it for sale.
It’s way out of date by now, but it still works.”

We sat there in silence for a long while, drinking our
coffee and watching the software work. “This could take a couple of hours,” I
said. “You don’t have to stick around.”

“I do. How long did it take you last time?”

“Last time I had the password from an email I
intercepted. All I had to figure out was the user ID and that was easy. Now? I
have no idea. Let’s hope Striker gave Owen a simple password—not something
randomly generated that could take hours to crack.”

I had a sudden wave of panic. “What if he didn’t give
Owen a new password at all,” I said. “Maybe he just removed his access.”

“Can you tell that?” Rick asked.

I shook my head. “We’ll have to hope that isn’t the
case. But I want to try something else.”

I minimized the windows and opened a new one. This time
I entered the password that had worked before, but instead of
owen
as
the user id, I entered
striker23
.

Like magic, the window evaporated and the website
opened. I paged to the bottom and pointed to the item next to the reliquary. I
right-clicked on it and saved the picture of the Russian icon, then closed the
window.

I went back to the first set of windows and closed
them, too.

“What just happened?” Rick asked.

I explained everything I’d done. “I’m going to email
this picture to Mark right now,” I said, as I opened my mail program. I
remembered his address; I had found several messages from him when I hacked
Owen’s account, and it’s hard to forget an address like gaylover33 at
mymail.com.

As soon as the message was sent, I called Mark. “Can
you check your email?”

“Already there,” he said. “I just saw a message from
you.”

“Is that the icon that you think Owen stole from your
store?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

I thanked him, and hung up. “I think you’d better call
your FBI guy ASAP,” I said. “We don’t know how long the striker23 ID and
password are going to be active.”

Rick stood up. “I’m heading to the station right now.”
He nodded toward the laptop. “Better put that back where you got it from.”

“Will do.”

He walked to the front door, then stopped and turned
back. “I see why you do it,” he said. “You get this look on your face and you
seem – I don’t know – more alive somehow.” He paused. “Thanks for the coffee.
Catch you later.”

I knew it was just a phrase—but as he walked out and
closed the door behind him I kept hearing
catch you
over and over again.