Icarus. (33 page)

Randy Pelkington was a twenty-nine-year-old Australian who'd moved to New York when he was eleven years old but he'd never managed to lose his accent. Randy's parents were good, upstanding middle-class people – his mother was a book publisher who'd been hired by an American firm and relocated to New York and his father was an architect who, when he had trouble landing work in his new country, became a professor of architectural history at NYU. They were both extremely surprised when their son, at age fifteen, got into quite a bit of trouble with the local police. Randy, it seemed, had a skill. He was one of the earliest and best computer hackers and, just as a lark, he'd hacked into the NYPD system and did some, as he called it, rearranging. When he was caught, Randy had been prepared. He'd saved all the original information on disk and was easily able to re-rearrange things back to normal. Since Randy's actions seemed not to be malicious and purposeful but rather done out of curiosity, some clever person on the force decided that there was a better alternative than tossing the young genius into juvenile detention. His punishment was that he had to spend a year on probation helping the department with their computer programming. At the end of the year, Randy was promptly hired by the city as a consultant to continue his work. He also, at the same time he attended NYU, started his own business. Most of his computer work was fairly benign. He described it as "helping rich people get over their terror of the unknown electronic universe." What he mostly did was go to those people who tended to work out of their homes – writers, architects, artists, what have you – and set up computer systems for them. He taught them how to use Windows as well as non-Windows applications and came over to rescue them whenever they thought they'd lost something of value in the bowels of their computers or just generally got confused and screwed up. He also did several small office systems installations, which is how Jack happened to meet him. Caroline had hired Randy to set up the computer systems for Jack's restaurants nationwide.

"I need some help," Jack now told Randy.

"No problem. At the restaurant?"

"No, no. This is personal."

"Sounds intriguing. What is it you need?"

Jack told him and Randy said he'd call him back in fifteen minutes.

– "-"-"NO PROBLEM," RANDY said when he called back. "I don't even have to come there. We can do this over the phone."

"Are you sure?"

"Piece o' cake. You still on the ThinkPad?"

Jack said that he was.

"This is gonna be easy," Randy told him. "Go to 'Search the Internet' and when you come to the search line, type in 'CylockHolmes.com.' and click on 'Search.'"

Jack did as he was told, waited, and suddenly a line appeared that said: 1 of 1 Web Site Matches.

"Okay," Randy told him, "click on the Web site line. You want me to hang on while you start it up and download, Mr. K?"

"If you don't mind."

"My pleasure," the computer whiz said.

To Jack's amazement, cartoonish drawings of a Sherlock Holmes-like detective popped up on his computer screen, followed by hype for the site. According to that hype, he could use this program to find long-lost friends, license plate numbers, Social Security numbers, and unlisted phone numbers. He could also verify educational records, get dirt on his neighbors – in essence, according to the on-screen promises, discover anything about anyone. Once he typed in his credit card number and registered as a user, the following grid appeared:

[Background [Information [Internet

Information

Reference] Source] Source]

[Information

[ADDRESS RESULTS WILL DISPLAY

HERE] Sources]

[Current Search

[PHONE NUMBERS WILL DISPLAY HERE] Category]

[Business Records]

[Driver Records]

[Vehicle [ADDITIONAL INFORMATION WILL

Ownership] DISPLAY HERE]

[Vital Records]

[Voter

State: [Alabama] [Retrieve] Registration]

[County

[Return Address] [Print Envelopes] Courthouse]

[CD Interface Help] [Check for Update] [About] [EXIT] [Cylock Holmes [Report]

Notebook]

"Jesus," Jack breathed. "Anyone can just do this?"

"As long as you got a credit card," Randy said. "Feeling paranoid?"

"A little."

"Wise man. No such thing as privacy anymore. You want me to lead you through this at the beginning?"

"Yes," Jack said.

"Okay, tell me what you're looking for."

"Something called Grave Enterprises."

"What about it?"

Jack exhaled. "Not sure," he said. "How about exactly what it is and who runs it."

"Okay. I'm looking at the screen, too. Go to the icon that says 'Investigative Tools.'"

Again, Jack clicked as per his instructions. He then typed in the information that Randy told him to type in at exactly the spots where Randy told him to type it. Within moments there was a long list of corporations and companies that had the word "grave" in them.

"You're gonna have to narrow it down, Jack. Or else you're going to have to check out each one of these. Looks like there's about a hundred and fifty – and that's just in New York. A lot of 'em you can get rid of immediately, I'm sure. This doesn't look like it's the world's greatest search engine, so I think you'll find words like 'gravy' and companies that have names that are just close; stuff like that'll clog up the list."

"Okay," Jack said. "You don't have to hang on while I do that. That could take a while."

"What else do you need?"

Jack told him that he had a credit card number that he wanted traced back to the owner.

"You don't have the owner's name?"

"No," Jack explained. "Just the number."

"That might take a little more time 'cause it's not the way the system's set up. I'll tell you what. Try finding what you want on this 'grave' list. Then, if you can narrow things down to a few names, we can track the credit cards for each person until you get what you're looking for. If that doesn't work, give me the number and I'll do a search. But I'll have to tap into a few things that might not be kosher."

"All right. Let me try it the kosher way first," Jack said. "Although I don't understand how this can really be legal."

"Trust me," Randy said.

"Believe me, I do. I also owe you. How much?"

"This? This was just a wake-up call. Consider this a freebie."

Jack thanked the Australian profusely, assured him he'd call him back if he got stuck on his search, and hung up the phone.

Then he went to work on his new CylockHolmes program.

– "-"-"IT TOOK ONLY twenty minutes for Jack to narrow his list down to six companies he wanted to check out. It was easy to eliminate all the "gravy" and "gravel" and "engraving" business that had popped up. Within minutes after he'd done that he had descriptions for the six he was interested in. There was only one that matched up exactly to the name on Kid's travel receipt, so Jack focused on that one first. It was a company called Grave Enterprises. The other five had addresses that automatically appeared alongside their names but there was no address for the company Jack was focused on. That fact alone made him certain he was on the right track.

He began using the various tools that CylockHolmes offered. He found a large number of vehicles registered to the company, all in New York State and New Jersey. He went into courthouse records to check the ownership of Grave Enterprises and found that it was part of another corporation, Migliarini Construction. The name rang a bell, although Jack couldn't initially come up with why. He then used his new computer program to run a search on Migliarini. It didn't take him long to understand why he knew the name. The more he searched, the more astonished he became. As he went along, he printed up anything that struck him as particularly relevant. An hour into his reading and research, CylockHolmes sent him to a list of newspaper and magazine articles as well as published books that had references to Migliarini Construction and its parent company, Joeva, Inc. At ten-thirty, he called the nearest Barnes amp; Noble. Whoever answered the phone told him they were open until eleven. Jack didn't even say thank you. He slammed the phone down, ran outside, and hailed a cab. He made it to the bookstore in fifteen minutes. By eleven-fifteen, he was back in his apartment, sitting in the leather living room chair under the Hopper painting, tearing through a book that had been published six months earlier called Future Crime: The 20th Century Gangster in the 21st Century.

By one-thirty in the morning, Jack knew he had what he was looking for. But to double-check he went to the computer and logged back on to CylockHolmes.

He made a few mistakes, wound up at a page that kept telling him to register again, but he finally got back on track. Under "Search," he typed in the name Eva Migliarini, a name he'd gotten from his reading. Information popped up immediately. He clicked on "Business Records," saw exactly what he expected to find. And then for his final cross-reference he tracked down two months' worth of her latest shopping sprees. There was nothing at all suspicious or seemingly illegal. But that didn't matter to Jack. All he needed was to match one particular item. And match it he did: he wouldn't have to call Raymond the computer whiz to get her Visa card number. He had her purchases. And on April 16, she'd bought two tickets for Bermuda. Jack looked at the receipt he'd taken from Kid's apartment. Same date. Same location.

Grave Enterprises, he thought.

Very fucking clever.

And you, too, Kid. Just as fucking clever. He could hear Kid's voice, as clear as if he were still standing in the room: She's got some really nasty friends and I don't think I want to piss them off just yet.

Nasty friends is right, he thought. But that didn't bother Jack, not now, because he was feeling even cleverer. Because when he finally closed his eyes and went to sleep at three in the morning, he knew he'd found what he was looking for: the first member of the Team.

He'd found the Mortician.

It was 11 a.m. and already feeling like a midsummer instead of late-spring morning. The air was warm and starting to buckle with humidity. Jack had had no more than five hours' sleep but he felt well rested and, unlike most of the New Yorkers who were already in a sweat-induced stupor, energetic. He was oblivious to the city's clamminess. He was oblivious to just about everything other than the fact that he was standing outside an elegant double town house on East Fifty-fourth Street, looking up at a tastefully engraved brass plaque on the front of the building that identified it as the Migliarini Funeral Home. Underneath that, in smaller engraved letters, it said: Joeva, Inc. The building blended in nicely with the rest of the ornate brownstones on the block. There were several foundations, one embassy, and a few private homes. This was a monied street and every penny showed on its surface. Jack was wearing a suit and tie now and he smoothed down the tie, straightened the front of his jacket, then buttoned the middle button. He gathered himself, went up the three steps to the funeral parlor in a surprisingly jaunty manner, and opened the front door.

He found himself in a subdued lobby. It all looked very… well, funereal. A receptionist eyed him, a look that conveyed her immediate condolences, then in a sympathetic and hushed tone asked if she could help.

"Yes," Jack said, matching her semiwhisper. "I'd like to see Eva Migliarini, please."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Jack said. "But tell her I'll only take up five minutes of her time and it's very important."

"May I have your name, please? And may I tell her what it's about?"

"Jack…" He stopped himself suddenly. "Sorry. Tell her that Kid Demeter is here to see her." He fingered the painful lump on the back of his head and said, "I think she'll know what it's in reference to."

The receptionist picked up the phone and pressed an intercom button. In the same whispered tones, she passed along Jack's message and then waited for a response. It took a little longer than she expected so she gave a perfunctory smile to Jack while she waited. It was the look of someone who was used to smiling vacantly at grieving people. In a few moments, she nodded and murmured, "Yeah, okay," and hung up the phone. "Ms. Migliarini said she can see you in about fifteen minutes. She'll buzz up when she's ready." He thanked her politely, then she pointed to several chairs off in a corner and said, "Please have a seat. I'll let you know when she calls."

Jack sat facing the receptionist and realized he was nervous. He was tapping his foot on the black-and-white marble floor and the index finger of his right hand on the arm of the dark wood chair. He forced his foot to stay still and, to occupy his hand, he reached into a small bowl filled with matchbooks and pulled one out. The matches had a black cover with plain white lettering that simply said, "Joeva, Inc." For no particular reason, he put the book in his pants pocket, then did his best to bide his time and study the lobby.

It was all quite properly somber. Marble floors, two overly-elaborate Greek-style columns that looked as if they were holding up the ceiling but which, Jack was sure, were purely decorative rather than structural. There were five doors that led to other rooms. He assumed these were waiting rooms for groups of mourners. The walls were thick and soundproof because judging from the hearses waiting outside – Hearses! Those were the registered vehicles he'd seen on CylockHolmes, he was sure of it – there was at least one funeral in progress but he could not hear a word being spoken nor a note of music being played. Jack nervously fingered the matchbook in his pocket with his left hand and began tapping with his right again. Finally, he heard the receptionist's now familiar husky whisper carry across the room.