[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters Page 5

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you think his hacking could’ve gotten him killed?’

  ‘Maybe. John Hudson was a remarkable young man. But he had one fatal weakness. He was an idealist.’

  Deborah shielded her eyes from the shafts of sunlight piercing the palm leaves. ‘And that’s a weakness?’

  ‘Miss Jones, I’m a throwback to the 1960s. Part of the Woodstock generation. His mindset was very similar to mine. He believed in the people, and he believed in the truth. And, in my view quite correctly, he didn’t trust our government. There was someone he did trust, however. A guy by the name of Richard Turner. Does that name mean anything to you, Miss Jones?’

  Deborah unzipped the side pocket of her sports bag for the pen and small notepad she kept there. Then she wrote the name down, underlining it twice. ‘No‌—‌should it?’

  ‘Richard was an MIT dropout from the 1960s. Well known among the hacking fraternity. Made a big name for himself in the 1980s.’

  ‘What was so special about him?’

  ‘According to folklore, he hacked the Pentagon, NASA, NSA and the CIA, all using his own programs. He’d served time for anti-Vietnam protests, and I’m led to believe he now lives a quiet life in New York. You should try and talk to him about John Hudson.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful, Professor, and very courageous. I appreciate your candor.’

  ‘Look, I’ve gotta go. We’ve got a faculty dinner in about an hour.’

  ‘Professor, I owe you one.’

  14

  The freezing-cold air of New York was a shock to Nathan’s system which was more attuned to the warmer climes of Florida. He could see his breath as he walked around the East Village trying to pass the time‌—‌and trying to keep warm‌—‌while waiting on the call. He was smoking a cigarette, collar upturned against the biting wind, as he headed along East Third Street, reacquainting himself with the old neighborhood.

  He passed the Hell’s Angel HQ in Manhattan, stealing a quick glance at a couple of longhairs on big Harleys outside. Nothing seemed to have changed there. They stared at him as he walked on, wondering if he was a cop. He couldn’t abide those long-haired fuckers. Most were angel-dust dealers or just plain badass bikers looking for a fight. He’d have been delighted to oblige. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d smashed a pool cue into some moron’s face. But their clubhouse was under surveillance and he had no wish to draw attention to himself.

  The cameras were situated high up beside a fire escape, strafing the area for cops or for other biker gangs trying to hassle Angels heading in or out Nathan wandered over to Broadway, then crossed Fourth Avenue at Astor Place. In St Mark’s Place he stopped beside a basement stairway to light up another cigarette.

  When Nathan had been growing up, anything between 14th Street and Houston was the Lower East Side. Now most people called it the East Village anything to link it with the more affluent bohemia of Greenwich Village.

  It had started with the developers in the 1980s. Junkies, welfare mothers, gangs and penniless artists had populated the high-crime slum area where he grew up. But now it had become a lot more commercial. The sidewalks were cleaner, there was less graffiti. Now Japanese, Indian and Ukrainian restaurants sat side by side with bondage stores, vintage boutiques, art galleries and secondhand music shops, although there was still a hint of danger in the air.

  Nathan remembered walking the same streets as a boy in the early-to-mid-1970s with an empty belly and an aching heart, relying on church handouts of free soup and old clothes as the city headed for bankruptcy, crime out of control, burned-out buildings on every street. He looked after his younger sister the best he could.

  Begging for dimes from strangers, hanging around outside bars and dives, hands cupped, wanting some ‘bread’. He meant both money and food. He didn’t starve. And neither did his sister.

  No thanks to their father, who seemed to spend most of his days in a flophouse on the Bowery.

  He remembered walking the streets hand in hand with his sister, wearing strange clothes, the hippies laughing at them, asking if he wanted a smoke. He told them no and was embarrassed, which made them laugh even more.

  He also remembered, as a teenager, having to learn to fight to stay alive as he walked home from Seward Park High School on Grand Street. His sister, who surfed the Net these days, told him that it was now called the Lower Manhattan Arts Academy.

  Nathan stole a glance down the stairs at a basement on St Mark’s. The drapes were drawn but there was a light on inside. The subject was at home, only yards from where Nathan stood. He looked around, getting his bearings again after all this time.

  Everything seemed smaller. Kids were walking around yapping into cellphones, unheard of in his days.

  Nathan took one final look down the basement steps and glanced at his watch. Then he pulled out his own cellphone. He needed to find out what was going on.

  ‘Hey, Nath, how goes it?’

  ‘I’m in position. Awaiting instruction.’

  A long pause before the handler spoke. ‘Do not enter the building at this moment. But if he makes a move, then it’s game on.’

  Nathan dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with the heel of his boot. ‘Affirmative.’

  There was a cafe nearby and he took a window seat with a bird’s-eye view of the basement entrance.

  This was the part that Nathan hated the most. The hanging around, trying to kill time.

  He popped a couple of steroid pills and washed them down with a strong coffee. Now Nathan was ready for anything.

  15

  There were mentions of Richard Turner in countless chat rooms, message boards and articles on the Internet, and one essay by a computer software engineer dubbing him the ‘Godfather of Hackers’. But Deborah drew a blank on how to locate him.

  She called Sam.

  ‘I was speaking to one of John Hudson’s professors at MIT about an hour ago. She was quite helpful. I need to track down a guy called Richard Turner.’

  ‘You tried Nexus?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about Larry Coen? He knows everybody.’

  ‘He’s on vacation this week.’

  ‘So he is.’

  ‘All I know is this guy’s supposed to be in New York.’

  ‘You don’t fly as a rule, do you, Deborah?’

  ‘I’ll make an exception in this case.’

  ‘Okay, you’re in business.’

  ‘You mentioned about an old friend of yours from way back. Thomas McNally.’

  ‘It’ll cost the paper serious money.’

  ‘So, are you going to help me or not?’

  • • •

  An hour later, Deborah arrived at the Bank of America Tower in downtown Miami‌—‌the third-largest skyscraper in the city. It was home to some of the country’s most powerful firms and government agencies. Global investment banks, high-powered legal firms, management consultants, private-equity companies and various government bodies. McNally had a large office on the twenty-first floor‌—‌but his firm was not listed in the tenant directory, nor in the phone directory for that matter.

  Thomas ‘Tequila’ McNally had previously worked as a special agent in the FBI’s Miami office, eventually heading up the bureau. But his gambling debts and drinking binges hadn’t gone down too well with his superiors, and he’d been forced to resign.

  He set up a small firm of private investigators, Information Inc., which was widely used by big American corporations to do background checks on employees. They dug up address histories, phone numbers, possible aliases, neighbors, criminal and civil records checks, and marriage records. Not to mention doing searches of utility company records, court records, county records, property records, business records and more. Hard-to-get addresses were McNally’s specialty. He didn’t advertise, and all his clients came to him because he’d been recommended to them by satisfied customers.

  Deborah felt nervous as she rode the
elevator to the eleventh-floor Sky Lobby Terrace within the tower, wondering if McNally would turn up at such short notice. She stepped out onto the balmy candlelit terrace that was bedecked in marble and gold. Dozens of people dined alfresco by a reflecting pool, the night lights of the city all around.

  The smell of chargrilled steaks and hot spices mingled with cigarette smoke in the dark, humid Miami air. ‘Miss Jones, I presume.’

  Deborah turned round and saw a large avuncular man wearing a Panama hat and a creased cream linen suit. ‘You must be—’

  ‘Let’s take a seat, and we can shoot the breeze.’

  Deborah followed him to a reserved table where an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne were ready for them. They sat down.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got too much time this evening, Miss Jones.’

  A waiter appeared and McNally nodded to him. The bottle of champagne was uncorked and two flutes poured. Deborah didn’t mention that she didn’t drink.

  ‘You got a name?’ he asked.

  ‘Richard Turner. He could be in New York. He studied at MIT. That’s about it…’

  McNally knocked back his glass of champagne in a couple of gulps. ‘You mind telling me what you’re investigating?’

  Deborah took a few seconds before she answered. ‘We’re looking into the death of Bill Hudson’s son John.’

  ‘I read about that.’ McNally poured himself another glass. ‘So, how long you worked for Sam?’

  ‘A few years.’

  ‘I believe you and him are an item‌—‌is that right?’

  Deborah just smiled.

  ‘He’s a good man.’ McNally savored the next long sip of Piper-Heidsieck. ‘How are Richard Turner and John Hudson linked?’

  ‘I believe both of them were hackers.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘John Hudson tried to contact me with a story, after hacking into someone’s computer or smartphone.’

  ‘And you think this Richard Turner might be able to help you?’

  ‘I don’t have any other leads,’ Deborah said.

  McNally looked out over the bright lights of the city at night. ‘Miami’s the future. A twenty-first-century city. And there’s big money to be made here. Big opportunities for those who know how to take them. It’s like the new frontier. Condos flying up everywhere. Anything’s possible. But what most people don’t realize is that rules don’t mean shit down here. Colombian drug gangs are crazy. Would shoot their own mother if she threatened their turf. Politicians, cops, everyone is taking a slice of the pie. Even the Miami property bubble bursting is not putting off the developers, buying up land like there’s no tomorrow. Yeah, this is the place to be now And believe me, Florida’s a big, big place, and it’s easy to disappear, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Look, I’ll do my best to find this guy. But what I can tell you for nothing is that when the son of a top Miami lawyer winds up dead in the Everglades, with no witnesses, you know you’re dealing with serious people. You need to know this before you go any further. Has it occurred to you that this guy may not want to be found?’

  ‘Of course. That’s why I’ve come to you.’

  McNally stared off into the distance. ‘Okay. Leave it with me.’

  16

  By the time Deborah got home there was a message on her cellphone and an address in Lower Manhattan. Then she called Sam.

  His last words echoed in her ear as her cab snaked through traffic on the way to Miami International Airport: ‘Be smart, and take care.’

  Deborah caught the last flight of the evening out of Miami, her first time in the air for more than five years. She hadn’t flown since her rape-induced breakdown had made her terrified of taking a plane. It was a nail-biting three hours‌—‌eyes closed, gripping the armrests of her seat.

  Just before midnight, with the New York air bitterly cold after the warmth of Florida, Deborah hailed a taxi outside JFK.

  Her heart started pumping hard as the cab crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, the dark waters of the East River glittering below. Deborah looked out at the ethnic restaurants of Lower Manhattan, street vendors, newsstands, steam rising out of manhole covers.

  The cab pulled up outside a Japanese noodle bar. The sidewalk, despite the hour, was teeming with people. ‘This looks like it,’ the driver said.

  Above the restaurant was a punk-rock clothing and accessories store‌—‌Search and Destroy. Thrash metal blared out from a window.

  Deborah paid the driver before stepping out onto the sidewalk. The smell of steamed rice, spicy meats and smoke hit her full on.

  She walked gingerly for fifty yards along the cracked icy sidewalk and then spotted the number painted on steel steps that led down to a dark basement.

  Deborah took a deep breath and opened the wrought-iron gate. The steps were slippery and she gripped the handrail tight. She pressed the buzzer and held it down for a couple of seconds. ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered, stamping her feet.

  Bars on the window, curtains shut tight.

  She tried again but there was no reply.

  Deborah knocked on the door. Rat-a-tat-tat. And then again.

  ‘You ain’t gonna find nobody there.’ Staring down at Deborah from street level was a young black woman wearing tight jeans and a skimpy top, hugging herself to keep warm while smoking a cigarette.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said you ain’t gonna find nobody there.’

  ‘Do you know who lives here?’

  ‘Sure I do.’

  Deborah said nothing, wondering if the young woman was for real.

  ‘You IRS?’

  ‘I’m a reporter. I need to speak to Richard Turner.’

  The woman laughed, showing some gold in her teeth.

  ‘You know what time it is, honey?’

  ‘Yeah, I know it’s late.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t home. That boy is always on the move. Know what I’m saying?’

  Deborah climbed the steps back up to the street level. ‘You seem to know Richard quite well.’

  ‘I know everyone around here.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

  The young woman just shrugged.

  Deborah opened her wallet and took out a crisp one hundred dollar bill. ‘Can you help me?’

  The young woman tried to grab the money but Deborah was too quick for her.

  ‘I need an address. I was told that Richard lived here.’

  ‘He does live here. At least, some of the time. The place belongs to an old friend of his.’

  Deborah shrugged.

  ‘Abbie Hoffman and his wife lived here, way back in the 1960s.’

  Deborah knew that the woman was referring to one of America’s most vocal anti-Vietnam activists, and leader of the Yippies‌—‌the Youth International Party.

  The young woman eyed the note in Deborah’s grip. ‘Richard’s like me. He preferred the East Village when it was rough and ready. Before the developers and the yuppies moved in. Can hardly afford to live in this goddamn city anymore.’

  Deborah gave her the money. She gazed at it for a few seconds, as if checking to see if the note was a fake, before she looked again at Deborah, her eyes watery. ‘You might wanna head across to Brooklyn. I know Richard sometimes likes to spend a night or two at a time over there, when he feels the heat’s on.’

  ‘I need an address.’

  ‘Down by the waterfront.’

  ‘Can you be a little more precise?’

  ‘Imlay Street. 160 Imlay Street. You should catch him there.’

  ‘What does he look like, just so I know?’

  ‘Always wears a red bandana and sneakers, long hair. Think he’s still going through a Bruce Springsteen thing.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘Shit. Richard’s just a kid at heart. But don’t tell him I told you so, okay?’

  The woman turned on her heel and headed towards a bar nearly a block away.

  All of a
sudden Deborah’s cellphone rang.

  ‘Just calling to see you arrived safely.’ Sam’s reassuring voice sent a warm glow through her body.

  ‘I’m fine. But McNally only gave me one address. I need to check out Turner tomorrow morning in Brooklyn.’

  ‘Sorry, Debs. You’re wanted back in Miami by the big chief.’

  ‘Donovan?’

  ‘He wants you here for ten o’clock.’

  ‘But that’s not possible, Sam. You know that.’

  Sam sighed. ‘He’s talking about launching another investigation into the Scott Carver debacle. And he’s not in the mood for any excuses. He wants you on the first flight tomorrow morning. It gets into Miami just before nine, which’ll give you time to get some shut-eye and be in his office for ten.’

  ‘So I’ve come all this way for nothing.’

  ‘If you don’t make the red-eye, then even I won’t be able to pull any strings for you. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’

  ‘No arguments, Deborah. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Deborah didn’t reply.

  ‘You’re pissed at me, aren’t you?’ Sam asked. ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘Oh, Sam.’ Deborah kicked an empty Coke can lying on the sidewalk onto the road. ‘Goddamn it,’ she muttered.

  Then she spotted a cab.

  • • •

  The dark narrow cobbled streets of Brooklyn’s southern waterfront–the run-down industrial enclave of Red Hook–were a world away from Manhattan.

  Deborah cursed her impetuousness as the cab hurtled down deserted streets. Behind the buildings the silhouettes of old cranes loomed large in the freezing night. This had once been the heart of blue-collar New York. Longshoremen, truckers, scrapyards. The film On the Waterfront only helped to enhance its tough reputation–corrupt unions, violent clashes with bosses, the mob in the background. But those days were long gone.

  Now, in the early hours of the morning, the only person around was an old white man, wrapped in blankets and making his way slowly down the dimly lit street, occasionally slugging from a bottle in a brown paper bag.

  The driver pulled up outside a huge six-storey industrial building that was covered in black construction netting. He pointed to a door with the number 160 daubed on it in white paint.