Even the Wicked: A Matthew Scudder Novel (Matthew Scudder Mysteries) Read online

  “I thought of that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Say he didn’t want to live anymore but he couldn’t bring himself to take action. So he hires somebody to do it for him.”

  “He’s afraid to stick his head in the oven, but he’s cool with the idea of waitin’ for somebody to sneak up and shoot him.”

  “I said I thought of it. I never put it high up on the list.”

  “’Sides, how’s he hire somebody who never met him face to face? You hire me to shoot you, I ain’t gonna have to ask you your name.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “It never made any sense in the first place and it makes less sense now. Byron Leopold was murdered by someone who had a reason to kill him, and he himself was the only person in the world with a reason to want him dead. There ought to be a financial motive. That’s what it feels like, but there’s no money in it for anybody.”

  “There’s whatever he had. Forty kay? But you said some charity gets that.”

  “And it’s not enough anyway.”

  “Not enough?”

  “Not enough to kill for.”

  “Dudes up on Washington Heights, they killed three people and only got half that much.”

  “They were lowlife dipshits,” I said. “They probably killed for the hell of it. They already had the money. Why kill the girl? To keep her quiet? She couldn’t tell anybody, and her mother and brother were asleep in their beds, for Christ’s sake. They killed three people for no reason.”

  “Guess you ain’t likely to be a character witness for them. Anyway, wasn’t no lowlife shot Byron. Said, ‘Mr. Leopold.’ Polite, you know? Showed some respect.”

  “It’s little things that make all the difference.”

  His pie had arrived while we were talking, and now it was mostly gone. He held a bite balanced on his fork and said, “Funny about the forty kay. First it was too much and now it ain’t enough.”

  “He cashed in an insurance policy,” I said, “and that would have brought him only a fraction of what he had in the bank. So in that sense the forty thousand was too much, but…”

  “Somethin’ wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Way you just broke off an’ started starin’.”

  “Too much money,” I said. “Glenn Holtzmann had too much money. It was in his closet when he died. And I dreamed about him, and that’s what the dream was trying to tell me. Too much money.” I looked across at TJ, who still had the last bite of pie on his fork. “I thought the dream was about Will. But it wasn’t. It was about Byron Leopold.”

  13

  It still didn’t have to mean anything. It had been a dream, after all, and not a message from Glenn Holtzmann in the spirit world. (If his shade had indeed contacted me from beyond the beyond, he’d probably have had more on his mind than some guy who got himself shot on a park bench in the Village. “Hey, Scudder,” he might have murmured, “what’s this I hear about you and Lisa?”) The dream was my own self talking to me, and I wasn’t necessarily all that much sharper while I slept.

  Anyway, sometimes it’s just a cigar.

  “If,” TJ said, and stopped himself. “No,” he said, holding up his hands as if to stop himself from running into a wall. “No, I won’t say it.”

  “Good.”

  “But if we did, be no stoppin’ us.”

  If we had a computer. That was the phrase he’d agreed not to say, and not a moment too soon, because those five little words played a key role in every sentence out of his mouth. I seemed to have two cases, the shooting death of Byron Leopold and Will’s string of homicides. (What I didn’t have was a client, unless you wanted to count Adrian Whitfield, who’d paid me some money a while back and encouraged me to extend the umbrella of my investigation to cover both cases.) Whichever one I wanted to fool with next, TJ seemed certain a computer would make all the difference.

  Insurance records? Just boogie on into the insurance company’s data base. Airline records? Do the same for the airlines. The whole world was on-line these days, and a well-schooled hacker could reach out with ease and touch someone, anyone, and pick his brain while he was at it. All you needed was a computer and a modem and a phone line to plug into and the world would whisper all its secrets to you.

  “You also need someone who knows what he’s doing,” I said. “It took the Kongs to crack the NYNEX computer. I’m willing to believe you could learn how to do all that, but not fast enough to do us any good now.”

  “Take a while,” he admitted. “Meantime, the Kongs could talk me through it.”

  “If they happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “They ain’t the only hackers could do it. Be easy to use them, though, an’ they wouldn’t have to come down from Boston to do it. All they’d have to be is near a phone.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Nothin’ to it,” he said. “I’d be on the computer, and be on the phone with them at the same time. You’d need two phone lines is all, one for the modem and one for the phone. Or you could use a cell phone to talk to them if you didn’t want to run a second line in.”

  “In where?”

  ’In wherever you got the computer. Your apartment, most likely. Or the shop.”

  “Elaine’s shop?”

  “So’s she could use it for keepin’ books an’ takin’ inventory. I could do all that for her.”

  “If you took a course or two.”

  “Well, it ain’t rocket science. I could learn.”

  ’There’s not a whole lot of spare room in the shop.”

  He nodded. “Be better off settin’ up in the apartment.”

  “We had to set up in a hotel room with the Kongs,” I remembered. “Had to rent one, so that our little invasion of the phone company computer couldn’t be traced back to us.”

  “So?”

  “Because what the Kongs did,” I went on, “was illegal and traceable. If we pulled anything like that from the apartment, or from Elaine’s shop, we’d have guys with badges knocking on the door.”

  “Hackers has learned some tricks since then.”

  “And what about the cyber cops? Don’t you think they’ve learned anything?”

  He shrugged. “Way it works,” he said. “Build a better mousetrap, somebody else gonna build a better mouse.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “technology only takes you so far, even if you’re the Kongs. They couldn’t get into the system, remember? No matter how many keys they punched, they couldn’t find the combination.”

  “They got in.”

  “They talked their way in. They put technology on hold and called up a human being on the telephone.”

  “Some girl, wasn’t it?”

  “And they sweet-talked her into giving up the password. They used that technique routinely enough to have a special phrase for it.” I groped around in my memory and came up with it. “Social engineering, that’s what they called it.”

  “What you gettin’ at?”

  “I’ll show you,” I said.

  “Omaha,” Phyllis Bingham said. “To think there was a time when I booked you and Elaine to London and Paris. And now it’s Omaha?”

  “How the mighty have fallen,” I said. “But I don’t want to go there. I just want to find out if somebody else did.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Detective work?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And if he went there you have to chase after him?”

  “I think he went and came back.” I handed her a slip of paper. “Probably flew out there on either of these dates, and returned on either of these.”

  “From New York to Omaha, and—”

  “From Philadelphia.”

  “From Philadelphia,” she said. “I was just going to guess who flies nonstop from New York to Omaha, and I know America West used to, and I don’t know if they still do, but it doesn’t matter if he flew from Philadelphia. But who flies Philly to Omaha nonstop?” She flexed her fingers, frowned, tapped away at the keys
. “Nobody,” she announced. “You can get there on USAir via Pittsburgh or you can fly Midwest Express through Milwaukee. Or United if you don’t mind changing at O’Hare. Or any airline, just about, but those are the logical ones. I don’t suppose you know which airline he used?”

  “No.”

  “And his name?”

  “Arnold Wishniak.”

  “Well, if we find him,” she said, “we’ll know it’s him, won’t we? Because how many Arnold Wishniaks could be going from Philadelphia to Omaha?”

  “I’d say one at the most. I don’t think he would have used his real name.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “But he may have kept the initials.”

  “Well, let’s see.” She tapped away at the keys, periodically rolling her eyes while she waited for the machine to respond. “Every computer’s faster than the last one,” she said, “and they’re never fast enough. You get so you want it instantaneous. More than that, you want it to give you data before you can even think to ask for it.”

  “Same with people.”

  “Huh? Oh, right.” She giggled. “At least computers keep improving. Do you see what I’m doing? I’m starting with USAir, and I’m asking if there’s a Wishniak on Flight 1103 on the fifth, and there’s not, and now I’ll ask about Flight 179 the same day…No. Okay, the other date’s the sixth, right? So we’ll try 1103…Nothing, and now we’ll try 179. Is that the right number, 179? It is, so we’ll try it. Nope.”

  “I don’t think he would have used his real name.”

  “I know, but I wanted to rule it out because with the name I could access the records. With just the initials I can’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let me try Midwest Express,” she said. She did, and United as well, and wound up shaking her head.

  “There’s another name you could try,” I said. “He had a brother who anglicized the family name, and Arnold’s borrowed the name in the past.”

  I told her the name and she repeated it and frowned. “Spell it?” I spelled it and she hit keys. “It’s a familiar name to me,” she mused. “Where did I hear it recently?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Of course there’s the ballplayer, Dave Winfield.”

  She shook her head. “Since the strike,” she said, “I don’t pay any attention. Flight 1103, on the fifth. No luck there. Flight 179, also on the fifth…”

  Nothing on any of the flights in question.

  “There’s still a good chance he used the initials,” I said. “But you can’t access it that way. Suppose you just pull up the passenger manifests for each of those flights. Can you do that?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Who can?”

  “Some computer genius, probably. Or somebody at the airline who’s got the access codes.” She frowned. “This is important, huh?”

  “Kind of.”

  She picked up a phone, flipped through a Rolodex, dialed a number. She said, “Hi, this is Phyllis at JMC. Who’s this? Judy? Judy, I’ve got this very good customer of mine who happens to be a detective. He’s on this case that involves a noncustodial parent…Right, you hear about stuff like this all the time. I know, it’s amazing. They don’t pay child support and then they come and kidnap the kids.”

  She explained what I needed to know. “He wasn’t on any of those flights under his own name,” she said, “but the detective thinks he may have kept the initials. No, I understand it’s confidential, Judy. You would have to have a court order. Right.” She made a face, then forced a smile. “Look, could you do this much? Without telling me the name, could you see if there’s a male passenger on one of those flights with the initials AW? Yes, Philadelphia to Omaha.”

  She covered the mouthpiece. “She’s not supposed to do this,” she said, “but she’ll bend a little. My guess, she’s divorced and not on the best of terms with her ex.” She uncovered the mouthpiece. “Hi, Judy. Rats. None at all, huh?”

  “He probably paid cash,” I said.

  She was quick. “Judy,” she said, “he probably made up a name, so he probably paid cash. If you could…uh-huh. Uh-huh. Right, I understand.”

  She covered the mouthpiece again. “She can’t do it.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t. It’s against the rules, she’d get in trouble, blah blah blah.”

  TJ said, “Could you do it? If you had the access codes?”

  “But I don’t.”

  “But she does.”

  She considered, shrugged, and uncovered the mouthpiece. “Judy,” she said, “last thing I want is for you to get in trouble. For curiosity, though, tell me something. Is that information there to be pulled up? Like whether a ticket was purchased cash or charge? I mean, suppose a customer comes in and pays me cash, and…Uh-huh. I see. So anybody could access it. I mean, I could get it myself if I had the access codes, is that right?” She grabbed up a pen, jotted down a phrase. “Judy,” she said, “you’re a doll. Thanks.” She broke the connection, grinned fiercely, and held up a clenched fist in triumph. “Yes!”

  We still had a ways to go. What she managed to produce, after a lot of head-scratching and keytapping, was a printout of passenger manifests for flights on the three airlines in question from Philadelphia to Omaha and as many return flights two days later. An asterisk next to a name indicated a non-credit card sale.

  “Cash or check,” she explained. “There’s no distinction in the data bank. Also, these are just the cash and check sales made by the airline. Sales through travel agents are just listed that way, with no indication as to how payment was made. That’s not what she told me, but if there’s a way to separate it out, I can’t figure it out.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “It is? Because do you see the names coded with a C? These are all customers who bought their ticket through another airline, probably because their trip originated with another flight segment on the issuing carrier. For all I know they paid for their ticket with Green Stamps.”

  “I think the manifests are all I need.”

  “You do?”

  “If the same name turns up going and coming back, that’s more significant than how he paid for the ticket.”

  “I didn’t even think of that. Let’s check.”

  I gathered up the sheets of paper. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I said. “The hard part’s done. And, speaking of your time, I want to pay for it.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You don’t have to do that.”

  I tucked the money into her hand. “The client can afford it,” I said.

  “Well…” She closed her fingers around the bills. “Actually, that was fun. Not as much fun as booking you and your wife on a South Seas cruise, though. Be sure and call me when you’re ready to go someplace wonderful.”

  “I will.”

  “Or even Omaha,” she said.

  “‘The client can afford it,’” TJ said. “Thought we didn’t have a client.”

  “We don’t.”

  “‘Social engineering.’ What you did is you used a computer. Only thing, it was somebody else’s computer. And somebody else’s fingers on the keys.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

  “Let’s see the lists,” he said. “See how many repeats we got.”

  “Mr. A. Johnson,” I said. “Flew Midwest Express from Philadelphia to Omaha on the fifth, changing planes in Milwaukee. He flew back to Philadelphia on the morning of the seventh. Paid by cash or check. My guess is cash.”

  “You think it’s him.”

  “I do.”

  “Whole lot of folks named Johnson. Right up there with Smith and Jones.”

  “That’s true.”

  “‘Cordin’ to Phyllis, you got to show ID to get on a plane.”

  “They’ve tightened up all their security measures.”

  “Case you a terrorist,” he said, “they want to make sure it’s really you. They probably do the same when you buy the ticket, if
you payin’ cash. Ask for ID.”

  I nodded. “Same with a check, but then they always want proof of identity for a check. Of course, it’s not that hard to get ID.”

  “Store right on the Deuce, print up all kinds of shit. Student ID, Sheriff cards. Wouldn’t make much of an impression on a cop, but you gonna look too hard at it if you’re behind the counter at the airlines?”