Phantoms, Insults, Morals, and Technology

***

The chaos that was being called CHOP was thirty minutes north of the Whistleblower's home. I reluctantly left the FJ in a parking garage four blocks south of the 'Autonomous Zone.' People on the street seemed unaware of what had been happening just a few blocks away. Or maybe they were just in denial. The cordon at the edge of CHOP was different, buzzing with energy. Somehow I did not flag any of the toughs manning the 'checkpoint' when I went through. But it was hours from dark, and I had not shaved for enough days I realized I probably looked like I belonged.

I wandered the perimeter, staying well clear of the roving 'patrols' with their still shiny AR's and the clustered groups pretending CHOP was SimCity in the central park. Fortunately, I found what I was looking for within the first five minutes, so the rest of the hour was just a waste in case I was being watched. I paid my twenty dollar 'tribute' to exit CHOP, then walked around the modern day RenFest on the first civilized block. I had the next burner in my pocket but there was zero chance the Feds were not running all cell activity through their StingRays. So I went into the East Bay Book Company and asked to use a phone. Told the disbelieving agent where I was, asked him to meet me.

He showed, which was a bit of a surprise.

"Mr. Cain?" I shook his hand, nodding.

"Mr. Patric, no k." He smiled in that 'heard it before but be nice' manner of a polished salesman.

"I was skeptical you were for real." He led me through the service entrance opposite the side of the Autonomous Zone, and up the service elevator to the third floor. A big, empty, industrial space with a small kitchenette, probably a break room in whatever had lived there before. A wall of floor to ceiling windows looked down on the chaotic festival. He swept his arms, "As you can see, it is still months away from being available, even if," he sniffed, glancing at the windows without being close enough to really see anything, "That was not going on."

"I imagine it's an expensive delay." I looked around, "But it would serve my purposes perfectly just like this." Bruce Patric pursed his lips. Not a 'no.'

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well," I shrugged, "Because of that," I stepped to the window, looking down at the 'People's Square.' I motioned at the frame of the window. "See, this is exactly what I need for what I'm working on."

"So you're a reporter." It sounded like others had pitched this.

"No, I'm not a stringer," I snorted, "We both know this is not going to last much longer. A week? Two tops. Anyone with footage of this and how it ends? The book rights will pay for my kids college."

"What's in it for me?"

"I pay you a handsome rental for just the rest of the time CHOP is allowed to exist."

"And have them see the camera lights and come up and wreck what we have done? No way, like you said, this will not last." I shrugged.

"I'll pay a hazard premium. We do not have to sign any papers. And my cameras do not have lights. I will not advertise that I am here, having a group of lunatics find me would not be pleasant for me, either."

"Thirty thousand." I snorted.

"For a week, like this? Ten."

"Twenty four."

"I don't think I'm going to win a Pulitzer with this. Thirteen. And I can park in the service garage." He pursed his lips.

"How do I know you won't cause problems?"

"Problems?"

"They haven't bothered with this space," which was something of a surprise, "It's unfinished, unoccupied, and I don't want them to suddenly think of it as another place they can... claim." I shrugged.

"I won't be inviting anyone up for drinks, if that's what you mean."

"But all they have to see is you moving around up here... or your camera's lights."

"I have low light units, so no flash. And I have the pesky little red lights disabled. I won't even be near them after dark. I won't backlight the cameras, and I won't use light after dark."

"And how will you be paying for that?" His eyes bugged when I pulled the money belt out—- half a strap—and carefully pulled one stack and counted another thirty bills out, handing them to him. I handed him another five bills, pretending Bruce was not about to pocket everything.

"Call it a commission." I can pretend, too.

"If anyone asks about this little arrangement?" he was sold, but careful. Smart man.

"Well, I don't plan on being very social," I shrugged, "But if a contractor or an investor comes through? I tell them I'm security protecting the site from the riot." I waved his card, "They can call and you can verify Mr. Cain is supposed to be here. And anyone from down there? I'm just a squatter, let's just say if they do not look like they belong here I can be... antisocial. I won't have weed and wine and women to share." It was thin, but we both knew that it would probably be more than was necessary. He agreed, thinking he had my cell number, after all. And no, I know he was never going to admit knowing who I was if someone asked him. But I had a place to set up, where no one would guess and with lots of distractions.

I spent an hour looking at what I had rented. The floor was going to be three or four luxury lofts. One story above the bar and the enclosed parking structure. Returning to the FJ I pulled in, backed in to a shadowed corner spot, then moved some empty boxes in front and using a powered skid, moved some pallets of the building materials awaiting use into the next stall until it was hidden from view. I grabbed a couple of cases out of the back and carried them to the loft before returning with a Rubbermaid cart that I found to grab the rest of what I might need. I set out a couple discrete cameras and set a silent perimeter alarm across the only opening, just in case, then locked the big truck and went back upstairs. And I set up more security along the way. Old habits and all that. The cases and bags found a carefully concealed place far from the entrance, and then I wandered up to the roof.

What had been police station was across the street, too far to throw a line across without attracting attention. But the location was still perfect. It just meant another field trip. Throwing a brick sized transmitter and several lengths of CAT V cable into a sling bag, I went out the first floor entrance just beside the man trap for the bar. The steel door had a security panel that I did not have code for, but I was counting on that helping to keep would be looters at bay. And it meant I could enter CHOP or BOB, or whatever they were calling it, without going through their little toll booths.

I played the tourist, wandering timidly into the shelled out station. The computer terminals on the main floor had been stolen or trashed. It was mostly the same on the second floor, as well. Graffiti ran up the stairs. I feigned interest while quietly climbing to the third floor. It was more of the same, the mob had been thorough in ruining or poaching anything of value and in 'redecorating.' Even so, I found what I was looking for—a recessed port for network 'slave' computers or monitors to connect to the department backbone that had not been ruined when its attached terminal was yanked out. The floor to ceiling window would not impede the signal, that I verified plugging in. When I synced with my phone, I was a little surprised to see there were still 3 active systems inside. I doubted all were just orphan terminals that had somehow been missed. It meant I was not the only one jacked into the department. I made a mental note about it, while getting it close to the window without making myself a silhouette to anyone outside. Luckily there was an overturned plain metal desk and a fake plant that had been yanked out of its pot and then dumped back onto the now broken ceramic pot. With no time to better camouflage it, I took a moment to... dissuade anyone from spending any time by the overturned desk. Urine and shit are always effective means of encouraging looters to look elsewhere.

Back outside, I submitted to the search of my empty sling bag and paid the $20 toll to exit the madhouse. I ran a thorough evasion course, which took most of an hour to wind up across the street and back in the construction space. I could hear a voice warning I should sleep, but I also did not want to dream again.

I stayed busy, anyway. The security on the SPD net is top tier, but when you work in the field, there are always backdoors and sided doors for that matter. I really was not interested in what Seattle PD had in their network, anyway. By habit I created my own access anyway, should need arise in the future. What I needed was access to the inter department communications. I entered an address by memory and sent a brief note. I had expected an answer would take a few hours. It didn't.

'Abel?' she typed back, almost in real time. 'They said you were dead.'

'Call me Snake Plissken,' I sent back.

'Can you prove it's you?'

'Beyond my contacting you at work this way?'

'The ME said it was you- no doubt.'

'Dental records can be altered.'

'Well, I guess that's pretty good proof.'

'Same skeptical IA detective.'

'Same sarcastic burn out PI.'

'Anything about who did it?'

'Not your Shadows,' she sent, and I knew without the capitalization she meant the Syndicate, 'They are shitting themselves that your fail safes will kick in.' I paused, switching to an entirely separate encrypted laptop with separate VPN protection to reset the timers on those fail safes, before accessing the email that was my only connection to the Syndicate and rather cryptically alerting their own network guru their secrets were safe. It meant a circle of people wondering about who had died, but I did not have the defenses in place to worry about them searching for me. It took a couple minutes, and by the time I switched back there were four separate 'Abel?' pings.

'Sorry, had to deal with a little something. Have bigger fish to spear now.'

'Are you both OK?' I hesitated, not because I did not trust her, but having to acknowledge reality hurt.

'No... and the white whale that wrecked this ship is going to get harpooned.' I bit back grief and rage. I ignored the 'I'm so sorry,' answer. 'I'll talk to you once I know what's going on.'

'Bullshit. You'll talk to me when it's over and need help with the clean up.'

'Trust me, there will be nothing to clean up. Scorched earth. End times.'

'So you know who did it?'

'Sort of. Be safe!' I ignored the demand I talk to her. Logged off the terminal emulator and set about planning for what I needed to do.

***

It was not the same guard when I drove past after dark. I was in a rental sedan, so it would not have mattered. A tired guard might have been a better risk. There were still cars parked along the park, but there were also posted signs that the park closed at 9PM, so I chose not to risk getting the rental impounded.

It meant a longer walk—no retail shopping too near the rich, you know. A feminine voice I wished was still alive chided 'We are rich, Abel.' And there were no armed guards or dogs, because it was not the ultra-rich, either. Hurling a padded grapple over the balcony rail and climbing to the second story to get in was maybe overkill but I was guessing there was at least a perimeter security system.

I coiled the rope and stowed it and the climbers, knowing it would be hard to explain if I was caught, but leaving them hanging from the balcony could get me caught, and leaving them would mean not having them if I needed them.

Before entering each hall I used a handy little gadget that screens for electrical activity and for the glare off of any lens. Upstairs and stairway were clear. Well, except for the landing where there was a motion sensor over the front door. But there was no power to it. Even so, I tried to stay out of the field slipping around the balustrade before continuing below the main floor into the walk out basement.

There was another dead motion sensor facing the oversize sliding glass doors that opened onto the porch where I had started out.

The space was dominated by an indoor pool, and I remembered the photo. There was an open kitchen with a long island to the left, and an oversize fie place on the opposite side, over which hung a massive TV. There was a single plush chair overturned mid distance between the island and the pool. And the cabinets to either side of the cook top were blackened, with damage extending left toward the wall where I was taking it in beneath the dead sensor to the level of the sink above which another impressive TV was hung, and which even from a distance had obviously been ruined. The cabinets to the other side showed the extent of the fire damage had been significant, and after a moment I realized that the strange panel at the far end, partially open, but with the hinge side toward me, was in fact the fuse box. And I doubted any battery backup was still functioning.

Alert for any sign I had screwed up, I stepped over, checking the chair first. No blood, no cuts, no burns. It was forward, toward the pool, of a matching chair closer to the stairs. There were the remains of a broken wine glass on the tile between the chairs that I had not seen from farther away, and a wine mark where a bottle had been on the round table between the chairs.

The cabinets would have to be replaced, but the hardware seemed intact, and there was no obvious cause of the fire, which I guess had been collected by the Fire Marshal or his team when they responded. My curiosity as to why the fire seemed so limited was answered when I got closer to the hood over the 6-burner Wolf unit. There was a gas suppression system.

I stopped, looking back at the chair... so why would he throw himself into the pool? And how had he not gotten back out?

I had moved to the far side of the island to look at the pattern of the damage and paused at the near wall where a double stack Wolf oven was installed, hidden from my initial view.

On a whim I opened the top oven door. Glossy black walls and unstained oven racks glinted in the light through the sliding glass doors. He had not been lying about not cooking.

I dropped like a sack of rocks as the dazzling cone of a focused Mag Light beam swept the room through the sliders, first illuminating the chairs across the pool beneath the big television. The island afforded me cover. I saw my reflection in the glass front of the lower oven, which was washed out as the light beam played across the edge of the oven, and of something inside.

I realized I had been holding my breath and had nearly convinced myself it was just the officer walking around the house as part of his duty, when the whisper of the sliding door opening came to me. I rolled along the side of the island, putting myself between the cabinets and their lower tier brethren along the long glass topped fixture.

"Does he want us to go through things here?" a male voice, no accent I could discern, higher than mine, and younger.

"Naw, we were through all these drawers that night," older voice, stained by tobacco as well as age. "He just wants us to go through the den and the master bedroom more carefully. The automated alarm kind of cut our search short when we were through with him.

"Didn't do much for erasing evidence, either."

"It didn't have to, Leonard was already ahead of it; make it look like a drunk drowning in panic if we can't burn the whole thing down."

"And leave more for us to go through to find just what he had."

"Exactly. Now watch that light, don't want the boss having to explain to the cop what we're doing here." I did not hear the response, if there was one, because they had turned onto the stairs for the main floor.

I went the length of the island to be nearer the sliding glass door if I was wrong before looking out. The room was empty. They had left the door open. I retraced my steps—no point of not keeping cover if it's available—and keeping my attention split between the stairs and the slider, I grabbed the handle to the lower oven door and pulled.

In the quiet of the basement I heard two things... an ominous hiss and a faint 'ping'. The sort of ping that leaves you five seconds before things go 'boom.'

I spent a second slamming the oven door fully open and thrusting my arms into the center of the open oven. I could already smell the tag added to natural gas in the air around me. I caught hold of two rectangular packages, reminded me of NYC telephone books when I was growing up. Yanked them out even as I spun for the open tile between the island and the beckoning sliding glass doors. Four steps away from the island, three seconds in my head, I realized I could hear feet on the stairs.

"Get the light on. Get your gun out. What the fuck..." I looked over my shoulder as I passed the threshold. The older man was staring at the open oven door, his younger partner, mercifully farther away from me, was focused on me. "Was that open when..."

"Look!" I gritted my teeth, sure a bullet was on the way. Then there was a clap of thunder and a flash a moment before I was picked up and hurled across the rest of the yard, sliding to a stop on my back inches from the back wrought iron gate.

I wanted to lie there, rest for maybe an hour, make sure I was not on fire as the entire basement seemed to be when I looked back. I realized I was still holding whatever had been worth protecting with an impressive booby trap. I paused long enough to stuff a small netbook in an armored case and a bag of smaller somethings into my backpack. Caught hold of the top rail of the decorative fence and managed not to impale myself on the pointed tips, even if it was a less than graceful maneuver. Lights were coming on, people in the homes behind the one I had just left were coming onto their porches and balconies to see what had happened. I stayed to the shadows, glad for a wooden privacy fence to my left, and slower or sleepier or absent homeowners in the yard immediately behind the burning mansion.

Stripped off the gloves, turned the hat inside out, so the light blue liner was facing out. Shrugged out of the jacket, leaving the bottom zipped, and tying the arms at the front leaving me in a matching blue North Face base layer, all while jogging away from the homes where I had just exited, hoping people would not note the drop pouch on one leg I made frequent checks of my watch, feigned checking my pulse, and kept looking toward the rising smoke and flames, just another marginally interested bystander.

Then I was back at the car. The safe thing was to escape, see what I had, where it would point. But there was no guarantee I would quickly get anything. And at that moment I had a name, I was sure, to go with the memory of that morning. And his two most reliable flunkies were crispy critters. The only question was whether Leonard was there on site, shooting the shit with the guard, or if any 'explanation' that became necessary would happen back at the precinct. My gut was saying the former, this was not an operation Leo would want to be discussing anywhere near the police station. Which mean he was on site.

My hand strayed to the Glock 41 under my arm, a convenient 'tear' in the North Face right chest pocket allowing easy access to the concealed pistol. Instead, I yanked the flashlight in the pocket, a Streamlight Defender with a full charge, and swapped it to my left hand where I was gripping the top of the steering wheel. I caught the wheel with my right hand and lowered the window with my left, then replaced hand and light, checking briefly where the light shown when I thumbed it on at the endcap, the beam directed out the open window. Lastly I set the phone to camera, and selected video. Then I retraced my path in the car, so that I would pass the burning house with my driver's side closest.