Incentive for Death, page 24
“Absolutely perfect,” I said as I gave her a hug. “All I’ve had to eat today were two or three donuts.” She just shook her head slowly, almost like my mother did when I disappointed her as a child.
She set the assorted boxes of Chinese food on the breakfast table, along with two sets of chopsticks. I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of soy sauce. Before closing the door, I asked her what she wanted to drink. “Any cold white wine,” was the reply.
There was a chilled bottle of chardonnay in the door. I pulled the cork and put the bottle on the table.
We used the chopsticks to scoop food from the four boxes onto our plates. We had an unwritten rule, established long ago, that no Western utensils could be used in eating Chinese food. As usual, I gave my steamed white rice a heavy dose of soy sauce. I poured the wine, and we dug in.
We said almost nothing for the next five minutes as we devoured the food, except a few satisfied “um-hmms.” Mags has always been more proficient with chopsticks than I am and cleared her plate first. She poured more wine and leaned back in her chair.
Mags asked, “Did you have a productive day?”
“Actually, yes,” I said, “we did. Oliver got a tip on the two doers. We were able to get their names from the Virginia DMV.”
“Well, that’s progress.”
“Kind of. We have their names and addresses, but still don’t know how to connect them. We managed to get their bank account numbers, as well as that of our prime suspect.”
Mags looked somewhat surprised. She asked, “How did you do that?”
“Confidential informant. In fact, I don’t even know his or her name. Our financial investigator had a source. But even they couldn’t get the employer of any of them. All three were listed as employed by the United States of America, which was not very helpful.”
“What good does the bank account information do you?”
“If we could get into all three bank accounts, we might be able to find a thread to connect them to each other. Our hope is to find withdrawals and deposits that correlate to the dates of death over the past six months.”
She asked, “Can’t you subpoena the bank records?”
“We don’t have enough probable cause to get a sustainable search warrant yet. Basically, we have to connect these three together, but we don’t have enough information to do that yet. We’re hoping the bank statements will help.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
“Yeah, we’ll find a way. Don’t know what it is yet, but we’ll find something.”
Mags moved to the living room and turned on the television. I cleaned up the kitchen. All four boxes of Chinese had some food left in them, so they all went in the fridge. The glasses and plates went in the dishwasher. Cleanup accomplished.
While Mags was surfing for something to watch, I had leaned back and fallen asleep. I was beat. Next thing I knew it was about three a.m., and I was sprawled across the sofa. The television was off, and only one small lamp remained lit in the living room.
I got up and went to bed. Mags was asleep on her side. I shed my clothes and climbed in bed wearing only my boxer shorts and almost instantly was back asleep.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
YESTERDAY OLIVER AND I had discussed two things on the way home. First, we agreed to not start early on Sunday. The plan was for me to pick him up about nine thirty.
Second, we decided to press Frisco again to help us get into the bank accounts for Benedict, Bardak, and Morehead. Oliver had called him from the Jeep, and they agreed to meet at ten in the morning.
Mags woke me up on Sunday morning in the great way that some couples start the day. Afterwards, we showered together and made love a second time. We were still in bathrobes when we went downstairs and made coffee. I suggested making waffles and bacon. She agreed.
I dug out my square cast iron skillet and started the bacon. I then plugged in my aged waffle maker that produced the same kind of waffles as you get at Waffle House. The thin kind, not the thick Belgian waffles. I flipped the bacon and stopped for a coffee break.
I filled my cup and joined Mags at the breakfast table. Violating our no questions before coffee rule, I asked her, “What do you have on tap for today?”
“I have to go in to work for a while. Probably be done by noon. What about you?”
“Oliver and I have to finish going through the remainder of the people who died in the last six months. We have nine left to do.”
I got up and checked the waffle iron. The light had gone out. It was ready to do its job. I grabbed the box of Bisquick and mixed the batter, poured it into the waffle iron, and closed the lid. I pulled the bacon and put it on a paper towel–covered plate to drain.
The waffle was now done. Using a fork, I pulled it from the waffle iron and put it on a plate and then refilled the waffle iron with the rest of the batter. Mags took half the waffle, put butter and strawberry preserves on it, and added two rashers of bacon to her plate and dug in. I did the same but used natural Vermont maple syrup instead of preserves. Overall, a successful Sunday breakfast.
“When we’re finished,” I said, “I’m going to put on some Sunday work clothes and pick up Oliver.”
Maggie was the first one ready to roll. When she got down to the garage, she lowered the top on her Speedster as the temperature was already in the seventies.
She headed west down the alley, drove a couple blocks, and then pulled to the curb. She called her mentor. It rang twice, and he answered, “Harrison Jones here. I see it is you calling again, Maggie. Do we need to meet again?”
“Yes, sir. We do. Further developments to discuss.”
“Come on over. I’ve already got the coffee going,” he said and hung up.
She pulled out and headed to his house in the Woodley Park area. She parked in the same place on the side of his driveway. Jones opened the front door as she walked up the front steps. “Come on in.” He again escorted her to the kitchen and told her to fix her cup.
She joined him at the kitchen table and sat down with a sigh. He raised his eyebrows.
“Per our discussion, the MPD detectives got a short text from a burner phone. It was two sentences long and simply gave them the two names and told them to check with the Virginia DMV.”
Jones asked, “That didn’t go to your ex-husband, did it?”
“No. It went to his partner, Oliver Shaw. They apparently had a contact at the Virginia DMV and got copies of their driver’s licenses in no time, which gave them addresses and birth dates, as well. They searched online, including social media and other sources, and came up with no current information on either of them. McDermott and his partner were looking for the identity of their employers but found nothing.”
“So, what did they do next that led to our meeting this morning?”
“They apparently have another source who got them bank account information on both Benedict and Bardak, as well as Morehead. That source could only identify the employer as the United States of America, based on their W-2s. Which leads me to believe that their source is at the IRS.”
“I assume that leads us to what you want to discuss.”
“Yes, sir. As you know, the Agency trained me to penetrate banking systems on targets. I am fairly positive that I could get them the six months of bank statements that they need.”
Jones pursed his lips for a second. “What would that give them to help their case?”
“They’re looking for withdrawals of funds by Morehead and deposits by Benedict and Bardak that correlate to the dates of the murders. They think it finally gives them a way to connect Benedict and Bardak to Morehead.”
“But that doesn’t sound like a very strong link,” Jones said. “And, certainly, does not tie them together through their connection at Special Operations.”
“Agreed,” Maggie said. “I don’t think we can give them a direct answer on the common employer between the three of them. They’ll have to extract that from Benedict or Bardak, once they have enough to put pressure on them.”
Jones thought for a few moments. “Can’t they just subpoena the bank records?”
“They don’t have enough at this point to subpoena bank records on Benedict and Bardak. And certainly nothing to connect them to Morehead, who is the one person with a motive for pursuing these homicides. If I give them the bank statements, they can later rely on a confidential informant to support a subpoena. Kind of like closing the barn door after the horse is out.”
Jones again paused, even closing his eyes while he thought. Maggie remained silent. Jones took a deep breath and said, “I’m not sure I like it.”
Maggie prepared herself to be disappointed.
“But,” he continued, “I sure as hell don’t condone what I think these Agency people are doing. It is literally murder to make money. If you give them the bank statements, I think the MPD has to take it from there. We cannot get in the business of turning on our own, regardless of how despicable these people are. You good with that?”
“Yes, sir. I took a photo of the list of bank accounts last night when Mac was asleep. It shouldn’t take long, although I will need to use the Agency’s software to grab this information.”
“Can you use someone else’s login to avoid a direct digital trail back to you?”
Maggie nodded.
Jones rose, indicating that the meeting was over, and escorted Maggie to the front door. “Be careful. You’re dancing on a tight-rope without a net.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly how this feels. Thanks for the advice.” She squeezed his shoulder as she left and headed to her office at Langley.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
WHEN I PULLED UP in front of Oliver’s house, he came out the front door dressed in khakis and a blue golf shirt covered by a casual tan jacket. Once he strapped in, we headed over to Frisco’s building.
We pressed the buzzer on the door of Frisco’s two-story building. He could see us through his camera, but didn’t say anything this time and just pressed the buzzer that released the door lock. We went in and climbed the stairs.
He was waiting for us at his interior door. We did our usual greeting. I said to Frisco, “We really appreciate you seeing us so many times on short notice. This has been an unusual case for us. People we cannot identify and then a growing number of suspected murders. You have been a big help.”
Frisco smiled. “What can the world of digital science do to assist with your case today?”
“We’ve got three bank account numbers,” Oliver said, “and need to get the last six months of statements.”
Frisco smiled. “Is that all? I thought you might have something kind of difficult for me. Come on.”
We all marched over to his main computer. Oliver gave him the list of names and bank accounts, and Frisco started typing on his keyboard while humming what sounded like a Beethoven overture.
“Can you work your magic and hum classical music at the same time?” Oliver asked.
“You guys need to come up with tougher requests,” Frisco said.
Marian Benedict’s account was at PNC Bank. Frisco accessed their system and quickly had her account information on his screen. She had a current balance of $42,312. He printed out the last six monthly statements. Then he asked, “You also want the debits and credits since the last monthly statement?”
“Yes,” Oliver said. “We’ve had three homicides just this week.” Frisco printed out another sheet on Benedict’s account.
“Okay,” Frisco said, “next up is Mr. Bardak whose account is at Bank of America.” He typed a little longer than he had with Benedict’s bank. Frisco said, “Bardak was more careful with his password, but it still wasn’t all that difficult to break.” He again printed six months of statements and a summary of the current month’s activity.
After retrieving the Bardak printouts for us, he picked up our list and started typing in Vincent Morehead’s information. His account was at BB&T Bank. He again took more time typing.
“Hah,” Frisco said, “this guy is even better than the last one. His password is twenty figures with caps and lower case, numbers intermixed with symbols. A very secure password by most standards, but not against my software.” And up popped his account. Morehead’s current balance was $16,589.
“That’s kind of disappointing and surprising at the same time,” I said.
“Be patient, grasshopper,” Frisco said. “Let me print off the six months of statements and the current activity.”
He then said, “There are a number of coded transfers to other accounts at three different banks. Let’s see where those accounts are.” He did some more typing. “Well, well,” he said. “One account in Grand Cayman, one in the Bahamas, and one on the Isle of Wight.”
“Huh,” I said. “A tad unusual for your average GS-15.”
“Yep,” Frisco agreed. “Let me get into those accounts as well. I’ll start with the bank in Grand Cayman.” After some more typing, he said, “This bank’s security is better than the American banks. But I’m making progress. At one time or another, I’ve been inside all three of these banks.”
He kept working away on his keyboard. Finally, he said to the computer screen, “There you are.” At which point, his screen lit up with a statement of Morehead’s account, although his name did not appear anywhere.
Oliver asked, “How do we know it is Morehead’s account? His name’s not on it.”
“Standard for a numbered account,” Frisco said. “Five will get you ten that it is his numbered account. This one shows a balance of $346,709. It acts like a savings account. There are primarily only deposits going in. Very few withdrawals. They don’t send out monthly statements like American banks. You check your balance only online. I’ll print you the last six months of activity up to today.” Which he did, and gave us the printouts.
He did the same thing with the Bahamas and Isle of Wight banks. Both were also numbered accounts. The Bahamas account had a current balance of $476,888. The Isle of Wight account had a balance of $809,589. Altogether, he had over $1.5 million in the offshore accounts.
“How can we show those accounts belong to Vincent Morehead?” Oliver asked.
“It’s logic,” Frisco said. “Money goes from his BB&T account. Any money coming out of the offshore accounts largely goes back to the same BB&T account, which is not a very sophisticated system. But he also occasionally transfers money between the three offshore accounts. To answer your question, Oliver, is the money originates with Morehead and never goes anywhere other than back to him.”
“Huh,” Oliver said. “You’re right. It’s really not very sophisticated.”
We thanked Frisco profusely again and left.
Unknown to Oliver and Mac, Frisco fancied himself as the Robin Hood of hackers. He had been orphaned at age six when his parents drowned in the Potomac River following a multi-car collision on the 14th Street Bridge, now known as the George Mason Memorial Bridge.
When he was placed in the hands of Children and Family Services, Frisco was totally nonverbal and thought to be autistic. He could not even tell the lady from the Agency his actual name—his parents had always just called him “Son.” The CFS agent gave him a sheet of paper and a pencil and asked him to write his name. He just shrugged, as he truly didn’t know.
When the agent went to bring in the proposed foster parents, Frisco stared at a poster on the wall of the Golden Gate Bridge with San Francisco in block letters below the picture. Wanting to give the lady something, he slowly copied the letters FRISCO on the paper. When the agent returned with the prospective foster parents, she asked him if that was his name. He smiled and nodded, happy that he had been able to help the agent.
He was placed with a childless couple who had volunteered as foster parents. Due to his lack of speech, they decided to home-school him. His foster mother was an elementary school teacher. His foster father was a computer programming consultant who worked from home.
The foster parents quickly determined that he could do math at a second- or third-grade level and could read at the same level, even though he appeared to be only five or six years old because he was small. Once his foster father showed him how to do arithmetic problems on the computer, it was apparent that Frisco had a natural ability to understand how computers worked.
With the help of a speech pathologist, the foster parents eventually helped him learn to speak. Not well enough to attend regular school classes, but sufficient to communicate. They also learned that Frisco was not autistic, but rather was something of a mathematical savant.
Within three years, Frisco was not only using a computer as well as most adults, but his foster father had also taught him how to write software to address specific topics and assignments. Frisco’s foster parents had given him his first computer when he was eight. Unknown to his foster father, by age nine Frisco was visiting websites on hacking.
By age twelve, Frisco was a very competent hacker and started piercing different systems just for the challenge. With his love of the story of Robin Hood, Frisco decided to use his hacking skills to help others. Things like changing grades at schools or helping aspiring high school seniors to get into quality universities or get them financial aid.
He even set up a bank account online. When he moved money out of bank accounts or businesses, Frisco put 20 percent into his bank account and moved the rest to benefit others. He got great pleasure from helping people. He became a significant supporter of Gallaudet University, which had been founded in 1864 to help deaf, blind, and mute students, although the school had no idea that its benefactor was a teenage hacker. He closely monitored the university’s applications and requests for financial aid. He steered funds to those he found most deserving.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
NOT TWENTY MINUTES later, Maggie Hampton sat at an unassigned desk on the third floor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s New Headquarters Building. There was almost no one there at this time on a Sunday morning.
