The Complete Mr. Finn Vigilante Justice Series: Mr. Finn

By Trace Conger

The Complete Mr. Finn Vigilante Justice Series

This collection contains the complete Mr. Finn Series (three eBooks) by Shamus Award-winning author Trace Conger. 

 

Introducing the Mr. Finn Series – a heart-pounding trilogy of vigilante justice that plunges you into a world where shadows conceal dark secrets, and morality dances on a razor's edge. 

 

Meet Mr. Finn, a PI with a knack for tracking down those who don't want to be found. In this captivating three-book collection, he confronts the darkest corners of the underworld, where everyone is a criminal, but some are far worse than others. 

 

This eBook collection includes:

 

1. The Shadow Broker

Embark on Finn's inaugural case as he's thrust into the treacherous world of a black market information broker. As he races against time, psychopathic killers, FBI cybercrime agents, and a Detroit mob boss converge in a high-stakes showdown that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

 

2. Scar Tissue

Finn's journey takes a dangerous turn when he uncovers a fentanyl smuggling operation involving an old acquaintance, Dr. Daryl Jennings. To secure the doctor's freedom, Finn strikes a deal with an Indianapolis criminal organization, leading him on a quest for an elusive criminal banker. 

 

3. The Prison Guard's Son

Delve into a chilling tale of justice deferred as Mr. Finn is hired to unearth two ex-killers hidden within the government's witness protection program. Thirty years after a heinous crime shook a small West Virginia town, the victim's father seeks retribution. 

 

Praise for Trace Conger

 

"Dark, twisted, and remarkably clever. Trace Conger is establishing himself as one of the most original voices in crime fiction." - Gregory Petersen, author of Open Mike

 

"Mirage Man is a propulsive novel that churns with energy and tension." - Vick Mickunas, NPR's Book Nook

 

"Conger's writing is direct. It moves clearly and quickly, perfect for thrillers... With Finn, Conger has created a distinctive and most likely enduring main character..." - Ronald Tierney, author of the Deets Shanahan Mysteries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Mill Books
• Release date: Dec 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957336176

Book preview

The Mr. Finn Collection (Books 1-3)

ACCLAIM FOR THE WORK OF TRACE CONGER

Trace Conger is establishing himself as one of the most original voices in crime fiction. - Gregory Petersen, author of Open Mike and The Dream Thief

Mirage Man is a propulsive novel that churns with energy and tension. - Vick Mickunas, NPR's Book Nook

Conger’s writing is direct. It moves clearly and quickly, perfect for thrillers. - Ronald Tierney, author of the Deets Shanahan Mysteries

The Mr. Finn series breathes new life into the P.I. genre… It is one of the best detective series I’ve ever read. - Gumshoes, Gats and Gams 

"The Prison Guard’s Son is a superbly crafted crime novel. The characters are richly drawn with a rare combination of nuance and depth... This is one of the year’s best books." - Mysterious Reviews

"The Shadow Broker tips a handsome hat in the direction of old-fashioned pulp fiction and it does so with considerable style. The writing is fluid and the plot pumps along." - Murder, Mayhem & More

CONTENTS

THE SHADOW BROKER

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Scar Tissue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

The Prison Guards Son

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Also by Trace Conger

About the Author

THE SHADOW BROKERTitle Page

This book is dedicated to Zoe Bag of Doughnuts

and the real Mr. Finn.

It’s also dedicated to my wife, Beth.

This book wouldn’t exist without her loving support and encouragement.

"Here is something you can’t understand.

How I could just kill a man."

—How I Could Just Kill a Man, Cypress Hill

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.

Please don’t take my sunshine away."

—You Are My Sunshine, Oliver Hood

CHAPTER 1

I’m not sure of the exact moment I became a criminal. It didn’t happen overnight. There wasn’t one event or act that defined the point when I crossed over the invisible line separating good guys from bad guys. It was a gradual transition. Like watching your daughter grow up. One day she’s playing with her Disney princess dolls on the carpet, and the next day she’s packing up her car and heading to college. No, I don’t know the exact moment, but I have a good idea when it started.

I waited for the navy-blue Ford Expedition, watching from my window seat at Winan’s Coffee on the corner of Eighth and Walnut in downtown Cincinnati. The coffee shop was quiet except for the occasional steamer blast or whirring coffee grinder behind the counter. Two coffee jocks snatched muffins from the bakery case and poured drinks for the steady stream of caffeine addicts coming through the door.

My watch said I still had ten minutes. I sipped my coffee and yanked my bookmark, an old receipt, from inside of Joe Lansdale’s Vanilla Ride. The story was good and I hoped to finish it today, but reading Lansdale’s books, as good as they were, didn’t pay the bills. According to the phone call I received yesterday, the man arriving in the Expedition could.

I had just returned to my seat with my first refill when the SUV slowed to a stop across the street. From where I sat, I could see directly through the front passenger window. The driver opened his door and rocked back and forth, struggling with the seatbelt and the tight confines of the driver’s seat. Once he was out, the SUV’s leaf springs, now free from his weight, released their tension, snapping the vehicle upwards like a slingshot. He reached back into the SUV and pulled out one of those red-and-white refillable gas-station soda containers with a handle as long as my forearm and set it on the vehicle’s roof.

The driver plunked some coins into the meter and walked around the SUV. For the first time, I took him all in. He was the largest man I’d ever seen. Had to be over four-fifty. He wore a black-and-white suit, a custom job, and he looked like a cross between an undertaker and a limousine driver. The only thing missing was the black cap. He lumbered down the side of the SUV toward the rear door. He shuffled more than walked, and I couldn’t tell if his feet actually left the ground. He gripped the rear passenger door handle and opened it with what I imagined was enough force to rip the door from its metal hinges. He yanked the door open wide, and a man about my size, thin and average, stepped out. He checked the oncoming traffic and walked across the street toward the coffee shop. The fat man took a few steps before turning back for the container he’d left on the SUV’s roof and then double-timed it across the street behind the thin man. He moved faster than I thought he could.

Both men came through the door, but the big guy had to turn to his side when he stepped over the threshold. From the earlier phone call, I had the impression these guys might lean to the inconspicuous side, but the fat man crushed any chance of keeping a low profile. He turned heads.

I lifted my hand in the air to identify myself, and both men approached the table.

The thin man leaned forward. You Mr. Finn? he said.

I am.

I’m Bishop. He nodded to the fat man. This is Sam.

Bishop surveyed the room. Winan’s wasn’t a big place, but most customers preferred the dozen or so tables in the front of the coffee shop to enjoy the view of Eighth Street. The room tapered toward the back, where at the moment, only one chair had an ass in it.

Let’s move to the rear, said Bishop.

Fat Sam led the way. The elderly man sitting at the table looked up as the big man’s shadow engulfed the entire section. Fat Sam picked up the guy’s coffee cup, snatched the Cincinnati Enquirer from his hand, and placed them on a table at the front of the coffee shop. The elderly man didn’t speak. He just looked at Fat Sam, who returned the stare, waiting for him to retreat. Then, he looked at Bishop and me, stood up, and relocated to his new seat near the front window.

Fat Sam moved two tables together, and the three of us sat down. I set my coffee cup on the table in front of me.

Want something to drink? I said.

No. I don’t drink coffee, said Bishop.

Fat Sam held up the forty-five-ounce coma-inducer in his hand. I’m good, he said. It’s diet.

Bishop put his skinny hands on the table. Thanks for meeting us, he said, his voice low. As I mentioned on the phone, I need to locate someone. I got your name from a contact in Boston. Who knew you were right here in my own backyard? He says you’re good at that type of thing—finding people. And you’re sensitive to the needs and position of people like me. That right?

I leaned back in my chair. I’d like to think so, I said.

I’d never heard of Bishop and had no idea what he did, but if he needed me, he was bad news. People like me are the last hope for people like him. I locate people who don’t want to be found. And I understand that once I find them, they won’t be found again. I’m sort of like Death’s GPS.

Bishop leaned in so that we were almost face to face. I’m a straightforward person, Mr. Finn, so I’m going to get right to the point. Someone is blackmailing me, and I want to know who. I don’t need law enforcement involved, which is why we’re having this conversation.

I took a sip of my coffee, which was now lukewarm. Do you have any idea who it might be? I said.

No, he’s a ghost. All I have is a handle. Silvio1053. In my business, I work with some unsavory individuals. Data thieves and hackers mostly, so he’s likely someone I’ve worked with in the past, or at least someone who knows my business.

My ears perked up. What business is that, exactly?

Bishop paused for a moment and then looked at Fat Sam. He hesitated.

Look, Bishop. You contacted me, I said. I only ask the questions I need answers to, and that information doesn’t leave this table. But if you don’t want to tell me what I need to know, I can’t help you, and we can save ourselves a bunch of time and just part ways now.

Bishop nodded and then leaned in closer.

I sell information, Mr. Finn. Illegal information that people pay a lot of money for. I run an underground website, the Dark Brokerage. It’s a black market for sensitive and personal information. Stolen information.

How exactly do you get this information?

Various ways. I have a network of providers who can deliver pretty much anything. Hackers to crack sophisticated systems, lower-level cons with access to various information sources. I’ve even got high-schoolers eager to dumpster dive for a few extra bucks. If there’s a market for it, I can usually get it.

Bishop was an information reseller. Need to purchase a block of one hundred credit card numbers? Bishop had them. A Social Security number for someone born in Illinois in 1975? He could get it for the right price. All that compromised financial data from those department store data breaches? It finds its way to people like Bishop, who package it up with a big pink bow and resell it. The concept was ingenious and unsettling at the same time.

So, where does the blackmail come in? I said. With all that information, shouldn’t you be the one doing the blackmailing?

It’s not the information, but the way I sell it. Once someone logs onto my site, they can browse the information available for sale or they can make a request for something not yet available. But they have to log into the site before they do anything. It requires a username and password, just like you have for logging onto your bank online. But my user list is a who’s who of bad people. It’s a list that the authorities might be interested in. And if that list ever made it out to the public, I’d be out of business.

That’s what Silvio1053 is holding over your head? Your user list?

Right. Bishop explained in tech-nerd speak I didn’t understand that Silvio1053 somehow hacked the records from the Dark Brokerage site and threatened to go to the feds and reveal Bishop’s customers’ names, addresses and order histories unless he ponied up fifty grand a month. He’d already paid one month’s sum, but it wasn’t a business expense he wanted to keep writing off. And that’s where I came in.

What can you tell me about this Silvio? What do you have to get me started? I said.

Not much. You’ve got to understand that I deal with a lot of shady people, so secrecy is a way of life.

Kind of ironic that someone who deals in secret information can’t identify the person blackmailing him.

Bishop smirked. I get the irony, thanks, he said.

How does he contact you?

Through e-mail, said Bishop. He’s using an encrypted account. Everyone I work with does.

Fat Sam looked up, and I followed his eyes. Two hipsters in vintage T-shirts, tight jeans, boots, and thrift-store cardigans made a beeline for the table next to us. Fat Sam stared them down with a look that said, Turn around, or those sweaters go up your ass. They must have received the message because they stopped in their tracks and looked around for a safer place to sit.

This Silvio1053. You sure he really has something on you? I said.

He e-mailed me samples, and they’re solid. He’s legit.

What about the first cash drop? I asked. Where did you meet him?

I didn’t meet him. It was all handled online.

So you’ve got a bank account number, a routing number, or something? Maybe we can trace him that way.

Not exactly. Ever hear of BitCoin?

I knew about BitCoin, a type of digital currency. It’d been in the news lately. The word was still out on whether it was completely untraceable.

Heard of it, but never used it, I said.

It’s an anonymous currency. You convert your cash into BitCoin, purchase your product, and then the seller takes your BitCoins and uses an exchange to convert it all back to cash. Completely digital and anonymous.

Fat Sam swirled the tumbler in front of him. Ain’t you gonna write any of this down? he said.

I glanced at him. No paper trail, I said and turned back to Bishop. This keeps getting more complicated.

Look, my entire business is based on invisibility. I’ve got names and details on customers buying and selling illegal information. These people don’t want that info to get out. Without anonymity for the seller or buyer, it all falls apart.

But they found out your identity? To blackmail you.

My guess is Silvio1053 cracked my administrator login and got into my customer data. That’s why I think he’s someone who either sold information to me or purchased it from me. He has some familiarity with the site and knows how it works. I’m not exactly sure how he did it, but I can promise you that once you find him and I put a gun down his throat, I’ll find out how and make damn sure it never happens again.

Fat Sam slurped his diet whatever through his straw. But you didn’t hear that gun part, he said.

Right, I said. So there’s not a lot to go on. I’ll have to get creative.

This is why I need someone who specializes in this type of work, said Bishop. It’s not your average case. And my Boston contact says you’re not the average guy.

Got that right, I said.

Bishop nodded to Fat Sam, who dropped an orange file folder on the table. I hadn’t noticed it concealed under the bulk of his black jacket.

This is all the info I have, said Bishop. It’s got Silvio’s e-mails. There’s not a lot there, but it might help. My number is in there, too, if you need to contact me. You’ve got thirty days to locate him. I’ll pay you twenty grand for his identity and location. Half now and half when you give me the info. You can’t find him in thirty days, then Sam here puts you on the shit list. He paused. And you don’t want to be on the shit list.

I was silent for a moment. I don’t get an opportunity to turn down the case? I said.

Not after hearing everything I just told you, Bishop answered. Now you’re in it.

Bishop nodded to Fat Sam again, who pulled an envelope from his cavernous jacket and slipped it onto my lap under the table.

This oughta get you started, said Bishop.

Okay, I said, and we shook on it.

Find this twat, and maybe we can do business again. Bishop stood up from the table, and Fat Sam followed. If you’re as good as I hear you are, I could use you on a longer-term basis.

So, what are we supposed to call you? said Fat Sam. You got a real name?

You’re not the only one who deals in anonymity, I said. Mr. Finn is good for now.

Fair enough, said Bishop. Thirty days. Call me with updates. Bishop and Fat Sam left the coffee shop, crossed the street, and disappeared into the navy-blue SUV.

I waited a few seconds and then ripped open the envelope that Fat Sam tossed in my lap. Crisp hundred-dollar bills. A ten-grand down payment. I slipped the envelope inside my leather messenger bag on the floor next to my feet. Morality doesn’t exist in my business. There isn’t good or bad—just shades of both. The idea of Bishop or Fat Sam pushing a gun down a blackmailer’s throat didn’t unnerve me. Criminals can kill each other all day as far as I’m concerned. They’re just thinning out the herd. But Silvio1053 might be a hard man to find―if he was even a man at all.

I walked to the counter for a third cup of coffee. I needed the caffeine boost to get my brain firing on all cylinders.

CHAPTER 2

I HAD TO START BUILDING a profile on Silvio1053 as soon as possible, while the details were still fresh in my head. The crowd thinned out at Winan’s, so I left the back table and took my original seat at the window. More sunlight.

A skilled investigator can find almost anyone, mainly because people can’t hide for shit. They don’t have the innate ability to stay quiet. People can take all sorts of measures to cover their tracks, but it’s usually something simple that gives them away—a phone call to a parent or ex-girlfriend, a post on a social media network, a Christmas card to a friend. They can’t disconnect.

No one can become invisible. They can only make it more difficult for people like me to find them and hope that I give up. But Bishop gave me twenty thousand reasons not to give up. Twenty thousand and one, if you count the implied threat against my life. And honestly, I didn’t have much else to do anyway.

All I needed was something small to get a ping on my radar. From there, I’d start building a profile until I had everything I needed. A name. An address. An employer. A license plate. It’s all out there. I just have to connect it all. But it starts with something simple.

Next to criminals in some sort of federal protection, hackers are the hardest to find. They use the same tricks that I use to create multiple layers to protect themselves.

Silvio1053 is already proving to be a challenge. I had an e-mail address for him, but it’s worthless. With e-mail addresses, I can drop the IP information into a program and find the origin or location of the e-mail. Pretty simple, but he used an anonymous e-mail account, same as me, so that’s out.

He also had Bishop wire funds through an online service that used an encrypted payment method. Even if he did use a traditional bank, I couldn’t get much. Thanks to Uncle Sam, anonymous banking is nearly impossible, and without a federal warrant, the bank isn’t going to give up any information. Since Bishop isn’t going to the law, that’s also a dead end.

This find looked as complicated as it got. But the same rules applied. Get something simple. A ping on the radar. A slip-up. But sometimes it took time for someone to slip up. So the next best thing is to make Silvio1053 slip up. Given the time, I could remove each security layer, build a profile and pinpoint whoever is on the other side of those e-mails, but that might take forever. And I didn’t have forever. I had thirty days. So I went with a more direct approach and e-mailed Silvio1053 using the encrypted address Bishop gave me. I hoped whoever this guy was, he’d give me something to work with.

I sipped my coffee and typed out an e-mail I thought would rile up Silvio1053 enough to show me a glimpse of his hand.

From: [e-mail]

Sent: September 4, 9:49:28 AM EDT

To: [e-mail]

Subject: You’re Screwed

Hi. Bishop doesn’t want to pay you anymore, so he hired me to find you. I’m pretty sure I can locate your sorry ass because it’s kind of what I do. I know you’re taking measures to stay in the dark, but you’re an idiot if you think I can’t get to you.

So, here’s the deal. You pay me $25,000, I go away, and you can continue to fleece Bishop until he hires someone else to find you. I know he already paid you $50,000, so you can float it.

If you don’t pay me, I’ll find you and turn you over to Bishop. He wants to do all sorts of nasty things to you, and he’s got a 450-pound sidekick who looks like he could rip a polar bear in half, so there’s that.

If you’re smart, you’ll take my deal. This offer expires tomorrow at 9am ET.

Ta.

I wanted to establish some communication with Silvio1053 to let him know I was looking for him. That ups the anxiety level, and when people are anxious, they don’t think as clearly as they should, so there’s a higher likelihood he’d make a mistake. I needed something to start with because right now, I had shit. I’d almost drained my third cup of coffee when he replied.

From: [e-mail]

Sent: September 4, 9:53:34 AM EDT

To: [e-mail]

Subject: RE: You’re Screed

Nice try, asshole. You aren’t finding shit. If Bishop wants to stay in business, he’ll just have to keep paying. Call it a monthly business expense. Otherwise, his customer list goes public, and the feds shut him down.

Oh, and Sam gets winded taking a piss, so the idea of him doing anything that requires effort is laughable.

Bottom line—Piss off.

Cheers!

I didn’t expect to get anything significant, but Silvio1053 gave me more than he probably thought he did. It wasn’t much, but it got me started. Whoever was blackmailing Bishop could finger Fat Sam, so hopefully, that narrowed down the list.

I opened the orange folder, found the number Bishop wrote on the inside, and dialed. A minute later I asked him for a list of buyers or sellers he’d met in person, anyone who could identify Fat Sam. Bishop explained he conducted most of his business over e-mail, rarely in person, but he said he’d get me a list as soon as possible.

CHAPTER 3

I was still building out Silvio1053’s profile at the coffee shop when my daughter, Becca, vomited on her first-grade teacher. The nurse called to tell me a stomach bug had been making the rounds at school and Becca’s number came up.

Becca’s mother is the primary contact on our call list, but I keep getting her voice mail, said the nurse. You’re listed as the alternate contact. She’s been lying down for a half-hour and says she feels better, but it’s policy to send students home if they get sick in the classroom. Can you pick her up?

I can be there in twenty minutes, I said.

Great, said the nurse. Just show your ID at the main office. They’ll call me and I can bring her in.

I’m on my way. I tossed my empty cup into the garbage can on my way out the door.

My ex-wife, Brooke, decided Becca should attend the Cincinnati Catholic Academy, not because she was Catholic, although I think we faked it pretty well during the interview, but because she had zero faith in the public school system. I didn’t argue at the time, but at ten grand a year for first grade, I wished I’d put up more of a fight.

The brick building reminded me of something from Vatican City. Large domes, archways, and a thick stone cross that could take out a low-flying plane. I stopped at the main entrance, expecting a valet to run out and park my car. That didn’t happen, so I parked in a visitor’s spot and headed through the heavy doors. Inside, I passed a line of elementary students all wearing white polo shirts and khaki pants and plaid skirts, walking single file down the hall. They looked at me like I was the only person in the entire zip code who hadn’t tucked in his shirt. I dodged their judgmental glances until I found the office.

Behind the glass office door stood a large oak counter. The room looked like a five-star hotel lobby, but the heavy pine smell reminded me of the night I spent in the delivery room when Becca was born. The short, pudgy woman behind the reception desk, who also wore a white polo shirt, took my ID and called the nurse a moment later.

I stood in the office staring at the large oil portrait of someone who must have been the school’s founder when my daughter came through the office door and wrapped her arms around my waist with a force that almost knocked me backward onto the red-and-gold carpet. A tall blonde nurse, who also wore a white polo shirt but who looked much better in it than the woman behind the counter, followed my daughter. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and she looked more like an ESPN sideline reporter than a school nurse. If the school administrators knew anything about marketing, they’d slather this woman all over the admission brochures.

The nurse smiled as I tried to pry my daughter from my legs. I bet she’s already feeling better, she said.

Looks like it. I patted Becca on the head. So, what happened?

She got sick in Mrs. Daniels’ classroom. She’s not running a fever, but she said her stomach hurt a little. I gave her some ginger ale to help settle it, and she kept that down. I’m sure she’ll be fine after some rest.

I hope so. I finally dislodged Becca’s death grip and hoisted her up in one arm, determined not to tear a rotator cuff in front of the nurse. Let’s get you home.

I thanked the nurse and carried my daughter through the office doorway, turning enough to glimpse the absence of a ring on the nurse’s left hand. I cracked my own smile and carried Becca to the car.

So, are you feeling better, sweetheart?

A little, she said.

We’ll get you home and in bed so you can rest. I’ll bet you’re back to one hundred percent by tomorrow. Becca smiled. Any other casualties? Take out any of your classmates with friendly fire? I imagined her covering Mrs. Daniels or a random classmate with the remnants of whatever they served in the gilded cafeteria.

Daaaad, she said and giggled.

I buckled Becca into her booster seat, pulled out of the parking lot, and put Saint Exorbitant in my rearview.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at Brooke’s house. I carried Becca through the front door and up the stairs and helped her to bed. Her favorite stuffed horse sat next to her, and she picked it up, smashed it into her face, and clutched it to her chest. I set a glass of orange juice on her nightstand, kissed her forehead, dove back into Vanilla Ride, and waited for her to fall asleep.

Once she was out, I crept down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. There was one of those fancy single-cup coffee brewers on the granite counter, the kind with the digital display and two steam wands that made cappuccino and café au lait and all those other French-sounding drinks I didn’t like. It must have been new because I hadn’t noticed it before. Not that I spent a lot of time in Brooke’s kitchen. The stainless steel rack next to the coffee machine held a selection of single-serving coffee packs. I found the strongest blend, popped it into the machine and followed the instructions on the digital display. A minute later I sipped one of the best cups of coffee I’d ever had.

I sat down at the kitchen table, opened my laptop, and resumed my search for Silvio1053. Halfway through my coffee, my phone rang. Brooke.

Is Becca with you? her voice rushed.

Yes, she’s sleeping upstairs. I heard a heavy exhale.

I just got off the phone with the school, and they said you picked her up.

She got sick. They tried to call you but couldn’t reach you, so they called me.

One of the surgical nurses couldn’t come in, and they needed me to assist, she said. I didn’t have my phone with me.

No worries, I said. The nurse thought it was probably just a stomach bug. Apparently, it’s going around.

I just got off my shift, so I’ll be home as fast as I can.

No need to rush. I can stay here as long as you need me to.

Thanks, but I want to see her. I just need to change, and then I’ll be out of here.

Wait. I tried to catch her before she hung up. Where did you get that coffee maker? The one with all the buttons? The line went dead.

Brooke burst through the front door a half-hour later. She dropped her bag on the floor and jogged up the stairs before I could say anything. I kept digging into Silvio1053 until she came back down the stairs.

She’s still asleep, she said, coming into the kitchen. Did you give her anything?

Just the orange juice. The nurse said she didn’t have a fever.

That’s good. Brooke swiped her thumb across her eye, wiping away a tear.

It’s just a stomach bug, I said. Don’t worry about it.

It’s not that. She paused. Becca hasn’t been herself lately. She’s been really depressed over this whole thing. Over us. She picked up my empty coffee cup and set it in the sink. When she turned back toward me, she caught a glimpse of the .45 tucked in my leather messenger bag. Do you have to bring that in the house?

I’m on a case, I said. It hasn’t been out of my bag. Becca didn’t see it.

A case? She turned and washed the coffee cup in the sink. What about your PI license? I thought you couldn’t work without a license.

The people I’m working for don’t care if I have a license.

Who are you working for?

Better you don’t know.

Are you doing something illegal? It looked like she’d scrub the color off the cup.

No, I said. Just looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.

Do they ever want to be found?

If they did, I wouldn’t have a job.

Well, just be careful. She dried the cup with a dish towel and placed it back on the cup rack next to the coffee maker. I never liked you carrying a gun.

It’s just a precaution. I doubt I’ll ever have to use it.

Just keep it away from Becca. I don’t want her to find it at your place or anything. Brooke looked at her watch. You should go. Daryl will be home soon, and it’ll be weird if you’re here.

Weird? What’s so weird about me picking up my sick daughter from school?

I don’t know. She hesitated. He’s just... He’ll... It’ll just be better if you’re not here right now. It’s just the way he is. It’s complicated.

It’s always complicated, I said. If you ever need to talk...

No offense, Finn, she cut me off, but you’re the last person I need to be talking to right now.

Fine. I closed my laptop and shoved it into my bag on top of my holstered .45. She wiped her eyes with the dishtowel. I stepped forward to hug her, but she sidestepped me.

You should go.

Okay, I’m not here to piss anyone off, I said. Let me know how Becca is feeling. I left the house, climbed back in my car, and headed to my slip in Manhattan Harbor.

Dr. Daryl Jennings arrived at the brick house at 5711 Tangerine Court. He eyed the green Range Rover on the street before pulling into the driveway. He walked through the front door and found Brooke sitting on the couch next to Becca, watching a cartoon. Daryl kissed Brooke’s cheek.

How was your day? he asked.

Good. I got to assist with a surgery today. Appendectomy.

Sounds fun, he said as he looked out the living room window at the Range Rover. Why did you park on the street?

Finn was parked in the driveway when I got home. I took the street so he could get out.

Why was Finn here?

Becca got sick at school, and he picked her up and brought her here. Brooke stood up and walked into the kitchen. Daryl followed her.

Why did he bring her here? Why not take her to that damn boat of his?

I don’t know, Daryl. He probably thought she’d feel better being in her own bed. Brooke placed a coffee cup underneath the coffee maker, dropped in a single-serving cup, and pushed a few buttons on the display. The machine whirred.

Why didn’t they call me to pick her up? said Daryl.

Because you’re not her father. They called me, but I was in surgery. When they couldn’t reach me, they called him. It’s no big deal.

How’d he get in?

He has a key.

Has a key? Since when?

Since for a while, I don’t know. I gave him one in case of an emergency. Like today. The machine spat a stream of steaming coffee into the cup and then beeped. She’s feeling better, by the way.

Who?

Becca. She’s feeling better. Thanks for asking.

Daryl took the cup from Brooke’s hand and set it on the counter, then wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. I’m sorry. I should have asked. I’m glad she’s feeling better. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. He released his grip, walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, next to Becca, as Brooke sipped her coffee in the kitchen.

CHAPTER 4

I pulled into the Manhattan Harbor parking lot on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River. Only a few cars dotted the lot, so I got a choice parking spot near the iron stairs that led to the docks. The slips were full, but most boaters only took their boats out on the weekend. It was the calm before the beer-fueled storm. In twenty-four hours, the harbor would be filled with men pissing off the side of their boats and women who, after a few beers, would be more willing to lose their tops than they first thought.

My rental was a forty-foot Playbuoy houseboat at the end of Dock B. It had seen its best days in the eighties. White paint flaking off in several places allowed the previous color, a pale blue, to poke through. As houseboats go, it was on the shorter side, but it had more than enough room for me. The first level had two small bedrooms, a salon with a foldout futon, television and workspace, full galley and a bathroom the size of a closet. The second level had the pilothouse and an open-air deck. It was the only live-in boat in the harbor, and a good deal at three hundred a month.

I headed to the sun deck on the second level, kicked open the deck chair on my boat, grabbed my laptop, and went back after Silvio1053. Bishop didn’t have much to go on, and I was no closer to Silvio than when Fat Sam plunked the bulky envelope into my lap this morning. So far, all I had was that my guy knew what Fat Sam looked like. It’s possible they met in person, or perhaps Silvio1053 worked with someone else who knew him and had described Fat Sam. Maybe they chatted on a webcam, or maybe he had Fat Sam and Bishop under surveillance. It wasn’t a lot to go on, so I tabled the personal connection and moved on.

PIs can access any number of databases to dig into someone’s life. For a few bucks, I can pull criminal records, motor vehicle registrations, driving records, property reports, concealed-weapons permits, credit reports. They’re all a few keystrokes away. But running all those database searches requires basic information. Name, Social Security number, and the like. I didn’t have any of that for Silvio. Yet.

My first approach was to work with the handle Silvio1053. I plugged it into Google and got twenty-seven pages of results. It looked like it’d be a long night, so I brewed a pot of coffee and got to work. Most of the results were in Italian, which was as helpful as a tinfoil condom, so I prioritized the English results. The top results included city council meeting minutes from Shreveport, Louisiana, a Volkswagen tribute page, a user posting yoga studio reviews in Los Angeles, and an eye doctor in New Jersey, among a slew of other nonsensical garbage. Nothing stood out, and I thought I was careening toward a dead end, but I poured another cup and kept sorting through the results.

I had to fight off sleep around page twenty-six. I’d finished the pot and was eager to cross page twenty-seven off my list before turning in for the night. That’s when I saw a post on an IT forum dated April 28, 2007, from someone using the handle Silvio1053. Something about operating system development and business desktop deployment, whatever that meant. The handle hyperlinked to a login page. I registered for my own forum account using a bogus name, and once logged in, I clicked on Silvio’s handle again, though this time, the hyperlink took me to a user profile page registered to JBanks. It was no slam-dunk, but the IT topics fit my preliminary profile. If Silvio hacked into Bishop’s system, he probably had IT experience. Maybe I’d inched a step closer. The find jump-started my central nervous system faster than the caffeine. I printed out JBanks’ forum post and drew a large question mark in the corner.

Nice to meet you, JBanks, I said. Let’s see if we can find the rest of you.

There’s a method to why people select their handles. The selection isn’t arbitrary. They mean something—to them, anyway. The IT forum was the only other site where I saw a possible connection to the Silvio1053 handle, and it’s possible that whoever used this handle to post to the forum in 2007 was the same person using it today. It could also be a colossal coincidence, but it’s all I had.

I Googled JBanks and almost fell out of my deck chair. I thought the results for Silvio1053 had been mind-numbing, but at 627,000, the results for JBanks threatened my eyeballs and my weekend. I clenched my teeth and considered chucking my laptop into the Ohio River. Instead, I climbed down to the boat’s main level, fell onto my mattress and went to sleep.

The next morning, the Google search results page greeted me like an ugly, drunken hookup from the night before. I brewed the first pot of the day, carried my laptop back to the sun deck, and went to work. The morning sun glimmered across the river as the calm water lapped off the side of my boat.

The results for JBanks were too general to focus on. Banks is a common name, and I had Web pages from every corner of the country on everything from fly fishing to metalworking to sports marketing to advertising to movie reviews. I could spend Bishop’s thirty days just meandering through these results. Time to narrow.

I ran the search again, this time focusing on the terms JBanks and IT and got the results down to eighty-one thousand. Still not feasible. A morning breeze kicked the smell of someone’s breakfast onto the sun deck. Bacon and maybe toast. The same breeze grabbed my IT forum printout from yesterday and threatened to send it into the river, but I snatched it out of the air before it had a chance to escape. Studying the printout again, I decided to focus on the unique terms in the post. Running the JBanks search with operating system development returned 996 results, and running it with business desktop deployment returned less than ten, including the original IT forum post. I weeded through those results, but there was nothing to go on.

My coffee pot gurgled through the open galley window, and I headed down and poured my first cup. Back at the laptop, I went through the JBanks and operating system development results. Most of the results on the first page originated from sites in the UK, so I ruled those out. It’s possible Bishop’s blackmailer was outside of the country, but since Bishop mentioned most of his business was inside the States, I wanted to focus on in-country first. The second page offered results for term-paper writers, college professors, nursing information, and a few sites from Germany and Istanbul. Most of the other results pages blended together in a sea of miscellaneous scrap.

I polished off my second cup of coffee when I clicked on page eight. The third result was an article published two months ago in PenTesting magazine, titled Top Five Password Coding Vulnerabilities and How to Avoid Them. The article’s author...Justin Banks. I clicked on the About Us section of the site. PenTesting magazine was a publication for white-hat hackers, individuals who made their living testing website vulnerabilities. I assumed Justin Banks was a staff writer for the magazine, but he wasn’t. The short bio at the end of the article listed him as an IT security consultant from WhiteHat Security Solutions in Columbus, Ohio, a consultancy company about one hundred miles north from where I sat. Now we were getting somewhere.

The proximity fit. If Banks lived in Mexico or overseas, he’d have no reason to have met Bishop or Fat Sam, but for someone in Columbus, Ohio, it seemed like a good possibility. He was less than two hours away, so it wasn’t out of the question that he’d crossed paths with Fat Sam before. This was the best lead I had, but I didn’t want to discount the remaining results, so I printed out the magazine article, along with Banks’ bio, and kept crawling through the online search results. After another three hours, I hadn’t found anything else to lead me in another direction, so I decided to focus on the consultant in Columbus.

I called Bishop to probe deeper.

Put your thinking cap on, I said. Does the name Justin Banks ring any bells?

Justin Banks... repeated Bishop. Not that I recall. You think he might be Silvio?

Maybe. I’ve been looking into him. He lives in Columbus. Works in the IT security industry.

You got a company name? said Bishop.

I grabbed the printout. WhiteHat Security Solutions. That sound familiar?

Bishop was silent for a moment. I met with someone from Columbus years ago, but that company doesn’t sound familiar. He was silent again. No, it’s another company, a Blue Horizon or something. Something with the name ‘Horizon’ in it.

How long ago we talking?

About three years ago. I talked to a consultant about encryption software. I met with him twice. Here in Cincinnati.

Would Sam have been with you? I said.

Not sure. Might have been. It was a while ago. What makes you think this is our guy?

A few things point to him. No need to go into details yet. I resisted the urge to tell Bishop it was the only solid lead I had.

Okay, so what’s next? he said.

I’m going to dig a little deeper. I’ll call you with any updates.

I hung up the phone and read Banks’ bio again. He was a strong possibility. Definitely had the skill set, and the idea of an ethical hacker going rogue and hacking for extra cash made a believable scenario, especially when it paid fifty grand a month.

Bishop mentioned working with a company named Blue Horizon before setting up shop online. An online search revealed a Blue Horizon Consulting in Westerville, a suburb of Columbus. The company’s Web page indicated it specialized in information technology security and testing. Getting closer.

I ran another search, looking for any connection between Justin Banks and Blue Horizon, but didn’t turn up anything. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a connection, only there wasn’t any evidence of one online. If I could confirm that Justin Banks worked for Blue Horizon during the time frame Bishop indicated, I’d have enough evidence to warrant a trip to Columbus for some serious digging. No reason to waste time and gas otherwise.

I pulled up another list of similar companies in the area and found SBC Partners, a company that also specialized in e-business consulting. I started on another cup of coffee, dialed the main number for Blue Horizon, and asked to be connected to their human resources department.

This is Kyle Murphy. How can I help you?

Hello, Kyle, I said. This is John Wyatt with SBC Partners. We recently interviewed Justin Banks for a position, and his resume indicates he worked for Blue Horizon. I just wanted to confirm that was accurate.

Hang on a second and let me pull up that name in the system, he said. The name again?

Justin Banks. I could hear the plastic clicks on Kyle’s keyboard.

Looks like he worked here as a senior e-commerce security adviser for three and a half years. Before my time.

Wonderful, I said. Can you confirm his employment dates?

Sure, more clicks. He was here from August of ‘08 to January 2012.

Perfect, that’s all I need, I said. Thanks, Kyle. Have a great afternoon.

You too.

Justin Banks had the technical expertise as a penetration tester to crack Bishop’s site. He lived close enough to have met with Bishop and potentially Fat Sam in person, and he worked for the same company that Bishop worked with when he architected the Dark Brokerage. My gut told me that Banks figured out Bishop was into something illegal and kept tabs on him. When he found out what Bishop created, he saw an opportunity to fleece him out of some cash.

Most people don’t realize they’re immortal online. All those photos and website posts never go away. They just get buried deeper and deeper in cyberspace until someone like me comes along and stirs up the layers.

Justin Banks was a strong lead. Whoever our guy was, he’d gone to a lot of trouble to be invisible. And now a simple goddamn Google search might do him in. Had it not been for that PenTesting magazine article, I’d still be beating my head against the keyboard, but now I had a solid lead. It’s like a tiny piece of bone sticking out of the dirt. You grab a brush and start removing bits and pieces of dirt, and sooner or later, you’ve uncovered an intact T-rex skeleton in the Arizona desert. Or in this case, Westerville, Ohio.

Finding the connection gave me a PI hard-on, but Bishop planned to shove a handgun down Silvio1053’s throat when he found him, and while I was okay with sending a criminal low-life off to slaughter, I wasn’t okay turning over an innocent man. I had to be right about Banks. That meant a trip up I-71 to Columbus.

CHAPTER 5

I ran Banks’ name through the IRB database and found his current address at 128 Buffalo Run Road in Westerville, on the northeast side of Columbus. I grabbed my bag, keyed the address into my SUV’s GPS and hit the road. Two hours later I turned onto Little Turtle Way, past the Little Turtle Golf Club, took a left on Blue Jacket, another left on Buffalo Run, and pulled to a stop in front of a two-story townhouse. Banks’ unit was on the end, adjacent to the golf course.

The neighborhood was quiet. Less than twenty vehicles sat in the shared parking section, and Banks’ driveway was empty. Banks’ front door was on the side of the building. The other units had doors on the front. I followed the walkway to his front entrance and looked through the two long windows that flanked the door. The lower level was dark. No lights, a good indication that Banks wasn’t home.

There was no alarm monitoring company decal on the glass or in the yard, so I tried the door. It was locked, so I walked around to the back, where a concrete slab patio, maybe ten feet square, abutted a sliding-glass door. A wooden slatted fence about eight feet high separated his patio from his neighbor’s unit. The sliding-glass door, half-covered on the inside by a curtain, allowed me to see throughout the lower level. No sign of Banks or anyone else. I gave the door a tug, but it was locked. I noticed a wooden dowel in the sliding door’s track, but the dowel was about six inches shorter than the length of the track. Not too modern in his approach to home security, but it gave me an excuse to check out the golf course pro shop.

The sign at the entrance of the Little Turtle Golf Club said it was a private course, but the faded bricks and ripped doormat said it was the type of club I could afford. I scanned the parking lot. American-made vehicles. As country clubs go, it appeared Little Turtle catered to the upper-middle class, not the hyper-rich. I walked into the pro shop and found the head golf pro behind the counter. The plastic tag on his shirt introduced him as Ryan.

Hi there. Can I help you? he said.

I played the other day, and I think I left a wedge on the course. Did anyone turn one in? I wasn’t a pro by any means, but I did have a ten handicap. I’ve also lost a half-dozen clubs during my lifetime, always wedges. Players tend to leave them just off the greens.

Hang on a sec. Let me look.

Ryan walked into the back room and returned a minute later with two clubs in his hand.

I’ve got a Calloway and a Nike, he said.

Great! It’s the Calloway. He handed me the club. Thanks so much. I was afraid I’d have to replace it.

No problem. You getting out today? he said.

I wish I could, but I’m still on the clock. Just swung by home for lunch and thought I’d stop in and see if anyone turned it in. If the weather holds up, I might try to get out next week.

Ryan stepped to the computer on the counter. You want to go ahead and schedule a tee time?

Nah. Gotta check with my buddies first. I’ll give you a call to set it up.

Okay, enjoy the rest of your day.

You too, I said. Thanks, Ryan.

Five minutes later, I stood at Banks’ back door with the wedge in hand. Sliding-glass doors aren’t the most secure, but they keep most people out. I’m not most people. If Banks lived in a pricey house, then he’d likely have a more secure lock, but this townhouse looked like a rental, so I figured the locking mechanism was on the cheaper side.

A few golfers walked the course. An elderly couple played the hole adjacent to Banks’ back patio. They both looked at me, probably wondering if I was playing their fairway. I slowly swung the wedge through the grass, trying to appear like I was looking for a lost ball. I glanced up and waved them through. Seconds later, the older man swung and drilled his ball into the trees on the other side of the fairway. I heard the ball ricochet off a tree, sending a group of birds fleeing for their lives. The woman followed with a worm-burner that went in the same direction as his ball. The trees and rough kept them busy and allowed me to focus on the sliding door.

Most spring-loaded locking mechanisms have a significant flaw. They can fail against upward force. I leaned the wedge against the wooden privacy fence, slipped on my blue nitrile gloves, and grabbed the sliding-glass door handle with both hands. My teeth clenched as I jerked up as hard as I could, pulling the door off its track and popping the spring latch to the open position. I lowered the door back onto the track and eased the door open until the dowel caught the bottom doorframe. No alarm. After backing the door off a few inches, I slid the wedge through the open space and used the club’s head to lift the dowel out of the track and opened the door the rest of the way.

The inside of Banks’ townhouse was small and tidy. The first floor consisted of a living room, kitchen, breakfast nook, and a laundry room. A desk with pictures of a guy who I assumed was Justin Banks with an older couple, probably his parents, was positioned against the living room wall. I was relieved to see no photos of a wife and kids because if this was our guy, he wouldn’t be around much longer, and I don’t like the idea of breaking up families.

I picked up one of the photos. Banks was a middle-aged man with an average build and short, dark hair parted on one side. The photo showed palm trees and what looked like an old fort behind him. I set the photo back on the desk and went upstairs.

The second floor included two bedrooms separated by a bathroom and a double-door closet in the hall. Banks used the bedroom that overlooked the golf course as an office. There was a solid desk, not like the small writing desk in the living room, a lateral file cabinet, and a bookshelf that bowed under the weight of thick computer programming textbooks. There was a computer on the desk. I clicked it on and rummaged through the file cabinets as I waited for it to boot up. I didn’t know what I expected to find in the files, but everything looked normal. Each file folder had a printed label. Typical files. Car loan, warranties, bills, health, finances. I opened the folder labeled bills and checked the address to make sure that Banks indeed lived here. The folder contained several months of electric and gas bills, all addressed to Justin Banks. I returned the file, closed the file cabinet and turned back to the computer. The home screen stared back at me. No password prompt, which was good. He probably didn’t expect anyone to break into his home and search his computer. I clicked the hard-drive icon and poked around, looking for any folders or files that could link Banks to Bishop, but I didn’t find anything.

Bishop’s website was difficult to find online. Search engines didn’t catalog this portion of the Internet. Users could find the site only by using a special browser to mask their IP address. Then they had to key in a specific URL, which looked like a series of random numbers, to access the site. It was like kicking virtual sand over digital footprints, a nice benefit when shopping for illegal information.

I checked the dock at the bottom of his home screen and found TorBrowser. I clicked, and it opened. It looked like any other Web browser. I checked the browser’s bookmarks and found a link to the Dark Brokerage. It wasn’t a surprise that Banks would bookmark a site on the deep Web, given the long URL strings, sometimes upwards of twenty characters. They aren’t easy to memorize. It’s not as simple as typing www.cnn.com.

After clicking the link, Bishop’s website popped up on the screen. Bishop’s site prompted me for a username and password, which I didn’t have, so I closed out of the system.

Banks looked like our guy. He had the technical expertise to hack Bishop’s site, had accessed the site before, and had met with Bishop and perhaps Fat Sam in person, but I still wanted a smoking gun.

I found what I needed inside Banks’ closet. There was another smaller vertical two-drawer file cabinet. The top drawer was empty. The bottom drawer contained a purple velvet Crown Royal bag filled with coins. Next to it was an accordion file folder. I dumped the Crown Royal bag out onto the carpet. The gold coins each had an image on them, a symbol that looked like the letter B combined with a dollar sign. They looked like arcade-game tokens.

Most sites on the deep Web managed transactions with BitCoins because of the anonymity, a bank account with no names attached. But I’d thought BitCoin was only digital currency, so I couldn’t figure out why I was staring at a heap of coins on Banks’ floor.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Bishop.

What you got for me? said Bishop.

Isn’t BitCoin only digital? You don’t actually have anything physical? You can’t put a BitCoin in your pocket?

You can exchange the digital currency for physical coins if you want, said Bishop. I’ve converted them before as a precaution against hackers. But most people just use the digital currency.

What do you mean protection against hackers? I said.

"Digital currency is stored on your computer, and even though you can encrypt the shit out of things, a hacker can still get through and liquidate your account. One day you’ve got a few million in