THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS back on my boat, polishing off my bacon, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich and downing a tall glass of water while I waited for the coffee pot to stop dripping. I called Bishop and told him I was ready to sit down to show him what I found.
He was eager to get it, because he told me to come right over to his home and that he’d clear his schedule for the afternoon so we could review the information. I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve met a client at their home. It’s usually a coffee shop or bar or some other public place, but protocol goes out the window when you’re hungry for information, and I was serving it up on a silver platter. I went to great lengths to hide my home address, but if Bishop wanted to open up his front door to me, so be it.
I downloaded the photos from my phone to my laptop, printed them out and put them in a folder for Bishop. I didn’t like paper trails, but Bishop needed proof, and my proof was on paper. Banks proved easier to find than I thought. Hackers are always unpredictable, but it turned out that Banks didn’t fit the hacker mold. It was odd that a person who deals in finding and exploiting the weaknesses in websites would be so careless in his own security. No password prompts on his office computer, no security system, bargain locks, no safe. But then again, criminals aren’t always the smartest breed, and Banks probably thought he had no reason to be paranoid. That he was safely hidden behind his anonymous persona. Now that assumption would likely get him killed.
I grabbed the folder with the photos, poured a to-go cup of coffee, climbed off the boat and headed for my car.
BISHOP LIVED NEAR THE END of Fort View Place in Mount Adams, an older neighborhood on the east side of Cincinnati. It’s a small neighborhood, real small. Parking was a bitch because someone decided to build the neighborhood on a steep hill, but I managed to find a spot on a side street less than a block from Bishop’s three-story home.
Bishop’s home stood out from the others like a dick in a cake. Very modern. Lots of grays and whites and sharp lines. All the other homes were brick; old brick with lots of chips, like they had been there for centuries. Bishop’s second-floor balcony overlooked downtown Cincinnati. It was close enough to enjoy the view of the city’s skyline, but far enough away that you didn’t hear the sirens at night.
I hated it. Too artsy for me, but I didn’t live there.
Fat Sam was on the balcony, something silver in his hand. As I got closer, he raised it to his face and I saw it was a camera. He slipped it in his pocket, waved and disappeared into the house as I approached the front door. A minute later he opened the door, glanced both ways down the street and ushered me in. The Glock 30 tucked in his waistband looked like it was trying to escape. The only thing holding it in was the immense outward pressure from Fat Sam’s midsection, which crippled it against the inside of his waistband. I resisted the urge to lift up his shirt to see if the logo and model information from the Glock’s slide left an imprint on Fat Sam’s gut.
He slapped me on the back as I walked into the foyer and my breakfast sandwich threatened an encore.
“Bishop’s upstairs,” he said.
I climbed the spiral staircase and found Bishop sitting in his office. Another man sat on the couch. He wore a black mock turtleneck, gray slacks and black leather shoes that looked fresh out of the box.
“Come on in,” said Bishop. He pointed to the man on the couch. “Mr. Finn, Little Freddie. Little Freddie, Mr. Finn.” Little Freddie nodded without speaking.
“You got good news for me?” said Bishop.
“I do.” I handed him the folder and took a seat next to Little Freddie. Bishop opened it and rifled through the photos of the documents I took from Banks’ townhouse. “Silvio1053 is really Justin Banks. He lives in a suburb of Columbus. Northeast side.”
Bishop didn’t speak as he studied the photos. He went to his safe in the corner of the room, opened it and pulled out a short stack of papers. He compared the photos I gave him with whatever he yanked from the safe.
“It’s the same information he sent me,” said Bishop. “Proof that he had it.” Bishop paused again to compare the goods. “And he’s in Columbus?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s convenient,” said Little Freddie.
“Makes perfect sense, actually,” I said. “Bishop, you mentioned meeting with someone who worked for Blue Horizon Consulting in Columbus. I looked into Banks and he worked there during the same period. My guess is during the consultation, he figured out you were working on something illegal and kept an eye on you. Eventually, he tied you to the Dark Brokerage, hacked his way into your system and got whatever info he needed to hold over you.” I pointed to the IT article I’d printed out. “That’s an article he wrote on website penetration testing. He’s trained to break into systems like yours.”
Bishop tossed the papers on his desk. “It didn’t take you long to figure this guy out. Have to say, I’m impressed,” he said.
“A lot of luck, really. Banks fucked up and used the Silvio1053 handle in an IT forum a few years ago. That led me down the trail and I eventually tied it together. Had he not used that handle, I’d probably still be looking for him.”
“And you went to his house?” said Bishop.
“Townhouse. Yeah. He lives in a two-bedroom. On a golf course. From the photos in his home, it looks like he’s a loner. No kids. No evidence of any roommates.”
“Security?” said Little Freddie.
“None. Even got a key for his front door. Assumed you might want it.” I pulled the key from my pocket, wiped it on my shirt to remove my prints and tossed it on the coffee table. Little Freddie snatched it up before it stopped spinning.
“I thought this guy would be impossible to find,” said Bishop. “I had two others look into him, but they didn’t get dick, and you served him up in a few days. Even gave me a key to his house. Nice work.” Bishop went back to the safe and returned with a stack of cash that he plopped down on the coffee table. “There’s your other ten.” He stopped for a minute, went back to the safe and returned again with another shorter stack. “Fuck it, here’s another five for the fast work.”
“Thanks,” I said, standing up.
“You want to double that?” said Bishop.
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. What I wanted to hear was, “Here’s your cash and have a nice day.” I knew where Bishop was heading. The next logical step after finding Banks was putting a bullet in his head. I’m in the location business, not the killing business, and while I don’t care what people like Bishop do behind closed doors, I don’t really want to be in the room. The only reason I was working for Bishop was the money. I needed it and I needed to make it quick. Regardless of what Bishop said, there is no such thing as long-term employment in this business, because people like Bishop don’t stay in business that long. You get the money as quickly as you can and you get the fuck out. But the idea of doubling down still widened my eyes. Bishop had me on the hook.
“How’s that?” I said.
“Go with Little Freddie to Columbus and take care of our friend Banks.” He pointed to Little Freddie, who squinted back at Bishop. “He’ll do all the dirty work, but I’d like to have someone there for backup. Just in case. All goes well, you make thirty grand for a car ride to Columbus and back.”
Working in this business is just like running a con. You find your mark, make your play and get out as quickly as you can. You don’t stay for drinks. Everything in my head told me to walk out that door, but the money wouldn’t let me. Bishop was dangling a thirty-thousand-dollar carrot in front of me. All for a four-hour road trip. And money was hard to come by since losing my PI license.
“I’ll go,” I said.
Little Freddie was still squinting his eyes. I got the feeling Bishop caught him off guard with his suggestion that I tag along. It seemed like everyone was out of his comfort zone.
“We’ll need to do it at night,” said Little Freddie. “Pick me up at six tomorrow evening. Since you’ve already been there, you can drive.”
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