Mary Catherine and my grandfather, Seamus, always sat in two straight-backed chairs closest to the phone.
At one minute after eight, the phone rang and Seamus hit the button within a second. He looked like a gambler in Las Vegas asking for another card.
We settled down to a near silence. After Brian said hello and told us how everything was going, everyone got to say hello and one other thing. It took about ten minutes to work through the whole family.
I was touched to see how excited the kids were to talk to their brother. It meant I’d done something right raising them. Ten kids in a family was difficult enough. If some of them didn’t get along, it could be brutal. I found it was easy enough to keep everyone happy if they were busy. Sports, clubs, family playdates—it all added up. And right now I appreciated that arithmetic.
Trent told Brian about basketball and sports. Chrissy told him about our cat, Socky, who now was producing solid poop after a week of diarrhea. I never tried to edit what my kids were going to say.
Finally I got to ask some questions that were important to me. “How do you like Fishkill Correctional?”
“Compared to Gowanda, it’s great. I’m taking a bunch of classes. I already told you I earned my GED. Now I’m working on getting certified as an air-conditioning repair mechanic. They have the population separated by security risk so I’m in with a bunch of younger, nonviolent offenders.”
I thought I might cry. Here was my oldest son. Along with his sister, Juliana, my first treasure. A year ago I was afraid he’d thrown away his whole life because he made some poor choices. Now he was making good choices. More important, he hadn’t given up on his life. He’d just made a detour or two. He had some goals, and I was so proud of him I couldn’t speak for a moment. Luckily, plenty of other people were there to fill in.
Seamus said, “What are you doing for fun?”
“This place gives us full TV privileges at night. As long as we follow the rules and don’t have any marks against us, we can watch whatever we want. I’ve been reading a lot, too.”
Jane, our resident super reader, was quick to ask, “Who do you like to read?”
Brian didn’t hesitate. “Elmore Leonard, and a newer author named Mark Greaney. Can’t get enough of either of them.”
Now I was at a loss for words. I’d never known Brian to read for pleasure. And he sounded excited about his studies.
Brian said, “This place is so much better than Gowanda I can’t believe it. But I still miss home. I miss all of you. If I get home, I promise to keep reading, and I’ll get a job. I swear.”
I was quick to say, “Buddy, you don’t have to make any promises. We want you home as much as you want to come home.”
Eddie said, “I’m trying to teach Dad about computers and hacking.”
Brian laughed like we were playing a prank on him. Then he said, “Really? I’m impressed, Dad. You won’t be sorry you picked up a new skill. We even have computers available to us here. One guy from Schenectady got arrested again for stealing credit card numbers using the computer from our class.”
Mary Catherine took a moment to tell Brian all the meals she would cook for him as soon as he got home.
The call ended after our allotted twenty minutes and we had been forced into quick good-byes. If anything, it made me consider the mayor’s offer of help more seriously.
CHAPTER 50
DETECTIVES AT THE NYPD have an unusual relationship with one of their own units, known as Intel. The Intelligence Bureau has a mysterious aura about it. Generally the unit recruits the best and brightest from all the NYPD divisions to provide command staff with intelligence about growing crime trends and potential catastrophes.
Since the 9/11 terror attacks, the unit has grown and wields more influence. One thing most people don’t realize about it is that it has offices outside New York, too. In fact, the NYPD has offices outside the US. Some of those offices are in Europe and the Middle East. It’s hard to imagine an NYPD officer roaming the streets of Madrid, but in the new millennium, that’s a reality.
I learned a long time ago that Intel is an incredible resource for a detective. The staff are smart and helpful, and don’t care about claiming credit for a case. That cuts down on turf wars.
I’d given all I had on Natalie Lunden and the cases surrounding her to my friend in Intel, Lieutenant Tony Martindale. I gave up telling him what to do with information years ago. He’d talk to sources and other agencies, especially with connections overseas, and somehow he always worked magic with everything I gave him.
Once, when I had nothing on a homicide except a partial fingerprint, Lieutenant Martindale had a source in the Guatemalan military who matched the print to one of their former soldiers. As a result, I made the arrest and also helped Narcotics bust up one of the bigger drug-running groups in the city. The former sergeant in the Guatemalan army confessed to the homicide and would be in Sing Sing until the middle of the century.
Yet the only ones who claimed any credit were Narcotics detectives. Tony Martindale never opened his mouth once, even though he was the one who had cracked the case for everyone.
That’s why I trusted him with everything I knew, or suspected, about the hacking ring run by the mysterious “Henry” in Estonia.
The day after the Brew shoot-out, I was in the lieutenant’s private office in a corner of the Intel unit. The office suited him. There were journals on combating terrorism, the newest firearms, police tactics, public administration, and even one on photography. This guy was like a computer. He read everything and didn’t care one way or the other if people utilized him.
I sat in an uncomfortable metal chair as the lieutenant rolled around behind his desk on his ancient Office Depot discount chair. He was giving someone crime statistics over the phone while checking his email and answering a text. And this was a slow day for Lieutenant Tony Martindale.
Finally he hung up the phone, looked at me, and said, “I’m sorry, Mike. As you can imagine, it’s crazy around here. But I have the information you asked about.”
I knew not to do anything except smile and nod. I didn’t want to risk sending him off on another tangent that might take five or ten minutes. He waited for a comment, then picked up a folder from a pile on his desk like he knew exactly which one to reach for.
He leaned back in the black chair and said, “You might’ve stumbled onto something big. This guy you asked about, Endrik Laar, has about ten aliases. He has three official IDs issued in Estonia and Latvia, but none of the three IDs has the same photo. None of the investigators I spoke with over the phone are even sure if they have an accurate description of him.”
“What are they tracking him for?”
“Cybercrime. The son of a bitch has a decent blackmail business going. The big corporations are terrified of hackers like him. And the young programmers flock to him. They know they can make a lot more money with him than they can at a legitimate job.”
I asked, “Anyone have any idea about US nationals working for him? Specifically the name I gave you, Natalie Lunden?”
The lieutenant gave me a grin. “I assume you know who her father is.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that I know the identity of Natalie Lunden’s father.”