Take, for instance, the handheld modem and miniature computer screen. The public sector had never seen anything like it—and wouldn’t for years—but the Spook had gotten it quite some time ago. It was a true miracle of modern technology. It was about half the size of a normal laptop and weighed next to nothing.
You just got a dial tone on the phone, clamped the circular receptor over the mouthpiece, hit “receive” on the keyboard, and an internal modem automatically connected you to any one of several hundred available clandestine mailboxes via the Internet. The connection itself was encrypted and routed through no fewer than a hundred breakers and transferring stations, making it virtually impossible to find out the original location of the source.
He waited a moment for the connection to establish and instantly an encrypted message arrived, which was then descrambled. The message itself was gibberish unless you knew what it meant. If one were to break the code of the message—a task in and of itself that would require hundreds of man hours—it would have no understandable meaning.
It was the best way for the Spook to communicate with his customers. And it provided the absolute faceless interaction he needed to not just do business but to stay alive.
And, best of all, it had been provided by the government of the United States.
Life was good.
Now at the corner of Gratiot and 6 Mile Road, the Spook used the technology to access his e-mail account. He had twenty-one new messages, all of them junk mail. With every one of his mailboxes, he made sure he got on the list of annoying solicitors who spray the Internet with sales messages like a dog with a dysfunctional bladder. Should certain people decide to take an interest in his account, the spam would make their jobs all that much tougher.
The Spook scanned down the list until he saw the message he was looking for.
It read: “Thank you for your interest in Midwest Condos, Inc. We’re happy that you’ve arrived and are interested in looking into our offerings. We have an especially nice unit near the Village that suits your needs. Let us know your expected arrival and completion of the enrollment requirements, and you’ll qualify for a cash bonus! Units are moving faster than anticipated.”
That’s the beauty of junk mail—no one really paid any attention to it. And even if someone were to glance at it, in this case, no one would know what it really meant.
To the Spook, however, it was all very simple. Midwest Condos was his Grosse Pointe client—the same one he’d done some work for a few years ago. And the “unit” near the village was clearly a reference to someone his client had been keeping an eye on from the ordeal a couple years back. His client had decided not to have the Spook take care of the target as, at the time, it was deemed unnecessary. Now, apparently, that may have changed.
He quickly typed back a response to several messages—again throwing more confusion and red herrings—then clicked on the one from Midwest Condos and wrote: “Thank you for your message. Will appraise unit as soon as possible and let you know when I’ve completed my inspection.”
The Spook hit “send,” waited a moment, and then unhooked the contraption. He smiled to himself, loving it when clients got nervous. It usually resulted in a bigger paycheck. Besides, he wasn’t worried. He’d been keeping an occasional eye on John Rockne, and the man was making progress faster than he’d expected, but in the exact direction he’d steered him. So there was nothing to worry about.
He’d play with him a little longer, make him sweat a little more, and then feed him just enough rope to hang himself.
It was a game the Spook loved to play.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I need a phone number,” I said into my cell phone. I doubted if I could have looked any more ridiculous. A guy in a white Sunbird talking on a cell phone. I prayed to God nobody recognized me.
“Try information.” Nate’s voice was tired and more than a little fed up with yet another request from yours truly.
I drove up Cadieux, just a few blocks from the village. “You’re my own personal information,” I said. “Better than AT&T, although certainly not cheaper.”
“Speaking of which, you still owe me lunch at the Rattlesnake Club.”
“We’ll do lunch and dinner one right after the other,” I said. “We’ll be so full and bloated, we’ll get a jug of antacid tablets from Costco and eat the whole fucking thing.”
“I’ll take dinner at Sweet Lorraine’s.” This was a chic restaurant on 12 Mile Road and Woodward.
Much more affordable than the Rattlesnake Club. Nate was backing off, not wanting to push his gravy train too hard. I just wasn’t in the mood to appreciate such a magnanimous gesture.
“I want the Thai noodles for an appetizer,” he said.
“How about you give me the damn number before you give me your frickin’ order?”
He sighed. Nothing made him more unhappy than changing the topic of conversation away from food. “What.”
“Shannon Sparrow.”
“You want an autograph?” he said. “Or do you want to just tell her how her music has changed your life?”
“I’ll ask her to sign your ass.”
He sighed again. “You’re awfully hostile today, John.”
I was going to tell him about the car chase and shooting but he’d probably be pissed, and I hadn’t called him to give him the story.
“Any idea how I can get a hold of her, Nate?” I said. “I can almost smell Lorraine’s Chicken and Shrimp Creole.” He said something I couldn’t make out, although he did sound happier now that I’d brought the conversation back around to Sweet Lorraine’s. I heard another voice in the background.
“Let me call you back,” he said.
I thumbed the disconnect button and set the cell phone on the seat next to me.
The village was pretty much deserted, save for the few souls frequenting the Kroger supermarket, Borders bookstore, and Blockbuster. There had been a nice Jacobson’s department store anchoring the village, but it went out of business. They were putting in a giant drug store there. Nothing says “distinguished, well-to-do community” like a giant fucking drug store. When it’s done, Grosse Pointe will have the highest citizen-to-hemorrhoid cream ratio in the country.
A moment later, my phone rang.
Nate rattled off a phone number, which I scrawled on the back of the La Shish receipt. Christ, I really needed a little notepad or something. One of those goofy, pretentious-as-hell deals with a suction cup that sticks on the dashboard. It’s like a giant sign that says, I’m so full of ideas I need a pad on my dashboard to write them all down!
“That’s her publicist,” Nate said, interrupting my Andy Rooney-esque soliloquy. “She arranges all interviews with the media and any interaction with John Q. Publics, such as yourself. She’s probably nasty as hell, a guard dog to attack the rabble. Like you.”
“She’s not going to know what hit her.”
“So Rattlesnake Club on Thursday and Sweet Lorraine’s on—”
I hung up on him.
It wasn’t that I would welch on him, but agreeing to the bribe was a whole lot different than scheduling payment of the bribe. It seemed like the more time I could put between the two, the better business deal it became.
While I drove toward my office, I dialed the number. If what I’d heard about stars and their “people” was true, the woman whose number Nate gave me would be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
She answered right away.
I introduced myself, explained I was a private investigator looking into the murder of Jesse Barre and that I would like to ask Ms. Sparrow a few questions, preferably face-to-face.