Ah, the book-cooker. “Embezzlement?”
“Worse. He took my records. Then the little fucker called me and said he’d give them back when I deposited twenty million in his numbered account in Switzerland.”
Yuell whistled between his teeth. Jeffrey Layton, certified public accountant, had either balls the size of Texas or brains the size of a pea. He voted for the pea.
“And if you don’t give him the money?”
“He downloaded them on his flash drive. He said he’d turn it over to the FBI if the money isn’t in his account in fourteen days. Nice of him to give me time to get that much together, right?” Bandini paused. “Two of those fourteen days are already gone.”
Bandini was right; this was way worse than just taking money. Money could be replaced, and getting Layton would be a matter of saving face, no more. But the downloaded files—and Bandini had to be talking about his true financial records, not the second set of books kept for the IRS—would not only give the FBI indisputable evidence on tax evasion, but would also give them a wealth of information on the people Bandini did business with. Not only would the IRS be on Bandini’s ass, so would the people who would blame him for the whole mess.
Layton was a dead man. He might not have reached room temperature yet, but it was just a matter of time.
“Why did you wait two days?” Yuell asked.
“My people tried to find him. They failed.” His flat tone didn’t bode well for the continued good health of the failures. “Layton had already skipped town before he called. He made it to Boise, rented a car, and disappeared.”
“Idaho? He from there, or something?”
“No. Why Idaho? Who the hell knows. Maybe he likes potatoes. When my guys hit a dead end, I decided I needed a specialist. I asked around, and your name surfaced. Word is you’re good.”
This was one time Yuell wished he hadn’t so assiduously built his reputation. He could happily have spent the rest of his life not having a face-to-face with Salazar Bandini.
The way Yuell saw it, this was a lose-lose proposition. If he turned down the job, his body would turn up either in little pieces or not at all. But if he took it, Bandini would have to figure he downloaded the flash drive onto his own computer before turning it in; knowledge was power, no matter which world you lived in. Bandini wouldn’t hesitate to backstab anyone, so he expected it from everyone. What to do in such a case? Kill the messenger. You can’t blackmail someone if you’re dead.
The thing was, Yuell hadn’t built his rep by being stupid—or by being a coward. He met Bandini’s cold, empty gaze. “You’d have to figure anyone who found the flash drive would copy the files before giving it back to you, so it follows you’ll kill whoever finds it. That being the case, why would I take the job?”
Bandini began his grating, humorless laugh. “I really do like you, Faulkner. You think. Most assholes don’t know how. I’m not worried about anyone copying the file. It’s coded to wipe clean if anyone tries to access the file without the password. Layton had the password.” He leaned back in his chair. “Any future files will have to be coded not to allow downloading, but you learn from experience, right? “
Yuell thought about that. Bandini might be telling the truth. He might not. Yuell would have to do some research on computer files to find out if it was possible to write a program that would erase itself from the drive if anyone tried to access it without the password. Maybe. Probably. Damn hackers and geeks could probably make a program sit up and bark if they wanted.
Or maybe the file would be emptied, but the info would still be on the drive somewhere. He’d been thinking about recruiting a computer forensics expert, and now he wished he’d already taken on the expense. Too late now; he’d have to go with what he could find out on his own, and he wouldn’t have enough time for a thorough investigation.
“Get that flash drive,” Bandini said, “take care of Layton, and the twenty million is yours.”
Holy shit. Fuck. Yuell managed not to show any reaction, but he was as alarmed as he was enticed. Bandini could have offered half that—hell, one-tenth that—and he would have felt overpaid. For Bandini to offer twenty million, the flash drive had to hold some explosive stuff—probably more than just his financial records. And whatever it was, Yuell didn’t want to know.
Or Bandini planned to kill him anyway, so it didn’t matter how much he offered.
The thought niggled at him. He couldn’t ignore it, but from a business standpoint it didn’t make sense. If Bandini got the reputation for reneging on deals, he was gone. Fear could take you so far. but it didn’t trump the bottom line. You start pissing on people’s money, and they’ll find a way to piss back.
But he was in it now, and he’d do the job.
“You got Layton’s social security number?” he asked. “Save me a little time if you do.”
Bandini smiled.
Chapter 5
Yuell called in his two best men, Hugh Toxtel and Kennon Goss, because he didn’t want any mistakes on this job. He also sent another man. Armstrong, to Layton’s house in the suburbs to look for information such as credit card bills that might have arrived since Layton had bolted. Hell, Layton might even have left stuff like that lying around. People did stupid shit every day, and Layton had already demonstrated he wasn’t the most logical person in the galaxy.
While Yuell was waiting for the men to arrive, he ran several search programs on his computer, digging up every bit of information on Jeffrey Layton that he could find, which was a lot.
Most people would have a stroke if they knew how much of their personal information was out in cyberspace. From public records he got the dates of Layton’s marriage and subsequent divorce, and he noted down the ex—Mrs. Layton’s name for further investigation. If she hadn’t remarried, it was possible Layton would run to her for help. Yuell also noted how much Layton’s property taxes were, and some other details that were probably useless but which he wrote down anyway. You could never tell when something that looked trivial on the surface would turn out to be crucial.
Some of the programs he used weren’t exactly legal, but he’d paid through the nose for them because they worked, allowing him to get into databases that were otherwise closed to him. Insurance companies, banks, Federal programs—if you could make the computers think you were a legitimate user, you could go anywhere in their systems. By logically starting with Illinois’s largest health insurer, he discovered that Layton had high blood pressure for which he took medication, and that he also had a two-year-old prescription for Viagra—which he’d never had refilled or renewed, which meant he wasn’t getting laid very often, if at all. Nor had he had the foresight to refill his hypertension medication before absconding with Bandini’s files. Running for your life was bound to be stressful; the fucker could stroke out if he wasn’t careful.
Exiting from the insurer’s system, Yuell logged in to the state system and soon netted Layton’s driver’s license number. Going into the social security system took a bit more finesse, because he had to piggyback on another, legitimate user, but he persisted until he had it because the payoff was worth the risk. The social was the magic key to a person’s life and information; with it, Layton’s entire life was his.
Armstrong called on his cell from Layton’s house. That was one of the first things Yuell told his guys: Never use the phone in someone else’s place. That way no cop could hit “redial” and find out the last number called. That way no information connecting you to the place turned up in the phone company’s records. Yuell’s rule was ironclad: Use your own cell. As an extra precaution, they all used disposable cells. If for any reason they thought the number had been compromised, they simply bought another phone.