The office had cheap bamboo shades covering the windows and faded carpet. A coin-counting machine filled with quarters sat behind the desk. The article on Google had said that Tursenev’s strip clubs had made a hundred thousand a week before being shut down. The big Russian had fallen hard.
“So how may I help the world’s greatest crime-fighting organization this morning?” Tursenev asked.
Linderman produced a slip of paper containing the address of the pay phone which Mr. Clean had used. “I need to see a log of calls placed from this phone.”
Tursenev studied the slip, then consulted a map of Broward County hanging on the wall. Finding the address, he dropped himself into a swivel chair, and let his pudgy fingers dance across his computer keyboard. “Each Sky Tell phone has a six-digit code. The code acts as a password, and will let me find the information you want in our computer system.”
A short list of numbers filled the computer screen. Linderman came around the desk to have a better look. As he did, Tursenev stiffened.
“Something wrong?”
“It is nothing,” the big Russian said.
Tursenev’s eyes darted to the canvas bag lying beneath the desk. Linderman felt tempted to pull the bag out, and have a look inside. Only that wasn’t why he was here. Instead, he pointed at the computer screen.
“Are these the calls originating from that phone?”
“Yes,” Tursenev said under his breath.
Linderman stared at the list. Only one phone call had been made between seven and seven-fifteen that morning. The call had a nine-zero-four area code, which was the area code for Jacksonville, Florida. Mr. Clean had called someone in Jacksonville before he’d murdered the Harmony driver and abducted Wayne Ladd. If Linderman could track that person down, he’d be one step closer to learning Mr. Clean’s identity.
“I need a copy of this page,” Linderman said.
Tursenev hit a command on the keyboard. The printer on the desk purred like a kitten, and a sheet spit out. Linderman removed it from the tray, and placed it on the desk.
“I want you to sign and date this, and authenticate that this phone number came from this pay phone,” Linderman said.
Tursenev made a pen appear and signed his name with a flourish. Linderman signed and dated the page as well, just in case it needed to be later used as evidence in court. He folded the sheet and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
“Are we done?” Tursenev asked.
“Yes. Thank you for your help.”
Tursenev pulled a metal flask and two shot glasses from his desk drawer. “I sense you have found something which is important to your investigation,” he said, filling the glasses with a clear liquid. “I believe a toast is in order.”
“What are you pouring?” Linderman asked.
“Vodka.”
“No thanks.”
“I will not tell, if that is what you are thinking.”
Tursenev raised one of the shot glasses to his lips and waited. Linderman found himself being tempted. Maybe a quick jolt would lift him out of his dark mood. After all, it was his day off, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted.
He picked up the shot glass.
“To your health,” Tursenev said.
“And to yours.”
They clinked glasses. Tursenev smile broadly, his mouth filled with dark, crooked teeth. Linderman saw something in that smile that he hadn’t seen before. It was the look of a man who’d succumbed to temptation long ago, and who’d helped him solely because he was afraid Linderman might search his office, and discover all sorts of bad things. It was the face of the devil, hidden behind a pleasant Russian accent.
He had known many men like Tursenev; they were the bane of his existence. To let Tursenev penetrate his defenses was a mistake, for it would taint his ability to do his job, and rub against his soul like a rough stone. Linderman had to stay clean. He had come to that conclusion long ago, for it was the only way to stay out of the abyss.
He put the shot glass down and left the office.
9/11 had changed many things in criminal investigations. Perhaps the most notable was the ability to track a phone number, be it a land line, or a cell phone. In the old days, the process took time and sometimes even court orders, and often brought investigations to a standstill. Today, the process was much faster, with the three major phone companies willing to give up the information to any government agency who requested it.
With his car’s AC blasting in his face, Linderman sent out official FBI information requests on his laptop to AT &T, Verizon, and Sprint, asking them to supply him with the name of the owner of the 904 telephone number.
Five minutes later, one of the companies replied.
The company was Verizon. The 904 number which Mr. Clean had called belonged to cell phone owned by a Verizon customer named Eric Drake who lived at 387 Foxtrot Road in Jacksonville.
It was a good start.
Linderman called Verizon’s corporate office in lower Manhattan, and asked for their legal department. Soon he was speaking to a company lawyer, who informed him that Verizon would not produce logs of customer calls without court orders. Linderman told the lawyer the investigation involved the abduction of a minor. That changed things. “Promise me a subpoena signed by week’s end, and I’ll email you the information immediately,” the lawyer said.
“You’ve got it,” Linderman said.
“Give me your email address,” the lawyer said.
An email from Verizon soon appeared on his laptop. Finding a McDonald’s, he ate lunch in his car while studying a spread sheet showing every call made and received on Eric Drake’s cell phone in the past twelve months.
On average, Drake made seven outgoing calls a week on his cell phone, with all of the calls made late at night. Every outgoing call was made to a 954 or 754 area code, which was Broward County. The calls were to different numbers, with not a single duplication over a twelve-month period. Either Drake knew several hundred people in Broward – which was unlikely – or he calling pay phones so the calls couldn’t be traced.
The incoming calls to Drake’s cell phone were the same, only less in volume. Drake received one or two incoming calls a week, all from Broward County, and all from different numbers. It was highly suspicious, and suggested that Drake was running some sort of criminal operation.
Linderman decided to run a background check to see if Drake had a record. Using his laptop, he went to the FBI’s National Instant Criminal Background Check System, and typed in Drake’s name and address. The system was far from instant, and a Please Stand By message appeared on his screen.
Then he had a thought. Regardless of what he found, either he or Vick would want to fly to Jacksonville, and interview Drake. At some point, the director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office would have to get involved. Better now than later, he decided.
Vaughn Wood ran the FBI’s Jacksonville office, and had gone through the FBI academy with Linderman. Wood had made his chops doing undercover work, and had brought down an outlaw motorcycle gang. Linderman was one of the few people who knew Wood’s nickname when he’d run with the gang. They’d called him Little Jesus.
He called Wood’s office line, and heard his friend pick up.
“Hey, Ken, I’m in the middle of lunch. How’s it going?”
“I need a favor, LJ. Have you ever run across a guy named Eric Drake? He had a cell phone conversation with a serial killer this morning. I’m trying to find out why.”
“He lives in Jax?”
“According to phone records, yes.”
“Name doesn’t ring any bells. Are you sure the name is real?”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of criminals use aliases when they purchase cell phones. That way, we can’t run them down.”
“I don’t know if the name is real, or not.”
“Let me see what I can dig up,” Wood said. “Call you back on this number?”