Chapter 20
Dora awoke the next morning convinced that her brainstorm of the previous night had been exactly that: a storm of the brain. Now, in the sunny calm of a new day, it seemed highly unlikely that the peculiarity she had spotted in the computer printout had any significance whatsoever. There were a dozen innocent explanations for it. It was a minor curiosity. It would lead her nowhere.
But still, she reflected glumly, it was all she had, and it deserved, at least, a couple of phone calls. So she dialed Arthur Rushkin. He wasn't in his office yet, and Dora continued calling at fifteen-minute intervals until, at about 10:30, she was put through to him.
"Did you find anything?" he asked eagerly.
"Not really," she said, wondering if dissembling was part of her job or part of her nature. "I just have a technical question, and I was hoping you'd be willing to give me the name of that computer expert you consulted."
"I don't see why not," Rushkin said slowly. "His name is Sregor Pinchik, and he's in the Manhattan directory. He has his own business: computer consultant for banks, brokerages, credit card companies, and corporations."
"Sounds like just the man I need."
"There are two things you should know about him," the attorney went on. "One, he charges a hundred dollars an hour. And two, he's an ex-felon."
"Oh-oh," Dora said. "For what?"
"Computer fraud," Rushkin said, laughing. "But since he's been out, he's discovered there's more money to be made by telling clients how to avoid getting taken by computer sharpies like him. Shall I give Pinchik a call and tell him he'll be hearing from you? That way you won't have to go through the identification rigmarole."
"It would be a big help. Thank you, Mr. Rushkin."
Then she phoned Mike Trevalyan in Hartford.
"Are you on to anything?" he asked.
"Not really," Dora said again, "but something came up that needs a little digging. Mike, remember when you were telling me about Starrett Fine Jewelry? You said that about a year ago Clayton Starrett fired most of his branch managers and put in new people. And about the same time he started trading in gold bullion."
"So?"
"Starrett has fifteen branches in addition to their flagship store in New York. What I need to know is this: Which of the branch stores got new managers a year ago."
"I'm not sure I can get that," Trevalyan said, "but if it's important, I'll try."
"It's important," Dora assured him. "How come I always end up doing your job for you?" "Not all of it. The other thing I wanted to tell you is that I'm going to hire a computer consultant."
"What the hell for?"
"Because I need him," she said patiently. "Technical questions that only an expert can answer."
"How much does he charge?"
"A hundred dollars an hour."
"What!" Trevalyan bellowed. "Are you crazy? A hundred an hour? That means the Company will be paying twenty-five bucks every time this guy takes a crap!"
"Mike," Dora said, sighing, "must you be so vulgar and disgusting? Look, if you needed brain surgery-which sometimes I think you do-would you shop around for the cheapest surgeon you could find? You have to pay for expertise; you know that."
"Are you sure this guy's an expert?"
"The best in the business," she said, not mentioning that he had done time for computer fraud.
"Well… all right," Trevalyan said grudgingly. "But try to use him only for an hour."
"I'll try," she promised, keeping her fingers carefully crossed.
Her third call of the morning was to Gregor Pinchik, whose address in the directory was on West 23rd Street.
Dora gave her name and asked if Mr. Arthur Rushkin had informed Pinchik that she'd be phoning.
"Yeah, he called," the computer consultant acknowledged in a gravelly voice. "He tell you what my fees are?"
"A hundred an hour?"
"That's right. And believe me, lady, I'm worth it. What's this about?"
"I'd rather not talk about it on the phone. Could we meet somewhere?"
"Why not. How's about you coming down here to my loft."
"Sure," Dora said, "I could do that. What time?"
"Noon. How does that sound?"
"I'll be there," she said.
"It's just west of Ninth Avenue. Don't let the building scare you. It's being demolished, and right now I'm the only tenant left. But the intercom still works. You ring from downstairs-three short rings and one long one-and I'll buzz you in. Okay?"
"Okay," Dora said. "I'm on my way."
The decrepit building on West 23rd Street had scaffolding in place, and workmen were prying at crumbling ornamental stonework and brick facing, allowing the debris to tumble down within plywood walls protecting the sidewalk.
Dora nervously ducked into the littered vestibule and pressed the only button in sight: three shorts and a long. The electric lock buzzed; she pushed her way in and cautiously climbed five flights of rickety wood stairs, thinking that at a hundred dollars an hour Gregor Pinchik could afford a business address more impressive than this.
The man who greeted her at the door of the top-floor loft was short, blocky, with a head of Einstein hair and a full Smith Brothers beard, hopelessly snarled. But the eyes were alive, the smile bright.
"Nice place, huh?" he said grinning. "I'm moving to SoHo next week, as soon as they bring in power cables for my hardware. Watch where you step and what you touch; everything is muck and mire."
He led her into one enormous room, jammed with sealed wooden crates and cardboard cartons. His desk was a card table, the phone covered with a plastic cozy. He used his pocket handkerchief to wipe clean a steel folding chair so Dora could sit down. She rummaged through her shoulder bag, found a business card, handed it over.
Pinchik inspected it and laughed. "I know the Company," he said. "Their computer system has more holes than a cribbage board. I got into it once-just for the fun of it, you understand-and looked around, but there was nothing interesting. Tell your boss his computer security is a joke."
"I'll tell him," Dora said. "You're a hacker?"
"I'm a superhacker," he said. "I protect my clients against electronic snoops like me. Which means I have to stay one step ahead of the Nosy Parkers, and it ain't easy. By the way, your first hour of consultation started when you rang the doorbell."
Dora nodded. "Mr. Rushkin tells me you reviewed the computer printout from Starrett Jewelry and found nothing wrong."
Pinchik made a dismissive gesture. "That wasn't real computer stuff," he said. "It was just data processing. You could have done the same thing with an adding machine or pocket calculator, if you wanted to spend the time."
"But it was accurate?" she persisted.
"Accurate?" Pinchik said, and coughed a laugh. "As accurate as what was put into it. You know the expression GIGO? It means Garbage In, Garbage Out. If you feed a computer false data, what you get out is false data. A lot of people find it hard to realize that a computer has no conscience. It doesn't know right or wrong, good or evil. You program it to give you the best way to blow up the world, and it'll chug along for a few seconds and tell you; it doesn't care. Did Rushkin say I've done time?"
She nodded.
"Let me tell you how that happened," he said, "if you don't mind wasting part of your hundred-dollar hour."
"I don't mind," Dora said.
"I've got an eighth-grade education," Pinchik said, "but I'm a computer whiz. Most hackers have the passion. With me, it's an obsession. I was a salesman in a computer store on West Forty-sixth Street. I could buy new equipment at an employee's discount, and I was living up here paying bupkes for rent. I worked eight hours a day at the store and spent eight hours hacking. I mean I was writing programs and corresponding electronically with people all over the world as nutty as I was. I can't begin to tell you the systems I got into: government, universities, research labs, military, banks-the whole schmear.