Chapter 59
Damian Rein walks confidently into 100 North Tampa Street and waits patiently for the elevator that will take him to the fortieth floor.
He is heading to an office in one of Tampa’s tallest skyscrapers, one built on the banks of the Hillsborough River, with unobstructed, panoramic views of Hillsborough Bay, Old Tampa Bay, and Tampa Bay.
He’s dressed in a two-piece, three-button dark gray suit, silver tie, obsidian cuff links, shiny black shoes.
Head smoothly shaved.
Wearing the latest cologne from Calvin Klein.
Outwardly he projects power and authority, like someone in charge. He flashes the smile of a winner. But inside he’s dying a slow death.
Yeah, they should give him an Academy Award for this performance.
Like when he was in Neiman Marcus last night.
Men’s fragrances.
The woman behind the counter was flirting with him big-time as he sampled various colognes, keeping her cleavage in plain view as she showed him her wares.
Thing was, all of those fucking fragrances were making him nauseous.
His headache was already out of control.
And truth be told, when he was leaning in to the woman, returning his dazzling smile to her, gazing down at those fortysomething breasts, all he could think about was tying her sorry ass to a four-poster bed and slapping those middle-aged titties around with a spatula until her entire torso was beet red.
Bitches!
He had no fucking use for them anymore.
He was tired of their shit.
Weary of being the man they desired him to be, only to be pushed aside.
Feeling like last year’s model.
Of course he didn’t slap the shit out of her.
Not at all.
Instead, he did what he always does. Flashed his straight white teeth, settled on the new Calvin Klein, took the woman’s business card that she handed to him with his receipt. Told the biddy he’d call to make arrangements so they could enjoy dinner together one day next week.
Or even better.
Dessert.
Just the two of them.
That got her eyes sparkling with desire. She could barely keep from rubbing her legs together with glee.
Whore.
The elevator door opens.
Damian strolls out and heads to his appointment.
He’s been here before.
Pushes his way through the glass doors and greets the receptionist with a grin.
They are expecting him.
He has a seat in the posh waiting area while he’s offered coffee.
Damian declines.
He waits about ten minutes before the receptionist stands and asks him to follow her.
Damian walks to the right of the receptionist’s desk, where a set of double doors is inlaid. She opens them and stands aside, and Damian is ushered in.
Inside, a large, well-decorated office awaits, the centerpiece being a sleek aluminum and glass desk with a middle-aged white man sitting behind it. On three walls are floor-to-ceiling glass panels, providing an unobstructed view of the water beyond. The man stands, raising his hand to Damian.
“Damian Rein,” he says.
“Jason Corcoran, good to see you again.”
“Please,” Jason gestures. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
The door closes behind them. Jason returns to his chair and steeples his fingers in front of him.
“So?”
Damian can see that Jason wants to get down to business.
Good.
He’s not here to socialize.
Damian begins. “About a month ago you asked me here to discuss your potential run for the governorship of this state. You’ve been a well-known business leader and philanthropist to many charitable causes here in the Tampa area. No one knows of your serious consideration to run for office, although many local politicians have asked that you enter the race. At this time your desire to run is a closely guarded secret. And you asked me to look into the security aspects of your candidacy for governor. Specifically, what is known or what can be found out about Jason Corcoran that can damage you.
“The issue is a timely one. As you are aware, several high-profile cases have involved politicians whose illegal or unethical dealings came to light—only to serve as their undoing. In the case of the mayor of Detroit, a series of text messages showed that he was indeed carrying on an extramarital affair with his chief of staff and lying about it to the public. In the case of the governor of New York, cell-phone records, text messages, and other electronic data proved that he was frequenting high-priced escort services.”
Damian shakes his head.
“Mr. Rein,” Jason says, “I know all of this. Tell me what you’ve uncovered. Just how vulnerable am I?”
Damian nods.
“You are a well-respected businessman. You are known for your charities. But this is what I discovered.”
Damian recites what he knows from memory, without the benefit of notes.
“You routinely transfer money to an account in Cuba by way of the Virgin Islands and have done so for the past three years. It appears that you have fathered a child there and are paying a young woman for her silence.”
“How did you—”
“May I continue?”
Jason nods solemnly.
“Furthermore, it would seem that you are addicted to porn. Perhaps addicted is the wrong word, but the hard drives of your four computers are littered with gigabytes of movies and pictures. Your fetish is bukkake—the practice of having female subjects ejaculated on by numerous men—in particular the Japanese bukkake variety, not the fake stuff they manufacture in Southern California, and you’ve spent a good deal of time and money to purchase it.”
Jason’s face has turned chalky white.
“You have several credit cards that are not in your own name, which are used for these purchases. Those cards have been used to pay for travel to Japan twice—once last year and once the year before that—where you participated in your own bukkake sessions that were videotaped. Those sessions are on your hard drive, but unfortunately, at least several copies are also floating around the Internet.”
“Oh my God.”
The words come as a whisper.
“Mr. Corcoran, please understand. I am not here to judge you. Your indiscretions are yours alone. I am here to help you. To eradicate any evidence of illegal, improper, or seemingly immoral activity. And that I can do.”
Jason Corcoran swallows hard.
Damian continues.
“My fees are one hundred thousand dollars and will buy you absolute discretion and secrecy. It will take approximately two months of work, primarily due to the fact that we have to hack into American Express and All Nippon Airways to delete the records of your transactions. The Cuba situation is much simpler to deal with. Then there is the question of the videotapes. I can’t be sure of how many copies exist, so that will take some additional time. In the end, no one can guarantee that all digital copies are destroyed. But I’ll do what I can. If the copies exist on a computer, we’ll find them and get rid of them.”
Damian sits back, quite satisfied with himself. He can see that he’s damaged the fuckwad Jason Corcoran to the core. This is the part that he absolutely adores. Knocking down powerful men and their companies with half a minute’s worth of information.
Information is true power.
What you know can alter lives.
It can ruin men.
Make them slaves to another.
Damian wants to grin uncontrollably.
LOL!
Instead, he issues a tight smile and says with his hands held open, as if he were Jason’s own priest, “Mr. Corcoran, relax, please. Rein Security is here to protect your secrets.”
Chapter 60
Happy as a clam.
Isn’t that the expression?
That’s how Damian feels right now.
Happy as a clam.
Whatever the hell that means.
Heading back to the office, Damian feels great. He’s just landed an account that will net him close to a hundred grand for a few months’ work. Best thing about it? Damian doesn’t even have to get his hands wet.
That’s what is so fantastic about this gig.
Damian is not a hacker. Or even a security guru.
But, as with all great businessmen, the key to his success has been surrounding himself with talented people who know how to get the job done.
Rein Security is built on the premise that Damian, as the CEO, goes out and gets the clients. His “employees” are freelance hackers—brilliant yet socially inept computer science graduates or dropouts. These guys will work for cash, and are totally discreet—Damian has made sure of that by having them sign ironclad nondisclosure agreements. Their work can’t be traced back, and if it does come back to them—well, fuck them, they’re on their own—they get paid well enough to protect themselves.
Damian communicates with them over a highly encrypted link, where the 512-bit symmetrical keys are changed once a week. Shit, even the Fed doesn’t change their encryption that often.
It’s a perfect arrangement.
He gets the jobs, they perform the work. He pays them cash, pockets 70 to 80 percent of what each job has been bid out as.
Today he just made easy money.
And his thoughts are transported back to
her.
Too bad she’s not around to share in the wealth.
This is what he means about women.
If she were still around, he’d be making arrangements to pick her up and take her to dinner at the best restaurant in all of Tampa.
Where do you want to go, baby?
It’s on me.
Wanna fly to Miami for dinner?
Or Jacksonville?
Wherever you wanna go, baby, whatever you wanna do, we’ll do it. My treat!
I do all of this for you.
He can imagine it right now, and the thought is sobering.
Let’s take a trip—spur of the moment—to Paris or Milan. Can’t take off that much time from work? No problem. How about a quick jaunt to the islands? Trinidad, Tobago, Aruba?
Blue-green seas, white sands. Flowing libations and the tastiest vittles your palate has ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
All for you, baby.
I do this all for you.
For a moment, the pain had simply vanished.
Gone.
Like it had never even existed.
He had been thinking about
her,
his ex-wife, about the good old times, and the terrible hurt was no longer there. But then, just like that, Damian’s back to the present—to reality—and the ache is a dull throb in his neck and temples.
Fuck
her!
Damian swats the thought from his mind as if he were whisking away annoying flies.
He reaches his building and takes the elevator to his floor. The office is quiet. His assistant is at lunch.
Good.
He doesn’t want to talk to her anyway.
He unlocks his office and shuts the door quickly behind him.
Goes to his desk, fires up his Mac Pro. Checks messages.
Nothing of interest.
So Damian switches gears and thinks about
them
.
Dude and Mocha.
Wondering how life’s treating them.
How they are getting by since Damian came into their life and wreaked fucking havoc.
All the pieces are coming together.
He’s tying up all the loose ends.
He’ll be done soon.
Hopefully, once and for all, the pain will cease to be an issue for him.
Hopefully, soon, he’ll silence his pain.
Forever.
Then begin to live again.
The phone rings.
Damian glares at the screen.
Sees a 202 area code.
Strange.
He lets it ring again.
Then remembers that his assistant is at lunch.
So he reaches for the receiver.
“Rein Security, Damian Rein speaking.”
He says it pleasantly enough. And why shouldn’t he? He’s still feeling good.
Not post-orgasmic great, like a few minutes ago, before his mood was clouded with thoughts of her.
But still good.
“Mr. Rein. This is Detective Joe Goodman of the Metropolitan Police Department. Do you have a few moments?”
All of a sudden his cheerfulness has evaporated.
Just like that, it’s gray skies. Cold, unfamiliar terrain.
Storms on the horizon.
The pain assaults him at the base of his neck. He reaches for the Tylenol, grabs a fistful of Gel Tabs and chews them angrily, washing them down with lukewarm bottled water.
“Mr. Rein,” Joe says again.
“Yes . . . I’m here.”
Control yourself,
Damian commands.
Be cool.
Goodman. The cop from D.C.
Ex-husband of Mocha.
Shit . . .
He had not expected this.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your ex-wife, Lindsey Rein,” Joe says.
Damian clears his throat.
“I’ve told the Hillsborough deputies all I know.”
“When was the last time you saw your ex?”
“I don’t know. It’s been at least five, six months. Perhaps longer.”
“And when did you last speak to her?”
“We have had very few conversations, Detective. We’re no longer married.”
“So you can’t recall the last time you two spoke?” Joe asks.
“Nope.”
“Don’t recall what you talked about? Or the nature of the conversation?”
“No idea.”
“You don’t seem overly concerned about Lindsey. You do know she’s missing, right?”
“Should I be concerned?” Damian grunts. “Lindsey’s no longer my problem.”
“Interesting attitude, Mr. Rein.”
“Look, Detective, she left me, not the other way around. She moved away, took a new job, didn’t want to be found. So I’m not sure what you expect from me. My sympathy? Nope, you won’t get that. Not where she’s concerned. That’s not against the law.”
“Nope, you’re absolutely right.”
“Do you know a Michael and Kennedy Handley from Washington, D.C.?”
That stops Damian dead in his tracks.
Careful.
Be extremely careful.
“No. Never heard of them,” Damian replies.
“Really? Perhaps your wife might have mentioned them to you. Michael? Kennedy?”
“Ah, no.”
“Been to D.C., Mr. Rein?” Joe asks.
“Well, sure. Long time ago.”
“Nothing recent, though?”
“Nope.”
He realizes the mistake as soon as the words escape him. Nothing he can do about it now.
“Hmm. Okay. You’re in the security business, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Meaning, you know how to break into people’s computers, steal data on hard drives, that sort of thing?” the detective says.
Damian is silent.
“That is your business, right, Mr. Rein?”
“I’m sorry. What exactly is the nature of your investigation, Detective?”
“So you don’t deny being a hacker, capable of stealing data from other people’s computers?”
“This conversation is over, Detective. If you have further questions for me, I can put you in touch with my attorney.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Rein. For what you and I have to discuss, our conversation has just begun.”
The line goes silent, and Damian sees nothing but red.
He sits in his chair, very still, the hammer in his skull driving him to near unconsciousness.
Detective Joe Goodman is a dead man.
He just doesn’t know it yet.