“Food,” I say, reminding myself that it’s better to drink with a full belly. “A plate of chicken wings. Can you do that? Something hot. Unsportsmanlike spiciness. That’s what I’m after.”
Two millennial slackers nurse MGDs at one end of the bar, oblivious to my presence as they compare notes about the computer networks they’ve compromised. One of them got paid today and brags about how he can finally make rent on his office space. He’s wearing a sheepskin jacket, the kind of rough-stitched thing that looks like something the Marlboro Man would wear when rustling cattle. He orders another round of MGDs for himself and his pal. DC is full of computer geeks, NSA and CIA types tasked with hacking into Chinese intelligence agencies and terrorist cells, but I fear for our nation’s security if these two cyberwarriors are the best we have. You’d think our spies would know to keep quiet, but the one who just got paid gabs about the juvenile court databases and medical records he’s scoured.
“Sealed juvenile court records? How’d you do that?” his pal asks.
“This is America. You can do anything you want. I programmed a new app for that. That’s how I did it,” the man says, pulling out his iPhone and unlocking the screen. “Through reflexive locator algorithms, I mimic the request as if it’s coming from inside the network, and then, through rapid response generation, I attack the database root password, temporarily changing it so no one else can enter the DB while I’m inside. Everything’s conducted through a network of rotating VPNs so if the hack’s detected, it can’t be traced back to me.”
“Wow.”
The two of them geek out, speaking a dialect of computerese unintelligible to me. They talk of back doors, bots, MySQL infiltrations, and brute-force attacks, lamenting how much harder hacking’s become over the last five years since governments and commercial entities started clamping down on digital security.
“She paid me two thousand dollars. I feel skeezy taking her money after what her father did to my grandfather. But not bad for an hour’s work, huh? In cash too.” The guy dips his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a wad of crumpled cash. “She paid everything up front with hundred-dollar bills.”
It’s only these two guys and me sitting at the bar. I’m eavesdropping so blatantly it’s impossible they’d be unaware of my presence. Neither, I realize, are spies, but only gradually do I understand one of them must be my private investigator—a euphemism, I assume, for “professional fixer.” I can’t imagine Jack Riggs entrusting someone so young to handle his problems—but, then again, anyone who charges $2,000 an hour must be talented. Still, it’s hard to believe this is the guy who’ll tell me how to keep both Trish and Laurel happy. Once his drinking partner leaves, I’ll slide over to the stool next to him, introduce myself, and see how he can fix my dilemma.
The private detective talks about the specifics of his current case. “The woman gave birth yesterday at Sibley Hospital. A baby girl. She got knocked up by the woman’s husband, and now the woman’s all sore about it.”
My head jerks up. He’s talking about Laurel. Trish must be his client.
The detective’s pal shakes his head.
“So the wife charges into my office saying I need to dig up any dirt I can find so she can get city social services to take the baby away from the mistress. How’s that for vengeance? Vicious, huh? Rich women play for keeps, don’t they?”
Playing hardball is part of the Riggs family ethic, but I’m still staggered. Scotch scorches the wrong way down my throat. I had come prepared to lay down my situation and seek this fixer’s assistance, but Trish has somehow beaten me to him.
The private detective’s attention veers toward one of the television screens above the bar. Two hockey players are squaring off at center ice ready to fight each other. They throw off their gloves, grab hold of each other’s jerseys, and slam fists into each other’s jaws. Within moments, blood flows. If I don’t do something, Trish is going to get the city to take away my baby. My head spins and spins. Instead of booze, it’s life that’s gotten the better of me.
“Holy shit,” the detective says, transfixed by the hockey fight. “I think he just popped the other guy’s teeth out.”
I’m eager to learn more about the detective’s findings, but three drinks into the evening, the need to relieve myself comes over me. I head to the men’s room, do my business, and think about what I can possibly do to interfere with Trish’s plans. When I return, the private detective sits alone scrolling through messages on his iPhone. He’s taken off his sheepskin jacket, folded it over the stool where his friend had been sitting. Knowing that Trish is taking action against Laurel forces my hand. If I’m to prevent Trish from getting the city to take away Laurel’s baby, I need to intervene. Maybe he’s already emailed this information to Trish. Maybe social services has already initiated actions to take Anne Elise away from Laurel. If they can strip Laurel of her rights to keep her child, they’ll surely do the same with me, meaning I’ll likely never see Anne Elise again.
“Spot me a round,” I say, sliding onto the stool next to the private detective. His eyebrows twitch. Up close, he’s even younger than I pegged him, maybe in his early twenties. About the only thing he has going for him is his intelligence because, in a plaid shirt and outdated wire-rimmed glasses, there’s nothing about him that would make you think he’s anything special. “Make it something good too.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the one who bagged two thousand dollars today. That’s why. When the gods of good fortune shine upon you, never be afraid to share your winnings with others. The world is a giant roulette wheel. Karma’s real. Let your luck rub off on total strangers. That’s what I always say.”
The detective’s bushy brown eyebrows twitch again. He peers down to the other end of the bar, where my plate, now piled with the chicken wing bones I’ve thoroughly picked clean, still sits. “You were sitting down there?”
“Two double Scotches on the rocks,” I say, catching the barkeep’s attention. “Put them on my friend’s tab.”
Surprisingly, my new friend doesn’t flinch. He looks me over, says nothing. Despite how gabby he’d been with his friend, he suddenly becomes taciturn. His mouth is a tight smile, his eyes small slits through which he peers at me. He doesn’t ask my name or what I do for a living, but maybe for professional reasons, it’s better he doesn’t know too much about his clients. Should I request he perform some act that stretches the limits of legal permissibility, it’s to his advantage to maintain as much plausible deniability as possible. When the drinks arrive, his nostrils flare at the peaty aroma. I thought private detectives were still the hard-drinking lot portrayed by Humphrey Bogart and Raymond Chandler, but he recoils from the smell.
“How long were you listening in on my conversation?”
“I take it you’re a private detective?”
“Are you the guy who called earlier?”
“I might be.”
He peers back at his drink, listens to the clink of the ice cubes as he swirls the tumbler around in his hands.