Tommy was driving back to the Perrino home while Cara quietly read something on her phone.
“Are you going to tell me about your friend?” Tommy asked.
“Not much to tell,” she said. “I interviewed him for a piece I did a few years back about hacking computers.”
“I see, so he’s a hacker?”
“No, he’s a programmer, an IT guy who knows a lot about gaining access to computer systems through backdoor portals.”
“And you think he can hack into Zelman’s system?”
Cara looked at him sideways. “You’re a step ahead, aren’t you?”
It was approaching midnight and the traffic was light. Tommy constantly checked his rearview mirror out of an abundance of caution. “He seemed to have an issue with eye contact. Is he on some sort of spectrum?”
“Asperger’s.”
“What can you gain from hacking Zelman’s computer system?”
“I have a theory,” Cara said, crossing her legs.
Tommy pointed to her runner’s thighs poking out from under her short skirt. “You realize those things should be registered as lethal weapons.”
Cara smiled, enjoying the compliment, a respite from the trauma-filled thoughts that flooded her mind most of the day. She reached over and squeezed Tommy’s shoulder. “Tell me about Jerry?”
“He’s a good kid. Knows absolutely nothing about his dad’s business, so I didn’t even bother going there. To be honest, we mostly talked about his band. He’s a terrific songwriter. I told him that.”
“So he writes most of their songs?”
“All of them. Basically, he is the Doorknobs, the other two just follow his lead.”
“Nice.”
“I told him he should use his father’s influence to get some traction within the music industry. Zelman owns part of a streaming service. Jerry needs to be more proactive. The kid’s a typical artist though. Knows nothing about business.”
“That was generous of you to offer advice without an ulterior motive.”
“Yeah, I think he appreciated that. Kid just needed a little push. I think he could be something.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes, Tommy not finding anything concerning as they entered the Perrino neighborhood. Cara reached down to take off her shoes and Tommy shook his head.
“Hey, I’m trying to drive over here,” he said, swiveling his head back and forth between the road and Cara’s legs. “You want me to get into an accident?”
Cara gently caressed his inner thigh while she whispered in his ear, “There is one thing I’d like you to get into.”
Tommy stepped on the gas.
* * *
Ropa was making coffee while Zelman scrutinized his computer screen from behind his desk. The blinds were drawn shut to prevent the morning sun from glaring off his screen. Ropa added sugar and cream and handed it to his boss, who clicked his mouse furiously.
“What is the problem?” Ropa asked.
“Jerry sent me over a new song and I can’t open the file.” He looked up at the big guy. “You good with this stuff?”
“You’re the tech genius,” Ropa said.
“Yes, but these music files are a different beast. I asked him to come by and take care of it.”
Zelman’s desk phone buzzed, and he pushed a button. “Yeah,” he said.
“Nev is here,” came his receptionist’s voice.
Zelman looked over at Ropa. “Did you ask for him?”
Ropa shrugged. “No, but maybe he could fix your computer issue.”
Zelman pushed the button again. “Send him in.”
Ropa held open the door and a few seconds later Nev Simons came through the doorway, looking edgy, a bundle of nerves. His eyes darted around the room as if he’d never been there before. His skin was pale and his back was curved slightly from years spent hunched over a computer.
Zelman stood and gestured to a chair. “Sit.”
Nev was his usual self, taking a few seconds to respond, then sitting across from Zelman, but glancing at Ropa. “Is he um . . . does he . . .”
Zelman gestured to Ropa and the big guy left the room, shutting the door behind him. When they were alone, Zelman said, “What brings you here today?”
Nev rubbed his hands together while his eyes remained in motion. “Remember when I was working with you?”
The guy stopped there and Zelman was forced to respond. “Yes, I remember.”
“And remember when you told me that someone might talk to me about the security system that I installed for you?”
That got Zelman sitting more upright. “Yes, I do remember that.”
“Well, it happened.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where?”
“At Jake’s, where your son’s band was playing.”
“Tell me, who spoke to you?”
“That reporter girl,” Nev said, never making eye contact. “She asked me to meet her. That place was loud.”
“Which reporter girl?”
“The one whose father died.”
“The Perrino girl?”
“Yes. She wanted to know about the computer system and if I could help her break into your server remotely.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. She wants to find out information about your business. I think she wants to hurt you.”
Alarm bells were going off in Zelman’s head, bouncing around like a pinball machine. What he wanted to do was slap the guy around, maybe take off his belt and show him who was in charge. Make sure Nev understood where his loyalty needed to reside. Instead, he looked inquisitive and simply said, “Tell me all about it.”
And he did. He explained everything about her plan to infiltrate Zelman’s business dealings. When he was done, Nev looked at Zelman for what seemed like an interminable amount of time. Maybe three seconds.
“She said that you were the one who killed her father. Did you really do that?”
Zelman gave him a hurtful expression. “Nev, do you really believe I could murder someone? Is that what you think?”
The guy’s face relaxed a bit. “Not really.”
“Of course not. It is ridiculous.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Even as he tried to sooth Nev’s nerves, Zelman could feel his jaw tighten with anger. This Perrino girl was involved with the FBI agent’s cousin and this didn’t seem right. Nothing seemed right. Zelman had the Mancini mob after him for money he didn’t really have, and now the FBI was closing in, obviously using the Perrino family to squeeze him.
Zelman took the container of almonds and jiggled them toward Nev.
Nev shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Zelman popped an almond into his mouth, chewed, then said, “When I was a young boy, my father would drive the family to church every Sunday with a rundown station wagon on bald tires. One time I was a few minutes late getting home before church. I was held up by some hoodlums who were trying to recruit me into their gang, and I couldn’t get away from them in time. I explained the situation to my father, but instead of praising me for doing the right thing, do you know what he did?”
Nev sat there emotionless.
Zelman rolled up the sleeve of his newly dry-cleaned white shirt and pointed to a scar on his bicep. “He took his belt to me and told me I should never have been in that situation in the first place.”
“He beat you?”
“Some people are happy drunks, others are mean drunks. My pop was a mean drunk. We kids would misbehave, and he would get us back in line. It was a different time back then and a different culture. My brother, he got it much worse than me. Spent a night in a hospital once because of it.”
Zelman rolled down his sleeve.
Nev remained still, trying to absorb things.
“You must understand?” Zelman said. “Since then, I have learned to despise violence. I do everything in my life to avoid it. That came to me at a very early age.”
Nev rubbed his hands together and said, “You were always nice to me.”
Zelman smiled. “So now that we understand each other, let us decide what we should do.”
“Why do you think she lied to me?”
The guy wouldn’t let it go. He was confused and Zelman needed him to stay focused. “I do not think she lied,” he said. “Her father and I had some harsh words just a few days before his death. It was no secret that he and I disagreed on some business dealings. Maybe she mistook our disagreement as evidence for her father’s murder.” Zelman put a hand over his heart. “Believe me, if my father had an open argument with someone, then two days later he was murdered, well, I would think the same thing she does. It is only logical. I do not blame her at all.”
Nev’s foot tapped furiously on the floor while moving his head side to side.
Zelman stood and walked over to a shelf displaying a series of medals and awards, polished silver and gold. “Do you see all of this?” Zelman said proudly. “These accomplishments could not have been achieved without the hard work of my employees. People like yourself who worked so hard on my computer system, allowing me to control my inventory and keep track of all of my finances.”
Nev kept tapping and averting his attention. Zelman decided to try another approach. He sat at the end of his desk and crossed his legs.
“Tell me something,” Zelman said, “what exactly does Miss Perrino need you to do?”
“I told you, she wants me to access your computer remotely.”
“And this is something you can do?”
Nev seemed to ponder that. “Maybe.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
Nev shrugged. “It means I could get in using some of your passwords or variations of them.”
“You could do that?”
“It really depends on your password and how close it is to the ones you’ve always used. Most people use a variation of an original password and it’s only a matter of time before it’s cracked.”
Zelman smiled, taking the guy at his word. “And you’re not sure if you are going to help her?”
“Well, I told her I would.”
“I see.” Zelman hopped down from his desk and grabbed his coffee and took a sip. “Well, then what if I changed my password to something entirely different from the original? How long before you could hack into my system?”
“A long time,” Nev said. “Maybe hours. Probably days.”
Zelman liked the way the guy just spoke his mind so easily. He wondered what it would be like to live like that, walking around just telling people the truth all day long. It would be much less exhausting than keeping track of all the lies Zelman had to tell on a daily basis.
“I tell you what,” Zelman said, crouching down in front of the guy. “Go ahead and help out Miss Perrino and the FBI and whoever else wants your help. Do the best you can. After all, I have nothing to hide. This way you could keep your word. Does that sound fair?”
“Sure.”
Zelman gestured to the door. “Go ahead, Nev. You do the right thing. Your life will be much more rewarding.”
The guy stood up, unsure of what to say. After a few seconds, he started walking toward the door.
“Hey, Nev,” Zelman said.
The guy turned.
“Honestly is always the best policy.”
Something that almost looked like a smile came across Nev’s face. “Thanks.”
When Ropa returned, Zelman had him close the door, then motioned him over.
“Poor guy,” Zelman said, flicking the back of his hand. “He’s got Alzheimer’s or dementia or something, I don’t know.”
Ropa looked at the closed door, then back to Zelman. “Uh, huh.”
Zelman sat behind his desk and began changing the password on his computer. “The fact is . . . he knows too much.”
Ropa nodded. “I will take care of it.”
“No,” Zelman said. “Give this to Pashkov. Tell him to bury the body out in the desert. We need to stick with our plan. I do not want this to come back on us.”
Ropa left without a word. Zelman was proud of himself for using the word us spontaneously, making Ropa part of his team. Which he was. Zelman couldn’t plan his escape alone and he decided to use some of the missing payroll to fill Ropa’s pockets. He needed just one loyal employee to accomplish his goal. A matter of quality over quantity. And that goal was moving up very quickly.