payment for a retired worker is $2,185 per month, and the average is $1,079.”
“They’d stick somewhere around the average,” the coffee guy said. “To avoid attention. But how many fake accounts do they have? That’s the key.”
“Sorry,” the plump guy said. “Dead end. There’s no way to tell.”
“Can’t you estimate?” Tanya said. “How many people receive Social Security over here?”
“Give me a second,” the plump guy said. “Here we go. In New York, 1,996,230. And that was in 2005, so there’ll be even more now.”
“OK,” Tanya said. “And how accurate is that data?”
“Federal standard is 99.96 percent,” the plump guy said. “Which isn’t bad.”
“Not bad,” Tanya said. “But even so, point-zero-four percent of almost two million is a fair few dummy accounts.”
“Around eight hundred,” I said.
“And if each one receives, say, thirteen thousand dollars a year?” Tanya said.
“Wow,” the coffee guy said. “That’s well over ten million dollars, annually.”
“If all your assumptions are right,” Weston said. “And if all the false accounts are fraudulent, not just mistakes. And if all the fraudulent ones are tied to Lesley.”
“They will be,” Varley said. “Trust me. She doesn’t tolerate competitors.”
“But even if it’s half that amount, it’s still huge,” the plump guy said. “And dead easy. Once it’s set up, the money will keep rolling in all on its own.”
“I just don’t see it,” Weston said. “Surely they have auditors.”
“Of course they do,” I said. “That’s why people are getting killed.”
“If it’s like previous scams, the department will randomly check X-number of accounts every month,” the plump guy said. “The inside man will match the list against the dummy ones he set up. And any time he sees they’re investigating one of his, he’ll warn Lesley.”
“So?” Weston said.
“So Lesley will have a suitable homeless guy killed,” the plump guy said. “Plant a fake Social Security card on the body. The police find it, the victim’s new identity works its way back through the system, and the investigators take that as proof their records were legit all along.”
“That’s why they moved Agent Raab’s body,” Tanya said. “Remember how it had been dragged to the front of the alley? David practically tripped over it. Lesley wanted it found in a hurry.”
“Sounds almost foolproof,” Varley said. “Lieutenant, can you tell how many victims’ records were being audited at the time they died?”
“Not right now,” McBride said. “But give me a week. I’ll get the new parameters added to the database.”
Give the guy a week. He’ll add the new parameters. Which is fine, from an admin point of view. But if you were Lesley, would you be scared?
NINETEEN
Some skills, the navy can teach you.
Others, they can only develop. There has to be something already there, inside you, for them to work with. I first figured that out when we were learning about close-target reconnaissance. Surveillance, as most people think of it. The approach was that before we could try out any techniques for ourselves, we had to go on loan to the army for a week. We were told they needed untainted “volunteers” to be tracked by a group of trainee spooks who were taking their final assessments. It seemed like an easy enough assignment. All you had to do was walk around a different city center each day and carry out a number of mundane tasks like posting letters or buying groceries. Our brief was to keep our eyes and ears open, and every evening give a written report on how many tails we’d spotted and where. We were warned the spooks could be anywhere. In cars, on foot, riding bicycles, walking dogs, sitting in cafes. If they could observe us without being detected, they would pass their course. But as usual with the navy, there was something they weren’t telling us. Being stalked by the army guys wasn’t just the end of their evaluation. It was the start of our own. If you couldn’t pick up, instinctively, when you were being followed, you never made it to the next stage. Because there are a lot of things you had to know to make you effective in the field. But only one thing you had to have. A kind of sixth sense.
Useful, if you wanted to pass your assessment.
Vital, if you wanted to stay alive afterward.
The table Tanya had booked for us turned out to be at Fong’s. That was the same restaurant I’d eaten at two nights ago, just before walking into the whole debacle over Raab’s body. And as good as the place was, choosing to go back so soon did seem a little strange. The feeling that I wasn’t getting the full picture was still gnawing at me when I arrived, exactly at nine-thirty, and I knew it wouldn’t go away until I’d asked Tanya what she’d been thinking of when she made the reservation. But as it happened, I couldn’t ask her anything. Because she didn’t turn up.
I had the same waiter as last time. He gave me the same table. And when Tanya’s apologetic text arrived he gave me the same half amused, half pitiful look you always get when you eat out alone.
I ordered the same meal. The same wine. And I was staying in the same hotel, so I decided to complete the whole deja vu experience by walking back the same way. Except that by the time I reached Raab’s alleyway, I had a strong feeling I was no longer on my own.
Five people had left Fong’s around the same time as me. Two couples and one single male. I wasn’t too concerned about the couples. They’d been in the restaurant before I arrived, sitting together, and I watched them hang around at the edge of the sidewalk chatting for a few moments before they drifted off in the opposite direction. The guy was much more interesting, though. I hadn’t seen him inside, eating or working. He’d just appeared from the side of the building, near the staff entrance, and then loitered in the shadows until he saw which way I was headed. He set off in front of me and walked fast until he was twenty feet ahead. Then he slowed his pace to match mine, carefully keeping the gap between us roughly constant.
At the first corner he turned right, the way I was planning to go. I followed him into the next street and found he’d stopped ten feet from the intersection and was standing sideways, looking toward me and laboriously trying to light a cigarette with a spluttering old Zippo. As soon as he saw me he snapped the lighter closed and moved off again in the same direction, quickly stretching the gap back out to twenty feet. The same thing happened at the next corner, except that this time he’d paused to fiddle with the heel of his right shoe. So, when I reached the mouth of the alley, I decided it was time for a test. Without breaking step I dodged sideways into the gloom and flattened myself against the wall.
Nothing happened for half a minute. Then I heard footsteps coming back toward me. One set, fast and light. I looked down and scanned the layer of garbage on the alley floor until I spotted something suitable-a section of wooden banister rail, about four feet long. I crouched down, took a firm hold, and when the guy from Fong’s hurried into view I scythed it around in a low arc toward the street. It connected with his shins, halfway between his knees and ankles. He shrieked and cartwheeled forward, not quite bringing his arms up in time to save his face from plowing into the sidewalk.
I stepped out of the alley and checked both ways, up and down the street. There were no pedestrians. No vehicles were moving. No windows overlooked us. No one had seen what happened. I leaned down to check the guy’s pulse and breathing. Both were fine. He was just stunned, so I moved on to his pockets. He had a wallet, cash, a cell phone, and two sets of keys. Nothing of any use. The only thing worth taking was a Browning Hi-Power 9 mm, which he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
The smart move at this point was clearly to dial 911 and walk away. I’d stood at this very spot two nights ago, and could hardly believe the trouble I’d brought on myself by getting involved in someone else’s problems. I took out my phone. It was the one Lesley had given me. Lesley, who’d left that glass jar with my name on at her house that morning. How had she been intending to fill it? I looked down at the guy on the sidewalk. I had no idea who he was. Where he had come from. Or why he was following me. Maybe Lesley had sent him? Because if she had, that changed everything. There was no way I could let that pass. I needed to be sure. And if I handed the guy to the police, the chances were I’d never find out.
