from his wife or girlfriend. Or maybe he stole the money and parked it in a bank until the statute of limitations runs out. For whatever reason, these are inactive accounts that keep getting bigger and bigger as the interest piles up.'
'But don't the banks have to advertise the accounts?'
'Sure they do, after a period of years. Then some of the depositors come forward. In most states, if the money isn't claimed after a period of X years, it goes into the state's general funds. So I saw all these dormant accounts on the records of that bank I invaded in upstate New York, and I thought 'Why not?' So every month I'd have Dopey transfer my alimony payment electronically to my ex-wife's account in a Hilo bank, making withdrawals from a large dormant account. The depositor didn't scream; no one knew where the hell he was. Maybe he was dead. And my ex didn't object; all she saw were those monthly payments coming in. The bank's books showed legitimate withdrawals with no evidence that they were being made by Dopey, who was me.'
'You were right,' Dora said, 'it's a brilliant idea. What went wrong?'
'I did,' Pinchik said. 'Every month I would get into the computer as Dopey and instruct the New York bank to transfer the alimony payment electronically to the Hawaiian bank. What I should have done was feed instructions into the New York bank's computer telling it to make those payments automatically every month. It would have been an easy job, but I had other things on my mind and never got around to it. So one month I forgot to tell the New York bank to transfer the alimony money.'
'Oh-oh,' Dora said.
'Yeah, oh-oh,' Pinchik said disgustedly. 'It was my own stupid fault. My ex-wife didn't see her payment show up on her statement that month and asked her Hilo bank to check up on it. They contacted the New York bank and asked where the alimony money was. New York said, 'What alimony money?' Naturally my ex gave them my name-she wasn't ratting on me; she really thought it was my dough she was getting-and the New York bank discovered I didn't have an account there. One thing led to another, and I ended up behind bars. But it was a sweet deal while it lasted.'
'You don't seem bitter about it.'
The superhacker shrugged. 'Don't do the crime if you can't do the time.'
'Is there a lot of computer crime going on?'
Pinchik rolled his eyes. 'More than you and everyone else realizes. Want a rough estimate? I'd guess a minimum of two or three billion dollars a year is being siphoned off by computer thievery, fraud, and swindles. And most of it you never hear about.'
'Why not?'
'Because the victims-mostly banks-are too embarrassed by their idiotic carelessness to make public their losses. In most cases, even when the crook is caught, they refuse to prosecute; they don't want the publicity. They let their insurance companies cover the shortfall.'
'Thanks a lot,' Dora said. 'That makes me feel great. Tell me something else: Is there a national list somewhere of all the computer thieves and swindlers who have been caught, even if they've never been prosecuted?'
'No, lady, I don't know of any data base that lists only computer felons. But I imagine the FBI's computerized files are programmed so they could spit out a list like that.'
Dora shook her head. 'The people I'm interested in aren't in the FBI files.'
'Ah-ha,' Pinchik said, trying to comb his tangled beard with his fingers, 'now we get down to the nitty-gritty. You got people you suspect of being computer crooks?'
'It's a possibility. The NYPD has done a trace on them, and they have no priors. The Company's data base of insurance swindlers also shows nothing. I thought maybe, with your contacts, you could do a search and see if these people have ever been involved in computer hanky-panky.'
'Sure, I could do that,' the expert said, and then gestured around the littered loft. 'But you caught me at a bad time. All that stuff in crates and boxes is my hardware, disks, files, and programs, packed up and ready to go. It'll be at least a week, maybe two, before I'm really back in business.'
'I can wait,' Dora said.
'Good. Meanwhile, if you give me names and descriptions, I can get started calling hackers I know on the phone. When I'm set up and functioning in my new place in SoHo, I'll be able to make it a more thorough worldwide search. How does that sound?'
'Sounds fine,' Dora said. 'Please keep a very accurate record of the time you spend on it and your expenses. I've got a tightwad boss.'
'I meet them all the time,' Pinchik said. 'Now let me turn on my handy-dandy tape recorder, and you dictate everything you know about these people. Be as detailed as you can, lady; don't leave anything out.'
So Dora spoke into his notebook-sized tape recorder, stating and spelling the names of Turner and Helene Pierce, mentioning their roots in Kansas City, MO, describing their physical appearance, and what little she knew of their ages, habits, Turner's occupation as computer consultant, their style of living, their accents, their connection with Starrett Fine Jewelry, their home addresses and phone numbers.
'And that's all I have,' she finished.
'Enough to get me started,' Gregor Pinchik said, switching off the recorder. 'The names mean nothing to me, but maybe one of my contacts will make them.'
'I'm staying at the Hotel Bedlington on Madison Avenue,' Dora said. 'Can you give me weekly reports?'
'Nope,' Pinchik said. 'A waste of time. If I come up with something, I'll let you know immediately. But there's no point in sending you a weekly report of failure.'
'How long do you think the search will take, Mr. Pinchik?'
He considered a moment. 'Give me three weeks to a month,' he said. 'If I haven't nailed them by then, they're clean-guaranteed. Trust me.'
'I do,' Dora said, rising. 'Send your bills to me at the Bedlington-all right?'
'Oh sure,' he said. 'Those you'll get weekly. Depend on it. Nice meeting you, lady.'
Chapter 21
The decorator stepped back to the office door, turned and examined her work through narrowed eyes. 'Well, Mr. Starrett,' she said, 'how do you like it?'
Clayton, standing alongside his new stainless steel desk, looked around the refurbished office. 'That painting over the couch,' he said, 'shouldn't it be a bit higher?'
'No,' the decorator said decisively. 'You're a tall man; the painting seems low to you. But it's actually at the eye level of the average person. The proportions of the wall composition are just right, and a Warhol over a Bieder- meier lends a certain je ne sais quoi to the room.'
'Yeah,' he said, grinning happily, 'that's exactly that I wanted-a certain je ne sais quoi. I think you did a beautiful job.'
'Thank you,' she said, and discreetly placed her bill, tucked into a mauve envelope, on a corner of his desk. She took a final look around. 'I just adore the ambience,' she breathed, and then she was gone.
Clayton thrust his hands into his pockets and strutted about the office a moment, admiring the black leather directors' chairs set at a cocktail table with a top of smoky glass. The entire office, he decided, now reflected the importance and prosperity of the occupant. As the decorator had said, the ambience was right: a wealthy ambience; good-taste ambience; up-to-date ambience.
He opened the mauve envelope, glanced at the statement, blanched, then smiled. His father, he knew, would have had apoplexy at a bill like that for redecorating an office. But times change, as Clayton well knew, and if you didn't change along with them you were left hopelessly behind.
And he had changed, was changing; he could feel it. He had lived in the shadow of his father so many years. He had been a follower, a lackey, really nothing more than a gofer. But now he was living his own life, he was doing. In the midst of his glittery office, he felt a surge that made him take a deep breath, suck in his gut, stand tall. Now he was creating-there was no other word for it.
He used his new phone, a marvelous instrument that had been coded with frequently called numbers so he
