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“Agreed,” said Coffey. “What was Mr. Kava’s response?”
“I’ll read it to you,” Jack said, and then he continued.
“‘Mr. Kava said, “What makes you think I profit from your ‘go pirate’ message to your fans?” I laughed and said, “Let’s be honest with each other, Mr. Kava. Everyone knows that your son controls the largest piracy platform in the world.” Mr. Kava was obviously insulted and said my words were slanderous. He immediately ended the conversation and told me that he did not care to have any further contact with me once the performance for his granddaughter was over. He left the room, and we did not speak again.’”
Jack laid the written statement on the table and waited for the response.
“That’s not helpful,” said Coffey. “All you’re offering is a flat denial that the Kava family has anything to do with piracy.”
“Our agreement requires Imani to provide truthful testimony, not helpful testimony,” said Jack.
“Yes,” said Coffey. “And that’s quite a piece of work you’ve created to hide the truth.”
“Excuse me?” said Jack.
“Here’s the truth,” said Coffey. “The goal was to wire up Imani and get Kava to admit that his son owns and controls the largest piracy website in the world. To help us get that admission, your client agreed to make a business proposal: she keeps telling her fans to pirate music, and Kava pays her a cut of his profits. But your client had a big problem. She already had that arrangement with Sergei Kava.”
“That’s not true!” said Imani.
Jack admonished her to stay silent, as the cooperation agreement was clearly going sour.
Coffey continued. “When Imani met with Kava, she couldn’t propose to enter into a business relationship that already existed. And she couldn’t risk letting Kava say something that would reveal the truth to the FBI. There was only one thing she could do. She had to sabotage the wire. And that’s what she did.”
“What shedidwas risk her life by talking to a Russian oligarch while wearing a wire,” said Jack.
“That’s just bullshit, Jack,” said Greenberg.
No one liked to be accused of bullshitting the assistant special agent in charge of an FBI field office, but it was especially bothersome when that ASAC was your wife’s boss.
Jack rose, and Imani followed his lead. “I’ll be filing a motion with the court to enforce our agreement and get the charges dismissed,” he said.
“And the U.S. attorney in New York will be filing additional charges against your client for interfering with a government investigation.”
Greenberg called for his assistant to escort Jack and his client out of the building. She came quickly, but before Jack could leave the conference room, the ASAC had one more thing to say.
“Jack, I want you to know that I still have the utmost respect for your wife.”
Jack knew he wasn’t complimenting Andie. It was his way of saying that he’d lost respect for her husband, and it made Jack wonder what, perhaps, Andie had been telling her boss about Jack over the past couple of weeks.
“Couldn’t be happier to hear that,” said Jack, and then he and his client left the room.
It was a chilly November night in Boston. Judge was on the prowl.
He’d left London two weeks earlier, right after giving Goodbye Girl the boot. He had no plans to return—ever. His intentionally circuitous flight from Heathrow to Boston Logan—connecting in Amsterdam, Paris, and Madrid—had been under a new name, new passport, and new identity. He was officially a new man. But he was unchanged.
His stakeout position was on the flat roof of an apartment building in Cambridge. His target lived in a studio on the third floor of the redbrick building across the alley. The lone window was oversized, something the landlord undoubtedly touted as a “plus,” even though it overlooked a Dumpster. The curtains were parted, affording Judge a clear view inside. His target was a twenty-three-year-old woman who lived alone and served drinks at a tavern until 10:00 p.m. on weeknights. She was alone on the Murphy bed, sitting up against a corduroy husband pillow, her face aglow in the light of an open laptop computer. Judge estimated five steps from the bed to the door. With the aid of binoculars, he was able to make out every essential detail. There was a chain lock, but it was hanging straight down on the door frame, unused.
Can you make it any easier?
Judge lit up a cigarette to settle his nerves. His plan was foolproof, and the anticipation of his next move was no cause for concern. His only worry was Goodbye Girl.
Giving her that name had been a mistake. Letting her go had been downright stupid. As the start date for Imani’s murder trial drew closer, the media coverage intensified with each passing day, and not just in the United States. More coverage meant more mention of the killer’s signature. Judge could only hope that Goodbye Girl would be true to her stupid self and remain oblivious to what was happening in the world.
Should’ve strangled the littleslut.
Judge crushed out his cigarette and raised his binoculars. Clueless was still on the Murphy bed, staring at the LCD screen, completely unaware that the hard drive was loaded with malware. Like most hacks,it had been a self-inflicted wound, triggered by browsing activity that younger users considered normal, other users regarded as an acceptable risk, and only the tech savvy labeled “reckless.” Judge opened his laptop but kept the LCD display on the dimmest setting so as not to draw attention to himself in the darkness. In just a few moments, his screen would display exactly what his target was seeing. The embedded malware was programmed to launch and take control at 11:00 p.m. Judge couldn’t wait to see her reaction.
Three... two... one.
