of the curved molding and examined the coped angle. “You know making this stuff doesn’t seem possible,” she said. “To the layperson.”
“Seems that way to me, too,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I really meant the compliment.”
“Okay. Thanks. But you’re not here to assess my carpentry skills.”
She continued to study the wood pieces. “If someone gives you the keys to a house, where all but one of the doors inside are supposed to be locked,” she said, without looking up at me, “but you’re, like, really good at jimmying locks, so you do, because, what the hell, you’re already in the house and all, so why waste an opportunity? What’s the moral hazard?”
“I’m supposed to do the breaking and entering on this team,” I said. “You’re supposed to tell me not to and then I do it anyway.”
“I’m speaking metaphorically. It’s not actually a house.”
“I guess that’s good.”
“It’s a database.”
“Maybe not so good. So you had access to a specific file and you hacked your way into other files you weren’t supposed to see?”
“Not me personally. Randall Dodge.”
Randall was a tall, skinny Shinnecock Indian (technically sort of an Indian/African American/Irish gumbo) and former cyber sleuth for the US Navy who ran a computer hardware repair and software training operation out of a storefront in Southampton Village. Jackie and I had taken occasional advantage of his technical skills in return for help with some legal entanglements.
“You had him hack the database,” I said.
“I’d rather not use the word ‘hack.’ Sounds unseemly.”
“No. Sounds illegal. Depending on whom you hacked.”
“I guess I should know that better than you. From a legal perspective.”
“So who’s the victim?” I asked.
She stood there silently, indecision scrunching up her pretty round face. “You’re going to tell me eventually. Stop wasting time and just get it out.”
“The New York State Police?” she said, with enough up-speak to lift a truck.
“Not really.”
“Really.”
I put down the coping saw and sat on a tall stool. I looked at her face for traces of humor, in the hope it was just a bad joke.
“It’s not a joke,” she said, interpreting my look. “Tucked inside all the paper Oksana gave me was a link to the master CI file on the State Police server. I’m guessing there’s a lot more information there than what Oksana gave us. It was password protected, of course, but I thought Randall might find it fun to see if he could crack the code.”
“Fun? How much fun do you think he’ll have in Hungerford State Penitentiary?”
“Randall doesn’t get caught,” she said, though with less conviction than she might have wanted to express.
“Not yet.”
She reached in a pocket of the yellow dress and took out a flash drive. She held it up to the bright light of the shop. “It’s amazing how much stuff you can stick on one of these things.” Then she looked at me. “I don’t suppose you’d want a look.”
I didn’t own a computer. I’d barely touched a keyboard since using the dumb terminal in my office to run technical analyses through a roomful of IBM mainframes. Getting cashiered from my corporate job had more or less killed my interest in digital technology, now preferring information delivered by the printed word or words spoken over the rim of a glass.
“No. I’m not even touching it.”
She wiggled the drive in the air.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Why take that kind of risk? What were you thinking?” I asked.
“That Edith wants to keep us in a tight little maze. That always makes me want to jump the walls and take a look around.”
“Go ahead and look,” I said, picking up the little coping saw and piece of molding, trying to remember where I’d left off. “I’ll be working on my deniability.”
She put the flash drive on my workbench and backed away.
“I might’ve accidentally dropped that on
“Seems that way to me, too,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I really meant the compliment.”
“Okay. Thanks. But you’re not here to assess my carpentry skills.”
She continued to study the wood pieces. “If someone gives you the keys to a house, where all but one of the doors inside are supposed to be locked,” she said, without looking up at me, “but you’re, like, really good at jimmying locks, so you do, because, what the hell, you’re already in the house and all, so why waste an opportunity? What’s the moral hazard?”
“I’m supposed to do the breaking and entering on this team,” I said. “You’re supposed to tell me not to and then I do it anyway.”
“I’m speaking metaphorically. It’s not actually a house.”
“I guess that’s good.”
“It’s a database.”
“Maybe not so good. So you had access to a specific file and you hacked your way into other files you weren’t supposed to see?”
“Not me personally. Randall Dodge.”
Randall was a tall, skinny Shinnecock Indian (technically sort of an Indian/African American/Irish gumbo) and former cyber sleuth for the US Navy who ran a computer hardware repair and software training operation out of a storefront in Southampton Village. Jackie and I had taken occasional advantage of his technical skills in return for help with some legal entanglements.
“You had him hack the database,” I said.
“I’d rather not use the word ‘hack.’ Sounds unseemly.”
“No. Sounds illegal. Depending on whom you hacked.”
“I guess I should know that better than you. From a legal perspective.”
“So who’s the victim?” I asked.
She stood there silently, indecision scrunching up her pretty round face. “You’re going to tell me eventually. Stop wasting time and just get it out.”
“The New York State Police?” she said, with enough up-speak to lift a truck.
“Not really.”
“Really.”
I put down the coping saw and sat on a tall stool. I looked at her face for traces of humor, in the hope it was just a bad joke.
“It’s not a joke,” she said, interpreting my look. “Tucked inside all the paper Oksana gave me was a link to the master CI file on the State Police server. I’m guessing there’s a lot more information there than what Oksana gave us. It was password protected, of course, but I thought Randall might find it fun to see if he could crack the code.”
“Fun? How much fun do you think he’ll have in Hungerford State Penitentiary?”
“Randall doesn’t get caught,” she said, though with less conviction than she might have wanted to express.
“Not yet.”
She reached in a pocket of the yellow dress and took out a flash drive. She held it up to the bright light of the shop. “It’s amazing how much stuff you can stick on one of these things.” Then she looked at me. “I don’t suppose you’d want a look.”
I didn’t own a computer. I’d barely touched a keyboard since using the dumb terminal in my office to run technical analyses through a roomful of IBM mainframes. Getting cashiered from my corporate job had more or less killed my interest in digital technology, now preferring information delivered by the printed word or words spoken over the rim of a glass.
“No. I’m not even touching it.”
She wiggled the drive in the air.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Why take that kind of risk? What were you thinking?” I asked.
“That Edith wants to keep us in a tight little maze. That always makes me want to jump the walls and take a look around.”
“Go ahead and look,” I said, picking up the little coping saw and piece of molding, trying to remember where I’d left off. “I’ll be working on my deniability.”
She put the flash drive on my workbench and backed away.
“I might’ve accidentally dropped that on
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