The Florentine Deception Read online

  With a bit more sleuthing, I located the Freemail.com 1-800-number and jotted it down on a Regina Flowers Real Estate notepad; I also lifted the Freemail.com logo (an angelic-looking F with wings) from the website and saved it to my hard drive.

  I clicked the “Compose a new ‘freemail’” button and began writing my magnum opus, hoping our assailant’s name was the same as his email address:

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Infected computer

  Dear Mr. Khalimmy,

  Our email security filter has detected that your computer appears to be using our email service to send computer viruses to other users. As you may be aware, sending viruses through email is a violation of our licensing policy and also a violation of the Federal Fair Computer Use Act. Therefore, we ask you to please remove the infection from your computer as soon as possible, or we will have to disable your account. We recommend a popular, freeware antivirus program like Dr. Finnigan’s Antivirus, if you don’t already have antivirus protection.

  Manny Vandervelde—Freemail Computer Security Manager

  Freemail.com—where EVERY email is FREE

  I finished it all off with a flourish, pasting the picture of the Freemail logo at the end of the email—I was all about the details—and then clicked “Send.”

  That was the teaser—just enough to get him worried, but not enough to raise any suspicions. Within seconds, the enigmatic Khalimmy would have a very authentic-looking yet disturbing email in his inbox from “[email protected].”

  About two hours later, I finished the one-two punch with a follow-up email, again from the concerned Freemail security administrator:

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Mass-infection of freemail users

  Dear Mr. Khalimmy,

  As we indicated earlier, we still believe that your machine was infected with a virus sometime during the week of the 20th. However, we have reason to believe that at least 60 other Freemail customers are also infected. Therefore, as a service to our customers, we have created a virus fix tool to clean up the infection (you will find it attached to this email). To activate the program, please double-click on the provided repair program.

  I have asked my network security team to work overtime today and tomorrow (Aug 29 and Aug 30) so if this tool fails to resolve the issue, please feel free to call us for support. Our twenty-four-hour support number is 800-555-4974.

  Manny Vandervelde—Freemail Computer Security Manager

  Freemail.com—where EVERY email is FREE

  With a few clicks of the mouse, I attached my doctored spyware program to the email and forwarded it on its way. The net was unfurled, the chum dispersed, and all we had to do was wait for the shark to take the bait.

  Chapter 22

  Just as I was about to reach for a half-dollar-sized rock, I felt a gentle vibration in my pocket. Dangling from my left hand, I extracted my phone. It was Steven.

  “Hey,” I said. “You coming by soon?”

  “Yeah, I was planning on leaving in about twenty. But I just had an idea and I wanted to run it by you.”

  “One sec,” I said, dropping four feet from my artificial rock wall onto the vinyl safety pad. “Okay, shoot.”

  “I think I’ve figured out a way into the panic room,” he said.

  “How? I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out a way in and I’ve got nothing. I don’t want to hire a locksmith. Not yet.”

  “Listen. I wasn’t going to suggest a locksmith.”

  “Okay, what then?”

  “We’ve got to get hold of Richard’s b—” He cut out.

  “What? I lost you.”

  “I said, I think we need to get a hold of Richard’s body and get a look at that tattoo.”

  I did a double take. Had Steven gone mad?

  “Wonderful! Let’s just go dig him up. You practically had a heart attack visiting Richard’s house at night, but you’re fine taking a field trip to Forest Lawn and digging up his decomposing body. Are you frickin’ crazy?”

  “Hear me out!”

  “And even if we were crazy enough to do it, what are the odds he hasn’t decomposed into clam chowder?”

  “Actually,” said Steven.

  “You’ve been smoking something.”

  “Actually,” he repeated coyly, “if I were to bet, I’d guess he’s in pretty good shape.”

  Steven wasn’t crazy—he was obsessively rational; what was he getting at? I ruminated for a second.

  “Alex?”

  “One second, I’m thinking.” I knew he was onto something, but wasn’t sure why or how I knew this. What was it?

  “The will,” said Steven, as if responding to my thoughts.

  The will! Richard hadn’t been buried—he’d donated his body to science—to the UCLA Medical School.

  “He was probably taken to the school and pickled the moment they found him.” Not that this made things any easier.

  “So we’ll just waltz into the visitor’s center at the morgue, buy a matinee ticket, and wait in line for a viewing?” I asked.

  “Probably not.” He hesitated. “But I figured maybe you could,” he stuttered, “maybe you could ask your mom for some help.”

  “What? No way. She’d have a heart attack if she knew what we were up to. Plus she practices over at Northridge Hospital, not UCLA.” I took a breath. “Plus, she spends most of her time curing fungal infections for old ladies—how the hell is she going to get us into the morgue?”

  “I bet she could make some calls.”

  “No way. End of discussion.”

  Steven sighed audibly on the other end of the phone.

  “Don’t give me a guilt trip. No way.”

  “Okay, okay.” He paused. “What about someone who went to UCLA med school? Know anyone? Someone who already has access and maybe could just take a quick look during their lunch break?”

  I considered this for a second.

  “I guess I could ask Linda,” I said.

  “Who’s Linda?” he asked suggestively. Steven and my climbing friends traveled in different circles.

  “Linda. You know, my climbing partner.”

  “Oh, her? She’s a doctor at UCLA?”

  “Not quite. She works in the campus hospital as an ER nurse.”

  “I forgot. Is she the hot one?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Answer the question,” he pressed.

  “You could say that.”

  “Then why aren’t you dating her?”

  “For God’s sake, I thought we were talking about breaking into UCLA, not my love life. It’s a long story.”

  “All right, all right. Touchy today. So you think she might be able to get us in?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well then, what’ve you got to lose?”

  “Only my freedom, I guess.” Was I actually considering asking Linda to break into the UCLA Medical School morgue? Worse still, breaking in myself? “I’ll think about it and call you later.” I hung up.

  God help me.

  Linda Reynaud. I’d fallen for her, or rather on top of her, during my junior year while struggling with a difficult overhanging boulder problem at the UCLA climbing gym. After an awkward disentanglement and a few choice words of scorn, we’d hit it off and had been climbing buddies ever since. With chestnut hair, a passable chest, long legs, and an all-American smile, Linda had a steady stream of suitors and even longer list of discards. When we’d first met, she was dating a guy named Larry (a royal loser) so we started off as friends, and given a series of unfortunately timed relationships and an unusual awkwardness on my part when it came to dating, that’s the way things were destined to stay.

  By the time I ascended my first route at UCLA, Linda had already been climbing for years with her father. Now, at twenty-six, she was one of the top two or three Southern California woman moun
taineers, and even had a few climbs named after her on the local rock walls. For whatever reason, we’d limited our hanging out to climbing; we rarely saw each other outside of the local state parks. Actually, I guess all of my climbing friendships were like that. You had climbing friends and everyday friends, and the two didn’t mix. Anyway, Linda was someone I could trust with the important things. She’d saved my life more times than I cared to recall. I shot her off a deliberately vague text from my smartphone (she never answered her phone), and headed back inside the house. It didn’t take long for her to call me back.

  “Hey Alex. It’s Linda from climbing.”

  “Hey Linda from climbing. Thanks for calling me back so quickly.”

  “Trust me, it’s my pleasure.” Linda sighed. “I’ve been spit on twice and had a homeless patient almost bite me, just since lunch. I needed a break.”

  “Sounds exhilarating.”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “So how’s Jim?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “There is no Jim anymore.” Her tone suggested “breakup” rather than “death.” “Just me and Rusty.” Rusty was her chocolate lab and a favorite among the regulars at the local climbing wall.

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t sweat it. And what about you? How’s it going with,” she paused a beat, “what’s-her-name?” Always the tactful Linda.

  “Julie,” I said. “That ended a few months ago.”

  “Sorry, Alex.”

  “It’s all good, trust me. Been climbing recently?”

  “Not since we last went with Potter. My calluses are falling off and I’m starting to feel flabby.”

  “The calluses, I believe. The flabby part, not so much.”

  “Sweet talker.”

  “That’s me. You’re in for some serious pain next time you go out.”

  “I know. But with the overtime drying up next month, I’ll be climbing a lot more now. So free up your calendar.”

  “Umm. That might be a bit difficult.”

  “Why? What’s up, cowboy?”

  “It’s a long story. But right now, let’s just say I need some medical advice.”

  “Having some health problems?” Her tone became more somber.

  “No, nothing like that. Would you be up for some dinner? I’ll tell you all about it, and it’ll be my treat.” Our first date! Not.

  “I’ve got nothing planned. But do you mind if we eat here? With the long hours I’ve been working, Rusty’s starting to give me dirty looks. What do you say you stop by at seven and bring over some takeout?”

  “My pleasure. Just tell me what you want to eat.”

  Linda lived in the Topanga Canyon mountains southwest of the San Fernando Valley in a sixties-era ranch house that had seen better days. I pulled down the graveled driveway off Topanga and parked in front of a dilapidated detached garage-turned-chicken coop next to Linda’s Beetle. The main house wasn’t in much better condition; curls of faded green paint flaked from its wood-slat walls and revealed years of dry rot. Linda stood in the door, grabbing Rusty’s collar, a welcoming smile on her face.

  “Long time no see, Alex.”

  “Yeah, it’s been a while.” She gave me a warm hug. Rusty showed a healthy amount of jealousy, jumping up and pawing at my hip.

  “Hey boy!” I said, and after handing Linda the takeout, I dropped to the ground for a healthy face-licking.

  A minute later, we were devouring Kung Pao shrimp at Linda’s oak-stump kitchen table.

  “Hear about Jotz?” I asked.

  “No, what’s with him?”

  “He’s got two broken legs and three cracked ribs.” Jotz was an old-time climber—of the sixties variety—who thought that climbing with ropes was for sissies. At least the sissies didn’t get broken femurs.

  “Shit. What happened?” she asked, leaning in.

  “He was free-climbing Monkey Sang, got about twenty-five feet up by the peanut-shaped hold, and put his hand into a hive of yellow jackets. About a dozen of them went straight for his face and he bailed.”

  “It was just a matter of time.” Linda shook her head regretfully. “Jamie’s been yelling at him for years.”

  “At least he’s still alive,” I said.

  “He’s lucky. Talking about cracked ribs, what’s your medical problem, cowboy?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “In that case,” she stood up, “we’d better open a bottle of wine. Red or white?”

  “Red.”

  Over the next hour, I delivered a synopsis of the past two weeks. Linda wasn’t exactly a computer geek, so I skipped over the techie details.

  “So you bought the guy’s house?”

  “Yeah,” I said sheepishly.

  “And you think this guy has the combination tattooed on his lip?”

  “Yup.”

  “And you want to take a look at the cadaver?”

  “That was the idea. Am I crazy?”

  Linda took a sip of wine and gave me a subtle smile.

  “Well, you’re not Jotz crazy.” Rusty arthritically hopped up onto the couch and put his head on Linda’s lap. “The basement of UCLA Medical Center isn’t exactly Fort Knox. If I were a betting woman, and assuming the body hasn’t been cremated or buried, I’d give you good odds.”

  “How can I find out if the body’s still there?” I asked, more excited.

  “The school’s got a database. They’ve got to track every donated body.”

  “Makes sense. I assume a family member could call them up and ask about a cadaver’s status, right?”

  “No idea.” She hesitated. “But when a body’s been donated, I think the family signs over all rights to the university. So maybe not.”

  “Hmmm. Are there any guards?”

  “They’ve got one who patrols the whole lower level. Clarence. He’s a little crotchety, but a nice guy.”

  I took my smartphone out and started typing in notes. “Do you mind?” I asked.

  “Just don’t put my name in there. Anyway, it’s pretty busy down there, even at night. My guess is that as long as you look like you belong, no one’s going to ask any questions.”

  I took a drink of wine. “Thanks for the info.”

  “My pleasure. Just do me a favor. If you go through with this little adventure, don’t drag me into it. I like my job and I’ve got a mortgage now.” She pointed at the ceiling.

  “So responsible!”

  “You got it. That’s me, Ms. Responsible.” She winked playfully. I didn’t know if it was the wine, my repressed feelings for her, or a little of both, but like a fifteen-year-old on his first date, I felt my heart skip a beat. I closed my eyes and shook my head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I stammered. “So what else can you tell me about the morgue?”

  “There are actually two morgues—one for the med school cadavers and the other for everyone else. Both are in the basement.” Linda stifled a yawn. “Actually, come to think of it, the med school students also have a smaller freezer, up by their dissection rooms. There’s a private elevator that connects the two.”

  “To avoid freaking out the patients.”

  “It’s bad for business.” Linda smiled.

  “You’re quite the treasure trove of information!” I smiled back. “When’d you become the morgue expert?”

  “Remember when I wrecked my Gremlin?”

  “How could I forget? I was your chauffer for a week.”

  “That’s right!” She smiled reminiscently. “Anyway, I needed some extra money so I worked the morgue desk from eight until midnight for about six months. Got to know some of the students.”

  “So are the cadavers labeled?”

  “Not with names. They’re all anonymous. When we get them in, we put them in the database and they’re assigned a ten- or eleven-digit ID code. They’ve got a number and a barcode on their big toe, just like on ER.”

  “I’ll probably rec
ognize his face. They look the same dead, right?”

  “Generally. He wasn’t bludgeoned in the face, was he?”

  “Not as far as I know. I think he died from a heart attack.”

  “I guess I could look up his tag for you just in case.”

  “You still have access to the database?”

  “No. But Karla owes me ten bucks from mahjong.”

  “I’d really appreciate it. You won’t get in trouble, right?”

  “I can’t see why. As long as you keep your mouth shut and promise to pay for gas and margaritas on the next two trips to Tahquitz.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” I said. “Can I ask just a few more questions?”

  Linda yawned again. I looked down at my smartphone—it was already eleven-thirty. “Actually, I’d better let you get to bed. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

  Linda glanced over at a cuckoo clock on the wall. “Yeah. How about if I give you a call tomorrow,” she said, standing up and displacing Rusty.

  “Thanks Linda. The guy’s name is Richard Lister.” I jotted it down on a sticky next to her phone.

  During the drive home, I brooded over a dozen unrealistic schemes. My sleep that night, if you can call it that, frothed with nightmares of every possible negative outcome, most resulting in my arrest.

  Chapter 23

  “Hello?”

  “Okay, I’ve got three questions. First, where the hell have you been? Second, is she going to help us get to the body? And third and most importantly, did you get lucky last night?”

  “What? What time is it?” I pulled the blanket from over my head and craned my neck to get a look at the bedside clock. 10:29 a.m. “Jesus. Sorry, I overslept.”

  “I guess that answers question number three,” said Steven.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter.” I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. “Nothing happened. But I did get some useful intel.”

  “Out with it.”

  “Linda thinks she can find out if the body’s still in the morgue.” I yawned. “I’m hoping to hear back this morning.”

  “So assuming he’s still there, what’s the plan?” he asked. Then almost in a whisper, “And how can I help?”