The Florentine Deception Read online

  “I think so. I got,” he paused, “the wind knocked out of me.”

  “Anything broken?”

  He took a few seconds to consider, moved each of his body parts, and shook his head, still clearly dazed.

  “Honey, we’ve got to get you out of there,” Hillary stared down helplessly at me. “How are we going to get him out?”

  “Give me a second.” I swept the surrounding walls with my headlamp.

  “One sec. I think there’s a light switch here.” In fact, there were two switches, one of the common up-down style and the other a red button, both unmarked. I stepped around Steven to the end of the hall and flicked the up-down switch; instantly, three recessed lights along the hallway ceiling flickered to life and bathed the walkway in a harsh yellow light.

  “Better. Steven, let’s move you away from the bookcase wall.”

  Steven took my hand and stood up slowly, wobbled for a second, and then steadied himself against the wall opposite the bookshelves. A trickle of blood had slid down the side of his face and onto his t-shirt.

  “Okay?” I asked.

  He gave me slightly foggy all-clear eyebrows.

  “All right guys, grab hold of the beams for a second. I think I found the button for the door.” I paused. “Ready?”

  Hillary grabbed a rafter and nodded. I pushed the button.

  Chapter 17

  Russian Safe House—Downtown Los Angeles

  Present Day

  “What did you find in the house?” asked the brawny man.

  “Nichego.” Nothing.

  “Shit! We’re running in circles.”

  “Calm down. I think—”

  “Calm down? If we don’t clean this up before Internal Affairs finds out, we’re dead. They’ll make fucking borscht from our testicles. Don’t tell me to fucking calm down.” The brawny man hammered back a shot of vodka and carelessly wiped his chin on a hairy forearm.

  “Listen, Sergej. Listen. I may have another lead.”

  “What lead?” Sergej slurred.

  “After I finished searching the house, I did a background check on the name from the envelope—Alex Fife.”

  Sergej shook his head. “And?”

  “This man is the former chief engineer at ViruTrax, the cyber-defense firm.”

  “A computer security expert?”

  “Da. His SVR dossier is nearly two hundred pages long.”

  “Quite a coincidence.” Sergej closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. “You think he’s after the Florentine?”

  “Why else would he be casing Lister’s house?”

  “How could he possibly know about it? Lister wouldn’t sell to a white hat.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps someone in the underground tipped him off?”

  “Niet. We’d be locked up in a Moscow interrogation facility right now if there were any mention of this in the hacker circles. But I can’t see how else he would find out.” He took a deep breath. “We need to interrogate him.”

  “Too messy. He’s a wealthy man. That could attract unwanted attention, and we can’t afford that until we’ve secured the Florentine.”

  Sergej stared at the ceiling in thought. “This is true. Perhaps it makes more sense to surveil him and see what he knows. Then we can decide how to proceed.”

  “That sounds more prudent.”

  “Either way, the moment we secure Lister’s copy, if this man has any knowledge of the program, he will have to be liquidated.”

  Chapter 18

  Latigo Canyon House—Malibu, CA

  Present Day

  With little more than a mechanical whisper, the leftmost bookshelf sank straight down and into the floor. About ten seconds later, the top of the bookshelf, dust, footprint and all, sat flush with the library floor, allowing brilliant afternoon light to flood through the aperture.

  “I guess there weren’t midgets after all,” Steven said weakly.

  “I’ll climb down the ladder and meet you in the kitchen,” said Hillary anxiously.

  I grabbed Steven by the arm and led him through the opening, down the stairs and into the kitchen. A moment later, Hillary had him sitting in a folding chair and was swabbing his forehead with a wet paper towel.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked. Steven brought his hand to his head and prodded it gently.

  “A little. I banged it against the wall going down.”

  Hillary fumbled through her purse and a moment later presented him with a wrapped chocolate truffle.

  “I’m feeling better already.”

  I believed he was.

  While Hillary tended to his wounds, I took a seat in a folding chair and picked up the pouch containing Richard’s will.

  “Okay, time for a bit of Richard Lister trivia.” They both stared at me expectantly.

  “Richard also included a life insurance policy in his packet. For five hundred dollars, how much did Richard insure himself for?”

  “Half a million,” guessed Hillary. I looked at Steven.

  “Who knows?” he croaked. “A million.”

  I issued a buzzing noise.

  “Two million. Okay. Next question. What did Mr. Lister specify should be done with his body when he dies? Or rather, when he died.”

  “That’s in the will?” asked Hillary.

  “He’s got some other paperwork in here too.”

  “Cremation?” guessed Hillary.

  I delivered another buzz.

  “Preserve it in plastic?” asked Steven goofily with a slightly steadier voice.

  “Close,” I said. “He donated his body to the UCLA Medical School.”

  “Ewwww,” said Hillary, dragging a faux scalpel-finger down Steven’s chest. “How’d you like to be dissected, hon?”

  “Anyone want to take a second stab at the passage?” I looked to Steven, who seemed to be improving rapidly post-truffle.

  “I think I’m feeling good enough to at least take a look.”

  Hillary considered Steven, then nodded and helped him up from the chair.

  “Can you stand on your own?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m okay now.”

  “Good,” she said, and the three of us walked back up to the bookshelves.

  I was the first to step over the bookcase and into the hidden hallway; by this time, the sun had lowered, leaving only a thin beam of light to illuminate the top of the newly revealed entrance. The hallway lights were on and Steven’s tools were on the floor, just as we’d left them.

  We walked the length of the hallway, all of about fifteen feet, to the end. Instead of a stairwell as Steven had guessed, a steel ladder descended vertically down a shaft of about twenty-five feet, illuminated overhead by a dangling 60-watt bulb.

  “What if there are traps?” asked Hillary as she leaned over the shaft and aimed her iPhone camera downward.

  “I can’t imagine the guy booby-trapped his own home,” I said.

  “Well, if the guy was crazy enough to build a secret passage, he might be crazy enough to booby-trap it,” said Hillary, a little miffed.

  “I’ll take my chances.” I grabbed hold of the ladder, which was bolted into the back side of the library wall, and started down. Unlike the hallway, the shaft hadn’t been finished and was framed by exposed two-by-fours and batted with the same pink insulation we’d seen in the attic. A bundle of wires ran down the length of the shaft, cinched to the beams every few feet with plastic cable ties.

  After about five feet, I called up, “Why don’t you stay up there until I reach the bottom and can take a look around.”

  Neither of them objected, so I descended cautiously. About halfway down the ladder, the wood frame terminated and was replaced by a chimney of gray cinderblocks. The block-lined shaft continued another ten feet and ended at a familiar-looking limestone tile floor.

  “I’ve hit the bottom.”

  I loosened my grip on the ladder rungs, palms sticky from a combination of increased heat, humidity, and anticipation, and pivoted to su
rvey the space. The narrow shaft opened up into a wider cinderblock hallway that led away from the ladder and toward the front of the house. The bundle of electrical arteries exited from the shaft and ran along the top of the corridor, sprouting glowing 60-watt bulbs every five feet through the rest of the passage, which ended in another wall of cinderblocks.

  “It’s okay to come down,” I yelled. The pair engaged in a barely audible but obviously energetic discussion, and a second later, Hillary came clambering down the ladder. Seconds later, Steven followed, with Hillary filming his descent down the shaft.

  “Shall we?” I pointed down the hall.

  “What’s down there?” asked Steven.

  “I’ve got no idea. I waited for you to find out.” I gestured to Steven. “After you.”

  Steven took the lead down the passage, and, reaching the end, turned left at the corner and shouted, “I think we found the mother lode.”

  I turned the corner and was equally impressed—just feet from the bend stood an imposing steel wall hung with a vault-like steel door. Mounted on the door were a ten-digit, phone-style keypad and a thick steel handle. An equally imposing grille covered an air vent about a foot from the ceiling and directly atop the door.

  “It’s a panic room,” said Hillary.

  “A panic room with a hundred-carat diamond inside,” added Steven.

  “What’s this for?” asked Hillary. She pointed at a dinner-plate-sized mirror mounted face-height next to the door.

  “Maybe the guy was a narcissist and liked to check his hair before he went to count his gems,” said Steven.

  “Maybe he wanted to make sure no one was behind him when he opened the lock,” I suggested.

  “Well, for now it’s a mystery,” said Hillary.

  Tired of the current conversation, Steven shifted his attention to the keypad and began tapping keys. After every six buttons, the keypad emitted two reproaching beeps and then flashed its backlit keys.

  “Let me try,” I said, and I strained to remember Richard’s password. “If I recall correctly, Richard’s password was R, followed by the digit one, then C, H, 4, R, and D. We can enter the letters digitally just like on a telephone.”

  “That password’s never going to work,” said Hillary, panning the iPhone’s camera between the keypad and me.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The pad beeps after six digits. It takes a six-digit code, but R1CH4RD is seven long.”

  “Crap.”

  “Shazam!” exclaimed Steven.

  Hillary shot a quizzical look at Steven and looked to me. “It must be the bump he took to the head,” she said.

  I grinned.

  “Woman!” Steven rejoined, “Shazam was the password Richard used for his email account.” He looked at me eagerly. “Let’s try it!”

  It was worth a try.

  “Okay.” I consulted my phone’s keypad. “S is 7. Hit 7.” Steven complied.

  “H is 4. A is 2. Z is 9. Then 2 again. And then 6.” The three of us looked hopefully at the keypad as Steven entered the final digit. Alas, the keypad rebuked us with the same two angry beeps.

  “Any other ideas?” asked Hillary. “How about getting a locksmith out?”

  Still focused on the keypad and oblivious to our conversation, Steven took his phone from my hand, and consulting it, began entering sequences of six digits.

  “No way. I’m doing this myself.”

  “Seems like a waste of time to me,” she said. “You could have this thing cracked open this afternoon.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Steven, rapping his knuckles on the steel door. “I don’t think the average locksmith would have a chance against one of these things. You’d probably have to call in a specialist or someone from the company that built it.”

  “At least let me do some research and see if we can’t find a way in,” I said. “I wonder who manufactured it, anyway.” I began scanning the surface for tags or logos, but the perfectly smooth, shiny steel wall was devoid of markings.

  “You think you could get in through the air vent?” asked Hillary.

  I looked up. The grille covering the duct looked pretty tough, but it was worth a try.

  “Maybe. Steven?”

  Steven looked up from the keypad questioningly. “Huh?”

  “Do you think we could pull that grille off with your hammer, or maybe the crowbar?”

  Steven backed up and stared at the grille. “Maybe. Give me a leg up.”

  I stepped up to the door, braced myself, and cupped my hands. Steven grabbed Hillary’s arm and my shoulder and placed his right foot into my hands, then stood up. He stared for a second, then grabbed a flashlight from his belt and flicked it on.

  “I could have the grille off in thirty seconds,” he said, shining his light down the duct. “But there are half a dozen one-inch-wide steel bars right behind it that aren’t going anywhere.”

  I sighed. Steven re-holstered his flashlight and stepped to the ground.

  “Well, it was worth a shot,” I said.

  “At least the former owner was kind enough to leave us with some movies to watch,” said Hillary, pointing to a pile of VHS tapes stacked against the wall. We must have overlooked them in our excitement. I picked up the top tape and spun it in my hands. No labels or markings.

  “Homemade shag movies?” asked Steven.

  “As good a guess as any. You guys have a VCR?”

  Hillary looked at Steven.

  “Nope,” he said. “Our last VCR broke years ago.”

  “I bet my dad has one,” I said, picking up a handful of the tapes. “I’ll give him a ring later and find out.”

  Chapter 19

  As usual, Steven answered on the first ring.

  “Oh the pain,” he groaned.

  “Brain hurting, huh?”

  “Yeah, so this better’ve been worth it. Out with it—what was on the tapes?”

  “It appears that the previous owner was some sort of security freak,” I said. “Every one of those tapes has two hours of closed-circuit video. There must be about six different hidden cameras in that house.”

  “Where?” Steven inquired. “We didn’t see a single camera.”

  “Either they were removed at some point or they’re well hidden. He’s got one on each door of the house—”

  “Inside or outside?” Steven interrupted.

  “Inside each door, so he gets you when you enter. He’s also got a few covering the backyard. And you’ll be interested in this.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “He’s got one covering the library bookshelves, one covering the hallway behind the bookshelves, and one surveying the entrance to his panic room. All motion-sensor activated.”

  “Why would I be interested in that?” Steven asked earnestly.

  “We’ve got tape of him opening the panic room.”

  “What? You’re shittin’ me! Can you see the keypad?”

  “Not quite,” I admitted.

  “What does ‘not quite’ mean?”

  “It means you can see the left edge of the pad, so we can see one of the six digits. It’s a four.”

  “Better than nothing,” said Steven, “but that still leaves the remaining five digits, which comes to … one hundred thousand possible combinations.”

  “There was one other thing I found interesting. I saw Lister use the mirror next to the panic room door.”

  “Use the mirror? Did he check his hair?”

  “Nope.”

  “Look over his shoulder for burglars?”

  “No.”

  “Well?”

  “It was quite strange. Before he punched the code in, he leaned right into the mirror and pulled down his lower lip.”

  “He what?”

  “He stretched his lower lip. With both hands. He stared at his mouth for a few seconds and then punched in the code.”

  “This is becoming more bizarre by the hour,” said Steven.

  “I’d have to agree wit
h you, Holmes.”

  “How many times did he do this whole lip-pulling rigmarole?”

  “I’ve fast-forwarded through two tapes so far, and he’s five for five.”

  “And you couldn’t catch any additional key-presses the other four times?”

  “Only the one. But I’ve got a bunch of tapes left to look at, so who knows.”

  “So when can I come over to see the tapes?”

  “Right now.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  Steven arrived at my Northridge place fifteen minutes later.

  “Take a seat,” I said. I sat down on the couch, grabbed the remote control, and after a bit of wrangling, started the ancient VCR. Steven ignored me, instead crouching just to the right of the TV, a few feet back.

  “It’s pretty grainy,” he said.

  “Probably from being recorded over dozens of times,” I offered.

  The camera was mounted on the ceiling, to the left and back about four feet from the door; I was surprised we hadn’t seen it. It had a pretty good view of the lower two-thirds of the steel wall, door, keypad, and the mysterious mirror. A fraction of a second after the tape started rolling, a barrel-shaped, curly-black-haired man with a bald spot entered from behind the camera.

  “Richard?” asked Steven.

  “Must be. Kind of weird to think that the guy’s dead now.”

  The figure walked up to the door, hesitated, turned about-face, and walked back out of the frame. A moment later, he returned.

  “He looks jumpy,” Steven said. Richard Lister gazed over his shoulder twice more before initiating his bizarre ritual.

  “There he goes. Pause it,” squawked Steven. “Interesting,” he continued. “He doesn’t touch the keypad at all. He goes straight for the mirror.” Richard’s hands stood frozen and shimmering, en route to his face.

  “He’s clearly not looking over his shoulder. He already checked the hallway three times. There must be something in his mouth.”

  “All right, let’s continue. Can you play it in slo-mo?”

  I looked at the remote. “Is it the wide circular dial?”

  “Try it.”

  I placed my finger in the small depression and jogged the two-inch diameter wheel clockwise.

  Over the course of five slow-motion seconds, Richard’s stumpy fingers traveled from his chest to his lower lip. Our eyes shifted from his hands to the reflection of his face in the mirror.