heard the doc. Stay off that ankle. Which means, get your ass up on that couch, and don’t move.”
Clune glanced at Dr Colby. He held out a hope that she might assist him, her injured patient, up onto the couch. Grab his legs, perhaps put a shoulder under his armpit, and hoist him.
But he looked back at Venn’s face, saw the expression there, and clambered up with a speed that surprised him.
Venn took a seat in the armchair nearest Clune.
“Start talking.”
Chapter 15
“I ’m a hacker,” said the kid.
Venn folded his hands.
He said, “Big deal. So’s everybody else your age, these days.”
“No.” Clune shifted on the couch, grimacing. Beth had taken care over his ankle, and Venn was prepared to accept that the guy really was in pain.
Didn’t change anything, though.
Clune went on, “I’m good. Really, really good. Like, I’ve hacked the Ministry of Defence back in Britain.”
“Bullshit.”
“Honestly, I have.” Despite the pain he was in, the nervousness, Clune’s tone was proud. Almost smug. “Didn’t stay there long. I’m not stupid. I grabbed a few pieces of data, the significance of which I still don’t know, and I was out. Before they knew I was there. I did it to prove to myself I could. That was all.”
“So you’re this whizz kid. So what?”
“That’s how I found out where you lived.”
Venn took a moment to think about it.
“You hacked the NYPD’s database.”
“Yes.”
“To find my address.”
“Yep.”
Venn said, “No way. That data’s secure. Encrypted. Buried under a ton of, I don’t know, firewalls or whatever you call them.”
This time the kid’s expression was definitely self-satisfied. “As I said. I’m good.”
Venn glanced at Beth. She was watching Clune, her face intent but mostly unreadable.
He said, “Okay. So all that crap you fed me about your, uh, your PhD study into rock music. That was a lie.”
“No.”
“Come again?”
“No. I am working on a thesis about the history of rock.” Now Clune’s eyes were alight, enthused. “But that’s not the reason I’m in New York.”
Venn waited. The Beretta was on a coffee table next to his chair, the safety on. He was sorely tempted to reach for it.
“I’m here,” said Clune slowly, and not a little grandly, “because I’m on the run. From a man called Salazar.”
For the first time, Venn felt a stirring in a place he called his investigator’s brain. It wasn’t the normal detached cop interest in everything an interrogation suspect was saying. It was a tingling, intuitive sense that something of significance, something critical, was being imparted.
“Salazar,” said Venn. “He got a first name?”
“Probably, but I don’t know it.” Clune wasn’t so much lying on the couch now as lounging. Enjoying the fact that he was the center of attention. That he had the upper hand.
The seconds ticked by.
Venn cracked his knuckles. “Listen closely to me, kid. Keep it flowing. None of this drama queen bullshit. Tell me everything about why you’re here, what you know, or so help me I’ll pick up the phone and call you in as a multiple felony catch. Breaking and entering, obstruction of justice, fleeing the scene of a crime, and that little matter, ancient history, of spraying gas in the face of a police officer. And don’t think you’ll get a free pass by being deported, back into the arms of your bleeding-heart British criminal justice system. No. We’ll nail your ass to a New York penitentiary wall so hard it’ll take a goddamn Blitzkrieg to prize you free.”
He got a reaction.
Clune sat up straight, gritting his teeth as his ankle twinged. “All right.” He didn’t look as scared as before, but he’d been knocked down a peg or two in the cockiness stakes.
He drew a long breath.
“I came to the USA nearly two months ago. For the reason I told you: I’m writing my thesis. I decided to start in Seattle, with the whole grunge thing. My plan was to head down
Clune glanced at Dr Colby. He held out a hope that she might assist him, her injured patient, up onto the couch. Grab his legs, perhaps put a shoulder under his armpit, and hoist him.
But he looked back at Venn’s face, saw the expression there, and clambered up with a speed that surprised him.
Venn took a seat in the armchair nearest Clune.
“Start talking.”
Chapter 15
“I ’m a hacker,” said the kid.
Venn folded his hands.
He said, “Big deal. So’s everybody else your age, these days.”
“No.” Clune shifted on the couch, grimacing. Beth had taken care over his ankle, and Venn was prepared to accept that the guy really was in pain.
Didn’t change anything, though.
Clune went on, “I’m good. Really, really good. Like, I’ve hacked the Ministry of Defence back in Britain.”
“Bullshit.”
“Honestly, I have.” Despite the pain he was in, the nervousness, Clune’s tone was proud. Almost smug. “Didn’t stay there long. I’m not stupid. I grabbed a few pieces of data, the significance of which I still don’t know, and I was out. Before they knew I was there. I did it to prove to myself I could. That was all.”
“So you’re this whizz kid. So what?”
“That’s how I found out where you lived.”
Venn took a moment to think about it.
“You hacked the NYPD’s database.”
“Yes.”
“To find my address.”
“Yep.”
Venn said, “No way. That data’s secure. Encrypted. Buried under a ton of, I don’t know, firewalls or whatever you call them.”
This time the kid’s expression was definitely self-satisfied. “As I said. I’m good.”
Venn glanced at Beth. She was watching Clune, her face intent but mostly unreadable.
He said, “Okay. So all that crap you fed me about your, uh, your PhD study into rock music. That was a lie.”
“No.”
“Come again?”
“No. I am working on a thesis about the history of rock.” Now Clune’s eyes were alight, enthused. “But that’s not the reason I’m in New York.”
Venn waited. The Beretta was on a coffee table next to his chair, the safety on. He was sorely tempted to reach for it.
“I’m here,” said Clune slowly, and not a little grandly, “because I’m on the run. From a man called Salazar.”
For the first time, Venn felt a stirring in a place he called his investigator’s brain. It wasn’t the normal detached cop interest in everything an interrogation suspect was saying. It was a tingling, intuitive sense that something of significance, something critical, was being imparted.
“Salazar,” said Venn. “He got a first name?”
“Probably, but I don’t know it.” Clune wasn’t so much lying on the couch now as lounging. Enjoying the fact that he was the center of attention. That he had the upper hand.
The seconds ticked by.
Venn cracked his knuckles. “Listen closely to me, kid. Keep it flowing. None of this drama queen bullshit. Tell me everything about why you’re here, what you know, or so help me I’ll pick up the phone and call you in as a multiple felony catch. Breaking and entering, obstruction of justice, fleeing the scene of a crime, and that little matter, ancient history, of spraying gas in the face of a police officer. And don’t think you’ll get a free pass by being deported, back into the arms of your bleeding-heart British criminal justice system. No. We’ll nail your ass to a New York penitentiary wall so hard it’ll take a goddamn Blitzkrieg to prize you free.”
He got a reaction.
Clune sat up straight, gritting his teeth as his ankle twinged. “All right.” He didn’t look as scared as before, but he’d been knocked down a peg or two in the cockiness stakes.
He drew a long breath.
“I came to the USA nearly two months ago. For the reason I told you: I’m writing my thesis. I decided to start in Seattle, with the whole grunge thing. My plan was to head down
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