T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality
incessant cameras pointed in her direction. Either she wasmaturing into the enviable position of Chesterfield’s new wife, or the years of modeling had paid off. Maybe both.
    The emerging investigation, which to be politically correct was a coordinated effort between all the authorities, was getting nowhere fast. To be truthful, it resembled a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus troupe in training for a new season. Everyone knew what their individual job was and they could do it well. But as a group they were clumsy, bumped into each other, and hadn’t yet slipped into a comfortable rhythm or chain of command.
    I poured milk into a bowl of Frosted Flakes and joined Spud at the kitchen table. He slurped a bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo between bites of cold leftover Domino’s pizza. Cracker had positioned himself under the table and utilized Spud’s slippered feet as a pillow. Without bothering to lift his head, he sniffed the air, eternally hopeful for a fallen crumb.
    “Anything new with the missing boy?” Spud said over the top of the sports section.
    “No, but something should be happening soon.”
    Although the kidnapping had just occurred yesterday morning, a lack of communication from the perpetrators had me puzzled. It certainly had to be wearing on Samuel Chesterfield. His condominium was outfitted with an incoming-call tracing device, as well as a recorder and two round-the-clock suits, not to mention twenty-four-hour perimeter security. The tracing and recording equipment was carried in a package about the size of a large suitcase and had been spread out in Chesterfield’s living room. The Feds discovered the earpieces I’d planted, as well as my phone tap on the main line. I claimed to know nothing about either one, even though I would have liked to get the equipment back. It was an oversight on my part to have not retrieved them sooner. Actually, it was plainstupid of me. I prayed that retirement hadn’t already soothed my brain in to a state of lethargy.
    “Well, I gotta run,” Spud said, standing up and drawing an annoyed look from Cracker, who’d lost his human pillow. “Bobby’s picking me up downstairs. We’re headed to the barber for a trim.”
    It had rained overnight, heavily, reminding me of Spud’s car insurance plan. “Whose car are you taking?”
    “His. Unless we take mine,” Spud said. After I shot him a questioning look, he added, “For crying out loud. That sinking the car thing was all just a joke.”
    I didn’t have time to quiz him further because Soup paged me. While I returned the page, Spud traded his bedroom shoes for sandals, put on a NOT OVER THE HILL JUST ENJOYING THE TOP baseball cap, and ambled out with a redwood walking cane leading the way. Shaped like an upside-down female leg, its handle was a slender arched foot.
    Soup answered on the first ring without his traditional greeting. “Jersey, you’ve got some serious shit here.”
    I forgot about Spud and his quest to sink the Chrysler. “Go on.”
    “The additional data tagged to each taxpayer field? It’s part of a virus. Code diverting exactly one thousand dollars of the initial SIPA deposits from Uncle Sam into another pocket. Probably an account established out of the country, Swiss maybe.”
    “Wow.” The spoonful of cereal stopped midway to my mouth as my mind processed that tidbit of information. Since Americans choosing SIPAs could open their account only at the beginning of each quarter, the sum of three months’ worth of initial deposits could amount to a lot of money.
    Talking fast, Soup agreed with my assessment. “Exactly. At first I thought it might have been done by a blue hat. You know, someone hired to bug and test a new system before its launch? Butthis thing is for real. It has an outrageously elaborate packet sniffer—”
    “Soup, please.” I’d never comprehend all the technical jargon if I waited for an explanation of how he did it. “Just give me the bottom

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