Home Free - Fern Michaels [70]
He made a mental note to tell Isabelle to get those files from Maggie, because he did not keep copies of anything once he turned the job over to the person who hired him. He preferred to be as pure as the driven snow where all that was concerned. Once he invaded—he hated the term hacked—a subject’s life, he made a point of never doing it again. So if Maggie or her boss hadn’t made copies, they were all SOOL.
Abner scooted all around his work area, gathering the papers from the various printers. He scanned them, collated and stapled them, and added them to his other files. There was something there. He was sure of it because the fine hairs on the back of his neck were moving. He scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad.
A break was called for. Abner loped off to the kitchen, reached for an apple, and crunched down. Just the act of chewing sometimes triggered something in his head. He’d never been able to explain it even to himself.
As he munched and chewed, he wondered if everyone but himself kept their lives on their computers. He had his life secured thanks to Suze Orman, the financial guru whom he’d trust with his life.
Five minutes later, Abner was back in his workroom. He fiddled and diddled, whistled to himself, tapped his foot as he punched the keys; then he was looking at Adam Daniels’s computer.
He’d broken the politician’s password the previous day. He typed it in and proceeded to go through Daniels’s files and e-mails again to see if anything had changed. He wondered what the fussy little man would think if he knew his computer had been compromised. Abner had the knowledge and the power to crash Daniels’s computer if he wanted to. Actually, he could bring down the entire computer system at the CIA if he wanted to. But not yet. Maybe soon, though. He shut down and rolled back to his stack of files.
Next on his list was Barney Gray of the FBI. Gray was two years away from retirement. A widower with three children, all living in California, the land of orange blossoms and sunshine. He lived in the Watergate, saw different women occasionally, nothing out of the ordinary. Definitely not a playboy. Lived within his means, healthy, stable bank account. A consistent saver. Loaned money to his kids from time to time. Active Lutheran church member. No gym for him. Rarely charged on his Visa card. Used the ATM every other day but did not withdraw more than a hundred dollars at a time. Charged his groceries and gas on an American Express card that he paid off every month.
All his records reconciled. Played bridge twice a month but with neighbors, no government people. He liked to fish and hike and belonged to two different clubs, a fishing club and a hiking club. His three children, two boys and a girl, visited each year around the Fourth of July, when, as a family, they went camping or white-water rafting. No grandchildren to dandle on his knees.
The only interaction between Gray and the other three moneymen was either a meeting where the directors were present or by chance out somewhere. Nothing was prearranged. In Abner’s mind, Barney Gray was clean. That meant the FBI was clean. He separated the FBI’s files and scooted them over to a bare shelf. He plopped a sticky note on top that said “Clean.”
Next up was Henry Maris from the Department of Homeland Security. Well, if ever there was an organization that could rival a Chinese fire drill, the DHS was it. Maris was like dog poop in a park—he was all over the place. He was in debt up to his eyeballs, three months in arrears on his mortgage, and in danger of losing his town house; spent way beyond his means; charged everything under the sun. Liked designer clothes and custom-made shoes. As of the moment, his checking account said he had $345 in it. He had overdraft protection. He had tapped his retirement account three times in the last seven years and hadn’t paid back a penny of it. He drove a leased Mercedes-Benz and was two months behind in his lease payments. No unexplained cash deposits into his bank account.
The