“Your, uh, app does this?”
“Yes.”
“Sharon, I don’t know much about technology, but wouldn’t you lose the ability to track when it’s in the air or off Wi-Fi or whatever?”
“If you used strictly Wi-Fi or cellular services, yes. But I’ve been able to keep the app active by tying the frequency into governmental satellite LEOs — that’s Low Earth orbit—”
“Sharon.”
“Right, sorry. Here’s the point. Someone tried to delete the app off Maggie’s phone.” Sharon raises her hand as though to stop him. “No, it wasn’t Maggie. She would know that it couldn’t be done this way. The most rational reason is that someone took away her phone, didn’t like that app being on it, and tried to delete it.”
“What’s on the app?”
Sharon hesitates.
“Sharon?”
“You wouldn’t understand. And it’s not really important. What does matter is that someone took possession of Maggie’s phone, undoubtedly against her will.”
“So she’s in trouble,” Porkchop says.
“Yes.”
“Can you use the L-E-whatever to tell us where she is now?”
“Here’s where she was yesterday. I brought the satellite image.”
She reaches over him and turns the page.
Porkchop studies the page. “I assume the red dot is her?”
“Yes.”
“I only see trees.”
“I know. I had to zoom out. There are roads, but whatever building is there, it’s being blocked.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone rich and powerful lives there. He doesn’t want his house seen via satellite. He wants to stay hidden.”
Porkchop says nothing.
“So at 2:13 a.m. local time yesterday,” Sharon continues, “someone tech savvy found a way past Maggie’s facial recognition and got into her phone. Forty-eight minutes later, someone tried to delete my proprietary beta app. It’s tricked up so that the person who does it will think they succeeded, but they didn’t. That triggered an alarm that reached me around three in the morning.”
“What else do you know?”
“The app was later reinstalled.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the experts are better than I thought and figured it out. Or maybe Maggie got her phone back. I don’t know. The estate has a cell phone jammer. In short, the phone has not been used at all since her arrival. No calls allowed in or out. No emails or messaging. No Wi-Fi or internet access.”
“But your, uh, app. That still works?”
“Yes. Because it uses LEO satellites. That’s how I can still track it. Most people believe that if you are off Wi-Fi or cellular service, you can’t be tracked. That’s not true. You can be. Even if a phone is off, you can be tracked.” Sharon shakes it off. “Let me get to the point.”
“That would be helpful, yeah.”
“Someone took Maggie’s phone. Someone broke into it. Someone tried to delete the app. That sent me the warning. Several hours later, the phone, which had been in a location where cellular access was blocked, moved out of that bubble long enough to make a call.”
“Who did Maggie call?”
“We don’t know it was Maggie,” Sharon says. “But it’s a Lithuanian phone number. It’s the kind designed to be untraceable.”
“Okay, so where’s Maggie’s phone now?”
“That’s another issue,” Sharon says. “I can’t trace it anymore.”
“So, what, it ran out of batteries, or someone turned it off?”
Sharon shakes her head. “I told you. Even if a phone is off, you can track it.”
“So?” Porkchop asks.
“So,” Sharon says, “someone destroyed it.”
As he does most mornings, Dr. Evan Barlow says goodbye to Hector the doorman at his apartment building on Fifth Avenue between 61st and 62nd Street and slides into the back of his Mercedes-Maybach.
From down the block, two men on motorcycles watch. One is a big squat man known to his friends as Pinky. The other is Porkchop.
Porkchop nods and then they both follow. They stay back, but Porkchop isn’t particularly worried about being spotted. When they get within six blocks of Barlow Cosmetics’ main office, Porkchop becomes certain that that’s Barlow’s destination. He sees no reason to stay behind. He and Pinky speed up, find parking, wait inside the expansive lobby.
There is security, of course. No New York City building is without security nowadays. But the guards leave you alone on the ground floors of most buildings as long as you don’t loiter too long. It’s if you want to get on an elevator that all the security and badges and passes and IDs kick in.
Five minutes later, Barlow’s car pulls up to the front. He steps out of the back and enters the lobby. Porkchop doesn’t hesitate. He approaches Barlow from the back and slaps his shoulder in a gesture that may look friendly from a distance but is hard enough to intimidate. Barlow startles at the blow and looks behind him.
“Remember me?” Porkchop says.
Barlow’s eyes narrow as he looks the old biker up and down. But only for a second. Yep, he knows. Still, Porkchop adds the reminder.
“You were at my son’s wedding.”
“I remember,” Barlow says. “You’re Meatloaf or something.”
“Don’t try to piss me off, Evan.”
“What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“I have a full schedule this morning.”
Porkchop throws his arm around his shoulder and neck area. Two good buddies. “This won’t take long.”
Barlow shrugs him off and straightens his shoulders. “You don’t scare me.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
Barlow raises his chin, sticks out his chest. “There’s security everywhere.”
Porkchop nods and then punches Barlow deep in the stomach. It’s a short jab, no fuss, no big windup or any of that. The hand forms a fist near the waist and shoots up fast. You don’t need that much power to make this effective. It’s more placement than strength. Porkchop’s knuckles land flush on the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of Barlow. Barlow bends at the waist. His mouth is open in a silent scream because the air is gone from his lungs. Porkchop grabs him and gently leads him to the ground. Pinky steps in front of them, blocking the security guard’s view.
“Just relax,” Porkchop whispers. “Your breath will come back in a moment.”
No one saw the blow. No one rushes over. Part of that is the speed and relative stillness of Porkchop’s move. Part of it is that you don’t expect something like this on the ground floor of a fancy Manhattan high-rise. Whatever, no one reacts at first, but with Barlow on the floor struggling to regain his breath, a security guard finally notices. He starts to hurry over.
“If you tell him anything other than you’re fine,” Porkchop says in his calmest voice, “you’ll need a doctor better than you to put you back together.”
The guard, a bony guy with a prominent Adam’s apple, arrives. “Doctor Barlow?”
“He slipped,” Porkchop says.
The guard ignores him. “Doc?”
Barlow finally catches his breath. “I’m fine, Darryl,” he manages. Then: “I’m going to need a security pass for my friend here.”
Darryl ends up getting a pass for Pinky too. They use the barcode to get through the turnstile and into the elevator. All three step inside. When they do, Barlow snaps, “What do you want?”
“First off, I’m sorry,” Porkchop says. “Not about the punch. You deserved that. But the ‘you’ll need a better doctor than you’ line. I can’t believe I said that.”
Pinky says, “It was bad.”
“I know. Way too arch.”
“Even the delivery was off,” Pinky adds with a disappointed shake of his head. “I expect better from you, Porkchop.”