Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2) (2 page)

2

Through the closed door, I faintly heard a burst of conversation and activity in the main room. I could distinguish a woman's voice exclaiming something and laughing. The noise of voices didn’t sound antagonistic, and my attention went back to the web server logs and HTTP signatures.

What I was dealing with at the gallery was a plain Denial of Service (DoS) attack. The idea behind such attacks is to overload the server with malicious requests, so that it is unable to process any legitimate traffic. I ran the command “whois” on the IP the traffic was coming from, and it came back with: “Ravenswood Art Gallery”. Linda Raven was registered as the owner, with a phone number noted and an address that looked to be a couple of blocks away, on one of the streets leading to the Kirkland waterfront.

OK, it looked like a local competitor, who decided to try a little cyber-attack to interfere with Nordqvist Fine Art. I brought up the Ravenswood gallery’s web page, using an anonymizer software just in case, so that whoever ran that site wouldn’t be able to tell where I was browsing from, and found myself looking at a photo of a smiling woman in her early fifties, in the upper left of its website. She had with jet-black hair (maybe to go with the “raven” name) and blue eyes, surrounded by a soft glow achieved by a filter. She was wearing red lipstick, and in her ears were earrings with matching long red inlays (maybe corals or semi-precious stones?). As for the art, her site said that they sold European 19
th
and 20
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century painting, sculpture and photography. So, a direct competitor, going after the same market as Nordqvist Fine Art, it looked like.

About a minute later, as I was perusing the Ravenswood Art Gallery’s site,  I heard steps going back towards the inventory room, then sounds of drawers opened and things moved across the floor. The voices next door resumed, less distinct than before. My un-intentional eavesdropping continued.

“As I said already, I thought about this. I have to be realistic.”

“Hold on, aren’t you being a little drastic?”

“No. I’m telling you, I’m done after this one.”

“Oh are you?” Fred’s voice was quiet and deliberate, so that I had trouble making out his words. “You know, I can obliterate your reputation with just a couple of words to the right people.”

“If you do that, it would destroy you and your business, too!”

“Oh, I’d say that I didn’t know any better. And that I came clean the moment I suspected anything! These paintings are just a part of my gallery’s business – a lucrative part, for sure, but there is so much more that I can sell. Jewelry, photographs, sculpture. I’ll take a temporary hit and move on. Your name will be ruined, make no mistake! And you’ll be lucky if your life isn’t ruined. And that woman won’t be pleased with the turn of events either.”

There was a long pause. Alex was probably thinking of his options. I got the impression that Alex decided to end a work arrangement he had with Fred. But Fred was not on board with that – and it sounded to me like he was in a very good position to make the other man’s life very difficult.

Finally, Alex appeared to arrive at the same conclusion. I heard his voice, sounding as if coming through clenched teeth, with definite malice in it:

“OK, you win. Looks like I can’t get out of this as long as you are around. Damn you!”

I heard a door open again, and the footsteps stomp down the hall and into the main gallery space.

Fred knocked and looked into the office a short while later, asking:

“How is it going?”

“Great! Your site is back up, I put a defense in place.”

“Oh, that’s excellent!”

“The attacker might shift the traffic pattern, though. I need to do a couple more things to protect against similar attacks.”

This was true – when the original malicious traffic stopped working, the attackers would often switch attack patterns. I did not think Linda Raven would do it – the software she (or someone working for her) was using so far was freely available and simple; and I guessed she wasn’t aware of many other cyber-attack tools. However, I decided to put the blocks in place for several of the more common attack patterns, just in case. And my engagement with Nordqvist Fine Art was for a week – our standard minimum consulting terms – and I was done with the basics in only about an hour; so I thought I could help make things more secure for them, even if they had only a small website most hackers won’t be interested in.

As I was doing that, my brain was running through the conversation I just heard. It seemed that my firm’s client was engaged in some unsavory dealings. I had heard him threaten an associate with exposure and ruin. That made me instinctively dislike him – since the conversation smacked of coercion and blackmail, and left a bad taste in my mouth. I thought that anyone drawing Fred Nordqvist's personal ire might be in trouble – and I could understand why someone might decide to DoS his website, an act on some level similar to throwing rocks, over and over and over again, at the person your dislike. 

I was done shortly before 3 pm. All in all, the job only took a couple of hours. The consulting report still remained, but I decided I had enough of the gallery for the day and that I’d do the paperwork Friday. For the time being, I could move on to more-interesting and pleasant matters.

As I was packing up my laptop, Fred knocked on the door again.

“Hi there!”

“Hi.”

“All done for the day?”

“Yes, pretty much. Your site is up, and there are defenses in place against the common attack patterns and the publicly-available DoS tools. I will put together the report and send it to you tomorrow.”

“Great, thank you so much! This upcoming opening is very important to us, and we want people to be able to find our website. You’ve practically saved my business!” He spread his hands to indicate the gallery around us and smiled an oily smile. “I want to show you my gratitude. How about grabbing some drinks? Or an early dinner?” He winked at me.

The conversation that I overhead still on my mind, I was not comfortable with being in close proximity to him and his nefarious transactions.

“No, thank you. I already have plans”.

“Oh, that’s a pity. Please allow me to at least walk you to your car.”

I mumbled something about it being several blocks away and up the hill, but he waved away my excuse and said he’d enjoy the walk.

In the main gallery space, a couple of paintings were already on the wall, and I glanced at them on the way out. They were landscapes, very pleasant, depicting woody or maritime, with sailboats and cliffs, scenes. There was no sign of Alex, or the woman I heard laughing, or anyone else. Fred locked the gallery door and followed me down the street.

As we walked, he asked:
“Are you interested in art?”

“Yes, but I don’t know much. I really like the paintings you have.” I said honestly. “They seem so full of light inside somehow.”

“Yes, well, I especially like finding stuff that no-one had really seen before, and giving people a good value – an investment for their money that will appreciate, and meanwhile something very pleasant to look at.” I could see his sizable chest puff up with pride as we walked. “I did a lot of research on art and art history. I put so much effort into establishing the gallery four years ago. It’s very successful now, it’s really found its niche in the Seattle art market, I'm happy to say. And my daughter, Pauline, works here too. She’s from my first marriage. She lived with her mother in Missouri and moved here after high school.”

I decided it must have been her voice that I heard in the main gallery space this afternoon.

“That's nice. Does she do anything else art-related?”

“Oh yes, she’s also in college part-time, studying art and art history.”

“So your gallery is a real family business then.”

“Yes, my current wife – she’s still my wife, although we are separated – works here too. We are starting the divorce – my third.” He nodded to himself in a self-satisfied manner, as if that were some sort of an accomplishment. I didn’t know what to say to that – replying “I’m sorry” seemed out of place with his self-important demeanor. So I kept quiet.

“I must say, it is an honor and such a pleasant surprise to meet a beautiful and intelligent woman! When you came in today to fix my website, I just knew that all of my problems would be solved!” He winked again. He was hitting on me, in spite of my gray hairs! I mumbled something incoherent again, and was thankful when we’ve arrived at my red car.

“Thank you for your help, again.” Fred extended his hand to me. “You will come to the exhibit opening tomorrow, won’t you? The event starts at 4:30. The owner of the collection will be there, and lots of my clients. There will be plenty of art talk, if you’d like to learn more about 19
th
-century British landscape painters, and food, and champagne!” His blue eyes looked intently at me.

I felt ambivalent. I disliked what I inferred from overhearing the conversation with Alex earlier, and being hit on by a much-older still married man had little to recommend it, in my opinion. On the other hand, technically, I would still be on his payroll tomorrow. And from what I’ve seen of the gallery, I liked the stuff on the walls. And I had been trying to go out and do stuff more often, not keep to myself so much. Also, I was still curious about what provoked a rival art gallery to attack the Nordqvist Fine Art website. Maybe I could find out more about that tomorrow.

All together, that spoke in favor of going. I decided to do the polite thing:

“I’ll try to make it. I’m sure it’s going to be fun.”

I opened the car door to get in. Fred took my left hand, bowed and kissed it. That almost made me change my mind about coming to the party the following night. I frowned at him as I drove off.

I got home to what seemed like cascading echoes of loud meows bouncing off the walls. My little black panther was hungry, and she wasn’t shy about letting me know it. I put some turkey giblets into her dish and watched as she inhaled them.

Being done with my obligations for the day so early, I decided to actually generate some plans for my evening, so that my statement to Fred wasn’t a lie. I got out my personal phone and dialed a number.

3

I got into my car and headed towards downtown Seattle. I now had a ticket to the Sounders FC game that night, to watch the local soccer club with a loyal fan base. My ticket was courtesy of Vinay, an entrepreneur friend I met about six months ago at a housewarming party (where the host happened to get himself murdered during the evening, and I played a role in finding the killer). Vinay’s start-up, like many companies in the Seattle area, had season tickets to the Sounders home games.  We had originally planned to go to the game with several of his employees. But on Thursday, he got stuck at work at the last minute, together with pretty much everyone at his tech company, dealing with a problematic production release – so the ticket waiting at the stadium was just for me.

I enjoyed soccer ever since I was a kid. I had fond memories of attending some Champions League matches with my dad in Europe, and over the years I had watched teams like Barcelona, Chelsea and Manchester United play live. I fancied myself a bit of a connoisseur of the game, and liked dissecting the technique and strategy of matches with like-minded friends.

Columns of fans were streaming into the stadium through each gate – Seattle regularly has the highest-attended soccer games in the US league, with crowds frequently topping 30 000. A lot of people were wearing green and blue – the team’s colors, – or had team scarves with “Sounders” on them in big letters. Many had brought their kids. I basked in the pre-game atmosphere of noise and anticipation.

My seat was in the lower levels, and I could see the entire field very well. I noticed a group of hard-core supporters of the Sounders, already in their usual place behind one of the goals, their faces painted green and blue, waving a team flag, beating a drum and chanting a rousing Sounders chant. A couple of seats on each side of me were empty – these were the seats that Vinay and his colleagues would be occupying if they could get away from work. I texted Vinay to thank him again for the ticket, and settled in to watch the game.

At 7:30, the dusk was gathering, but the bright lights above the stadium made the surroundings look dark. The anthem played, confetti shot out of a cannon and the game started.

Tonight’s game was a friendly against an LA team.  For the next forty-five minutes, my attention was on the pitch. I was jumping up in anticipation when Sounders were close to scoring a goal, yelling in disappointment when they lost possession of the ball or their pass went wide, was on the edge of my seat when the other side had control of the ball and went on attack.

By the end of the first period, the score was 1-1, and I had thoroughly enjoyed myself. Now I noticed that the spring air had gotten chillier. I drew my coat around my shoulders and got up to stretch and walk around. I bought a bottle of water and was coming back to my seat when, standing at the top of the stairs, I saw a familiar-seeming figure a couple of rows down and to my left.

The man looked around, and I saw his face in profile. It was Alex. I recognized him from earlier in the day, since his conversation with Fred Nordqvist stuck in my mind. With him was a blond woman of about 50, wrapped up in a green waterproof hiking jacket, and they seemed to be involved in intense conversation, their heads close together. They didn’t notice me, and I didn’t think Alex would recognize me in any case, since he barely saw me that afternoon, and never spoke to me specifically. I headed down and stairs and back to my seat.

The next 45 minutes flew by with more jumping up, chanting by the fans when the audience interest seemed to wane, two more goals (one a beauty from a corner kick), and the final score a draw, 2-2. On the way out, in the noisy crowd discussing each of the goals while making our way slowly out of the stadium, I didn’t see either Alex or the woman with him.

Walking out into the chilly night air, I got to my car, fought the traffic all the way across the bridge, and finally arrived home.

Bitty demanded another dinner as soon as I got back. According to her, every time I walked through the front door was an occasion that called for a celebratory meal. I gave her a small treat, of the type that was supposed to be good for her teeth. She inhaled it even before I could get the bag zipped closed, and looked at me with a question: “Urr?”, meaning “Is that it?” I reminded her that, according to the vet, she was supposed to be on a diet to get to her ideal weight of 7 lbs. She yawned in my face, showing large (for such a small cat) fangs, and curled up to sleep on a blanket draped across one of the kitchen chairs especially for her.