Blood Money (11 page)

CHAPTER 14

Everything was starting to come together for John Portman. John really loved a good chase. It was a part of his job that only occurred about every two years or so. It made him feel good to play the hunter again. He had the skills to schmooze, but he also knew how to play dirty. His track record was 100 percent; not too hard to achieve, since he made up the rules. He looked forward with great anticipation to his meeting with Ms. Susan Harrigan later in the morning. From his experience, the brainy ones always had too much self-confidence for their own good, especially the women. They always let their egos get in the way. That's when they either fell of their own volition or get toppled.

John turned fifty-three this month. The son of an Air Force Colonel, most of his youth had been spent moving from one base to another. His mother died when he was six, so there was no soft side to most of his upbringing. His father, who insisted that John address him as “Colonel, sir” at all times, expected great things from him. His strict upbringing included liberal beatings with a strap and long hours locked in the “solitary confinement” of a basement closet. His father enrolled John in military schools for his elementary education, and to toughen him up. To his chagrin, however, he was unable to get John into the U. S. Air Force Academy in Colorado. He blamed John's grades and a bad attitude for the failure. The truth of the matter was that the Colonel lacked the clout needed to get John on the list. UCLA, then, became the college of choice, with the ROTC as a poor substitute. Being away from the constant control of his father, John completely changed his attitude and excelled in all of his classes. Upon graduation, John's academic success led to an appointment with the intelligence arm of the Air Force. He served for six years without any noteworthy accomplishments, but during his seventh year he was linked to a drug ring operating on the base to which he was assigned. The evidence against him was circumstantial. John was not actually involved in the distribution of the drugs, but he was accused of turning a blind eye to the operation. That happened to be the truth. There was also some circumstantial evidence that he may have profited from the activities of the drug ring. John was never interested in drugs, but anyone who knew him knew that he did have an affinity for the almighty dollar, and the things and power that money could buy. In deference to his father, who was by then a Brigadier General, John received only an official reprimand and was given an honorable discharge. John's father refused to speak to him from until he was on his deathbed. His final words to his son were, “You'll never amount to anything. I wish that you had never been born.”

*

Portman finally got to a motel room around midnight. He was really beat after such a long day. In spite of the pending excitement later in the morning, sleep came easily. The wake-up call came at eight. While he showered and shaved, the coffee maker made two cups of Folgers coffee. He sat drinking the black coffee as he looked over the directions to Cybernetic Solutions that Phoebes had given him. He was anxious to get on with it. First, he had a few calls to make. It was still early in Denver, but in his line of work, 24/7 was the norm, not the exception. He picked up his cell and pressed the speed dial for Mel Tarkington.

Mel Tarkington was Portman's assistant in the NRBA Security Department. He joined the Association after fifteen years with the Utah State Police. His record there was spotty; there were numerous incidents where he was accused of excessive force. Mel was a man's man. His rugged appearance, from the crew cut to his powerful physique, pretty much summed him up. His weekends, part of the year, were spent playing tackle on a scrub football team, where he was given the nickname “The Monster.” The rest of the year, he spent his spare time in a local gym sparring with amateur boxers. Many of the locals thought that Mel should have turned pro; he was that good. Having turned forty-five last fall, that idea was just a daydream. Anyway, he wasn't up for the long hours of training that would be necessary. He loved to work out, but he needed more variety than the fight game could offer. Now he just enjoyed sparring to keep loose, and to occasionally inflict a little punishment when a boxer got to cocky. He lived for the surprised look on their faces when he poured it on, the look that usually preceded their rapid descent to the ring floor. Mel could be mean when he had a mind to be, which made him a perfect assistant for John.

It took a minute for Portman to be connected. “Mel, I found out something last night that I need you to follow up on. It turns out that the transactions for the Mansfield blood bank aren't processed at the blood bank. They use a Service Bureau out here. From what I can tell, the Bureau looks clean, but during my meeting I found out that a software company out here in Hudson, Ohio not only did the original programming for the Bureau's input program, but is also responsible for the maintenance of the program through a warranty agreement. I need you to run a check on the company and the owner. Find out everything you can about her. Take this down. The name of the company is Cybernetic Solutions and the gal that runs it is Susan H-a-r-r-i-g-a-n. I have a very uneasy feeling about her connection to Mansfield. It just seems too coincidental that her company not only wrote the original software, but also has access to the Service Bureau's processing by way of a maintenance agreement. I'm going to drop in on her unannounced in about an hour. I guess it wouldn't hurt to also check on Central Data Processing of Mansfield. It's operated by Roland P-h-o-e-b-e-s.” He hesitated for a minute, and then added as an afterthought, “While you're at it, Mel, find out what kind of backup support we have out here. I may be in need of some additional help before I'm finished.”

Mel understood this request. Occasionally they needed some extra muscle to complete their investigations. They preferred local contacts to avoid any connections. “I'll get right on it, John. Should I use your personal cell phone or one of the temps when I call you back?”

John always carried several pre-paid, throw-away phones. “Use NRBA-12. Unless you get to me first, I'll call you in about two hours, after I'm through with that Harrigan woman.”

He had worked himself up into a real sour mood. He hung up, finished his coffee and got dressed. He took a few minutes to review his notes. John really enjoyed getting involved hands-on in complicated investigations. Back at the office, his day was consumed by the physical plant security for all of the NRBA locations. He had fifteen direct reports, but he tended to let Mel take as much responsibility day-to-day as he was willing to take on. John usually reserved the more challenging projects for himself. Susan Harrigan was to be one of these.

Cybernetic Solutions was located in an upscale office complex in Hudson, Ohio. The strip mall where they were located contained several high fashion women's clothing shops and an Italian restaurant. The entrance way to the office was impressive. Modern murals were painted on both side panels. The door itself was ornate, with an admixture of colorful pastel swirls and waves painted on the glass. The receptionist was an attractive blonde with a pleasant smile. “Good morning, how may I help you?”

John handed her his business card. “I'd like to speak with the person in charge here.”

She looked at his card and said, “You'll probably want to speak with our office manager, Mrs. Talbot.”

“Well, actually, no. I was thinking more like Susan Harrigan. I understand that she is the actual owner of the company?”

“That's correct. Why don't you have a seat and I'll see if she is available.” She buzzed Susan's secretary. “I have Mister John Portman from the National Rare Blood Association here to see Susan.” She listened for a few minutes. “Okay, thanks!” She turned to John. “Ms. Harrigan will be out in a moment. Please have a seat.”

“Thank you!” John muttered.

A few minutes later, John was approached by a smiling Susan Harrigan. She extended her hand and greeted him. “Mister Portman, I'm Susan Harrigan. If you're looking to start a blood donation program, I must tell you that we are already committed to donating to a local group.”

John was looking at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She didn't match the stereotype he had of a computer geek. Could he be mistaken about all of this? He always had a problem equating beauty with brains. For a moment he was tongue-tied; that didn't happen very often to John Portman. Finally, he said, “I'm pleased to meet you Mrs. Harrigan.” The “Mrs.” was deliberate. He always tested to determine if a woman might be living alone. It wasn‘t foolproof; it was just another tool in his bag of tricks.

“No, it is nothing like that. Is there some place where we can go to speak in private?”

“It's Ms! Sure, let's go to my office.” She led him past rows of cubicles peopled by associates busy on software projects. As they passed she said, “This is where we do our software development. There are about fifteen people altogether, spread over three shifts. We are pretty much a 24/7 operation.” Pretending that she did not know the purpose of his visit, she gave him the official tour that any potential client would get. As far as she could tell, it seemed to be working so far.

As John followed Susan, all he could think about was how she had a nice ass as well as brains. “Very impressive,” he said, speaking about her body, not the office layout. She closed the door and gestured him to a chair in front of her desk. The office was very non-descript; an odd assortment of furniture pieces that had obviously been purchased simply for their utilitarian purpose. That surprised John, especially in light of the “glitz” of their entrance.

She looked directly at him and asked, “NRBA? Didn't we do some software work for your company a few years back?”

“Not for us directly. You developed software for Central Data Processing of Mansfield, allowing them to process donor records for the blood bank in Mansfield, Ohio, or, for that matter I guess, for any of the local blood banks that would want to avail themselves of Central's services.”

“Yes, of course, I think I recall that now. Well, do you have another opportunity for us? If you do, I could get my development manager in here to join us. We have some time open, if it won't be too big a project.”

“That won't be necessary, Ms. Harrigan,” John said curtly. My visit is for a totally different reason. Donor records that Central Data Processing of Mansfield input yesterday contained a bug that was somehow used to hack a part of our financial database. I'm here because your company wrote the software for their input program. Last night I met with a Roland Phoebes who runs Central Data Processing. I'm convinced that he has very tight controls in place at his Service Bureau. Of course, I can't be 100 percent sure of that. It's just a personal observation. Right now, all that I'm doing is exploring the possibilities of what might have happened.”

Susan did the best she could to look surprised. She had decided not to reveal that Roland had tipped her off about his visit. The less she told this man, the better. “Are you suggesting that our software has a design flaw, Mr. Portman? That would surprise me, given the frequency of processing without incident. Nevertheless, I guarantee that if that turns out to be the case, we will give you our fullest cooperation in making the necessary corrections, and we will reimburse your company for any financial losses. However, I personally wrote all of the security code for that program. It isn't just pride of authorship speaking here. That software is tamper proof. You are welcome to have your experts check the code if you wish, but we have never had a single instance of our programs being compromised. Our test procedures have always been extremely thorough.”

John got that uneasy feeling again. She wasn't being on the up-and-up with him. He could feel it. “I'm not suggesting that anything is wrong with how your program was developed. I'm just trying to find out if there is any way at all that the processing could have been accessed by someone other than the Service Bureau.” He hesitated for a second and then went on. “For example, it is my understanding that your company is responsible for the maintenance of the software; some sort of software warranty agreement. That would give you access to their processing and the opportunity to test your programs with live data whenever you make any modifications to the software. And if that is the case, wouldn't you also be able to run tests at the same time that they're running live data? They would not necessarily be aware that your processing was taking place? Is that not true?” John could tell from the conversation so far that this was going to be a classic cat and mouse game, so he was putting it all out there.

Susan thought about what he asked and answered, “Yes, that is absolutely true, but we would never do a test using live data without their full knowledge and consent. We just do not operate that way, and besides, there is no reason why we would do anything like this without a work order from Central.” She didn't like the direction the conversation was going, so she decided to change it by moving back to the quality issue. “As for our quality assurance, I warranty all our work for at least four years. That's pretty standard in the industry. But I do not recall us working on any projects for Central for quite a while.” She turned toward her computer screen. “Give me a moment to check something,” she said, as she tapped her keypad. She looked at the screen. “Just as I thought. We did make a minor change for Roland at his request about nine months ago. Since that time, there has been no activity on our part. I'd be happy to show you our logs. They are all coded by our client. Central Data Processing of Mansfield is number S1132.”

Portman sensed that Susan was trying to overload him with too much information. While that wasn‘t a sure sign of guilt, it often was a sign of intentionally trying to avoid dealing directly with the subject at hand by discussing totally irrelevant information. “Ms. Harrigan. May I call you Susan?”