Chapter 2: Man's Best Friend

IT WAS RAINING—which wasn’t unusual for Seattle in November—and I was moving. My timing was impeccable. I’d finally finished repainting everything in my apartment white—as I’d promised Jared when I moved in and covered the room with black wallpaper. I’d sent my bed, desk, and recliner to the Big Blue Truck. They also got all my kitchenware and dishes, my audio system, and my bedding, drapes, and most of my clothes.

Just prior to the destruction of Patterson Gaming Network, I’d completed another little job. I’d been paid handsomely. Movie star handsome. FinCEN, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, had used my services as a computer forensics detective to track down and deactivate an entire Mexican drug cartel. The DEA had previously been unsuccessful in catching them with the dope, so FinCEN moved in and nailed them for money laundering. It was a lot like the IRS nailing Al Capone when no one could pin a murder on him. We moved when the top dog was visiting his underlings in Texas.

The Mexican government had declined the kingpin’s request for intervention and passed on the opportunity to extradite him. With the evidence we had, the Feds had him for twenty to life in financial crimes. We’d heard that a lot of top players in the cartel had died in the battle to become the new leader and the organization had been so fragmented that it was unlikely they would have a serious presence in the market for years.

I decided to visit Mexico City ... just to see a little of the country I’d inadvertently helped. Of course, I didn’t provide the Mexican government with the information they didn’t have to make the operation they didn’t launch successful. No. Nor did they pay me a quarter-million non-taxable dollars in Eurodollar Bonds. Those bearer bonds were held in a safe deposit box in Mexico City rented under a different name.

Before the Patterson massacre, I’d withdrawn nearly all my cash from the bank, leaving token amounts in the bank to pay off credit cards. The cash was stuffed in a backpack that I carried with me at all times and never opened.

After Patterson, I had a clean slate. My banking records had been corrupted. My credit cards had all been canceled. My cell phone accounts and even my T1 line were disconnected. Even the electricity in my apartment was turned off at the end of the month. It looked like I got the same treatment as everyone else caught up in the massacre. I was digitally dead. I simply had a faster recovery time by producing paper backups of my records and getting new accounts set up.

I decided it was time to put as much of the past behind me as I could and find a new place to live. That’s what brought me to moving on the first of November in the rain.

I told Mrs. Prior I expected to be here a long time and she made me a great deal on the upstairs apartment—especially when I offered to pay a year’s rent in advance. In cash. She’d managed to convert a huge old house to a duplex with a full one-bedroom apartment upstairs. I arranged to include utilities for the apartment in my rent so I didn’t need to go through the hassle of getting a new utilities account set up.

With the view over Queen Anne, I’d be able to see Mount Rainier to the south and the Olympics in the west. On a clear day. Which today was not. I could barely see the tree in our neighbor’s yard.

Recliner World was the first to arrive with a new chair. It was hard to give up the old one, but I’d had it for twenty years and it had stopped being my favorite place to sit after the last spring broke. The new chair was leather and felt like a body glove when I sank down into it.

I’d just finished hanging my one painting where I’d be able to see it when I sat in the new chair when the Best Buy delivery truck showed up with the new television and stereo system. Mrs. Prior was happy to include cable service as part of my rent.

The Macy’s Home Store truck arrived with my new sofa, kitchen table, chairs, and bed while I was unloading my clothes from the back of the Mustang. The delivery guys were not happy about having to negotiate the narrow stairs with the king-size mattress. But what a bed! I stretched out on it and my full 6’2” frame actually fit.

Then I headed to Target to get bedding. I had no sheets, blankets, or even a dust ruffle that would fit a king size bed. I added dishes, cookware, and utensils. I’d decide tomorrow whether I still needed to go to Ikea. I dreaded that one, but I’d do it if I had to.

When the day was done, I was soaking wet, tired, achy, and cross. The excitement of having a new place had been supplanted by exhaustion and I was eying my new bed with sleep in mind. First, I needed a shower.

It wasn’t a big apartment, but I’d been able to move everything that wasn’t delivered new with two trips in the Mustang. The bath was tucked in on the bedroom side of the galley kitchen and had a shower that was actually big enough for me, the shower head being above the normal height. No tub, so I suppose it really only counted as a three-quarter bath, but tubs are always too short anyway. If I want a soak, I’ll go to the health club. The bedroom was plenty big enough for the necessities of sleeping and dressing with a large closet under the eaves. I had plans for that space that not even Mrs. Prior needed to know about.

The entrance at the top of the stairs opened into the living room that now had a comfortable sectional sofa, new leather recliner, television, stereo, and coffee table. Next to it was a small dinette at which I could comfortably seat four people if I wanted guests. I’d have to improve my cooking skills before that happened. All told, I had more than twice the space I’d had in my little efficiency.