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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHELMSFORD, ENGLAND

FRIDAY, MARCH 24, 2023

3:00 P.M.

Emerging from her own interview and expecting Rachel’s would last the better part of an hour, Cami checked her watch. After taking her phone off block, she gave Frigg a call.

“Good afternoon, Cami,” Frigg said. “I hope you’re having a pleasant day.”

It may have been morning in Sedona, but Frigg was always in step with the correct time zones.

“Not exactly,” Cami replied. “I’ve just spent two hours being interviewed by the Essex Police in conjunction with the Adrian Willoughby homicide.”

“Do they consider you a suspect?”

“He was murdered before I ever arrived in the country, but they’re checking my alibi, and they’ve asked me not to leave the country until they’ve completed their inquiries. In the meantime, do you have anything for me?”

“Rather a lot, actually. Is this a good time to go over it?”

Spotting a bench in the hallway leading to the interview rooms, Cami sank down on it. “Go ahead,” she said.

“In examining Mr. Smythe’s finances, I discovered that in 2020 his situation was dire. It would appear that he had expanded the company too rapidly and was facing the possibility that it would go under. A massive influx of funds from Eastern Europe, Bulgaria in particular, rescued him from having to file for bankruptcy, and that gave the business time enough to recover from that over expansion.”

“That’s about the same time Adrian Willoughby launched his misinformation campaign against High Noon,” Cami put in. “Are those two things connected?”

“Possibly,” Frigg replied. “Soon after the arrival of those funds, Mr. Smythe established a second cybersecurity enterprise located in Sofia, Bulgaria. He did so in partnership with a Bulgarian national named Petar Borisov. The company’s name translates into English as Data Security. That seems to be the source of most of the funds found in Mr. Smythe’s offshore cryptocurrency accounts.”

“So that one’s making money, then?” Cami asked.

“Supposedly,” Frigg replied, “but I suspect the company’s actual business dealings have very little to do with cybersecurity and far more to do with money laundering, since most of their supposed customers appear to be shell companies located in Eastern Europe.”

“You’re saying they don’t actually exist?” Ali asked.

“The companies exist only on paper, but the money moving back and forth is real enough, and it appears to come from any number of illegal activities—drugs, human trafficking, and arms sales.”

“How much money?”

“Based on what appears to be George Smythe’s cut, I’d estimate it’s in the billions,” Frigg answered. “And as far as what happened to you in L.A.? I believe I’ve located the smoking weapon.”

“You mean the smoking gun?” Cami asked.

“Yes, of course,” Frigg corrected quickly. “The smoking gun.”

“What is it?”

“I’m now able to penetrate Mr. Smythe’s cryptocurrency accounts and track his recent wire transfers.”

“Wait,” Cami said. “Aren’t cryptocurrency accounts supposed to be impenetrable?”

“You can’t believe everything you see on the news,” Frigg replied. “At Odin’s direction I cut my hacking teeth on penetrating block-chain transactions.”

“What did you find?”

“In the middle of February, Mr. Smythe made a sizable payment to someone you happen to know.”

“Adrian Willoughby, by any chance?” Cami asked.

“Yes,” Frigg replied.

“How much?” Cami asked.

“Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

Cami whistled. “That’s sizable, all right, but I’m not surprised. What went on in California didn’t come cheap. Anything else?”

Frigg continued. “On Friday of last week there were two additional smaller transfers from Mr. Smythe’s account. One of them went to a Richard Hernandez, the owner of a cannabis shop in San Bernardino, California, and the other to an English dockworker named Ed Scoggins. Scoggins lives in the town of Tilbury, right next door to Grays, where Willoughby and his wife lived. Scoggins was released from prison two years ago after serving fourteen years for a fatality drunk-driving conviction.”

“So Hernandez or one of his associates was likely hired to take care of Petrov, while Scoggins, the guy in Tilbury, handled Adrian Willoughby?”

“Presumably,” Frigg answered.

“When I was being interviewed by the Essex Police earlier, I pointed the investigators in George Smythe’s direction, but I only had my suspicions rather than any proof. Since you were able to access those financial transactions, will they be able to do the same thing?”

“No doubt they could,” Frigg replied, “but not without obtaining the proper warrants. At the moment, I don’t believe they’re anywhere close to having probable cause.”

Even though Cami had already had her own suspicions about the man, it was shocking to realize that someone who had always presented himself as a proper English gentleman was actually an international criminal.

“Then maybe we need to figure out a way to give them some,” Cami said determinedly. “And if Smythe has already targeted me once, what’s to stop him from doing so again?”

“Nothing,” Frigg replied. “Nothing at all.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Cami said.

Just then Rachel emerged from the interview room, greeting Cami with a scathing look. “Let’s go,” she said grimly.

Ending the call with Frigg, Cami hurried after Rachel. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Rachel spun around to face her. “Who the hell is George Smythe?” she demanded. “I’m supposed to be protecting you, so why did I have to hear about him from DI Wallace instead of from you?”

With that, Rachel once more set off down the hallway, while Cami scrambled to keep up.

“I know a lot more about him now than I did this morning,” Cami said.

“Like what?” Rachel demanded.

“Like he made several wire transfers from his cryptocurrency accounts recently—one of which was a payment of three hundred and fifty thousand pounds to Adrian Willoughby.”

“Wait,” Rachel said. “Are you telling me you have someone who’s able to track cryptocurrency transactions?”

“Not someone,” Cami admitted. “Something—Frigg is actually an AI. I’m sure the authorities here could do the same, but in order to do so, they’ll need to know about them to begin with, and then they’ll need a warrant.”

“Good luck with that,” Rachel replied.

On the drive back to London, Cami told Rachel everything she knew about George Smythe. At first Rachel listened in stony silence. Gradually she softened.

“All right,” she said when Cami finished. “Thanks for cluing me in, but before we sit down to figure out next steps, we’re going to have something to eat. I vote we call ahead for takeout orders of some of those Indian dishes we missed having the other night, only this time, with George Smythe still on the loose, we’ll be dining in the security of our Portlandia hotel rooms rather than out in public.”