Page 16 of Sam to the Rescue
He opens a new social media window. “There are many incongruent comments here but the most frequently occurring theme is how the Russians are brainwashing American children over an imaginary 6z network.
It sounds an awful lot like the cult of my missing client, so I send another image. “Can you find this man?”
His meme types on a keyboard with realistic sound effects.
While I ponder the implications, Jason texts GPS coordinates to me. “Mr. Kessler’s last know location was here, at his home in Long Island.”
Facing forward, he cocks his head. “Is there something else you need?”
“Yes. Is it possible my client is purposefully avoiding detection?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Can you tell me how this group communicates?”
“Twatter.”
“You mean Twitter?”
“No. I do not. Twatter is a newly formed social network for fringe groups with alternate views of reality.”
“More like bat shit crazy.” Muttering, I shake my head. We really need to improve public education.
“An excellent use of the vernacular. I will add that to my vocabulary. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Can you send me everything you found on the two men I sent you?”
“Yes. The links are in your inbox.”
“And will you alert me if any sign of David Kessler shows up.”
“I will.”
“Please bill the time toSuds and Sam. Goodbye.”
“Understood. Goodbye Samantha. Have a lovely day.”
I put an approximate dollar amount in the Kaplan’s expense account and whistle through my teeth. Even with our professional discount, Dr. Jones charges top dollar for Jason.
Done with the spreadsheet, I open the pages sent by the artificial intelligence. Well, lookee here. The tattooed man at the dojo has a rap sheet a mile long. The only reason he’s not in jail is his expensive lawyer.
If I’m going to find my client’s father, I need to find out more about these COGs. Creating an account on Twatter is easy. I make up a persona of a disgruntled ex-military man. Then, I post about laser beams from Russia with mind-bending capabilities.
Unable to entice any followers, I message Jason from my computer. As my influence grows, I suddenly remember the chemicals in my pocket and wonder who I should call.
The first man who comes to mind is Detective O’Brien. He works for the joint terrorism task force and because he’s used to smart women, treats me differently than the Feds.
Besides, I trust my dad’s police force much more than the FBI who, by the way, happened to fire me for no good reason whatsoever.
Colin doesn’t pick up so I leave a message and start to worry. I should never have opened the damn barrel. What if it was anthrax?
Fuck. Perhaps Suds is right. I may be a little, tiny bit careless when curiosity gets the better of me. With this in mind, I drop my son off with Joey and Uber into the city.
Chapter 9
Suds
For the first time in days, I wake from a solid block of sleep and roll out of bed. Over coffee, I read my text messages. Mikey’s downstairs and Sam went into Manhattan to give the Feds the crystals she found in the ladies room. Now, if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t worry none but this is my wife we’re talking about. Sure as shit, those damn barrels are going to be a problem.