Chapter 20

20

Lyric

H ours pass slowly as I stare at two different screens of data. Scans of various documents, photographs, records, strings of code and text notes. I’m dealing with police files, public information, webpages, forums, webchats. I had my algorithm tap into the world wide web itself—a dangerous gambit since it could return too many results, but so far, so good.

I’m building a series of parameters to deliver a clear and immediately available scenario. For that, I need insane amounts of details, and it’s something I need to do manually. Fortunately, there’s enough food in the fridge to keep me sated at least until the weekend. I don’t want to have to leave my computer unless it’s to eat, sleep or shower. I’m way too invested.

“I need a connection between Bowman and Phelps,” I speak into the microphone that’s connected to my laptop. The algorithm’s AI assistant picks up my request and inputs it through its program. “Something specific and verifiable, to tie Jack Bowman to Matthew Phelps. Go as far back as college or high school. I never learned how my father and Bowman met.”

The software chirps in response while I go back to perusing various police records. Nothing I’ve come up with has managed to bring me closer to a satisfying conclusion, but I have a feeling that the truth lies somewhere in a much greater picture, one of which my mind isn’t able to process. A computer, on the other hand, if dealt with correctly, could be a game changer.

“Now add all the information we’ve gathered about my father’s campaign contributors,” I say. “We need to find a link between the campaign donations and the Chicago FBI office. Include employees of the field office, please. All of them. Payments were made, from proxy to proxy most likely, until the paper trail was lost. We have to find it.”

As the program continues its work, I make myself another cup of tea and walk over to the window, briefly checking my phone. There’s a message from Max that I haven’t had the courage to read. It’s been in my inbox for an hour.

Are you okay? he asks.

With trembling fingers, I type a reply. Thanks, I’m okay. All good .

I know they have eyes on me. I don’t see them but I’m aware that I’m being tailed by at least one of their bodyguards at all times. It does give me a sense of security. I sleep better at night knowing that despite the way we ended it, they care about me and they still look after me.

How’d the Bowman interview go? Max texts back.

I don’t know how to answer that. They’re already aware that he’s gunning for them, and Bowman didn’t give me any details that they might find useful.

It was weird for me but I got all the information I needed.

Are you sure?

I promise.

“Processing complete,” the AI machine beeps and delivers a vocal notification.

I freeze, mug in hand, and stare at the screen for a while.

“This is the first time you’ve moved so fast,” I mumble. “What gives?”

Slowly, I pull my chair closer to the desk and start reading through the report. The algorithm is correct at a glance. The lines of code are there, all the parameters I fed into it. Processing time is shorter than ever, which is quite the accomplishment. I should pat myself on the back, but the scenario and conclusions that my own work has delivered sends shivers down my spine.

Each concluding statement comes with visual and sound attachments. Photographs collected from the obscurest corners of the world wide web. Documents. Scanned newspaper articles. Police reports. Receipts. Absolutely everything I need to confirm with remarkable confidence that…

“My father and John Bowman go back over thirty years,” I say with a shuddering sigh. “They met early on in college, same fraternity, same parties and clubs. Jesus, they even dated the same women over the years, my mother not included.”

The more I read, the more appalled I become.

Bowman and my father stayed close over the years. Small business endeavors on the side. Joint charity organizations. Weekends away with cops and federal agents.

Holy shit.

This is an old and well-oiled machine, and my father stands somewhere on the higher level. He’s been there for years while Bowman has been its de facto leader since day one. Smith joined later. The organization itself has a wide reach, but Max and the guys were right, from what I can tell. It’s all concentrated within the Bureau’s Chicago field office, which has gathered the most complaints.

The majority were shelved, only to be made available to the public many years later through the FOIA. The few that were investigated turned up little to nothing, and only a handful resulted in penalties of any kind.

My father benefited aplenty from Bowman’s movements. There were investigations opened against his campaign at another field office, but the Chicago boys stepped in, taking over and shelving those, as well.

It’s true—my father is one of the main players on the board. Everything makes sense now, and it scares the hell out of me because I already have a difficult relationship with the man. At this point, I’m not even sure I ever really knew him.

What does he want?

How far is he willing to go in order to get it?

And where does that leave me?

I don’t have an answer. I only have more questions as the algorithm continues to produce results, updating the scenario with each passing minute. With trembling hands, I pick up my phone and text Max again.

We need to talk about my father .