Hacked Read online

  Copyright Information

  Hacked: A Tucker Mystery © 2017 by Ray Daniel.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2011

  E-book ISBN: 9780738751818

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Daniel, Ray, author.

  Title: Hacked / by Ray Daniel.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, [2017] |

  Series: A Tucker mystery; #4

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016047687 (print) | LCCN 2016055163 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738751108 (softcover) | ISBN 9780738751818

  Subjects: LCSH: Hackers—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD:

  Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.A5255 H33 2017 (print) | LCC PS3604.A5255 (ebook)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016047687

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  #thanks

  It takes the work of one village to keep me from making a fool of myself and the faith of another village to make my writing life possible. I’d like to recognize just a few of the many villagers in my life.

  Karen Salemi lives in both villages. She is my cheerleader, my coach, my editor, my wife, and my best friend. Tucker exists because of her help and unwavering support.

  Eric Ruben and Terri Bischoff believed in the Tucker books (and me) from the beginning. We’re up to four books because of their commitment to the series.

  Jay Shepherd offered his outstanding copy-editing skills and also provided his much appreciated hashtags of wisdom.

  Thanks to Dr. Brian Breed of UMass Amherst for helping me get the Latin right.

  We artists sometimes need an energy boost, and Kay Helberg is always there with a cheer, a hug, and a reader’s view of the story.

  Dan Less has made himself the official Ray Daniel photographic chronicler. Thank you, Dan, for coming to my events and capturing my fleeting, but bizarre, facial expressions.

  Thanks to my early readers Tom Fitzpatrick, Tim McIntyre, as well as all of the above villagers. Stories in novels only exist when a reader sees them. Thank you all for giving me the reader’s perspective.

  The only thing a writing life can guarantee is the opportunity to be with other writers. Thank you to all my writing friends for making this journey so much fun! #LOL!

  For Carl my honorary father,

  who has no use for all this “Internet stuff.”

  Author’s Note

  All Twitter handles that appear in this book are fictitious except for @TuckerInBoston, which is run by the bot who writes for Tucker. Any relationship to existing Twitter or IRC handles, either now or in the future, is unintended and coincidental.

  One

  There is no rage like Internet rage. Whether the source is a Facebook friend who calls your political views “childish fantasies,” a Twitter follower who says your New England Patriots are “filthy cheaters,” or some anonymous asshat who refers to the song that got you through the tough times as “derivative pop sell-out crap,” the incoherent, obsessive rage is the same. You could even imagine killing someone.

  I was feeling that rage as I sat at a kitchen table in the North End and clicked through Maria’s porn-infested Facebook account.

  “The phone won’t stop ringing, Tucker,” said my cousin Adriana, Maria’s guardian.

  “The bastard posted those pictures on all her friends’ walls,” said her wife Catherine.

  “The other parents are calling Maria a degenerate.”

  “The other parents are idiots,” I said. “A ten-year-old doesn’t post this stuff.”

  “That’s what I told them,” said Adriana.

  “When we weren’t falling over ourselves apologizing,” said Catherine.

  I’m a computer guy—not a “my PC has a virus” computer guy, but an actual computer security consultant who will look at your network and tell you how the hackers can break in. Truth be told, I don’t do a lot of it. I had a disastrous separation from my last employer, and they gave me ten million dollars in exchange for my signing a nondisclosure agreement. I could have sold the story for more, but I didn’t want to talk about it.

  Despite my standing as an honest-to-god software engineer, my friends and family still call me when their computers act up. In this case, Adriana called me just after she got the first outraged parental phone call.

  I clicked through Maria’s Facebook account. “You were lucky,” I said. “They usually lock you out of the account when they do a life ruin.”

  “What’s a ‘life ruin’?” asked Adriana.

  “This is a life ruin. You get the password to someone’s Facebook account, then wreak havoc in their name. You message porn to their mom, change their relationship status, and start fights with their coworkers.”

  “Who does this sort of thing?”

  “Bored dweebs.”

  I went to work, first changing the password to keep the bastard from returning, then posting a general apology that, sadly, would be seen only by those who hadn’t already blocked Maria. Finally I started removing the porn from people’s walls.

  Next to me, Adriana made a list.

  “What’s the list for?” I asked.

  “Apology phone calls. We’re going to be making a lot of them.”

  “Phone calls?”

  “Just keep cleaning.”

  I continued, downloading each picture in case we could use it as evidence, then deleting it. Most of it was lesbian porn. Women in bed, women on lawns, women on porch swings. In fact, the entire collection consisted of lesbian porn. Not one guy.

  The phone rang again. Catherine picked it up. “Yes. I know. We’re sorry. We’re fixing it.” She hung up. “Who would do this?”

  “Usually it’s someone random,” I said. “But in this case I think it’s somebody who knows Maria.”

  “Why d
o you say that?” asked Adriana.

  I looked from Adriana to her wife, Catherine, then pointed at the collection of pictures. “See any guys?”

  “Oh,” said Adriana.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Somebody knew that Maria has two moms.”

  “This is a hate crime,” said Catherine.

  “I don’t know that—”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Some mean friend of Maria’s playing a prank.”

  “Maria!” Adriana yelled, causing me to jump. “Get in here!”

  We waited. Fifteen feet separated the kitchen from Maria’s bedroom down the hall. No response. I cleaned the last bit of porn off Maria’s page.

  “Maria!” Adriana was edging into hysteria. “You get in here right now!”

  This was not helping. I grabbed my jacket.

  “Where are you going?” asked Adriana.

  I left the kitchen, walked down the hall, leaned on Maria’s bedroom door. The ten-year-old girl with jet-black hair sat in a little desk chair, clutching a stuffed eggplant to her chest, eyes red, morose. Back in the kitchen a skirmish had broken out between Catherine and Adriana over the definition of a hate crime.

  “Want to get a coffee?” I whispered.

  Maria sniffled, then nodded.

  “Grab your coat.”

  She grabbed her coat and I opened the front door. Adriana appeared in the kitchen door. “Where are you going? She’s grounded!”

  I looked at Maria, then back at Adriana. “We’re getting coffee.”

  I pulled the door shut and we ran down the stairs.

  Two

  Maria and I stepped out onto Cleveland Place in the North End. Cleveland Place is a wide alley that connects to a narrow street, which connects to another narrow street, and so on past the Old North Church. Maria had moved here with her aunts a year ago.

  We walked down Prince Street, past dying piles of snow that had refused to succumb to the recent equinox. Winter in Boston doesn’t give up without a fight. Still, the Sox were playing again, the Boston Marathon was set for Patriots’ Day on Monday, and even this cold spring day was above freezing.

  Maria maintained her silence. I assumed that the recent invasion of her Facebook account and the hysterical response of her friends’ parents had shocked her. Truth was she’d been a quiet kid for the past year, life having knocked the stuffing out of a rambunctious tween. As a software engineer who’s worked with his share of introverts, I try to respect the silence of others, figuring that people talk when they’re ready. I don’t always succeed.

  We turned at Hanover Street and headed for the only place where we went for “coffee,” Caffe Vittoria. Her dad’s old hangout.

  Nick the barista waved a hello. “The usual for you guys?”

  I looked at Maria, who nodded. “Yeah, Nick. Thanks.”

  We sat in the front of the restaurant behind a floor-to-ceiling window and watched people bustle along the street. At one time Sal had run his business from this spot, but that was a long time ago.

  Nick brought us the usual. Two biscotti to share, one chocolate, one almond, an espresso for me, and a hot chocolate for Maria.

  I drank the espresso. “Any idea how that guy got your password?” I asked.

  Maria slurped hot chocolate. “I was stupid.”

  I waited. Maria bit into the chocolate biscotti. She always started with the chocolate.

  “Stupid how?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s fair. Nobody wants to talk about how they were stupid.”

  Maria drank more hot chocolate.

  “But I want to find out who did this to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters. It was a terrible thing to do. The guy should be punished.”

  “Why do you say he’s a guy?”

  “It’s always a guy.”

  Maria bit into the almond biscotti. Chewed, swallowed. “You promise not to be mad at me?”

  “Yeah. It’s not your fault.”

  “I told him my password.”

  “You told who your password?”

  “The guy who said he worked for Facebook.”

  “Did he send you a direct message?”

  “Yeah. He said hackers were trying to break into my account and he needed to fix it. He asked me for my password.”

  “Seriously? You fell for that?”

  “You said you wouldn’t get mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “You promised.”

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m—I’m mad at the asshat who stole your password.”

  I bit the almond biscotti. I like to start with the almond because otherwise the chocolate takes over your mouth and ruins everything. Maria would learn that in time. Drained my espresso. Got up. Asked Nick for another. I had thought the walk would vent some of my spleen, but it hadn’t done the job. Got my espresso, paid, sat down next to Maria.

  “Why you?” I asked.

  “Huh?” said Maria.

  “Why would somebody target you?”

  Maria shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “Is somebody mad at you? Maybe somebody from school?”

  Maria shrugged again.

  “Because,” I said, “this is bullying.”

  “Don’t call it bullying,” said Maria.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you call it bullying, it becomes this whole big thing, and there are police, and the principal, and then you’re a snitch and everyone hates you.”

  “Looks like somebody hates you now.”

  “That’s better than everyone.”

  “So who hates you?”

  Maria stood, pulled on her coat. “Can we go home now?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But, Maria … ”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to find out who did this whether you help me or not.”

  Maria pushed through the glass door, led me back into the street. She stayed a step ahead of me, heading toward Prince Street. I caught up, tapped her shoulder with the backs of my fingers. She reached for them. We held hands and walked, swerving around pedestrians living their own lives.

  It had been more than a year since the events that had brought her to live with her aunts, Adriana and Catherine: a year of The-First-Withouts. The first Easter without her parents. The first birthday without her parents. The first Christmas without her parents. Adriana, Catherine, and I had been united in a sort of protective tribe, making sure Maria knew she wouldn’t live through those milestones alone.

  Still, the retreat had come. Whether it was a young girl’s typical transition into the angst of the tween years, or a reaction to her new life, we didn’t know. We just knew that she’d spent a lot of time in her room, binge-watching videos on the computer, giving her homework scant attention, and rarely laughing.

  “Nice day,” I said.

  Maria took in the gray sky and raw chill. “It’s cold.”

  “The marathoners will like it, though. They hate the heat.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You know who did this to you, don’t you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You shouldn’t let him get away with it.”

  Maria pulled her hand from mine. Crossed her arms. Just like a grown-up. When did that happen?

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

  “It does matter.”

  Maria didn’t answer. Apparently it didn’t matter to her.

  We turned right and left through the brick streets, back to Cleveland Place, and climbed the steps to her apartment. Adriana and Catherine sat in the front living room, pecking on laptops. They looked a question at me. I shrugged. Maria took o
ff her coat, wordlessly closed her bedroom door behind her.

  “So?” asked Adriana. “What happened?”

  “We shared some biscotti,” I said.

  “And?”

  Maria opened her bedroom door. “Why can’t I log into Facebook?”

  “I changed the password so you wouldn’t get hacked again.”

  “What’s the new password?”

  I glanced at Adriana. She gave her head a tiny shake. Then a nod toward Maria.

  Great. Give me the dirty work.

  “What’s my password?” asked Maria.

  “Honey,” I said, “you’re too young for Facebook.”

  “What’s my password?”

  “You don’t have a password anymore,” I said.

  Adriana stepped in. “But you can get back on when you’re thirteen.”

  “You took away my account?”

  “Technically,” I said, “that hacker you’re protecting did that.”

  “This isn’t fair!”

  Catherine said, “You are too young, and that’s the end of it.”

  Maria’s face shattered into a crinkled mash of sobbing. She turned, slammed the bedroom door behind her, and wailed, the sound carrying through the door, twisting my heart.

  Three

  The wailing in Maria’s room slowed, then quieted. I tapped on her door, peeked inside to see her sleeping in a crumpled pile of bedclothes.

  “She’s passed out,” I said.

  “Just as well,” Adriana said. “She needs the sleep.”

  I stretched. “Me too. I’m heading home.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Why not?”

  “C’mon.”

  The three of us moved to the kitchen, where Adriana poured out some wine and opened a freshly delivered pizza box. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Work?”

  Adriana produced the list of names she had been compiling as I had been removing porn. “We need to make apology calls.”

  “Can’t we just write letters? ‘Dear Mrs. Smith, please accept our apology for the picture of women having sex on a porch swing.’”

  “You read from Maria’s Facebook friend list and I’ll check this list of people we cleaned up. I want to make sure we apologize to everyone who got porn.”