The Misogynist Page 4

  And finally, the third attachment includes a list of offshore accounts owned by Ryan Hamilton (or one of his shell companies), and includes payments to those accounts made from countless unsavory sources (including for Marta and Eva, Jimmy, Roberto, and “Michelle’s” future employer).

  I suggest you review the documentation I’ve included, and that you contact the victims. When you’re convinced, bring in the authorities and break the stories.

  George, you’re on your way to making a big difference in the world. I’ll be back to you again soon to hopefully advance us further in cleaning up the Internet.

  .

  g87olh6t9wi8

  --------------------

  George forwarded the email to Morris asking for a meeting to follow up later in the day, then he made his way back to the conference room where the detectives were waiting.

  “So?” Mike asked.

  “It’s interesting. I still find it a strange coincidence that I received an email from this guy who wants to expose Silicon Valley corruption right after I received an email from the guy who killed Ashima James. Same thing last time they contacted me. Even more coincidental is that they both mentioned Michael James. Then again, that story kind of made my career, such as it is.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Bob Simpson began. “Maybe we should take a look at this other situation too.”

  “I’m not ready to let you do that yet. With this second email, I’m a bit more sure that we’re looking at two different people. The tone of this email is completely different.

  “It’s funny. My boss, Morris Levinberg, says that most of the police he knows don’t believe in coincidences, but that years of doing this job have taught him that coincidences happen more often than we think.”

  Mike smiled. “Yeah, I started out like my younger partner here, convinced I saw leads everywhere. The human brain, and especially detectives’ brains, loves to look for patterns. But like the constellations, sometimes a pattern of stars is just our brains looking to make connections out of something random. I learned that the hard way.

  “Anyway, did you get a good lead from this other guy?”

  “We’ll see. He claims that one of the major players in the Silicon Valley is making a fortune from human trafficking. You guys will probably want to get involved in this too.”

  “Actually, it won’t be us,” Mike corrected. “We’re just homicide investigators. But I’m sure some of our colleagues will be working with you on this if it pans out. Or maybe it will be the FBI. Either way, you’ll likely be seeing a lot of the San Francisco Police department in the coming weeks.”

  Over the next hour, George led the two detectives through his year-old investigation of Michael and Ashima James. Nothing jumped out as an obvious lead, but the two detectives promised to use the information to try to identify possible suspects and to keep George informed of their progress.

  Late in the day, Morris dropped by.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested.

  These walks had become part of their routine. Many managers have daily or weekly meetings with their employees. Others take them to lunch to get offsite to discuss events and problems in a different environment with a different perspective. While Morris did both, it seemed to George that their most productive discussions took place on walks around downtown San Francisco. And, if Morris was to be believed, this was his only form of exercise.

  They exited the elevator and walked past the security desk, stepping out into the Financial District of the City. Although he’d worked here since beginning his career, George still found it hard to believe that the majority of the men on the street were wearing suits and the women wore either suits or business-appropriate outfits. It was a far cry from the Silicon Valley where casual was a step up for most people working there. While Janey always dressed nicely, she often went to work in jeans and running shoes. Most of her cohorts, especially the engineers, wore t-shirts, shorts, and sandals to work. But here, it was different. Maybe that was part of what he loved about working in the City even if he had to commute ninety minutes on the train most mornings and evenings.

  George and Morris made their way to Market Street and turned towards the Embarcadero. At the end of the street was the Hyatt Regency Hotel and across the Embarcadero on the edge of the Bay, the landmark Ferry Building with its giant clock tower and four twenty-two foot diameter clocks. Since its renovation over ten years before, the Ferry Building had become a tourist attraction with its huge marketplace and spectacular views, in addition to housing the ferry terminal and a number of business offices. In the background, countless sailboats bounced across the white capped waters of the Bay towards Yerba Buena Island and the Bay Bridge.

  After five minutes of companionable silence, Morris kicked off the discussion.

  “I’ve read the email and documentation you forwarded me from your source, and I’ve discussed it with legal and with Sterling Rockwell. We’d like you to proceed, but we want you to be very careful.”

  “Sterling Rockwell? George interrupted, surprised that Morris had brought this to the attention of the Sentinel’s Publisher and CEO.

  “Yeah. He and I have been discussing doing a series on trafficking. It’s a problem that lies just beneath the surface of our society, and too many people are just not aware of it. Most understand that sex trafficking exists, but very few think it happens here. Virtually no one is aware of other, less sensational types of trafficking like your engineer who was sold to an oil conglomerate. We’ve wanted to raise public awareness to help stop trafficking, but until now haven’t had a story big enough to capture the public’s attention. If your informant is right, this is a big one.”

  They continued in silence for a few minutes longer as they turned onto the Embarcadero, which runs along the Bay from ATT Park, almost to Fisherman’s Wharf.

  “So how would you like me to proceed?” George asked, intrigued.

  “What we’d like you to do is to verify everything that your informant has given you. Meet with the victims. Promise them confidentiality until Hamilton is arrested. Go through the lotsofjobs.com thread he gave you and verify the links to the accounts. Keep us in the loop. If everything checks out, we’ll bring in the SFPD Special Victims Unit and turn over what we have. They will likely bring in the FBI to tie ownership of the accounts to Hamilton. Once an arrest is imminent, we can break the story and then start our series on trafficking.

  “Obviously, it will take a while for the SFPD and the FBI to do their work, so once we hand it over, I’d like you to get started on the series so we’re ready to go when we break the story of the arrest.

  “Each story should explore one aspect of trafficking and how it’s happening right in front of us. Our goal is to open people’s eyes so they can start to spot it and report it. I’d like to keep this just between you and me until we’re ready to publish. When we do, we’re thinking of an article a week for several weeks. We’ll also set up social media accounts as a modern hotline. With luck, by then, the SFPD and FBI will be working with us and we can funnel vetted reports to them.”

  They turned up Washington Street to head back to the office, both lost in thought.

  “George, have you given any further thought as to whether you’re dealing with one or two people? Both have mentioned Michael James…”

  “You know, Morris, I’m not sure. There’s definitely a part of me that thinks that these two informants are the same person. Thus far, their emails have always arrived within minutes of each other. And yet, their styles are different and their objectives are different. Actually, I’m hoping they’re different people. But as far as Michael James is concerned, the whole case haunts me. And it’s worse now that Ashima James is dead. I feel responsible.”

  “Yeah, I had a feeling you would. I’ve been through it countless times in my career. You can’t write anything in any way controversial without risking some damage. All we can do is to do our best to seek out the truth and hope we do m
ore good than harm.”

  George’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t want to say anything more knowing he’d lose it.

  For his part, Morris saw George’s distress. “Talk to Janey. She’ll help you put this in perspective. Martine has done that for me over the years.”

  At that point they were well down Montgomery Street nearing the office. They took the elevator up in silence and Morris squeezed George’s shoulder as they parted company.

  6

  After spending the afternoon going through the documentation and setting up meetings for the next day, George packed up and made his way to the Caltrain station. Ninety minutes later he walked up the steps to his Mountain View apartment and opened the door.

  ‘Honey, I’m home!” he shouted, unable to avoid repeating what had started as a joke when he got home from his first day of work at the Sentinel.

  For her part, the woman whose braided red hair almost reached her waist, leaped up from her computer, raced to George, and jumped into his arms wrapping her legs around him.

  “Take me to bed or lose me forever!” she joked, replaying for the nth time what had become a welcome home ritual.

  After almost two years of marriage, the magic was still there. Sure, there were nights where one or both would have to work late, where they both got home too tired to do much else than order takeout and fall into bed exhausted, but somehow, there seemed to be more times like this one.

  “Bed may have to wait a bit. I’m starving and have a lot to talk about. I think you’re going to be more than intrigued.”

  “I suspected you’d deny me tonight, so aside from the salmon, dinner is ready. Go change and I’ll have it on the table in seven minutes.”

  “You know I never deny you. Take it as a brief postponement. I’ll be right back!”

  George dragged himself to the bedroom, exhausted by the day’s events but simultaneously intrigued by the possibilities and guilty about his involvement in Ashima James’ death. It would do him good to talk to Janey. It always did.

  Janey was the most intelligent woman he’d ever met. He still wasn’t sure why she’d married him but he was glad she had. They were a great fit. She worked as a software designer for a Silicon Valley startup which seemed to be well on its way to major success, and a good payoff on Janey’s stock options.

  Maybe he’d just never met anyone super-intelligent before, mistaking the top people in his university classes for geniuses. But their single-mindedness was totally different than what he now knew. Those people seemed brilliant at what they did, but not so much at other subjects. Janey, on the other hand, was brilliant at everything. And at the same time, she was gifted in social situations, reading and understanding people with a facility that was truly astonishing. And she never got mad.

  He’d asked her about that once and she claimed that if you really tried to understand a situation, you couldn’t be angry – at least you couldn’t be emotionally out of control. You could see motivations and mistakes on all sides. And while they had agreed that there really are evil people in the world, and you could recognize the injustice and do your best to fight it, anger rarely helped any situation. George tried his best to follow her example, but he just didn’t have her patience.

  They’d also talked about his comparatively low intelligence, and Janey had explained that in her view, there was much more to a person than intelligence. She gave examples of people she’d dated who were extremely intelligent but who were ultimately not people she wanted to be around. She said she admired George for his ethics, his sense of right and wrong, his gentleness, and ability to put people at ease. She also told him he was the best lover she’d ever had and was more fun to be with than anyone else. Somehow George had quit worrying about the intelligence difference. They were just good together. No. They were magic together.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked as he made his way into their small dining area.

  “No George. The wine is poured. Have a sip and tell me about your day.”

  George looked over at his gorgeous wife. She was happy. They were happy. Could he separate his home life from his work? It hadn’t worked well so far but Janey had done her best to help him put difficult situations in perspective.

  Should he start easy or just dive into his responsibility for Ashima James’ death?

  “When I got to the office, there were two police detectives waiting for me,” he began. “They told me Ashima James had been murdered by the person who emailed me a few weeks ago saying he would be killing women who ruined entrepreneurs’ lives. The guy emailed me again today and said that he liked my story on Michael James so much that he decided to start his quote bitch cleansing unquote, with Ashima James.”

  And then George lost it. He’d done a good job of holding it together in front of the detectives and among his coworkers, but now, he was home. Janey was here. She would listen.

  Janey came over and took George in her arms. She didn’t say that it wasn’t his fault. She just held him and let him cry.

  When the worst was over, she walked him over to the table, guiding him into his chair. She kissed the top of his head and said she’d be right back.

  Two minutes later she returned with dinner in hand placing a plate filled with grilled salmon, garlic-dill mashed potatoes, and green beans in front of George. She set her own plate down and sat across from George.

  “Eat. I guarantee you’ll feel better. Take a couple of bites then tell me what you’re feeling.”

  George did as he was told. The hot food seemed to settle his stomach and as he followed it with a sip of wine, he could feel himself relaxing.

  “It’s my fault,” he began. “If I hadn’t written that article, Ashima James would still be alive.”

  “That’s probably true. I know that situation haunts you. You still don’t understand how that family could have driven Michael James to suicide. But knowing what you knew at the time, could you really not have written the story? You already second-guess every significant story you write, afraid it will hurt someone innocent. But to avoid something like this, you’d have to give up writing. I don’t think you’re ready to do that.”

  George nodded and continued to eat in silence.

  After a few minutes of contemplative silence, George excused himself from the table. When he returned, he handed Janey a copy of the email the killer had sent him. She read it thoughtfully.

  “What an interesting character! He’s confident, but knows he’ll eventually get caught. He’s on a mission, but for him, it’s a game. He sees you as his voice to the world but also as a partner and someone who will help him get caught. I don’t sense any ill-will towards you whatever you decide to do.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  George thought about his situation. Could he really accept that his reporting has this kind of collateral damage? How many crazies would take work he hoped would help people and turn it into justification for violence?

  “I don’t know. I can see that I’m a bit depressed about this, but I don’t want people to be hurt or killed because of me. I know it sounds extreme, but maybe I should give this up and try something else.”

  “Well, you must be depressed. You’ve wanted to be a reporter and writer your whole life.

  “If you write anything that gets published, whether it’s an article for the paper, a blog, a novel, an email, anything that could be widely read, you lose control of how it’s going to be interpreted. There are always crazy people willing to use anything to justify their insane actions. You really can’t take this as your fault. This guy was intent on settling some sort of score against women. You certainly couldn’t have stopped that. Though by working with the police to help catch him, you may save some people.

  “Hey, do you remember what Morris made you do when you thought about taking on the Michael James story?”

  “Yeah, he made me watch Citizen Kane. What’s your point?”

  “Well, I have another movie for you t
o watch if you haven’t seen it. Do you know Run Lola Run by Tom Twyker?”

  “No. What’s it about?”

  “It’s the film that made Tom Twyker famous in the US. It’s about a young woman who gets a call from her panicked boyfriend who finds himself in a life or death situation. She tells him she can save him, puts down the phone and starts to run. Her boyfriend dies.”

  “What, you give away the ending?”

  “Actually, no. The film restarts with the same call, and she runs to save him again, but this time there are some differences. I guarantee you’ll find it fascinating.

  “Finish up your dinner while I look for it on Netflix and On-Demand. Worst case, we can go rent it somewhere.”

  George did as he was told, then cleared the table and did a quick wash of the dishes.

  “Did you find it?” he called.

  “Yeah. It was available on both. I’ve got it loaded and paused. Come snuggle with me.”

  George joined Janey on the sofa and pulled a soft blanket over the two of them.

  “Thanks Janey. Just being here with you makes things better. A little escapism may be just what I need.”

  But it wasn’t escapism at all. The frenetic music just made George more tense. Still, Janey was right. It was fascinating. Lola would run and along her path she’d encounter people. Sometimes they’d be delayed or would stop or have to hurry and the filmmaker would do a rapid-fire collage of their lives from that point forward. Depending just on a few seconds of delay in the different running scenarios, George saw people’s lives change dramatically, from ending up in a hospital to lying on the beach after winning the lottery (a few seconds delay resulted in purchase of the winning ticket). An auto accident was avoided when the driver waited for Lola to pass. Even the death of her boyfriend, hinged on just a few seconds of difference in timing. Clearly the point was that the tiniest things can have dramatic, unforeseen impacts. Chains of events cannot be predicted.