Chapter 29: Breaking and Entering 2: New Leads
At noon the day after Reno's team had successfully infiltrated The Midgar Mirror and copied their files, Veld and Tseng flashed their generic Shinra IDs at the guard station protecting the high-rise, high-security apartment building where William and Daisy Tyson lived. The guards knew very well what those bland, uninformative badges combined with matching dark suits represented and didn't ask questions. With barely concealed alarm, they let the Turks in.
IT and Cyberweapons had traced the original email sent to Lana Vale at the Mirror back to William Tyson's phone. It hadn't even taken them more than a few hours. Shinra had backdoors into almost all the major communications servers on the Eastern Continent.
With luck, Veld thought, Tyson would have the centerfold magazine somewhere in his apartment.
The IT team had also confirmed by tracking the Tysons' phones that both William and Daisy were not at home. William, they had discovered, was at work. Daisy was in the most expensive part of Midgar's business district, apparently shopping and lunching. The Turks and the hacking team back at Shinra HQ were monitoring the couple's movements through their phones' cameras and locators. Veld and Tseng could search the apartment in broad daylight without fear of discovery.
The lobby was plush and understated, with gleaming marble floors, pastel color schemes of cream and sea green, brushed chrome accents, exquisite art on the walls, and professionally arranged furniture. Hallways led off to exclusive restaurants, bars, boutiques, beauty salons, and a variety of members-only services.
"Pretty ritzy," Veld commented.
The Tysons were quite well off, and it showed in their choice of accommodations. The Turks' research had revealed that William worked as a senior vice president for Argent-Tanaka, the most important investment bank on the continent. The couple lived near the top of the high-rise building, and though they weren't quite rich enough for the penthouse, they were pretty close.
"Elevators," Tseng said, indicating a side corridor.
Even the interiors of the elevators were works of art, with mirrors, soft carpets, and perfectly polished control panels. The ride was swift and smooth, and the doors opened to an equally attractive hallway.
The two Turks walked down the hall until they came to the copper double doors decorated with a sculptural, offset sunburst pattern.
"Expensive," Tseng said.
"I think that goes without saying in this place," said Veld. "Let's get the search done."
"Cyberweapons said the home security system is already hacked. We can enter without concern." Tseng used his forged keycard and opened the door. No alarms went off.
Inside, the décor was less tasteful than the building's public spaces. Not quite garish, but there was just a little too much gilding, a few too many throw pillows, the blue and gold color scheme just a touch too bright. The excessive furnishings, paintings, and statuary made the spacious living room seem almost, but not quite, claustrophobic. The obvious expense added to the sense of ostentation.
"I wonder who they're trying to impress," Tseng remarked.
"Either clients or their friends. They run in some pretty stratospheric company," Veld said. "Let's find that damned porno and get out of here. All this pretentious crap is grating on my nerves. Just looking at it makes me want to put my fist in this William asshole's face."
Tseng gave him a sly smile. "His wife probably decorated it. He just paid for it."
Veld grunted. "You don't think an interior decorator did this?"
"Not one who valued his or her reputation."
The Turks made quick work of searching the apartment. No safe stayed hidden, no drawer remained untouched. Veld unmounted wall paintings and checked their backings while Tseng searched cushions and bedding. They looked under the elaborately patterned accent carpets on the blackwood floors. They even inspected every appliance and bin in the kitchen and pantry. No porn magazine turned up.
"It's probably in some safe deposit box or private vault somewhere," Veld complained. He had hoped this would be simple and easy—break in, search, grab the magazine and get out again—but nothing about their current, never-ending fiasco had been easy or simple. "We'll have to track down all their accounts and banks, and search them all. Damn it."
Tseng's PHS buzzed. He put it to his ear, said, "Yes, I understand," and hung up. He looked at Veld. "It appears there's an easier and quicker possibility approaching. Mister Tyson is on his way home at this very moment. He's almost to the building now. I assume he is on a lunch break."
"Not as clean as keeping everything undercover and invisible, but acceptable considering the target's guilt in this matter." Veld's anticipatory smile lacked any trace of kindness or humor. Tseng smiled back.
They didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes later the elaborate copper doors opened, and in an instant Tseng had William Tyson shoved face first against the wall, twisting one of Tyson's arms behind his back and keeping his other hand around the banker's throat.
How did Tseng manage to mug people so elegantly? Veld always came across as a brawler when he performed the exact same maneuvers.
Veld made a show of pushing up his suit sleeves and adjusting his cuffs as he sauntered over. He casually closed the doors, leaned against the wall to assess Tseng's uncomfortable prisoner, and said, "William Tyson, I presume?"
The banker wasn't much to look at, despite the tailored, dark gray silk suit that probably cost as much as an entry-level Turk made in a year. Forgettable face, dark hair salted with gray, brown eyes, mid to late forties. Average height, around five-seven or five-eight. A trim but soft physique that to Veld's trained eye looked to be more the result of careful diet than an exercise regimen. The left corner of Veld's mouth turned up, pulling at his facial scars. Most investment bankers didn't have a lot of free time for weightlifting or running. They lived at the office.
Tyson turned his head to one side to inspect his interrogator. His eyes bulged from his face, which was growing redder by the second. He choked, trying to say something.
"Ease off a little," Veld said. Tseng obeyed, relaxing his grip enough to let Tyson breathe, but kept his hand snugly in place.
Tyson coughed and sucked in air. "Who are you people? How dare you invade my home? Do you know who I am? I'm reporting you to the police!" Despite his vulnerable position, he managed to make those questions and statements sound like arrogant demands.
Veld snorted. Entitled prick. "You won't get much cooperation from them." The Midgar police were Shinra's lapdogs. He flashed his generic ID, deliberately using his prosthetic arm. The sight of its mechanisms, combined with his scarred face, always provided an extra special touch of intimidation to the uninitiated.
Tyson, however, seemed made of sterner stuff. He didn't spit in Veld's face, but he made it clear through his curled lip and clenched teeth that the thought had crossed his mind. "Shinra. Of course. What the fucking hell do you want?" he all but snarled. Tseng twisted Tyson's arm a little tighter, but the man just grimaced and scowled.
"You're a pleasant piece of work," Veld told him. "We only want one thing, and then we'll be out of your life. Where's your copy of Barely Legal?"
Tyson gaped at him. An ugly look of revulsion crawled over his features. "That miserable, fucking porno! You want that?"
"We want that."
Tyson let out a stream of invective and expletives that scorched even Veld's hardened ears. He and Tseng exchanged an amused look. This interrogation wasn't going at all as Veld had expected.
After a good minute and a half of vituperation, Tyson wound down enough to ask, "This is about that Hewley bastard, isn't it?" He cursed again, fluently and colorfully.
Veld felt his eyebrows attempt to climb up into his hairline. He made a note to remember some of that imaginative commentary. "May I ask what you have against SOLDIER First Class Hewley?"
"Him and that fucking fan club," Tyson growled. "Daisy's fucking obsessed."
"Daisy?" Veld asked.
"My wife."
"Jealousy," Tseng remarked contemptuously.
Veld nodded. He knew William was a good twenty years older than his wife, and probably felt threatened by Daisy's schoolgirl crush on an unattainable man. "Is that why you sent that email to The Midgar Mirror? Don't bother denying it. We've traced it to your phone."
His answer was another oath-filled rant.
"I suppose that means yes," said Tseng.
"I suppose it does," Veld agreed. "Mister Tyson, did you send the picture anywhere else?"
"Why bother?" Tyson said with a sneer. "The Midgar Mirror did everything I'd hoped."
Veld scowled. "Where is the magazine? Hand it over and we'll leave."
"I don't have the fucking thing!" Tyson snarled. "If I did, I'd burn it!"
"Then where did you get the image of the centerfold?"
Tseng again tightened his hold, and Tyson grunted in discomfort. "All right, take it easy. I don't have the magazine. My wife had a copy on her PHS and wouldn't stop yammering about it for fucking hours. I copied it from her phone."
"And where did she get it?"
"She went to a party and got it there."
"Who hosted this party?"
"Chitose Lafferty!" Tyson spat. "The damned President, or Chairwoman, or whatever—the leader of that demonic club that's got its hooks into Daisy. It's a Gaia-damned cult, I swear! They've brainwashed her!"
"Does Ms. Lafferty have the magazine?" Veld persisted.
"Damn straight she does. Daisy wouldn't stop talking about it. She was pissed that Chitose bought it for herself instead of for the club. Fuck that SOLDIER. He doesn't even know Daisy exists, and he'd better never come near her! I swear, if he ever touches her—!"
"You don't need to worry about that," Veld interrupted the irrational rant, rolling his eyes at the conceited delusion that someone like Angeal Hewley would ever spare Daisy Tyson a second glance, let alone make a cuckold of her husband.
"What are you going to do now?"
"Nothing that concerns you, Mister Tyson. You'd do well to forget we were ever here."
"As though I'll ever talk about or even think about that Hewley asshole. Look, you guys find that damn porn magazine and get it away from Chitose and her crazy fan club, and I'll buy everyone in your department the best quality fruit baskets, designer chocolates, and wine. Destroy the miserable, fucking thing and I'll treat you all to dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in Midgar."
Veld had a hard time controlling laughter. Tyson really seemed to hate Hewley's guts for very little reason at all. He gave a curt nod to Tseng, who released his prisoner and stepped back.
Before Tyson could turn around and utter any more profanity or hateful remarks, Veld hit him with a Sleepel and watched with satisfaction as the investment banker collapsed. For good measure he also cast Confuse on the unconscious man. With luck, the combination of the two status effects should leave the belligerent Mister Tyson too foggy to be able to identify either of his assailants with certainty.
Veld shook his head. "Ridiculous, pretentious idiot. At least now we know who has the magazine. Call it in and get information and locations on the Lafferty residence, Chitose Lafferty, and her spouse, if any."
"This has been an interesting excursion," Tseng said with a tiny little upturn on his lips. He got on his PHS to headquarters to relay what they'd learned. He listened briefly, then held his hand over the phone and caught Veld's eye. "They already have an address. The Laffertys are well known in Midgar's high society circles."
"Of course they are," Veld said with weary resignation. "First Class SOLDIERs sure attract some interesting fans." At least Hewley's weren't generally flat out crazy like so many of Sephiroth and Rhapsodos's groupies, though there were always a handful that merited surveillance for safety's sake. Especially now, in the wake of the centerfold fiasco. "Are they home right now? Is it okay to head over there today?" Veld wanted the nightmarish porn hunt to be over.
"Our people are tracing the Lafferty phones now. We can get started in that direction. HQ will update us on status before we arrive."
"Fine. Oh, make sure they re-enable the security system here after we leave."
They left William Tyson crumpled on the floor of his over-decorated foyer, merely stepping over him when they departed his home.
As it turned out, the Lafferty townhouse was only a fifteen minute walk away. During that time, the Turks on duty back at headquarters updated Tseng about Chitose Lafferty and her husband, Joseph.
"It seems they are both currently in Costa del Sol," Tseng said. "The household staff have the week off. We should be able to search their townhouse at our leisure."
"Let's not make it too leisurely," Veld grumbled. "I want this whole mess over and done with. Damn, but I wish I'd never set eyes on that magazine."
"Indeed." Tseng refrained from smiling at his superior's discomfort. He had the decency not to make any comments about Veld losing the porno in the first place, which Veld appreciated with all his heart.
Their IDs got them into the Lafferty's gated community without a problem. Breaking and entering into the place was child's play with IT and Cyberweapons on their side to remotely disable the alarms and trigger electronic locks.
Despite the ease of entry, their search of the Lafferty residence came up empty.
"Do you suppose Mrs. Lafferty took the magazine with her on vacation?" Tseng wondered aloud.
"With her husband along? That'd be pretty inconsiderate of her, but these rich assholes are in a league of their own," Veld said. He gave a heartfelt sigh. "First things first. We'll have to track down all their accounts, safe deposit boxes, and private vaults, just like we'd planned to do with Tyson. If we don't find it in any of those places, we'll have a little chat with Mrs. Lafferty," he finished bitterly.
"At least we have more information than before," Tseng pointed out in a rare attempt to cheer up his superior. "There is light at the end of the tunnel."
"The way this job's been going, that light is a train heading straight at us."
Next time: Sephiroth and Genesis take a turn in the holoimaging studio. Who knew the role of moral support could be so aggravating?