12. Chasing a Ghost

Kevin was at the paper Tuesday afternoon, preparing to head home.

On Tuesday and Thursday, the highlight of Kevin’s day was watching June, Kai and Zee troop off the bus and trundle down the walkway toting all their school stuff.

Kevin had to wait solo on the front stoop now, the past few years having had Zee sitting beside him.

Zee, with almost a year of kindergarten under her belt, remained daily ecstatic to get on the school bus with her big sisters.

June, on the other hand, was sick and tired of sharing the bus with so many children and couldn’t wait to graduate to middle school, which had its own busing schedule.

As Kevin readied to leave, Chip rounded the corner where the coffee machine sat like a sentry to the newsroom and declared, “Lottery said somebody claimed the ticket! But Brillo’s gotta get an order from the judge before they give’m the name.”

Lori, seated at the desk across from Kevin’s, swiveled her chair as Chip hustled down the center of the newsroom between them.

“Pray tell, Chipster,” she said.

“Well he ain’t fuckin tellin me much more’n that.”

Chip sat at his desk next to Lori’s, slapped a reporter’s notebook down and swiveled to address her and Kevin.

“The DA expects an answer from the judge imminently, but the Lottery won’t budge till they get the warrant. They told Brillo the claim was made last week and the claimant’s record was clean so the money was released yesterday.”

Lori said, “They can’t stop the transfer?”

“Money’s at the bank. That’s a whole other set of fuckin warrants.”

Kevin asked, “But they know who made the claim? The Lottery does?”

“Yeah man, of course. But Brillo’s bullshit because he still has nothing to physically tie Leslie to the winning ticket, which makes convincing the judge a lot more fuckin delicate.

“Whoever did claim the ticket? They didn’t waste time. The thing is, whoever it was, there’s nothing to disprove that person did or did not go into Mario’s to buy it in the first place. Or for that matter, to prove that Leslie did.”

Lori asked, “Could they bring in Mario as a witness?

“They could. But he gets hundreds of customers a day and they got nothing on camera. And then he has the clerks. Mario was right up front: no fuckin way he or anyone can stand in front of a judge and vouch that Leslie or anyone else played that specific ticket. The only thing we know for sure is that it was bought at his store.”

Kevin stood and stepped around his desk.

Lori and Chip knew his schedule.

“Sounds like they gotta get that name,” Lori said.

“They will. Imminently. But the Lottery's gotta stick to anonymity rules. Brillo needs the fuckin warrant.”

***

Home with the kids and Sara not due from the gym for another hour, Kevin wandered about the house.

Antsy.

Unable to sit still for more than a few minutes, he moved from room to room.

Sat in one of six matching chairs around the polished, ebony dining table with a crystal vase centerpiece; the centerpiece loaded with flowers and pheasant tail feathers and other plant stuff that Sara somehow arranged to look incredibly beautiful.

Did some finger drumming.

Across from where he sat, an antique console covered with family pictures: Sara and Kevin’s most recent ancestors.

He looked fondly at the pictures for, like, the millionth time.

Gazed out the window at the GTO parked in the driveway and somewhere in his mind, Austin Powers shouted, “Yea baby!”

Kevin stood and tucked in the chair and moved onto the kitchen; crossing to the sink to lean and gaze out the over-the-sink window where Sara had hung lavender curtains with the tassel thingies.

Pushed aside one of the curtains, avoiding the small and cute and prickly cactus on the sill.

Admired the squared line the dwarf pines cut between their property and the neighbor’s; the solar panel settled symmetrically over the top of the above ground pool; the length of the grass, mowed just a couple days ago.

Gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Looking good.

Went back across the kitchen and through the dining room and stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Cocked his head and listened.

June and Kai were upstairs doing homework.

Zee, forbidden to disturb her older sisters during homework time, came slinking along behind Kevin.

She was wearing one of Kai’s old tinkerbell outfits, but with a pink t-shirt pulled over, Tink’s wings shoved underneath, giving her a humpbacked look.

Spying on her father, Zee ducked behind the dining room table (mostly she had been hiding in plain sight, but hey, five-year-old invisibility rules).

Kevin circled the stairs and went past the front door and into the living room.

Paced to the fireplace with the sturdy mantle where Sara had placed his favorite Remingtons, bronze, foot-high replicas of Bronco Buster and Cheyenne.

Put his hands behind his back and spun at the fireplace and crossed back to the staircase pony wall, plastered with hanging pictures of the kids.

Four strides each way, back and forth in front of the curved, bay window.

Zee glided to the edge of the staircase. Waited.

Perfectly timed Kevin’s pacing and darted swiftly across the living room and hiked herself onto the couch opposite the window.

Dangled bright yellow and sparkly princess shoes over the edge of the cushion and folded her hands across her lap.

Watched her father, having decided he was a rather large and fascinating alien creature brought to her personal zoo for observation and hopefully, entertainment.

Pacing allowed Kevin to ponder.

Their logic was flawed.

A thief broke into the house in the middle of the day and Leslie returned home to stumble into a robbery in progress?

And then the thief found the ticket and recognized that it was a winner and killed her?

No. Already dismissed.

A friend or a relative or a neighbor or whomever happened to see the ticket and recognized that it was a winner and killed her for it?

Doesn’t fit the crime scene.

Finally, concluding that Leslie Marionette told someone that she had bought a winning ticket and in some convoluted word of mouth kind of thing she was killed for it?

Negative.

Leslie had been killed sometime around noon on a Wednesday, supposedly, for a ticket that she bought on Monday; the ticket she bought on Monday matching the winning numbers drawn on Tuesday night.

Mario said that when Leslie came back on that fateful Wednesday, she bought another ticket.

Manny said she always played the same numbers.

So who buys the same ticket the day after winning a million dollars?

Leslie returned to Mario’s like she always did, because she was a creature of habit: buying a bottle and a ticket.

If Leslie didn’t know that she’d won, nobody else could have known.

But the killer knew she had a winning ticket.

Nothing else made sense.

Kevin stopped in the middle of the living room in front of the bay window and said, “But such a thing is supposed to be impossible.”

Zee clapped her hands and exclaimed, “You are correct young man! Yes-siree-bob!” Bounced off the couch, delighted the giant zoo creature could speak and sped out of the room.

Kevin watched with a bemused smile and pulled out his cell.

Time to talk to someone from the Lottery; like, maybe some of the guys who worked in operations. And security.

But dealing with the lottery was like dealing with the government. You can’t just walk in and start asking questions.

Unless you know somebody.

Listed amongst the favs in his cell, Kevin had a direct line to Jonny Marionette’s best boyhood buddy, the young Congressman, Vincent Comeau.

Vincent owed Kevin an entire career worth of favors.

***

During his tenure as Operations Supervisor, Marty McClain (MM) conducted the occasional tour of the control room, usually for the government or the latest hire at the Lottery.

Today was the first time for a member of the press.

In the middle of the afternoon, Carlton dropped by the control room and said, “Hey MM, I got somebody who needs a tour.”

Carlton was head of control room security and had interviewed Marty when he was hired.

“Got it,” Marty told him.

Savvy to have risen through the ranks to the position he held today and being African American, Carlton was cautious with what he said, but, feeling comfortable with MM, lowered his voice and added, “Wayne called me just a little while ago. Said hello and how are you doing and all that and then tells me that some newspaper guy wants a tour and to make it happen.”

Wayne was Wayne Pietro, Lottery Commissioner, head honcho of all things lottery. Above him was only the government (the government that appointed him to the job in the first place).

Marty, seated in front of a workstation, looked up at Carlton, widening his eyes to show he understood. “Wow. Okay I got it. When’s he gonna be here?”

“Soon, I think.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Marty promised.

***

Marty was soon agitated, that feeling arisen from having a comfortably boring afternoon ruined by unexpected meddling.

Finally got the call from downstairs and took the elevator to the main entrance where pretty and strawberry-haired Ellen introduced him to Kevin Dell, from the Worthboro Chronicle.

Kevin, like Marty, was dressed in dockers, work shirt and tie.

The height of the newspaper guy was intimidating, but Marty relaxed when Kevin looked him in the eye and said, “Nice to meet you,” in a way that made it feel genuine.

Over the next half hour, Marty only grew more impressed.

Brought Kevin upstairs and used his badge to get into the control room and begin the standard tour.

“In real life,” he said, “This story lasts no more than 4.5 seconds.”

Kevin was a rapt audience as Marty explained how the life of a ticket began when a customer enters a retailer location and plays a game.

“The game, or wager,” he said, “Is made by means of a playslip or by word of mouth from customer to retailer.

“The retailer enters the wager into a point of sale lottery terminal, or POS.

“The POS sends the transaction across a wide area network, a network that today can include telephone lines, underground cables and satellites in geosynchronous orbit 320 miles above the earth.

“All transactions end up here, with us. Right over there, to be exact.”

Marty pointed across the control room at a bluish, semi-transparent divider behind which rectangular shapes loomed like the skyline of a city.

Motioning to follow, MM escorted Kevin past workstation tables, rolling desk chairs, printers, copiers, and a long desk lined with seven, composite notebooks that he told Kevin housed the operations procedures for each day of the week.

Stopped next to the blue wall and said, “Transactions are processed here, by the central system.”

Kevin set his thumb against the divider. Pulled away and watched the imprint dissolve. “Acrylic?”

“I think so. It stays cold in there. Or feels it. No humidity, you know.”

Kevin nodded and Marty continued.

“So the central system processes the transaction and sends a copy to the backup system. The backup system is in a building that has a server room identical to this one, but on the other side of the state.

“After receiving confirmation that the backup system received the transaction, the central system sends a message to the POS that it’s okay to print the ticket.”

Kevin said, “All that in 4.5 seconds?”

“Usually less. You know, the company that built our system and builds most lottery systems around the world is responsible for recording more transactions per day than Visa and MasterCard put together.”

“No kidding.”

“People like to gamble.”

“And all those transactions end up here?”

“For our lottery jurisdiction, yes.”

Kevin moved his hand in a vague way, to indicate what was outside the control room and asked, “Do the POS retailer terminals have secondary memory?”

“No. That actually wouldn’t be secure. Retailer terminals are simple machines, relatively. They take wagers and verify the game was played correctly and then send encrypted information back and forth with the central system. And of course, print the ticket.”

“So no sales record of any kind on a POS?”

“They’re not capable of downloading anything other than software updates. Game updates and stuff like that.”

Kevin nodded towards the central system behind the blue wall. “IBM or DEC?”

“IBM. We switched to UNIX boxes a few years ago.”

“And so all transaction information is in there, on those machines?”

“Correct. And the backup system.”

“And nobody outside this building can talk to them?”

MM smiled. “No sir, we’re completely secure.”

Kevin gave a nod as though satisfied. “So Marty, once a transaction is on this system, could you look it up internally?”

“You can look at retailer sales, and sales by game and stuff like that, if that’s what you mean?”

“Could you find out if a particular number was played?”

Marty shook his head with emphasis. “Oh no, we can’t do that. But there are applications we use to track retailer sales. GUIs, you know. Windows apps that the non-technical Lottery people use. Keeping track of inventory. How well a store is selling one game versus another. That kinda stuff.”

“Could you search through all the transactions at a particular store?”

“You can look at sales by store. By POS if a store has more than one terminal. And for each game. Using the GUIs you could do that kind of thing.”

Kevin nodded. “Thanks.”

“You bet. So next in the life of a ticket comes the drawing.”

MM escorted Kevin out of the control room and back down the elevator to the main entrance, where he used his badge to get them into the admin area where Ellen sat.

MM and Kevin passed through a cluster of cubicles to the rear of the building and entered an enclosed room; empty, but for a machine that reminded Kevin of a giant gumball machine, with ping-pong looking balls with numbers, instead of balls of gum.

Across from the machine sat a professional video camera on a tripod.

MM asked, “Recognize that weird looking contraption?”

Kevin shook his head no.

“Channel 21,” Marty said. “During the Six O’Clock News, when it’s our rotation, they broadcast the Mega Mega drawing. Film it right here, in this room.”

He looked at Kevin, anticipating a reaction.

Kevin, who rarely watched TV, was not sure what Marty expected and tried, “Cool.”

“I know. But, whatever. There are two main types of machines that are used to select random combinations of numbers: gravity pick and air mix. We use an air mix machine, which is what you see here.”

“Gotcha.”

Marty moved closer to the machine and pursed his lips. Looked serious. “Trust plays a big part in the lottery business. The most scrutinized part of any lottery process is the physical machines that pick the numbers.”

Kevin found himself nodding. “Why people like to see it on TV.”

“Right.” Marty gestured at the machine. “The balls remain visible during the mixing process. Gives the viewer confidence that it’s not being fixed.”

“Are those ping-pong balls?”

Marty laughed. “Yeah, high tech I know. It uses ping-pong balls that are painted with numbers and calibrated for size and weight. The balls are released into the machine and air blows through the chamber to mix them.”

He pointed to a cylinder of clear plastic, “Once the valve is open, winning balls are blown into this tube for display.”

Kevin said, “So if someone was going to rig the system, it would have to be here.”

“Exactly. Which is why we do the drawings on live TV. Because once the numbers are selected? The only way to win is to have the ticket that matches the numbers that everybody sees picked on live TV.”

“Are there counterfeit tickets?”

“No. Impossible. There’s encrypted information on each ticket that can only be unlocked by the primary system upstairs. A ticket could in theory be a perfect replica in every other way, but there’s no way to match the encrypted info attached to each individual wager … we know it’s a fake ticket.”

“So the only way to win is to have the winning ticket.”

“Or a copy of the ticket. Which is why you hear about the occasional ticket being lost. It sucks, but if you lose a ticket and haven’t made a copy, you’re shit out of luck. Nothing can be done.”

“So what next?”

“Once the drawing takes place, the numbers are written on a slip of paper, which is put into an envelope, which is brought upstairs to the control room where the numbers are entered into the system.”

“Who enters the numbers?”

“Usually an operator. And I’m almost always here with the operator, along with the two troopers, of course.”

“Troopers?”

“The Lottery pays the troopers to be here, to convey trust. When a drawing is conducted, there’s an officer present where the numbers are selected, and another officer in the control room. Both officers, myself and someone from the Lottery watch as the numbers are put into the central system.”

Kevin recognized the unknown in the equation and asked, “Marty, I’m wondering who might’ve worked the night of a recent drawing.”

“Oh?”

“You think I could talk to one of your operators? For the sake of my story?”

MM, who was enjoying the back and forth, looked taken aback. “Well, I can answer any of your questions.”

Kevin smiled. “Marty, you’ve been invaluable. This is the best interview I’ve had in a long time. Your knowledge is impressive. But your life of a ticket story got me thinking.

“We had a winner in my town, Worthboro, and I’m writing a story on how this person always played certain numbers. And then one night, those numbers were picked by a machine like this one here. And then one of your operators entered those numbers into the system. Making human connections is cool for the reader.”

Marty smiled. “That is cool. Well, that’d be Oscar Pinero. He’s like my second in command and typically works the second shift and does most of our drawings.”

“Does Oscar work tonight?”

Marty looked at his watch. “Usually he’s here by now, but he took tonight off. Said he had something important to do.”

“He’s a local guy?”

“Yeah, well, no, actually, come to think of it, he’s from your town.”

Kevin felt a kind of déjà vu excitement and said, “This Oscar guy lives in Worthboro?”

“Yup.”

“And Pinero, you said? Oscar Pinero?”

Marty nodded.

Kevin made sure he had the spelling correct and was soon on his way.

***

Kevin returned to the newsroom to learn all that he could about Oscar Pinero, excitement rising another notch when he found a young man by that name did live in Worthboro.

Downtown street lamps had come to life when Kevin headed west on Main Street.

Oscar Pinero lived in the rough and tumble west end of town, but in a particularly nice series of streets called the Portuguese section.

Plenty of people who identified as Portuguese lived outside of the so-called Portuguese part of the westside, but Kevin understood the distinction: where Oscar lived was a singular neighborhood, due to the well-kept, grand old houses.

Oscar’s address was a large, gray american four-square with pear shutters.

An old Chestnut tree loomed over the front lawn; evergreens circled the front of the house, neatly trimmed to not interfere with the view from a deep front deck.

The half-moon driveway included a squared-off section with white-lined spaces for a half dozen cars in front of a large, almost barn-worthy shed, pear with gray trim; next to it, a pergola draped with young grape vines.

Just a few streets away, Kevin knew, the neighborhood was much different.

It was twilight when he parked the GTO at the curb and went around half the driveway; followed a cement path lined with hostas to the back of the house where a metal staircase rose back and forth for three flights.

Climbed to the top to find a small landing area lit by a single flood lamp, light also spilling through the door window.

Knocked.

Movement inside and the door swung inward.

A young lady, on the short side, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Curly dark hair with blond highlights. Pleasant, round face, but pale, as though she was upset.

“Evening,” Kevin said. “I’m looking for Oscar Pinera.”

Carla stared up at Kevin, expressionless. “Not here.”

“My name is Kevin Dell. I’m from the Chronicle. The newspaper. Does Oscar Pinera live here?”

Carla made a heavy breathing noise, then a grunt. “I guess.”

Uneased by the ambivalence, Kevin said, “This is the listed address for Oscar Pinero. Is there another place that I should look for him? I was just at the lottery. He’s not there.”

Carla angrily looked up at Kevin. “You think you know Oscar? Do you? You think you know somebody, but you don’t. Not even when it’s right fuckin in front of you.”

The look on Kevin’s face clearly expressed he had no idea what Carla was talking about.

“I never met Oscar. But it’s important that I talk to him. Do you expect Oscar back here soon?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

Though he towered over her, Kevin nervously took a step back and Carla shook her head, apologetic and appearing ready to cry.

Brought a hand up as though shielding her eyes from the sun and said, “Sorry mister. It’s been a bad day. I’m just … stressed, ya know.”

The hand fell and Carla had a dejected look. “Oscar lives here. Or he did. I mean, he still does. We just broke up.”

Kevin pursed his lips. “My apology for interrupting at a bad time. Do you know where I can find him?”

“No.”

Debating whether to ask for Oscar’s cell, but deciding against it, Kevin took out his wallet to offer Carla a business card.

“If you see Oscar, please tell him to call me. I’m from the newspaper. It’s important. It’s also a police matter.”

Carla’s demeanor quickly changed. Sadness and anger and now worry became a bewildered mess. She pinched Kevin’s card between thumb and forefinger, but her hand remained hovering between them.

“Is Oscar in trouble?”

“I’m not a cop. I’m from the newspaper. I need to talk to him about something to do with the Lottery. It’s urgent, okay?”

Knowing his height could be imposing, Kevin tilted his head and tried to smile. Looked Carla in the eye.

Carla stared up at Kevin for a moment, thinking he kinda looked like Clint Eastwood, just not so macho.

Came to a conclusion and said, “I’ll tell him.”

***

A couple hours later, Oscar returned home.

He had been driving around.

And around.

Visited his Mom and they had a good, long talk.

He trudged up the metal stairs with a heavy heart and found Carla sitting at the kitchen table, the same spot she had been sitting since Kevin left.

Sat across from her, the two of them simultaneously reaching across the table to hold hands.

“I think I knew,” Carla said. “Or maybe now I feel like I should have.”

Oscar, feeling loathsome, “I didn’t want to lose you. You’re my best friend. You always will be.”

The two of them held hands and cried.

Carla needed space and left, saying that she was going to stay at her friend Kendra’s for the night. Before leaving, she put Kevin’s card on the table and told Oscar about his visit and how serious the newspaper was.

Perplexed, Oscar said he would call.

Carla left and he remained seated at the kitchen table, looking at Kevin’s card.

The Chronicle?

Oscar shook his head. Sorrow and exhilaration were a baffling mix. Guilt and shame and yet, a new, potentially happier life beckoned.

Too overwhelmed to deal with whatever the newspaper guy wanted until later, Oscar slid Kevin’s card into a pocket and pulled out his cell.

Dying to talk to Rico.