Intentional Acts Page 2

  “Since when are you an optimist?”

  “Since I promised these guys you’d help them without clearing it with you first.” Naya produced her most winning smile.

  Sasha laughed despite herself. “Remind me what the business model is here. What kind of information does DoGiveThrive collect, and what do they do with it?”

  “They’re a twist on a crowdfunding site. People or organizations in need can post projects seeking funding, and then folks can donate small amounts to help them reach their goals.”

  “Lots of sites do that.”

  “Sure, but DoGiveThrive differentiates itself on two counts—one, it very carefully vets the recipients of the funds. Some other sites do vetting, too, but these guys really dig deep. The Chief Caring Officer personally visits every potential recipient, sits down with him or her, and hears his or her story. The company also conducts an extensive financial review of every individual or group before they accept them as a site project.”

  “What’s the second thing?” Sasha reached for her coffee mug then reconsidered. She’d hold off until she could get some fresh stuff from the coffee shop downstairs.

  “They also guarantee anonymity—for both the recipients and the donors. There’s no option for either side to know the other. It’s like a closed adoption. It’s central to the company’s mission. They believe to truly give freely, both the donor and the recipient have to remain anonymous.”

  “So this data breach …”

  Naya nodded. “It’s a major violation. Not just of people’s private information, but of the company’s core promise. The office is in a total uproar. And they have to get out in front of it—fast. Or they’ll risk losing the trust of their community.”

  Sasha’s chest tightened. Naya’s client had a serious problem, one with the potential to sink the company if it wasn’t handled properly. “I don’t think they need a lawyer. It sounds like they need a crisis management firm.”

  “Yeah, well, those don’t work pro bono. I told them you’re the next best thing—a lawyer who consistently gets herself into and out of crises.” Naya laughed shortly, but Sasha didn’t hear any humor in it.

  “Geez, I’m flattered.”

  “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

  Sasha powered down her laptop, packed up her bag, and wriggled into her coat. “Aren’t you coming, too? It’s your client.”

  “I know, and I would. But I promised Will I’d pitch in on the briefs you were supposed to be working on for his foreign bribery case.”

  She’d entirely forgotten her promise to help Will. She was already overextended—what was one more major case? “Fine, but we’re stopping by Jake’s and you’re buying me a fresh coffee for the road.”

  “Puh-lease. Do I look like I’m new here? I already called down and put in your order. And since when do you pay for coffee at Jake’s?”

  “Good point. Lucky for us we know a pro bono coffee shop owner.”

  This time, Naya’s laughter rang true. “Pro bono, my sweet behind. Jake builds the cost of your caffeine addiction right into the lease.”

  Sasha nodded. It could very well be true. And worth every penny.

  3

  TOP-SECRET CONFIDENTIAL

  FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

  * * *

  DISTRIBUTION LIST: Project Storm Chaser Task Force Members

  * * *

  STATUS UPDATE

  * * *

  Phase One has been completed. The Project Storm Chaser Task Force has run queries for all missing targets’ names and known aliases across all one hundred and thirty databases maintained by our governmental, military, state, and commercial partners, including but not limited to all files maintained by NSAC. As teams continue to comb through the hits obtained from this initial search, Phase Two of the project is being implemented on a rolling basis.

  Select contractors have been provided subsets of the initial search results and the lists of targets and advised to hone in on their current locations. Contractors were advised to prioritize this project.

  All Task Force members should identify teams internal to their departments who will be on call and ready to interview, detail, and, if necessary, neutralize identified targets.

  Further details will be disseminated on a need-to-know basis.

  Across town, in an undisclosed location, Ingrid read the short memorandum, re-read it, and put it face down on the top of the pile of documents to be shredded at the end of the day. Then she turned her attention back to the pair of men standing in her makeshift office.

  “Where are we on the James matter?”

  Hank Richardson glanced at his second-in-command before answering. “Ma’am, Leo has compiled a pretty thorough dossier on Mr. James. He seems to be clean—at least as far as the counterfeiting is concerned.”

  Beside him, Leo Connelly nodded his agreement.

  Ingrid couldn’t hide her surprise. “Really? His brother hasn’t contacted him at all?”

  “Not once,” Connelly confirmed. “Milton James may need someone to run his criminal enterprise while he’s behind bars, but I don’t think he’s tapped his brother for that role.”

  “Why on earth not?” Ingrid muttered more to herself than to Richardson and Connelly.

  Connelly cleared his throat and answered anyway. “Milton may have found out his younger brother’s been … comforting his wife while he’s serving his sentence.”

  “Paul James is sleeping with his sister-in-law?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Ingrid shook her head. “Well, I suppose once Milton’s released, he’ll kill them both, and we’ll get to put him away again.”

  Richardson chuckled then shifted his weight. “So, do you want us to close the Paul James matter and see if we can gather any intel on who is minding the store for Milton?”

  She nodded absently. “Yes.” Her gaze fell on the upside-down memo. “But don’t get too wrapped up in it. You’re both—we’re all—on standby and could receive a priority assignment any day. Straight from NCTC.”

  Hank whistled, a long, low note. “Want to give us the background?”

  “Can’t. This is a top-secret, need-to-know project.”

  The men exchanged a look.

  She pursed her lips and weighed how much to divulge. Richardson was her most trusted deputy. He headed her only standing task force. And Connelly was his most trusted deputy. They’d run more successful operations out of the Pittsburgh office than the rest of her department combined. But, still, there was a limit to what she was able to share at this point.

  She chose her words with care. “Analysts have been running algorithms on a lot of information from the databases. Now they’re reaching out to private entities to do the same. Once they’ve had a chance to dig into all the data and analyze and categorize it, I suspect we’re—you’re—going to be busy.”

  “Busy how, ma’am? Interviews? Surveillance?” Connelly asked.

  They all knew the real question was unasked, buried under the words he’d said.

  “Sure. But possibly more complicated work. It could get messy.”

  It was as much as she could say. But it was plenty.

  Richardson raised his eyebrows. A muscle twitched in Connelly’s left cheek.

  After a moment’s silence, Richardson coughed. “And messy work’s been authorized?”

  “Nothing’s been authorized yet. But the scope of this project goes up to and includes neutralizing confirmed threats.”

  Ingrid locked eyes with each man in turn. None of them spoke. They all intellectually understood their department’s mission could require them to take a human life. And she knew both men had, in fact, fired their weapons in the line of duty.

  But assassination was different. It wasn’t a reaction to a threat encountered in the field. It was a calculated decision to eliminate a potential threat. It was playing God. And she prayed to God neither of them would be called upon to do it. But if one them was, then he would. It was that simple.<
br />
  She waited another ten seconds for the message to sink in.

  “You’re dismissed.”

  4

  Sasha watched from DoGiveThrive’s floor-to-ceiling window as the urban drama spooled out on the other side of the reclaimed green space (also known as a lawn) below. A harried-looking blonde woman pushing a double stroller and holding the hand of a preschool-aged boy was yelling at an equally harried-looking balding guy in a business suit. The suit guy had managed to jam his BMW into an almost-big enough parking spot, scraping the front bumper of the woman’s dirty minivan in the process. She was shaking a finger at the man as if she were scolding one of her kids. He was puffing out his chest as if he were some alpha gorilla in the wild. Sasha turned away from the scene before he could beat his fists on his torso.

  Luckily, the company’s headquarters was walking distance from her office. Her route had taken her through Shadyside and the ever-evolving hipster sections of East Liberty. The stroll had given her time to drink her coffee and clear her head. And she hadn’t had to engage in mortal combat over a parking spot. Win. Win. And win.

  “Ms. McCandless-Connelly? Will you come with me?” The receptionist blinked at her from behind his round eyeglasses.

  The two-toned acetate frames made him seem even younger than he was. He smiled, and she half-expected him to be missing a front tooth, he was so boyish-looking. She wasn’t surprised. A non-profit, online crowdfunding startup was likely to be staffed by young idealists.

  She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. He ushered her around a glass block wall that seemed to serve no structural purpose.

  As he led her down a bright hallway, he apologized. “Gella’s sorry she kept you waiting. Things have just been bananas around here.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She caught a glimpse of a warren of standing desks through a glass wall. A gaggle of people wearing headsets raced from station to station, showing each other their tablet displays.

  “What’s going on in there?”

  “Damage control. We have teams of charity sherpas reaching out to members of our tribe.”

  Charity sherpas? Tribe? She needed a translator, and fast.

  “Um …”

  The unflappable receptionist turned and flashed her a smile. “Every project is assigned two charity sherpas—one sherpa works with the recipient, and the other interfaces with the donors. Recipients and donors are all considered members of our global DoGiveThrive tribe.”

  “Does the donor sherpa know the identity of the recipient, and does the recipient sherpa know who the donors are?”

  “Oh, no. That’s strictly compartmentalized. The sherpas tend to their own side of the relationship only.”

  “Hmm.” She faked a smile and tried to untangle the possible reasons for the seemingly excessive secrecy.

  “Here we are,” he chirped and swept his arm toward an open door to usher her inside ahead of him.

  A woman in her late fifties sat behind a squat, highly polished desk. She wore a suit that would blend right in at any law firm and a chunky pearl choker. The effect was jarring. Her executive suite furniture and corporate appearance were at odds with her modernistic surroundings and her youthful, casually dressed employees—the majority of whom sported multiple piercings and colorful tattoos.

  The woman stood. Her broad smile filled her face and her eyes disappeared into their surrounding laugh lines. She stepped forward to shake Sasha’s hand.

  “I’m Gella Pinkney. Thank you for coming on such short notice, Ms. McCandless-Connelly.”

  “Call me Sasha. McCandless-Connelly’s a mouthful.”

  She laughed. “A bit. Would you like something to drink, Sasha?”

  “No, thanks.”

  The receptionist stood waiting with his hands clasped in front of him.

  “That’ll be all, Devon.” She dismissed him with another warm smile.

  “Let me know if you ladies need anything,” he said as he backed out of the room and pulled the door closed with a soft thud.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable.” Gella Pinkney gestured toward a pair of high-backed chairs arranged in front of her desk.

  Sasha took a seat in the chair on the left and reached into her bag for a legal pad and pen. Gella sat down across from her and crossed her ankles. The only traces of urgency the woman betrayed were her slight lean forward and the shadows under her eyes.

  “I’m so grateful to Naya—and you. We desperately need some guidance. I never imagined something like this could happen. And, frankly, I’m at a loss. We want to do the right thing here—we just don’t know what it is.”

  Sasha made a sympathetic sound in her throat then said, “I know you’re extremely busy putting out fires, but it would be helpful for me to get clear on the company’s background before we turn to the issue of the data breach.”

  “Okay.” Gella exhaled slowly as if she were releasing the air from a balloon. “DoGiveThrive was the result of a vision I had during my last semester of divinity school.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just three years ago. I felt called to serve late in life, after my children were grown and out on their own. I’d taught elementary school before my husband and I started our family, but when I thought about going back to the classroom, it felt like a poor fit. So I entered the seminary.”

  “And you were about to graduate when you came up with the idea for the nonprofit?”

  “Yes. I was sitting in contemplation, thinking about how our digital world has turned neighbors into strangers and, conversely, turned strangers half a world apart into friends.”

  Sasha nodded to prompt her to continue.

  Gella stood and walked over to a tall, wide cabinet that filled the wall opposite her desk. She pulled open the doors, fed them into tracks that pulled them back into the cabinet’s interior, and revealed a digital map of the world. She pressed a button and clusters of digital hearts materialized over the land masses.

  “At DoGiveThrive we curate projects from around the globe that donors feel drawn to support. And we don’t just give our recipients financial support; we work to restore their dignity and preserve their privacy. It’s what makes us different. It’s what makes us us.” Gella’s practiced speech gave way as her voice broke with emotion.

  “Why is privacy so important to you?”

  Gella’s hand fluttered to her throat. She splayed her fingers against her collarbone. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?” Sasha shook her head.

  “I’m … sorry. You caught me by surprise. Privacy is central to our mission because we believe publicly identifying someone as a ‘charity case’ has a chilling effect for members of certain religious, cultural, and ethnic communities. It stops folks from asking for help they may truly need. And we believe generosity is its own reward. Studies have shown purely altruistic giving—giving anonymously, without any hope of enhancing the donor’s social standing—activates powerful centers in the brain. But, at the same time, it’s been shown having an identifiable beneficiary increases giving, and being able to see the effect of one’s gift is gratifying. So, we created the sherpas and the tribes to connect people without revealing their actual identities. It’s a balancing act.”

  For all Gella’s polished delivery and self-assuredness, Sasha sensed there was more to the company’s focus on anonymity.

  “And there’s no other reason for your confidentiality pledge?” She kept her voice gentle, but her eyes bored into the older woman.

  A long silence stretched out between them.

  Sasha waited.

  Gella stared unblinkingly at her digital map.

  Finally, she sighed. “This is a personal story. It’s not something I share.”

  “Anything you tell me is covered by attorney-client privilege. Unless you’re planning to commit a crime. In which case, please don’t tell me.”

  Gella laughed a soft, sad laugh. “No, it’s nothing like that. My oldest daughte
r, she was living out west and got involved with a man. She thought she’d met her soulmate. Then he turned violent. She sought a protection from abuse order and got it. It didn’t stop him. She ran, hid at a women’s shelter. He found her. When my husband and I found out, we went and got her. We brought her home.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Our daughter’s fortunate. She’s not on social media. And she has us to help her start over. But a woman she’d met at the shelter didn’t have the same resources we did. Her family posted a fundraising request on one of the other sites to raise the money to get her out of the relationship. And ….” She broke off and looked down at her hands, as if surprised to see herself wringing them, over and over, as though she were washing them.

  “And he found her through the site?”

  Gella nodded wordlessly.

  “So, you want to protect the recipients.”

  “And the donors. My daughter, for instance. If she wants to give to a cause, she has to worry. Will her name be published? There are a lot of people who have privacy concerns. It’s not just victims of domestic violence.”

  “I understand.”

  She did understand. Because of their work, she and Connelly kept their personal details locked down. And yet Connelly’s estranged father had found them through a publicly accessible PDF of a church bulletin.

  Gella cleared her throat. “A secondary concern is the venom some people freely spew online. If you look at the other crowdfunding sites, you’ll see horrible comments posted by complete strangers. Death threats, mockery, terrible insults directed about both those raising the funds and those donating. And even if the platform doesn’t enable comments, committed trolls search the internet, find people’s social media profiles and drag them through the mud there. It’s poisonous. Our procedures protect our tribe members. They aren’t subject to hate because they have a need … or a heart. They count on that. It’s part of our pledge to them. And now … we’ve broken that pledge.”