Sammy Keyes And The Art Of Deception PDF Free Download

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“Ah …,” he says, then turns to me. “She's the one with the binoculars?”
I grin at him, 'cause it was thanks to Grams' binoculars that I spotted a thief in his hotel once. “That's right.”
He nods. “I remember now. So, what can I do for ya?”
I look at Grams like, Well? So she clears her throat again and says, “The fellow that just came in? Is he visiting someone or staying?”
André studies her a minute, then me. And the whole time he's looking at us, thinking, his cigar's rolling from one side of his mouth to the other and back again. Finally he clamps it between his front teeth and says, “Stayin'.” He eyes me. “Should I be concerned?”
I shrug, then ask, “How long?”
There goes his cigar again, rolling back and forth. Finally he nods and says, “We're going day by day.”
“You think maybe we could talk to him?”
He shrugs, then picks up the phone and dials 2-2-7, and after a few seconds he says, “Mr. Ryder? You've got visitors down here … a gal and her grandma … let me ask.” He covers the receiver. “What's it about?”
“Uh … his Harley,” I tell him.
André's eyebrows go up a bit as he uncovers the phone. “They say it's about your Harley … no, I can assure you it's a gal and her grandma … All right, then.”
“So?” Grams asks him after he hangs up.
“He'll be right down.”
I ask, “Is that how he registered? As Mr. Ryder?”
He holds my gaze, then checks the book. “Uh-huh.”
“Lance Ryder?”
He leans forward, “You know privacy's a big deal to my guests. Don't push too hard, Sammy.”
“I know, but—”
“I only told you so much 'cause I owe ya. But let's leave it at this, okay?” He motions to the pope-hat chairs and says, “Why don't you take a seat. Save your questions for him.”
So Grams and I sit down, and I whisper, “What are you going to ask him?”
“What am I going to ask him? Samantha, this was your idea!”
“Yeah, but—” Then there he is, coming out of the stairway, still in chaps and his fringed leather jacket. I wave and call, “Hey! Over here!”
He walks toward us. Cautiously. Suspiciously. Like the granny and the girl might be packing heat or something. Finally he asks, “Do I know you?”
“Sort of.” I stand up and stick out my hand. “I'm Sammy, this is my grams, Rita.” I plop back down in my pope-hat chair and wave at a third chair, but he keeps right on standing. “We saw you outside your sister's house a couple of days ago.”
He just squints at me.
“We were leaving when you were driving up?”
“You sure it was me?”
“Uh-huh. Unless you just bought that Harley.”
“There's lots of Harleys in the world.”
“Apparently not like yours. My gramps had one that Grams says was tricked out the same.”
His eyebrow goes up in Grams' direction, but since she doesn't say anything and he doesn't say anything, I lower my voice and say, “Gramps ran off with a bimbo from the Harley shop, so it's sort of a sore subject.”
He kind of nods at me, then looks at Grams. “Well, that Harley ain't your old man's, if that's what you're wondering. It's been mine for nearly thirty years.”
Grams still doesn't say anything, so I say, “Actually, Mr. Reijden, we didn't really want to talk about your Harley. We want to talk to you about your sister.”
He just levels a look at me. Real calm. Real even.
“Why are you staying here and not with her?”
He shakes his head and says, “I'm afraid I don't have much to say about that or Lizzy.”
Now the way he said it was like he was pushing through the doors of a saloon, kinda surveying the joint, sauntering up to the bar for a shot of whiskey. And all of a sudden I could just see him, all jacked up, shouting “FREEZE” across the room, holding the place up. And I tried to look at his eyes and see if they were the same eyes I'd seen behind the Squirt Gun Bandit's mask, but shoot, I couldn't tell. They were just your average medium-brown eyes.
Kind of shifty medium-brown eyes, but still, medium brown.
But Grams laughs and says, “If it's any consolation, I don't have much good to say about Lizzy, either.”
His head tilts to one side, and half a smile creeps up his face. “Is that so?”
She nods, then starts plucking imaginary fuzz off her skirt. “I find her to be deceptive and coy.” She rolls her eyes my way and adds, “Not that I can convince anyone else of that …”
His smile creeps across, invading the other side of his face. Then he sits down, stretching his legs out in front of him. “So what's she done to you, Rita?”
Grams looks right at him, then looks back at her skirt.
So I say, “Her friend's sort of … you know … mesmerized by her.”
“Boyfriend?” he asks.
Now that term seemed like a really stupid way to describe Hudson. I mean, he's seventy-two, for crying out loud. But still, I couldn't come up with a better word to explain it. “Kinda.”
He nods. “He's not the first.”
That got Grams' attention. “Oh?”
“Won't be the last.”
“You're saying this is a … a pattern for her, then?”
He shrugs. “My sister's always been a dabbler.”
“In men?” Grams asks.
“In everything.”
“Well, wait a minute,” my mouth shoots off. “I don't know about men, but she sure doesn't dabble in art. She's really talented and—”
Grams shuts me down with, “And what do you call those statues ?”
Lance throws his head back and laughs. “Lady, you just hit the nail on the head.” He stands up, saying, “And that's really all I have to say about Elizabeth. People do wise up eventually. She's got a string of exes to prove it.” He sticks his hand out to Grams and covers hers with his other hand when they shake. “It was nice to make your acquaintance. And don't worry about the Harley. Once I settle things with my sister, I'll be off.”
Now, before I can say, “Settle what things?” he winks at Grams and says, “Between your ex and your boyfriend, it sounds like you could use a good man in your life.”
Grams blushes. Heck, I do, too. But before either of us can say a thing, he's heading for the stairs.
I whisper, “He did just hit on you, right?”
“It's been a long time,” she says, still blinking at the stairway.
The phone was ringing when we got back to the apartment. Grams snatched it up, saying, “Yes?” then, “Hold on.” She gives me the phone. “It's Marissa.”
“Sammy!” Marissa says when I get on the line. “I've got his number!”
“No, Casey's!”
“Marissa … !”
“You'd better not be mad at me. I went through a lot of trouble and embarrassment to get it.”
“Embarrassment? What do you mean?”
“Well, he's not in the phone book, but he is in that Drama Club play on Thursday.”
“So I found out they were having a rehearsal and—”
“Good grief! Why'd you do all this?”
“Because I'm your friend, that's why.”
“Anyway, I had to, you know, interrupt the rehearsal, so I couldn't exactly explain things to him. Besides,” she adds really fast, “I figured it would make you mad at me if I did.”
“Got that right,” I grumbled.
“So I made it quick, but Ms. Pilson was still plenty annoyed.” I could practically see Marissa rolling her eyes. “You know how she gets.”
It was true. Ms. Pilson's nose seemed to get really sharp and pointy when you interrupted her. Warts popped up everywhere. But all that was beside the point. I didn't want Casey's number. I didn't know what I did want, but having his number was certainly not it
. That would just make me nervous. Like if I had it, I could call when I didn't really think I should call. Or should call when I didn't really want to call.
It made everything way too complicated.
“Well what?” I ask her.
“Aren't you going to at least say thank you?”
“Marissa I … I …”
“I cannot believe what an absolute coward you're being about this. Why are you so fearless about everything but Casey?”
I just stood there, gripping the phone.
“Huh? Why?” she asked.
“I'm … I'm not afraid of him, I just—”
“You just what? Don't want to get involved? Well, I've got news for you, Sammy, you already are. And if you don't straighten this mess out, Heather wins.”
“She can't win if I don't play.”
“Fine. So I'll play for you. I'll call him and tell him what happened.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's … it's my mess.”
She was quiet for a minute, then grumbled, “You are so stubborn….” Then all of a sudden she switches gears. “Oh! Billy Pratt is in Drama Club, too! And you're never going to believe this—he was dressed up as a girl.”
“No way.”
“Seriously! He plays a barmaid.”
“A barmaid? At William Rose Junior High?”
“Yup. At least he was wearing a wig and a barmaid costume. They even had him stuffed.”
“No way.”
“Yeah! And while Ms. Pilson was going over lines, he was pulling out Kleenexes and blowing his nose. 'Course when Ms. Pilson saw what everyone was laughing about, she had a meltdown.
“I'll bet.”
“Anyway, look. I told Casey you would call tonight, so you'd better.”
“Yes, tonight.”
“Okay, then you can go ahead and call him. And you can tell him that I can't call tonight. Tell him I'll call him … later.”
She was quiet for a minute. So quiet, I wasn't even sure she was still there. “Marissa?”
“Nine-two-two three-three-four-four. I'm not talking to you until you talk to him.”
She'd said it before I could plug my ears. Before I could hang up in the middle of it. It was such an easy number, too. One I wouldn't be able to block out of my mind.
No matter how hard I tried.
I chickened out. I even went down to a phone booth to call, just in case Casey had caller ID or something. And I did dial, but after one ring I hung up. And then after standing around the phone booth fighting with myself for twenty minutes, I went home.
The next day in homeroom, Marissa asked, “Well?”
I cringed. “I started to, but …”
She scowled at me, then made like she was buttoning her lips and sat down.
“I will,” I told her. “I just have to figure out how.”
She just looked down her nose at me, then turned away.
And that's how she acted the whole day. After school I waited forever for her in the stupid wind, but when she finally showed up, she just slipped me a note that said, “I hate not talking to you. Call him!” and took off without me.
So I felt really lonesome, okay? I know it's pathetic and all my own fault, but that's how I felt. And since Dot takes the bus or gets picked up by her dad and I hardly ever see Holly after school anymore because she volunteers at the Humane Society, I headed home on my own. I didn't even ride my board at first, that's how bad I felt. I just tucked it under my arm and shuffled through the wind, thinking. Thinking about how everything was all mixed up and turned around. Hudson and Grams were acting like a couple of moody teenagers, my best friend wasn't talking to me, and who knows what Casey Acosta really wanted from me. Maybe he did like me, maybe he didn't. And who knows how I felt about him. He was cute. He was funny. And nice, and smart, and even, you know, courageous. But I was scared to find out more. Scared that he might be just another version of Billy Pratt, taking a dare at my expense.
So I was all caught up in thinking dark, stormy thoughts, when suddenly I realized I was riding my board. And I wasn't exactly rolling toward home—I was headed for the Vault.
The minute I was in the gallery, standing in front of Diane's paintings, I started feeling better.
Like I had company.
I looked at Whispers first, but then I found myself in front of Resurrection—Hudson's favorite. And the more I looked at it, the more I liked it, too. That one leaf with its tips dipped in gold, swirling, dancing above the others. It felt happy. Light. Free.
Just like I wanted to feel inside.
Then I moved over to Awakening—the one with a young tree arching over a small meadow. The grass was a soft green, spotted with wildflowers. And all the flowers were still folded closed, except in one strip where the sun shone. There they were turning up, opening. Like they were sunning their faces, breathing in the joy of a brand-new day.
I hadn't even noticed the flowers the first time I'd looked at the painting. I'd noticed the tree and the ray of sunshine and the tidy olive green fence in the background, but I'd missed the flowers. They were a subtle yellow. Quiet. But the more I looked at the painting, the more I understood that they were the focus. They were the picture.
I just stood there, wishing I could sit in that meadow and soak in the comfort of starting fresh. And I wondered where you could go to feel that way. Where she had gone to see this.
And then very slowly this odd sensation crept over me. Like I had been there before. Only … only not.
I stared at the painting for the longest time, trying to remember something. A dream, maybe.
But what dream?
I went over to Whispers and stared at it, too. Then back to Awakening. And my heart was starting to do really funny things. Really weird things. Like beating too fast, then not beating at all.
It was coming to me.
Yes, it was.
But … was I just imagining it?
I mean, it didn't really make sense.
I took one last look at Awakening, then decided—I had to go see for myself. See if it was real or just my runaway imagination again.
So I'm backing away from Diane's installation with a lot on my mind when I sort of stumble, right into someone. And when I whip around to say I'm sorry, who's standing there smiling at me?
One millionaire bag lady.
“Well, hello again!” she says.
“Hi, Mrs. Weiss,” I tell her, but really, I don't want to stand around and chat with any millionaire bag ladies.
But she holds on to my arm and whispers, “Have you seen him around, dear?”
I knew she meant Jojo, so I shook my head.
“How about the Splotter?” she asks with a grin.
Now, okay. I couldn't be rude and just bail on her, so I stopped pulling away and said, “Sorry, Mrs. Weiss. I don't think anyone's been here—just the security guard.”
She tisks and says, “Well, I can see that this business is going nowhere. And I think I've been patient long enough.”
The way she said it sounded so … final. And all of a sudden I felt really bad for Jojo. I mean, obviously he was trying to make his art gallery successful—maybe he just needed a little more time. “Mrs. Weiss, I think Jojo's a really nice guy. I'm sure he'll come through with the rent….”
She shook her head. “The man is trying to sell watercress sandwiches at a rodeo. He's made a gallant effort, but it's a hard sale to make, and it's time to face facts.”
“There, there. He's resourceful and charismatic. He'll be just fine.” Then she turned around and hurried away.
I wanted to find Jojo and warn him. But I really didn't know where to find him, and besides, there was someplace else I needed to go.
So the minute I was outside, I tossed down my board and rode. But the closer I got, the more uneasy I fe
lt, and by the time I'd reached the mailboxes, I'd decided that I really didn't want anyone to see me. So I stripped off my backpack and stashed it with my board behind a bush, then started tiptoeing up the driveway. Trouble is, no matter how you walk on it, gravel crunches.
It seemed to take me forever to get to the Reijden property, especially since I was on the lookout for Flannel Man and his tattletale squirrels. So by the time I reached the picket fence, I felt like a real sneak thief, which was stupid—I wasn't there to steal anything!
Still, my heart was bumping around like crazy, so I crouched low for a minute behind the fence. Then, when I'd calmed down a little, I moved to where I could see beyond the pine trees and vines, into the center of Diane's yard.
The grass was knee-high—much too tall for dainty yellow wildflowers. And there was no graceful little tree, just the big walnut tree, with rough, chunky bark.
But off in the distance, between bushes and weeds and vines, I could see sections of the white pickets that marked off the Reijden property. The same fence that wound its way around to where I was standing.
I crouched behind the fence again and just stayed there for a minute, thinking. Finally I picked up a rock and started scraping paint off the fence.
It wasn't hard to do. It was flaky and weathered. And underneath the white paint was … yellow.
I started scraping again. Harder. Faster. And when I'd dug through the yellow paint, there it was—olive green.
Just like the fence in the painting.
I looked out across the yard again, hearing Diane's words in my head: … I like art to represent life as it should be or could be … an ideal to which you should strive.
So what about those hideous statues she had made?
I sure wasn't striving for that ideal, let me tell you.
“Hallo, missy. What'cha doing there?”
I fell over, right on my rear end. And when I turned around to face him, Flannel Man laughed and said, “Bit of a guilty heart?”
“Then … ?”
I stayed sitting, hugging my knees as I faced him. “I was thinking, is all.”
He nodded slowly with his lips puckered out. Like he was doing some thinking of his own. Finally he says, “About … ?”
“Art, is it?”

Now, in The Art of Deception, the world's most notorious hacker gives new meaning to the old adage, 'It takes a thief to catch a thief.

TheSammy Keyes And The Art Of Deception PDF Free Download

Author: Kevin D. Mitnick

Publisher: John Wiley & Sons

ISBN: 9780764538391


Category: Computers

The Art Of Deception Summary

Page: 368

Sammy Keyes And The Art Of Deception Pdf Free Download For Windows 7

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Sammy Keyes And The Art Of Deception Pdf Free Download Pdf

The world's most infamous hacker offers an insider's view of the low-tech threats to high-tech security Kevin Mitnick's exploits as a cyber-desperado and fugitive form one of the most exhaustive FBI manhunts in history and have spawned dozens of articles, books, films, and documentaries. Since his release from federal prison, in 1998, Mitnick has turned his life around and established himself as one of the most sought-after computer security experts worldwide. Now, in The Art of Deception, the world's most notorious hacker gives new meaning to the old adage, 'It takes a thief to catch a thief.' Focusing on the human factors involved with information security, Mitnick explains why all the firewalls and encryption protocols in the world will never be enough to stop a savvy grifter intent on rifling a corporate database or an irate employee determined to crash a system. With the help of many fascinating true stories of successful attacks on business and government, he illustrates just how susceptible even the most locked-down information systems are to a slick con artist impersonating an IRS agent. Narrating from the points of view of both the attacker and the victims, he explains why each attack was so successful and how it could have been prevented in an engaging and highly readable style reminiscent of a true-crime novel. And, perhaps most importantly, Mitnick offers advice for preventing these types of social engineering hacks through security protocols, training programs, and manuals that address the human element of security.