“Could have been spoofed,” Aiden said quietly.
Jo shook the last of the memory out of her head. “Spoofed?”
“Made to look like they came from one email address when they actually originated at another.”
She straightened. “People can do that? I mean, I know a person can set up a false email account, but you mean someone can make it look like it’s coming from your own account?”
“Anything’s possible on the internet.”
“How?”
“All you need is an SMTP server and some software, although really, if you know what you’re doing, the software is optional. If you have access to someone’s router or hack the encryption password, you can use the person’s actual accounts. That takes a bit more finesse, but it opens up more options.”
“Oh God.” She dipped her head into the crook of her elbow, the chilled lip of the tailgate branding her forehead.
“Didn’t you have cyber training?”
“In the academy. It pretty much consisted of ‘Don’t sign up for MySpace. Send everything else to the feds.’”
“A lot’s changed in twelve years.”
“Not in Echo Valley.” But that wasn’t true.
“The web doesn’t have boundaries,” he said.
“I’ve got to go.” Jo crushed the beer can. “I screwed up.”
13
Jo stood to the side of Quinn’s apartment door and knocked again.
Shadows and shapes played against the inside of the curtain as if there was a television flickering, but Jo didn’t hear anything. It was eerily similar to when she’d responded to Tye Horton’s place. She hitched her jacket up and tucked it behind her holster.
The temperature had descended with the sun, and it had only grown colder with each passing hour. She dug her small flashlight from her pocket and rapped the metal sharply against the door. A woman two apartments down opened her door and peeked out, then went back inside.
A shadow behind the curtain solidified. The peephole blackened. Something scraped behind the door, the sound followed by the clank of a chain, and then the dead bolt being drawn back. The door swung open.
“What are you doing here?” Headphones formed a choker around Quinn’s neck. She wore puffy green dragon slippers, and the wings made her sweat pants bunch at the ankle.
“I thought we could chat.” Jo covered her holster. “May I come inside?”
“No.”
She should have expected that. “I’m here to apologize. I obviously misunderstood the messages you showed me.”
“You think?”
“I consulted with a colleague.” Although describing Aiden as a colleague was stretching the definition a bit. “You came to me for help. I drew a conclusion by only assessing what was in front of me, and I should have dug deeper.”
“You thought I sent threats to myself.”
“I did. I’m sorry. I’m here now, and I’d like to help.”
Quinn looked at her slack-jawed. “Jesus. I’m gonna get colon cancer from the smoke you’re blowing up my ass.”
The longer Jo stayed, the more she regretted her decision. “You’re making it really difficult to apologize.”
“I don’t want to make this easy on you. You fucked up.”
This was a mistake. “And I’m here to make it better.”
“Well aren’t I the lucky one.”
Jo prided herself on her patience, but this was not a blue-ribbon day. “Ever wonder why you don’t have any friends?” Based on the narrowing of Quinn’s eyes, she should have regretted her words. But she didn’t.
“That’s low, even from you.”
A gust picked up the snow that had accumulated on the railing and swirled it around Jo. “You don’t know anything about me.” It was too cold for this nonsense.
“I bet I can rattle off five things about you right now.”
The prospect of Quinn calling her bluff kept Jo at the door. “I seriously doubt that.”
“This is going to be fun.” Quinn raised a finger. “One, you hate being wrong.”
“Everybody hates being wrong.”
“Yeah, but not everyone has a vagina in a workplace full of dicks. Two.” Quinn’s eyes dipped to Jo’s left hand, and Jo fought the impulse to hide it. “Based on the indentation around your finger, you recently left your marriage. And it wasn’t to the guy you loved enough to shoot, so you’ve got a temper. Three.” Quinn flicked up a third finger.
“Four,” Jo interrupted. “My temper was three.”
Quinn curled all but her middle finger. “You don’t like me. And if there was any way your conscience would let you walk away, you’d already be halfway home. But for whatever reason, you take your job seriously. Probably more than any of those fucksticks you work with who are flying past you on the ol’ promotion ladder. But you won’t say shit, because you don’t want to rock the boat. Ruin your chances that maybe someday they’ll pull their heads out of their asses and see you for the fucking shiny star that you are.”
“That’s seven.”
“Bonus insight. You hate your name because every day it reminds you that your father really wanted a boy. And no matter how hard you try, you just can’t fix that one.”
Where the hell had that come from? “I don’t love him.”
“Your dad or the guy you shot?”
“The guy I shot.” Now wasn’t the time to mention that they’d been kids, and it had been with a BB gun.
“Out of everything I said, that’s the part you want to argue?” Quinn shook her head. The chain clanked against the back of the door. “You are seriously whacked.”
“I’m not the one getting death threats.”
“Give it time.”
They mad-dogged each other across the threshold, and Jo refused to look away. No doubt about it, Quinn’s assessment was dead-on. It both impressed and annoyed her.
“Why didn’t you tell me emails could be manipulated?” Jo asked.
“Spoofed,” Quinn corrected.
“Why didn’t you speak up?”
“It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence when the person you go to for help doesn’t know jack-shit about computers.”
Had to give her that one. “You ever shoot a gun?”
“No.”
“Take a self-defense course?”
“What are you getting at?” Quinn asked.
“Yes or no?” Jo pressed.
“No.”
“I have. Handgun, shotgun, rifle. I have to qualify every quarter. Every year, I have over forty hours of defensive tactics and arrest control.”
“So you’re a badass.”
“Who knows very little about computers.”
“Great pep talk.”
“Point is, even with all those skills, I still get scared. Fear is good. It keeps you alive.” Jo turtled the cuff of her jacket over her fingers. “I don’t blame you for being scared.”
Quinn pushed the door, but Jo wedged her foot toe-to-toe with Quinn’s puffy dragon. Even through the narrow crack, Jo saw Quinn’s jaw clench and her hands fist.
“I’m not going to let some anonymous asshole intimidate me,” Quinn said.
Jo lowered her voice as if she were speaking to a skittish horse. “He already has, or you wouldn’t have come see me. We got off to a bad start. I said my piece about that. And if you don’t want my help, I’m going to walk away from here with a clear conscience. But the internet is a big place. This creep could be anyone. He could be anywhere. And it’s not going to get better on its own.”
“He’s here.” Quinn exhaled, and her entire body appeared to collapse on itself. “He’s in Echo Valley. I got a new email.” She pulled open the door and stepped aside so Jo could enter. “He saw us at the Bean.”
Part Two
RONNY
14
The road to Peregrines Roost Ski Resort wound its way out of the valley and climbed into the sheriff’s jurisdiction. The drive usually took forty-five minutes, but a t
iny herd of elk at the north end of the valley blocked the road as the stragglers migrated to a lower elevation for the winter. The resulting two-minute traffic jam consisted of one pickup truck and Jo’s unmarked police car.
“I swear they know when hunting season’s about to end.” Jo tapped her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel.
Squint shifted in his seat. “Heard Aiden Teague’s back in town.”
Three cows leapt the ditch that ran alongside the road. A fourth cow hesitated.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
“Just watch your back,” he added.
I took the one less traveled by … She leaned sideways to bump her shoulder into his. “There’s no reason to worry.”
“You’re my partner.”
A bull elk nudged the reluctant cow onto the roadway.
“And that has made all the difference,” Jo said.
In the winter, the elk congregated in large herds at the mouth of the valley, posing a danger to passing motorists. Hit a deer? Chances were good the driver would walk away with a dented fender or a crumpled front end. Smack an elk? The added height meant it would roll across the hood, smash through the windshield, and end up on the driver’s lap—and seven hundred pounds of pissed-off bull elk trapped in a car rarely ended well for anyone.
Squint was like a bull elk in some respects. He was a protector of the herd, but get him riled, and best stand back.
“You ever connect with Agent Raubenheimer?” Squint asked.
“Not yet. He was called out to Pagosa to investigate a bank robbery. I’m not holding my breath that the FBI is going to be much help.” The last of the elk cleared the road, and Jo put the Impala in gear. “I went to their main website. They deal mostly with big-picture data intrusion and cyberterrorism. In their book, Quinn’s small potatoes.”
“What you need is a savvy fifteen-year-old.”
“If only it were that easy. I got an earful from Quinn last night. Turns out spoofing is easy. It’s unmasking who’s behind it that’s going to be tricky. Especially if the suspect is using Tor—which in a nutshell is a network that strips out all the identifying sender data and then pings the message through multiple browsers across the world.” Jo swerved to avoid several crows picking at a dead animal in the roadway. “She was scared, Squint. She had a stack of emails, but the message she received last night was the first one to suggest someone had eyes on her.”
“And you.”
“I’m not worried about me.”
“You want me to see if the Bean has surveillance footage from yesterday?”
“That’d be great. I already drafted subpoena requests for Quinn’s internet and email providers. Fingers crossed for a quick response.”
She slowed for a switchback. Jo loved this road. During the warmer months, she cycled the thirty-odd miles to the resort. Going out was a slog. Coming back was much faster, but infinitely more dangerous. It wasn’t so much the narrow, curvy road but the steep drop-offs beyond the pavement. Definitely not a ride for the inattentive. In winter, the snow and ice upped the hazard level for drivers even further.
Elevation changed the landscape. Snow-flocked piñons and junipers gave way to ponderosa pines and Douglas firs as they climbed. Jo admired the pockets of aspens most, even without their autumn colors.
Houses and then condos sprouted among the trees with increasing frequency as the two detectives neared the resort. Finally they drove under the massive carved wooden sign that announced that they’d arrived. The private roadway took them beyond several levels of parking on the way to the main ski complex. A collection of lodges, lifts, restaurants, and shops spoked off the main plaza at the foot of the mountain. The resort bustled, even on a Wednesday.
Jo veered right and passed through the hotel’s elaborate wrought-iron gate. Peregrines Roost Lodge claimed the edge of one mountain and offered views of another. The pitched red roof, river-rock walls, and wood framing seemed at once part of the landscape and yet distinct. The building had always struck her as somewhat haughty—as if aware of its status as the only hotel in the area to claim a five-star rating.
A valet raced to Jo’s door, but she stepped from the car before he could extend his hand. She discreetly flashed the badge at her belt. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”
Another bellman held the door, and Squint stood aside until Jo preceded him. The two detectives wove their way through people in ski gear and UGG boots until they reached the reception desk. Jo introduced herself and Squint to a smiling clerk. “We’re here to speak to Ronny Buck, please.”
A little line developed between the young woman’s brows. “Was he expecting you?”
“It’s a surprise,” Jo said.
“I see.” The furrow deepened. “You’re not going to arrest him, are you?”
Squint set his hat on the counter. “Not unless there’s something you want to tell us.”
The receptionist blushed. “No. I mean, it’s … well. We’re shorthanded.” Another toothy smile. “Let me call him for you. He should be patrolling the parking lots.” She disappeared behind a golden-oak partition.
Jo and Squint ambled over to the fireplace. A Christmas tree decorated the corner beside the hearth, and an elk head with a massive rack hung above the mantel. Alpine cozy. The faded chintz print on the stuffed, oversized chairs completed the illusion.
Within minutes, Ronny Buck entered the lobby like he owned the place. Which in a manner of speaking, he did. Buck & Sage, Inc., his father’s company, owned the controlling share of the resort.
He strode toward them wearing a dark jacket with the resort logo on the chest. The confidence was new. The last time Jo saw him, he’d been jumping a fence to get away from her. It was always petty stuff, and when he was cornered, he always fessed up to whatever he’d done. Every officer had a Ronny Buck story, but Jo couldn’t help herself—she liked Ronny.
His dad was another story.
“Hey there, Detective Jo.” He shook her hand. “Detective Squint.”
Squint nodded. “Good to see you, Ronny. Staying out of trouble?”
“I thought so until I saw you two.”
“Not to worry,” Jo said. “We’re hoping you can help us.”
Ronny’s eyes brightened. “Maybe earn some karma points?”
“You know there’s no such thing as a get-out-of-jail-free card, right?” Jo said.
“It never hurts to ask.”
It wasn’t just his confidence level. Something else had changed, but she couldn’t quite finger what. She brought it back around to business, but kept her voice casual. “How long have you been working security for the lodge?”
“Mid-October? Definitely before Halloween.” Ronny glanced around the lobby and lowered his voice. “Look, can we talk some other time? Cops in the lobby make guests nervous.”
“Not to mention your bosses,” Jo added.
“Yeah, there’s that. Plus, I’ll get written up if I don’t sign in at the parking lot checkpoints. It’s all computerized now.”
“No problem. We’ll help with your rounds.”
“Great,” Ronny said, although his voice lacked its earlier enthusiasm. “What’s all of this about?”
Jo headed for the door. “Tye Horton.”
“Oh man. I heard. That’s messed up.”
Outside, Jo flipped up her coat collar. The skies had cleared, but up on the mountain temperatures were always a good ten degrees colder because of the elevation. Add in the wind, and she should have brought her scarf. “Was he having problems with anyone? Classmates, significant other?”
“Didn’t have one. He was pretty much a loner.”
“Do you know any reason he’d want to end his life?”
“No.” Ronny dug keys from his pocket. “In fact, he had some side gig going that he said was going to pay off big-time.” He pointed his keys toward a cart marked Security parked in the red zone.
Jo studied the vehicle. If a military BearCat and a golf ca
rt ever procreated, this is what it would look like. Utility lights on the top, roll bars, oversized snow tires, and room for four. The vinyl window panels were rolled up. Hopefully it had a beefy heater.
She slid to the center of the back seat and leaned into the divide between the front seats. “What kind of gig?”
Ronny jammed the key into the ignition, and the cart roared to life with an electric click. It was terribly anticlimactic.
“Some company wanted to buy one of his games. Set him up as a designer, or consultant, or something.” He activated the turn signal and carefully looked over his shoulder.
That was new information, but the bigger surprise was Ronny using his turn signal. Ronny Buck had been pulled over so frequently that every officer knew his truck plate by heart. “Are you talking about the game you tested for him last year?”
He locked eyes with her in the rearview mirror. “How’d you know about that one?”
“Who else was testing it?”
“Me, Derek, and Quinn.”
“Derek have a last name?”
Ronny pulled away from the curb. “Walsenberg.”
“The district attorney’s son?” Squint asked.
“One and the same.”
Jo chewed on that for a moment. The DA might not know Tye, but his son sure had.
She returned to the question Ronny hadn’t answered. “The game the company was interested in buying, was it the game you beta tested for Tye?” Professor Lucas had tried to steal the game once. That was bad enough, but for him to try to use Tye’s death to get out of a speeding ticket made Jo realize exactly how much she’d enjoy slapping cuffs around those lily-white wrists of his.
“No.”
“You sound pretty sure.”
“Tye never wanted to play that game again. He’d moved on to something else.” Ronny bumped across a runoff ditch at the entrance of the upper parking lot. “I asked him about the new project. He wouldn’t even tell me what he’d named it. Said he’d signed something that said he wasn’t supposed to talk about it.”
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