by Lisa Gardner
“Ethan!”
He shrugged. “So the last possibility is that you’re worried about something at home. Ree is only four, so it can’t be her That leaves your husband.”
I sat down. It seemed better than standing.
“Is it porn?” Ethan asked with his guileless blue eyes. “Or is he gambling away your life savings?”
“I don’t know,” I said at last.
“You didn’t run Pasco?”
“I did. It returned only three URLs, the same three I’ve seen before.”
Ethan sat upright. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow, gotta be a shredder I’ve only ever heard about them. That’s cool!”
“A shredder is a good thing?”
“It is if you’re trying to cover your tracks. A shredder, or scrubber software, is like a rake, clearing all the cache file footprints left behind you.”
“It’s deleting things the lazy computer wouldn’t otherwise delete?”
“Nope. Shredders are lazy, too. They’re automatically clearing the cache file so you don’t have to remember to do it manually. So a user can go all sorts of places, then ‘shred’ the evidence. But since a lack of browser history is also a red flag, your husband is attempting to be clever by rebuilding a fake Internet trail. Fortunately for us, he’s not that good at faking it.”
I didn’t say a word.
“Here’s the cool part, though—shredders aren’t foolproof.”
“Okay,” I managed.
“Every time you click on an Internet page, a computer is creating so many temp files there’s no way the shredder can get them all. Plus, the shredder is still only messing with the directory. So the files are still there, we just have to find them.”
“How?”
“Better tool. Pasco is over-the-counter. Now you want prescription-strength meds.”
“I don’t know any pharmacists,” I said blankly.
Ethan Hastings grinned at me. “I do.”
| CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX |
D.D. was dreaming about roast beef again. She was at her favorite buffet, trying to decide between the eggplant Parmesan and a blood-red carving roast. She opted for both, sinking her right hand straight into the tray of eggplant Parm while plucking up thin, juicy slivers of beef with her left. She had strings of melted cheese trailing down one arm and dribbles of au jus on her chin.
No bother. She climbed straight onto the white-covered table, planting her ass between the green Jell-O fruit ring and the collection of cherry-topped puddings. She scooped up handfuls of squishy Jell-O, while licking creamy tapioca straight from the chilled parfait glass.
She was hungry. Starving even. Then the food was gone, and she was on top of a giant, satin-covered mattress. She was on her belly, face down, nude body stretched out in a cat-like purr while unknown hands worked magic down the curve of her spine, over her writhing hips, finding the inside of her thighs. She knew where she wanted those hands. Knew where she needed to be touched, needed to be taken. She raised her hips accommodatingly, and suddenly she was flipped over, legs spreading wide to receive urgent thrusts while she stared into Brian Miller’s heavily mustached face.
D.D. jerked awake in her bedroom. Her hands were fisting her covers, her body covered in a light sheen of sweat as she worked to slow her breathing. For the longest time, she simply stared at her gray-washed walls, morning coming hard in the rainy gloom.
She released the sheets. Pushed back the covers. Stabilized her legs enough to walk to the bathroom, where she regarded herself in the mirror above the sink.
“That,” she told her reflection firmly, “never happened.”
Five-thirty A.M., she brushed her teeth and got ready for the day ahead.
D.D. was a realist. You didn’t last twenty years in the biz without realizing some hard truths about human nature. First twenty-four hours of a missing persons case, she gave them even odds of finding the person alive. Adults did take off. Couples argued. Some individuals could stick it out, others needed to bolt for a day or two. So first twenty-four hours, maybe even the first thirty-six, she’d been willing to believe that Sandra Jones was alive and they, the fine detectives of the BPD, might bring her home again.
Fifty-two hours later, D.D. was not thinking of locating a missing mother. She was thinking of recovering a body, and even with that in mind, she understood that time remained of the essence.
Crime, and investigations, had a certain rhythm. First twenty-four hours, not only was there hope of the victim surviving, but also of the criminal screwing up. Abduction, assault, homicide, all involved high emotion. Individuals held in the sway of high emotion had a tendency to make mistakes. Flushed on adrenaline, overloaded by anxiety or even remorse, the perpetrator was in panic mode. Did something bad. How to get away, get away, get away?
Unfortunately, as each day went by without the cops closing in, the subject had time to calm down, settle in. Start thinking more rationally about next steps, form a more concrete plan for cover up. The criminal became entrenched, disposing of evidence, polishing his story, even perhaps swaying key witnesses, such as his four-year-old daughter. In other words, the perpetrator transitioned from bungling amateur to criminal mastermind.
D.D. didn’t want to be dealing with any criminal masterminds. She wanted a body and an arrest, all in time for the five o’clock news. Close in, apply the thumb screws, and crack the case wide open. That was the kind of thing that made her day.
Unfortunately, she had a few too many people to pressure. Take Ethan Hastings. Thirteen years old, frighteningly brilliant, and hopelessly in love with his missing teacher. Budding Lothario? Or freaky teenmonster?
Then came Aidan Brewster. Bona fide felon with a history of choosing inappropriate sexual relationships. Claimed not to know Sandra Jones, but lived just down the street from the crime. Reformed sex offender or escalating perpetrator with a fresh appetite for violence?
Sandy’s father, the honorable Maxwell Black, had to be included in the mix. Estranged father, who magically showed up when his daughter disappeared. According to Officer Hawkes, Black seemed to be threatening Jones, and clearly planned to see his granddaughter one way or the other. Grieving father, or opportunistic grandfather who’d do anything to get his hands on Ree?
Finally, she returned to Jason Jones, the cold-blooded husband who had yet to engage in a single activity to find his missing wife. The guy claimed not to be the jealous type. Then again, he had no paper trail prior to marrying Sandy five years ago. A definite assumed identity.
D.D. went round and round, and she still came back to Jones. His daughter’s own assessment of Wednesday night, Jones’s disengaged behavior since his wife vanished, the obvious use of an alias. Jones was hiding something—ergo, he was the most likely suspect in his pregnant wife’s disappearance.
That was it. D.D. was bringing little Ree in for more questioning as soon as possible. She would arrange for two officers to track each of their other subjects, building history and establishing alibis. Better yet, she was assigning two of her best white-collar investigators to trace Jones’s bank accounts. Follow the money, find Jones’s real name, real history, real past.
Break the alias. Break the man.
Satisfied, D.D. pulled out her notepad and jotted down one major to-do for the day: Squeeze Jason Jones.
D.D.’s cell rang ten minutes later. It was barely seven, but she didn’t lead one of those lives where people called during normal operating hours. She took another sip of coffee, flipped open her phone, and announced, “Talk to me.”
“Sergeant D. D. Warren?”
“Last I checked.”
The caller paused. She took another sip of cappuccino.
“This, uh, is Wayne Reynolds. I work for the Massachusetts State Police. I’m also Ethan Hastings’s uncle.”
D.D. thought about it. The number on her display screen looked familiar. Then it came to her: “Didn’t you buzz me yesterday morning?”
&n
bsp; “I tried your pager. I saw the press conference and figured we’d better talk.”
“Because of Ethan?”
Another pause. “I think it would be best if we could meet in person. What do you say? I could buy you breakfast.”
“You think we’re gonna arrest Ethan?”
“I think if you did, it would be a huge mistake.”
“So, you’re gonna throw your state weight around, ask me to back off? ’cause you should know up front, I don’t take those kinds of conversations well, and buying me a bagel with cream cheese isn’t gonna make a difference.”
“How about we meet first, and you can be hostile and indifferent second?”
“It’s your funeral,” D.D. said. She rattled off the name of a coffee shop just around the corner, then went to fetch an umbrella.
Mario’s was a locals’ establishment. Tiny, with the original Formica countertop from 1949 and an enormous glass jar of fresh biscotti next to the ancient cash register. Mario II, the son, currently ran the joint. He served up eggs, toast, pancetta, and the best coffee you could buy outside of Italy.
D.D. had to wrestle for a tiny round corner table next to the front window. She got there early, mostly so she could enjoy a second cup of coffee in peace, while working her cell phone. She found the uncle’s outreach to be fascinating. Here she was thinking she needed to push harder on the husband, and the family of the teenage wannabe lover entered the fray. Were they feeling overprotective, or guilt-stricken? Interesting.
D.D. hit speed dial, holding the tiny phone to her ear. Just because she had a sex dream last night was not the reason she was calling Bobby Dodge.
“Hello,” a female voice answered.
“Morning, Annabelle,” D.D. said, without a trace of the anxiety she immediately felt. Other women didn’t intimidate her. It was a hard-and-fast rule she’d developed years ago when she’d realized she was prettier than ninety percent of the female population, and a hundred percent better with a loaded handgun. Annabelle, of course, would be the exception to that rule, and Annabelle had snagged Bobby Dodge. That made her D.D.’s personal nemesis, even if they were both properly civil to each other. “Is Bobby awake?”
“Didn’t you call him in the middle of the night?” Annabelle asked.
“Yep. Hey, I understand congratulations are in order. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“You, um, feeling okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“When are you due?”
“August.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Waiting to be surprised.”
“Nice. So is Bobby around?”
“He’s only going to hang up on you again.”
“I know. It’s part of my charm.”
There was a distant shuffle as Annabelle handed the phone over to her husband, then some male grunting as Bobby was no doubt prodded awake.
“Tell me I’m dreaming,” Bobby groaned into the phone.
“I don’t know. Am I naked and covered in whipped cream?”
“D.D., I just talked to you eight hours ago.”
“Well, that’s the thing about crime. It never sleeps.”
“But detectives do.”
“Really? Must’ve missed that class at the Academy. So, I have a question for you about another statie. Name of Wayne Reynolds. Ring any bells?”
There was a long pause, which was better than the usual click of Bobby hanging up. “Wayne Reynolds?” he repeated at last. “No, can’t think of any detectives by that name.”
D.D. nodded, remaining quiet. Both the BPD and Massachusetts State Police were sizable organizations, but they still retained a family-enterprise sort of feel. Even if you didn’t work directly with every officer, chances were you’d caught a name in the hall, read it on top of a report, even heard a juicy bit of gossip in the latest rumor mill.
“Wait a minute,” Bobby said shortly. “I do know that name, but he’s not with the detectives unit. He’s at the Computer Lab. He handled the forensic analysis of some cell phones for last year’s bank robbery.”
“He’s an electronics geek?”
“I think they prefer the term ‘forensic specialist.’”
“Huh,” D.D. said.
“You seize some computers and ask for state assistance?”
“I seized some computers and asked for BRIC assistance, thank you very much.” BRIC was the Boston Regional Intelligence Center at BPD headquarters, basically BPD’s geek squad, because like all good bureaucracies, the Boston police believed they needed to have all their own toys and specialists. It went without saying.
“Well, call someone in BRIC, then,” Bobby grumbled. “They’ve probably worked with Wayne. I haven’t.”
“Okay. Good night, Bobby.”
“Crap, it’s already morning. Now I’ll have to get up.”
“Then good morning, Bobby.” D.D. hung up before he could swear at her again. She clipped her cell to her waist and contemplated her empty mug. Wayne Reynolds was a professional nerd with an amateur nerd nephew. She refilled her cup. Interesting.
Wayne Reynolds walked through the door of Mario’s at precisely eight A.M. D.D. knew it was him by his burnished red hair, not so unlike his nephew’s. All resemblance to a thirteen-year-old boy however, began and ended with the coppertop.
Wayne Reynolds was tall, six one, six two. He moved easily and athletically. Definitely a guy who worked in a daily run, despite the pressing demands of ripping apart various hard drives. He wore a camel-colored light wool blazer that set off a forest green shirt and dark-colored slacks. More than one head turned when he walked in, and D.D. felt a slight bit of thrill when he headed for her, and only for her. If this is what Ethan Hastings was going to grow into one day, then maybe Sandy Jones had been onto something.
“Sergeant Warren,” Wayne greeted her, extending his hand.
D.D. nodded, accepting the handshake. He had calloused palms. Short buffed nails. Positively beautiful fingers that didn’t wear a wedding ring.
Honest to God, she was going to need some bacon.
“Want food?” she asked.
He blinked his eyes. “Okay.”
“Great. I’ll get enough for both of us.”
D.D. used her time at the order counter to control her breathing and remind herself that she was a trained professional who absolutely, positively was not affected by having breakfast with a David Caruso look-alike. Unfortunately, she didn’t believe herself; she’d always had a weakness for David Caruso.
She returned to the tiny table with napkins and silverware for both of them, as well as a cup of black coffee for him. Wayne accepted the oversized white ceramic mug with his beautiful fingers, and she bit the inside of her lips.
“So,” she began tersely, “you work for the state?”
“Computer Forensic Unit in New Braintree. We handle the majority of the electronic analysis, as you can guess by the title.”
“How long you been there?”
He shrugged, sipped his coffee black, eyes widening briefly at the dark roast. “Five or six years. I was a detective before that, but being a geek at heart, had a tendency to focus on the technology aspects of the cases. Given that everyone from a drug dealer to a crime lord is using computers, cell phones, or PDAs these days, demand for my technical skills grew. So I completed the eighty-hour course to become a CFCE—Certified Forensic Computer Examiner—and switched over to the Computer Lab.”
“You like it?”
“I do. Hard drives are like piñatas. Every treasure you ever wanted is stored in there somewhere. You just gotta know how to break it open.”
The food had arrived. Scrambled eggs with a side of grilled pancetta for both of them. The smells were rich and savory. D.D. dug in.
“How do you investigate hardware?” she asked, her mouth full.
Wayne had forked up a pile of eggs; he regarded her thoughtfully, as if trying to gauge the seriousness of her interest. He had deep hazel eye
s with specks of green, so she made sure she looked interested.
“Take the rule of five-twelve. That’s the magic number in forensic computer analysis. See, inside a hard drive are round platters that spin around to read and write data. These platters contain chunks of five hundred and twelve bytes of data, and they’re constantly whirling under the seeker head. The seeker head, then, must divide all information into five hundred and twelve byte chunks in order to store the data onto the platters.”
“Okay.” D.D. went to work slicing up her pancetta.
“Now, say you’re saving a file to your hard drive that doesn’t divide neatly into five hundred and twelve byte chunks. It’s not one thousand and twenty-four bytes of data, it’s eight hundred bytes. The computer will fill one whole data chunk, then half of another available chunk. Then what? The computer doesn’t pick up where it left off, mid-data chunk. Instead, a new file will start with a fresh five-twelve byte space, meaning the previous file has excess storage capacity, or what we call ‘slack space,’ in the existing data chunk. Often, old data gets left in that slack space. Say you called up that file, made some changes, then resaved it. The overwrite might not go exactly on top of the old data the way most people assume. Instead it might be tucked somewhere else inside the same data chunk. Then a guy like me can search that five-twelve chunk. In the slack space I might find the old document where you wrote the original letter asking your lover to murder your spouse, as well as the revised doc, where you deleted that particular paragraph. And voila, one guilty conviction is born.”
“I don’t have a spouse,” D.D. volunteered, having another bite of eggs, “though I’m now deeply suspicious of my computer.”
Wayne Reynolds grinned at her. “You probably should be. People have no idea how much information is retained unknowingly on their hard drives. I like to say a computer is like a guilty conscience. It remembers everything and you never know when it might start to speak.”