“I have my office here.”
“Could we see it?” asked Pine.
“Why?” he asked sharply. “It can’t have anything to do with what happened all those years ago.”
“You never know.”
“I don’t let people in there as a rule.”
“There are always exceptions to rules. And in an environment where you obviously spend a lot of time, something might occur to you that wouldn’t in any other place. I would really appreciate it if you would. Maybe for old times’ sake?”
Myron looked put out, glanced at Britta, finally shrugged, turned, and walked out of the room.
Britta chose to stay behind, so Myron led Pine and Blum down a sleek hallway and up a curving set of stairs made of zebra wood with stainless steel handrails and stout, smooth wire stretched between them.
They reached a door on the second floor that had a security port next to it containing a red light. Myron said, “Before you go in, you need to power off your phones.”
Pine and Blum glanced at each other, looking puzzled, but they both complied with his request.
Myron bent down to the portal and put his eye to it.
“Retina scanner,” he said as the heavy portal clicked open.
“I can see that,” said Pine.
“No pun intended,” quipped Blum.
The space they entered was a good thousand square feet set out in a rectangle. There were no windows in the room. The flooring was soft and springy underfoot.
“Welcome to the world of cyborg finance with a dash of digital alchemy,” said Myron drily.
Pine touched the walls. They seemed to be made of concrete. When she asked Myron about it, he confirmed this and added, “With a layer of copper underneath. To block electronic signals.”
“Spies here in Macon County, Georgia?” said Pine.
“Spies everywhere,” replied Myron crisply. He pointed to the ceiling. “Satellites ringing the earth.”
She noted a sign on one wall. It was a series of odd numbers: 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 7, 9, 5, 3.
He saw her staring at it and smiled. “I like odd numbers over even, up to a point.”
“Okay,” she said, looking confused.
On a desk about the size of a large dining table was perched a row of supersized computer monitors. They were all dark at the moment.
He held up a white plastic card. “The system in the room senses the number of people present. If everyone doesn’t have a badge like this with the requisite clearances, the system knows there are unauthorized people in the room. So, the screens go black.”
“Intel agencies have the same sort of systems,” said Pine.
“I know. It’s where we got the protocols.”
“So you sit in here and work on…algorithms?” said Blum.
“Not just that. I also oversee security on the pipelines, go over procedures, that sort of thing. But yes, refining, tweaking, coming up with new platforms is something I spend a lot of time on. It’s heavy lifting, and there are long lead times. Coding is not easy. And bugs have to be worked out. And hackers come at us twenty-four/seven. The Russians, the Chinese, groups in India, the Middle East, fourteen-year-olds with a Mac looking to blow up the financial world, hell, everybody.”
“But if this place is sealed off from electronic spies getting in, how are you connected to the web then?” asked Pine.
“Proprietary,” replied Myron. “But I can tell you it’s an amalgam of hardened pipelines, and a stand-alone cloud-based infrastructure that is not available to the general public or anybody else.”
“Are you the only one who does this for Lineberry?”
“No, we have a whole department scattered around the world, but I’m the head one. I run the others, and it’s a group that has grown exponentially over time. Our IT is our most precious resource. Without that, we’re just a bunch of old farts playing at Monopoly. We communicate around the clock through the secure, encrypted-at-both-ends pipeline that I just alluded to.”
“Your wife said you don’t use phones or emails.”
“And I don’t have Alexa or Google assistant or any other spies in my house. And I don’t use a credit card. And I never surf the web. Ridiculous. Most people are suckers. They give up privacy for convenience.”
“I guess they do,” said Pine. “But it seems to work.”
“Oh, it does work, for the other side. They know everything. They know more about you than you even know about yourself. Why do you think Facebook and Google are so valuable? It’s not about posting cat pictures for your friends or being able to look up an answer to any question. It’s not about building a ‘community,’” he added derisively. “It’s not even about selling ads, although that’s how many of them make some of their income. It’s about the collection of data. Data about all of us. It’s the greatest scam ever perpetrated. And even now that we know it is a scam, people won’t give it up. They’re like drug addicts. You remember way back when people would always light up a cigarette, no matter what they were doing: driving, eating, sitting, drinking. Now what do you see everybody doing? Checking their smartphones. Young, middle-aged, and old. Cradle to grave. The world is hooked. Big Brother is getting fed terabytes of data every millisecond. And they don’t pay a damn cent for it.”
“That’s a scary thought,” said Blum.
“Not scary enough, apparently, to persuade most people not to do it. Hell, it’s already too late. The world is a slave to this. There’s no going back. There’s too much money to be made and influence to be had.”
Pine said, “I understand a computer’s mic and camera are always on. They can watch and listen even when we don’t know it.” She stared at his desktop units.
“They can. You can be talking with your friend out on your deck about dog food. The next thing you know an ad for dog products pops up on your phone. Gee, I wonder how?”
“As you said, Big Brother is alive and well,” noted Blum.
“And that’s why this gear is customized. No mics and no cameras. No rats on this ship.”
“Which is why you asked us to turn off our phones,” said Pine.
“Now you’re catching on.”
Blum pointed to a framed, official-looking certificate on the desk.
“Is that a patent? I recognize the document.”
Myron smiled. “It is. You can’t patent an algorithm, just like you can’t patent a mere idea. But you can patent the implementation of an algorithm—software, for example. And I did. Made some decent money off it.”
“But wouldn’t that belong to Jack Lineberry’s company?” said Pine. “I mean, you work for him. Why didn’t his company apply for the patent?”
“In this country, only individuals can apply for a patent, although companies can of course own the application rights of the patent. But to answer your question, I did this on my own time. And the boss had no problems with it. It wasn’t in the investment field, so I didn’t license it to any of his competitors. It was for a totally different industry and application. Nice six-figure payday.”
Blum peered closer at the patent. “So you’re listed as the patent holder. But the algorithm is called…Stardust?”
Myron’s smile deepened. “I used to go to Vegas regularly. I didn’t exactly count cards, but I had my own system. Went to the old Stardust Casino a lot when it was still around. Did well. Made quite a lot of money. When the patent opportunity came up, I thought it would be fun, you know, to use that name. Another jackpot, as it were.”
He sat down in an ergonomic chair and spun around to face Pine. “Now, why are you really back in town?”
“For the reasons I already told you.”
He stared at her long enough that it grew uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Can you tell me where you were the night my sister was taken?”
“Didn’t you already ask that downstairs?”
“I did, but you didn’t really answer.”
“I said I had not
hing to add.”
“That’s not really an answer. And it could mean more than one thing.”
“I forgot that you’re now an experienced investigator and not a six-year-old girl.”
“And would that impact your answer?”
Myron tapped his fingers absently on the arm of his chair. “I don’t know.”
“Can you tell me anything?”
“I don’t believe anyone who knew your parents could have done this.”
“I don’t want to believe that, either. But right now I’m just collecting facts.”
“I don’t think I have any to give. Right now.”
Pine handed him a card. “My cell phone’s on there. When you figure it out, call me.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“There’s a pay phone at the Clink. And we’re staying at the Cottage. If we’re not there, leave a message.”
“I don’t get to town very much. I don’t really have any interest, you see.”
Pine took a few moments to size him up. It was clear he had not told her all he knew. This was not surprising to her. Rarely in one interview did anyone spill all. Sometimes it was unintentional, or the person simply didn’t remember. But her gut told her that was not the case here. Myron Pringle knew exactly what he was doing.
“Well then,” she said. “I’ll just have to keep coming back until I get what I need.”
“You can’t force me to talk to you.”
“True, but I can be a real pain in the ass.”
“You mean to harass me?” he exclaimed, looking at her darkly.
“I mean to find the truth. If you have a problem with that, then you have a problem with me. I’ll see you around, Myron.”
She turned and left and Blum quickly followed her out, leaving Myron Pringle to stare moodily after them.
Chapter 19
MAX WALLIS CAME BY about an hour after they returned to the Cottage. Pine and Blum led him into the breakfast room, where they sat at a table. He laid a three-ring binder notebook down in front of him. His suit and shirt were heavily wrinkled, and his dark eye pouches told of little sleep.
“We got an ID on the victim,” he said, yawning.
“Who is she?” said Pine.
Wallis flipped open his notebook. “Hanna Rebane. Your instincts were right. She is Eastern European, from Estonia.”
“What’s her story?”
“She’s got a lengthy record, drugs, solicitation, petty thefts. Nothing too serious. Almost no jail time, just fines and some community service. And one led to the other, probably. To pay for her addiction she was engaged in prostitution. It’s the old story.”
“Or else someone got her hooked on drugs and forced her into turning tricks,” said Pine. “That’s the new ‘old story.’”
“But how did she get here?” Blum asked. “Was she plying her trade?”
Wallis studied his notes. “No, I don’t think that’s the case. Somebody would have seen her. And her priors were from Atlanta and Charlotte and one over in Asheville. I’m running down her last known address.”
“So she headed further south at some point,” said Pine. “I wonder why. Or maybe it wasn’t her choice.”
“Meaning the killer picked her up from one of those areas and brought her here.”
Pine nodded. “And if he did he must have kept her somewhere, either alive or dead, before we found the body. Anything else?”
Wallis passed the notebook to Blum. “DMV photos of the men in the area for your friend to look at. Just put an X under the ones you remember seeing at the restaurant that night.”
“Will do.”
Wallis looked at Pine. “How’s your ‘other’ investigation coming?”
“Slowly. Not unexpected, after all these years.”
“You need anything from me, just let me know.”
“I appreciate that.”
“When I get Rebane’s last known address, I’ll let you know. If you want to tag along?”
“Yes, we do.”
After he left, Pine stared absently out the window.
“Can I afford to hear your thoughts on a government salary?” asked Blum.
“I’m not sure they’re worth the price.”
“Try me?”
“Agnes Ridley, Lauren Graham, Dave Bartles, Jack Lineberry, and the Pringles. All of them lived around here when I did. We’ve spoken to them all. And we’ve learned some things that have been helpful, but we have a long way to go.”
“Well, it’s early days yet. We’ve really just started. And you did have that epiphany about the reflection in the mirror. And you learned new details about your father’s death from Jack Lineberry.”
“Yes, I did,” said Pine in a bitter tone. “If Lineberry is telling the truth, and I have no reason to doubt him, my mother lied to me.”
“She may have had her reasons, Agent Pine. I don’t think most mothers would lie to their kids unless they had a very good reason.”
“Well, I wish I could ask her what it was.”
“You really have no idea where she is?”
Pine shook her head. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
“Surely, if anything had happened to her you would have been contacted.”
“Not if she didn’t tell anyone about me.”
Blum stared over at her boss with a look of trepidation. “Ridley mentioned letting sleeping dogs lie. Did that spook you? I thought it might have from your expression.”
Pine nodded. “Maybe more than I care to admit. Especially after my ‘revelation.’”
“Do you want to elaborate on what’s really bothering you?”
Pine leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table, her gaze downcast.
“If my father…”
“…had something to do with what happened, you mean? Because now you believe the intruder came from inside the house?”
Pine nodded but didn’t look up.
“Well, either you want to know what really happened or you don’t. We can go home now if it’s the latter. But what will that mean for you going forward? Will you be seeing Daniel Tor in every suspect you confront from now on?”
“I don’t know, which is reason enough to keep going to find the truth.” Pine glanced at the notebook. “Why don’t you take that up to your room and go through it.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’m going to take another walk down memory lane.”
* * *
Rain was coming. Pine could feel it in the temperature dropping and the wind picking up. She had on a weatherproof jacket with a hood, so the prospect of inclement weather didn’t trouble her. She kept walking along the main strip of Andersonville as the skies darkened.
When it started to sprinkle, Pine made her way back to the spot.
The memory lane she had mentioned was actually quite a recent one.
She stopped and eyed the spot where the body of Hanna Rebane had been placed by her killer. She took in the broken streetlight above and the surrounding cobbled area. The police tape that had been previously strung was flapping in the wind. The screen was gone and there was no officer present to secure the scene. She supposed that they didn’t have enough manpower to do that sort of thing. The crime scene apparently got one going-over and that was it.
The public had been duped into thinking that all police departments and all police investigations were conducted just like those on the TV shows. Cool offices, every forensic gadget available, limitless resources, hunky men with awesome firepower, and women in tight clothes showing cleavage.
The idea of limitless resources was a joke, even for the FBI. And the last time Pine had shown cleavage while on the job was…never.
She ducked under the tape and headed behind the line of old buildings on the main street. This was the way the killer had to have come. And Pine was careful to keep far to the side of the path. She would have liked to assume that the local police had already covered this area for footprints, othe
r markings, and traces of any kind, but she couldn’t safely trust that such had happened. At least not to the level of detail she would want.
She walked the area back and forth for over an hour, reaching all the way to the tree line before concluding that she could find nothing there.
She then took a small Maglite from her pocket and went into the trees just as the rain started to fall harder. Fortunately, there was no thunder and lightning. She followed a worn-down path until she was free of the trees once more. There was a dirt road here that was quickly becoming mud. Any tire tracks that might have been there had long since been obliterated.
She walked back to the main street and ducked under the cover of one of the storefronts. Her hands in her pockets, she thought about what to do next.
The ME had emailed her the photos of the round marks on Rebane’s backside and hamstrings. She took out her phone and looked at them, scrolling through them one by one. They could have come from many things, although Pine ideally needed to drill that down to one source to make any progress on the case.
She looked around the small downtown. The rain had scared away most of the pedestrians, although there were a few hardy souls still out and about. The place looked pretty much the same, at least the little that she could recall. She wished at this moment that her memory could be perfect, but that was simply not possible. Eyewitnesses, she knew, were not reliable. The average person really saw little of what was going on around them and remembered even less. Even then, they got the details of what they did remember wrong more than half the time. That had always troubled Pine about eyewitness testimony in a court case. It was often the deciding factor for a jury deciding whether someone was going to lose their liberty, or their life.
She leaned against a support post and watched the rain now pour down, quickly flooding the road. And while my memory is better than most because of my training, I didn’t possess that training at six years old. So on that score, my recall is as bad as everyone else’s.
She had proof of that with her realization that maybe her attacker and Mercy’s kidnapper had not come through the window, but rather his image had been reflected in their mirror.
A Minute to Midnight Page 11