by John Saul
Tina smiled knowingly. “Someone hacked into the computer, didn’t they?”
“I didn’t say that,” Dahlia replied. “And if you say I did, our lawyers will be contacting you.” She rose to her feet, fully intending to escort the newswoman out of the Records Office so she could close the door, lock it, and then get on the phone to her boss to report her discovery. But then an image of her daughter rose in her mind, and she hesitated before saying, “You promise you won’t quote me? You won’t use this on the air at all?” She saw the excitement in Tina Wong’s eyes as the reporter swore she’d keep whatever she was told to herself. “It’s not supposed to happen,” Dahlia said. “It’s supposed to be impossible to access our records without logging on. It’s probably just a glitch in the system, and there’s nothing wrong at all.”
“But you don’t think so,” Tina said quietly.
Dahlia looked directly into her eyes. “Please, Miss Wong, if you say anything about this on the air, I’ll lose my job. But I have a daughter about the same age as Kimberly Elmont.”
“I’ll keep it confidential,” Tina assured her. “But even if it gets out, don’t worry about it—you haven’t done anything wrong.”
After Tina Wong was gone, Dahlia sat staring at her monitor, trying to figure out what she should do next. She pulled up a few random files, hoping the same unidentified access would show, but on every record she looked at, each access had proper log-on identifications listed.
So maybe Tina Wong was right.
Maybe these were the only two.
But what if there was another?
And what if no one found it until someone else was murdered?
She printed out the two records and headed to the hospital administrator’s office, deciding that even if she’d told Tina Wong too much, her boss had to know their records were no longer secure.
14
“DINNER IN FIVE MINUTES, MISS ALISON.”
The disembodied voice coming out of the intercom didn’t startle Alison half as much this evening as it had last night, partly because she’d heard it before, but mostly because now she at least knew who it was: Maria, who worked for her stepfather five days a week, coming in sometime in the afternoon and not leaving until after dinner. In fact, she might not have jumped at all if she hadn’t still been staring at the clothes she’d found in her closet five minutes ago.
She’d been intending to take a minute to change her blouse before she went downstairs, but then she opened the closet and saw them. Half a dozen pairs of slacks hanging neatly on wooden hangers, covered with transparent plastic covers, as if they’d just come from the cleaners. Next to them were just as many blouses, wrapped the same way. At first she thought they must be her mother’s and that Maria had just put them in the wrong closet, but she didn’t recognize them as her mother’s. At least, she didn’t recognize the pants—they were mostly in shades practically everyone had. But the blouses were gorgeous, and if her mother had ever worn any of them, she would have remembered. She took one off its hanger.
Not quite new.
And the label was Roberto Cavalli.
It had to be expensive, and even though it was gorgeous, it wasn’t the kind of thing her mother would ever have worn, let alone bought. So where had it come from?
She was still examining the clothes, all of which were from designers just as famous—and no doubt as expensive—as Cavalli when she heard Maria’s voice through the intercom.
“Be right down,” she replied. Grabbing one of her own blouses from the back of the closet, she quickly put it on, closed the closet door, and headed down to the dining room.
Just like last night, her mother and stepfather were looking almost lost at one end of the huge table, the seat across from her mother waiting for her.
Her mother, a goblet of white wine held halfway to her lips, paused to smile at her. “How was the first day at school?” she asked.
Suddenly wishing she’d changed her pants as well as her blouse before coming down, Alison perched uncomfortably on the edge of her chair, feeling lost in the ornate dining room. It didn’t help that her hair was still wet from the pool party. At least she’d combed it back and tied it into a ponytail so it wasn’t making her shoulders damp, and if she didn’t lean back, it wouldn’t get the velvet upholstery on the chair wet, either. “It was okay,” she finally admitted. “I hear the lit teacher is tough, but it’s my favorite subject, so I’m not too worried.”
“See?” Risa said. “All that worrying was for nothing.”
Alison’s eyes avoided her mother’s. “I guess.”
Risa cocked her head, eyeing her daughter appraisingly. Something, obviously, was wrong. Or at least not right. “And you went swimming with some new friends?” she prompted.
Alison kept her eyes on the plate Maria set in front of her. “It seems they were told to invite me.”
“Told to?” her mother echoed. “What do you mean, ‘told to’?”
Alison finally looked at her mother. “Conrad called their parents and told them to be nice to the new kid.”
“Oh, Lord,” Risa said, slowly setting her wineglass down and turning to Conrad.
“I was just trying to help,” he said before either his wife or his stepdaughter could say anything. “I thought—”
Risa laughed. “You thought what any man with no children would think. But all you did was make Alison feel like—”
“An idiot,” Alison finished, supplying the word her mother had hesitated to use. “How could you do that?” she said to her stepfather. “I was so embarrassed I wanted to die! How could you even—”
“But you didn’t die,” Risa intervened, hoping to head off the conversation before anyone lost their temper. “Conrad was just trying to make sure you didn’t spend the day with no one talking to you. It was a nice thing to do.”
Alison bit her lips, but said nothing.
“And I’m really sorry if it got awkward,” Conrad said. “Believe me, that was the last thing I wanted.”
“And apparently it turned out all right,” Risa pressed when Alison still said nothing. She waited a moment, then spoke again, her voice sharper. “Didn’t it, Alison?”
“I guess,” Alison finally whispered, knowing her mother wasn’t going to let up until she backed down.
“I really am sorry if you were uncomfortable,” Conrad said. “But my intentions were good, and I can guarantee there won’t be any more surprises. From now on I’ll check with your mother before I do anything. Okay?”
Alison hesitated, then nodded and picked up her fork. Before she could take a bite, though, she was sure she knew where the blouses and pants in her closet had come from. She put the fork down again and looked at Conrad. “What about the clothes?” she said.
“Clothes?” she heard her mother repeat, and Alison knew without a doubt she’d been right.
“Caught again,” Conrad groaned. “I had Maria put some stuff in your closet—”
“Stuff?” Risa asked. “What kind of stuff?”
“Just some clothes of Margot’s. Maria found them in the basement, and Alison’s about the same size as Margot, and I thought…” His voice trailed off and he offered Risa a helpless shrug. “Obviously I was wrong. Again.”
“What kind of clothes are they?” Risa pressed, turning back to Alison.
“Designer stuff—Roberto Cavalli.”
“Roberto Cavalli?” Risa repeated, her eyes widening. She turned to Conrad. “Good God, Conrad—Cavalli costs a fortune!”
He spread his hands. “How do I know what they cost? Margot used to just buy what she wanted, and I thought maybe Alison might like to have them, that’s all.”
“And wear them where?” Alison asked, rolling her eyes.
“Well,” Conrad said, even though it was clear Alison wasn’t expecting an answer, “I can think of one place right off the bat.” When neither his wife nor his stepdaughter said anything, but looked expectantly at him, he went on. “Alison’s sixteenth bi
rthday is coming up, right? I thought we should throw you a party.” He smiled at her. “You can invite all your new friends.”
Before Alison could utter the single curt word that came to mind, her mother spoke.
“That’s a wonderful idea—a Sweet Sixteen party!”
“I thought we’d have it here at the house,” Conrad said, “maybe out in the garden. We’ll get a band, and have it catered—you two can put your heads together about the menu.”
Alison’s eyes swept the formal dining room and she tried to imagine having a party there.
Tried, and failed. This was definitely not the kind of place Cindy and the rest of her friends hung out. “I don’t think so,” she finally said. “Maybe next year.”
“But you won’t be sixteen next year,” her mother protested. “This is a rite of passage.”
Suddenly Alison’s appetite fled and an image of her father’s house popped into her mind. If she were there right now, Scott would be cooking in the kitchen while she and her father sat at the counter, all of them teasing each other. And if she were going to have a party, that’s where it should be—in her father and Scott’s nice, small, casual house, where her friends could hang out, and they could all be who they were and dress the way they wanted to. In fact, maybe she’d ask him. At least if it was there, and all her old friends from Santa Monica were there, it would be a good party. But if it was here—
“I’m sorry,” Conrad said, reading the expression on her face. “Forget it. It was just an idea.”
“And it’s a great idea,” Risa declared. “Come on, Alison,” she went on, her eyes fixing on her daughter, reading what was going on in Alison’s mind as easily as Conrad had. “What’s the problem? You can invite anyone you want, and it will be warm enough to use the pool. We can have a barbecue, and keep it low-key.”
Alison hesitated, remembering everything her father had told her about giving her new life a chance. But why did everything have to change at once? Still, there was no reason she couldn’t have the same party here that she could have at her father’s. “Can I invite all my friends from Santa Monica?”
“You can invite whoever you like,” Conrad said. “It’s your party.”
“Anyone? All my old friends?”
“Anyone,” Conrad agreed. “You can invite as many people as you want.”
Still Alison hesitated, but finally nodded. “All right then, maybe. It might be fun.”
“Excellent!” Conrad said.
“But you won’t call anybody’s parents and have them tell their kids to come?” Alison asked.
“Alison!” Risa gasped, but Conrad only laughed and raised three fingers over his heart.
“Scout’s honor,” he promised.
“And I don’t have to try to wear any of those clothes you put in my closet?”
“Well, you could at least try them on,” Conrad said. “Then, if you still don’t want to, go to Neiman-Marcus. If you can’t find something for a party there, you’re not a teenage girl at all.”
Risa reached over and squeezed Conrad’s hand, and Alison watched as they smiled at each other. Then she went back to her salad, moving it around on her plate until Maria finally took it away.
The fingers deftly manipulated the mouse, and the screen saver on the computer monitor dissolved to reveal a series of images that the eyes devoured almost in the instant it took for the information to appear on the screen.
In the upper left-hand corner of the monitor was an image the eyes had studied for so long that every feature was imprinted on the retina with such clarity that the eyelids were no longer even required to be open for the mind to conjure up those perfect forms. But now the lids were open, and the eyes were fastened on a single feature of that perfect face.
The lips.
Those lips were blown up in a second window, and as the eyes watched in fascination, a stream of photographs of other lips—anonymous lips—flew through yet a third window on the screen as the program the mind had devised compared and then rejected thousands—millions—of them.
And in the bottom right-hand corner a high school yearbook photograph waited.
For a moment the fingers of the right hand drummed impatiently on the desktop.
The eyes flashed to the clock on the wall.
Seconds ticked by.
And finally a fourth window flashed open:
6 MATCHES FOUND
The fingers moved to the mouse and clicked rapidly through all six photographs.
Each was dismissed.
Wrong! They were all wrong!
The fingers closed hard on the mouse, almost breaking the button as the search was aborted.
So much time wasted!
Then the mind overcame the raging emotions, and the body calmed, the fingers relaxed. Moving rapidly now, the hand manipulated the mouse, the fingers tapped quickly, and the image in the upper left corner expanded to fill the screen, then kept expanding until the lips alone dominated the monitor.
Perfect.
The upper lip curving in perfect symmetry, a cupid’s bow poised above the soft, gentle swell of the lower.
The right arm lifted and the tip of the right forefinger touched the cold screen of the monitor, gently tracing the perfect contours as the eyes admired the exquisite balance of upper and lower lip.
Of course! That was the missing parameter that the computer had not searched for.
The hand dropped away from the monitor and the fingers flew expertly over the keyboard, bringing up the measuring tool for the facial-recognition software. Again the lips were measured, this time with attention paid to the relationship between upper and lower lip. The ratios had to be exact, the scale perfect if a suitable match was to be found.
Fresh parameters were copied to the search window, checked and rechecked, and finally the fingers rolled the mouse so the cursor hovered over the final command button:
EXECUTE SEARCH
The forefinger pressed on the mouse, and once again photographs began to stream through the search window as the computer scoured the Internet for a perfect match.
The eyes moved to the lower photograph, then the fingers holding the mouse clicked on the command to maximize it.
The fresh young face from the high school yearbook filled the screen.
The measuring tool went over the photograph, measuring each aspect of the face down to the last millimeter between the nose and the upper lip.
The exact gap between eyebrows.
The width of the chin.
The breadth of the nostrils.
And each measurement confirmed the master plan, and the mind’s confidence grew.
It could all be done.
The computer beeped.
1 MATCH FOUND
Though the constant stream of photographs still went on, the mind had to know. If the parameters still weren’t right, if they had to be corrected yet again, it had to be done right away. No more hours could be lost to the stupidity of something so simple as incorrect measurements.
With a single tap of a finger on the mouse, a photograph opened on the screen, and instantly the mind felt a tingle of excitement running through the body.
It looked good; it felt right.
The fingers trembled as they deployed the measurement tool so the mind could check all the parameters one last time.
Perfect!
A moment later the fingers had found a name: Natalie Owen.
As part of the computer’s processor continued scanning through millions of pictures, another part of it began searching for data on Natalie Owen, and within a few seconds the eyes were transmitting that information to the mind: Natalie Owen was twenty-four years old and worked at Sunset Vista Continuing Care Center in Los Angeles.
The focus on Natalie Owen tightened until the mind had found a back door to the woman’s medical records, and the tingling in the body increased as the eyes transmitted the data from the screen to the mind.
The blood type was right.
> The medical records were closed, and a map appeared, in the center of which was Sunset Vista Continuing Care Center.
The phone number was also provided.
A plan began to take form as the fingers aborted the ongoing photo search and let the computer rest at last.
It had done its job, and done it well.
Still, the mind couldn’t resist commanding the forefinger to execute one last click of the mouse before shutting down the computer for the night, and the yearbook photograph at the bottom of the screen enlarged to fill the screen.
But the eyes that scanned the face of Alison Shaw were not looking at the bright, athletic, happy young teen. Rather, they were studying only the basic facial features—the brows, the nose, the lips, the ears.
More important, the eyes studied the bone and muscle structure underlying those features.
Though the eyes were looking at Alison’s face, they saw nothing of Alison at all.
15
THOUGH ALISON HAD MADE TASHA RUDD PROMISE NOT TO MENTION the birthday party to anyone, by second period almost everybody in the school seemed to know about it, and Dawn Masin was demanding to know what Alison was going to wear.
“I don’t know,” Alison moaned as she rummaged through her locker in search of her history book. “Conrad said I should go to Neiman-Marcus and buy something on his account.”
“Perfect,” Dawn declared. “Meet me right here.” She’d pointed at the spot on the floor directly in front of Alison’s locker. “Right here, before lunch.”
Alison agreed, and now she was in Dawn’s Mercedes along with Tasha and Crystal Akers, and instead of having lunch they were headed to Neiman-Marcus.
“What are we doing?” Alison asked. “By the time we get there, we’ll have, like, fifteen minutes, or we’ll never get back on time.” Her stomach was growling in protest at shopping instead of eating, but she wasn’t about to admit that to any of the other girls in the car, none of whom seemed to care that they weren’t going to get any lunch.