“Heard somebody mention he was here. I sneaked a peek.”
“What for?”
“Curiosity. I wanted to see what he’s got that I don’t.”
“That’s easy. A working brain.”
Tanner took no offense. “My brain is functional. I just don’t show it off. You have to get to know me. Which would be easy enough. Just let me take you out to dinner some night.”
“Seventeen,” C.J. said.
“What?”
“That’s the number of times you’ve asked me out since I transferred here.”
“At least you’re keeping count. I take that as a positive sign. Besides, you know what they say. Seventeenth time’s the charm.”
“It’s not going to happen, Tanner.”
“Just tell me why not.”
“We’re not compatible. We’re oil and water. We don’t mix.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. We’re Scotch and soda. We mix great. Give me a shot. You’ll see what I mean.”
She was almost tempted to say yes, if only to get him off her back. And well, maybe for other reasons too. He really wasn’t a bad guy.
But she knew she couldn’t date him. It was too soon—or too late—or something. “I’ve got to get going,” she said. “Better see what Adam wants.”
“I can guess.” Tanner took off the shades, and she saw his gray eyes narrowed in thought. “He wants you, Killer—I mean C.J. You dumped him, and he hasn’t gotten over it.”
“How do you know he didn’t dump me?”
“No way.” The glasses went back on, masking his eyes. “He wouldn’t be that dumb. No one would.”
She thought she might blush, which would be a disaster, so she rallied her reserves of cynicism. “Thanks for the compliment. But you’re still not getting to first base.”
“What’ve you really got against me, C.J.? I’m not as much of an asshole as I appear.”
“I know that,” she said softly.
“Do you?”
“Sure.” She found a smile and beamed it into the black lenses of his sunglasses. “Nobody could be that much of an asshole. See you, Tanner.”
She turned away, certain that the conversation was over, but Tanner surprised her.
“I have a first name,” he said. “Better use it, unless you want me to go back to calling you Killer.”
She looked at him. “See you ... Rick. That better?”
“Sounded just fine.
7
Rawls knew he should resist the temptation to visit the site again. He had more pressing priorities. Anyway, he and Brand were nearly done for the day. The sun had long since set, and when he peered through a gap in the drapes, he saw a crescent moon, low over the horizon, gleaming on sooty piles of unmelted snow. Baltimore in January. He shook his head and tried not to think about the chill wind gusting outside, or about the Web site that was unlocked with Bluebeard’s key.
But he couldn’t help himself. His right hand, of its own accord, moved his mouse across the customized mouse pad displaying a family photo—himself, his wife Felicia, their son Philip—and guided the mouse pointer to the Internet browser icon on his screen.
He logged onto the mystery site and returned to the page containing the video stream. He had hoped that by now the bedroom would be occupied; at least he would have a better idea of what was going on. But the room remained empty.
Still sunny too. The sunlight had a slightly orange quality that suggested late afternoon. He checked his wristwatch: 6:47. Must be two or three hours earlier in the location he was observing. If the woman worked from nine to five, it might be an hour or longer before she showed up.
Move along, folks, an inner voice chided. Nothing more to see here.
Even so, he lingered at the site, his hand moving the mouse idly, letting the pointer breeze around the screen.
In a corner of the screen the arrow icon changed to a pointing finger.
Hidden link. He had stumbled on it by accident. The hypertext string had been rendered in white, making it invisible against the white background of the page.
Rawls clicked the link, and a page opened in a new window, headlined VOTE TALLY.
Below the headline were columns of figures alongside three names.
MISS NOVEMBER 76
MISS DECEMBER 54
MISS JANUARY 109
At the bottom of the page were the words Cast your ballot for the best babe of the bunch!
“Three women,” Rawls said quietly.
Brand looked up. “What’s that?”
Rawls drummed his fingers on his desk. “The Bluebeard site. There have been three women under observation. The one whose bedroom is now on display is only the latest.”
Brand got up and came around to look at his partner’s computer. “She’s Miss January, I take it.”
“Must be.”
“The most popular of them all. I’ll bet she’s a looker. She home yet?”
“No.”
“Shoot.” Brand was disappointed. “So what do you make of this?”
“I’m not sure.” Rawls studied the screen. “Judging by the number of votes tallied, I’d say the site’s password has been restricted to a couple of hundred people. The site manager probably gives out the password via e-mail after trolling for the right kind of visitors in chat rooms or newsgroups.”
“If they’ve spied on three women over a period of three months, how do you think they managed it? Peephole in the wall?”
“Could be. Or a boyfriend hides a surveillance camera inside a gift that the victim keeps in the bedroom. Or it could even be some Back Orifice type of program or some other Trojan horse on her PC.”
Back Orifice was a program capable of taking over a computer’s microphone and video camera and using them to spy on the unsuspecting user. Standard antivirus programs would detect it, but there was always the possibility of a new, undetectable variant.
“Let’s take another look at that video,” Brand said, no doubt hoping Miss January had arrived.
Rawls pressed the Back button on his browser. The bedroom was still empty, the sun on the walls still bright.
“You think the feed is real time?” Brand asked, probably thinking about the sunlight also.
“I’m betting it is. If it was a loop or a highlight reel, why show this part? An empty room?”
“Good point.” Brand sighed. “Whatever’s going on, it’s something ugly. Too bad we can’t chase it.”
“Why can’t we?”
“Hell, Noah, you know why. We got nothing here. We got a woman who may or may not be under clandestine surveillance. The only way we can know is to track her down and ask her, and how are we going to do that? I take it you already ran a route trace.”
Rawls nodded. “The server’s geographical location isn’t in the database. But it’s on a local net. Anyway, the server has to be in Baltimore.”
“Why? If the video is real time, it would mean the victim is out west—either Mountain or Pacific time zone.”
“The victim, yes. Not the site manager. He’s here in town. Has to be.” Rawls saw Brand’s blank look and added in explanation, “The tipster contacted me. He went to some trouble to get hold of my personal e-mail address. He clearly wants Baltimore on the case.”
“Which implies it’s in our jurisdiction,” Brand said. “I get it. Still, we can’t follow up. Miller will never give us the green light.” Frank Miller was the Baltimore field office’s Special Agent in Charge.
“Miller,” Rawls said slowly, “can’t control what we do in our spare time.”
“Spare time? You mean tonight?”
“Why not?”
“No way, buddy. I put in enough hours as it is, and unpaid overtime ain’t my idea of fun.”
Rawls knew this was only bluster. “Come on, Ned, you have anything better to do on a Wednesday night?”
“Sure I do.”
“Like what?” Rawls knew Brand was divorced, not seeing anybody, and all he h
ad to go home to was a microwavable dinner and CNN.
Brand hesitated, then confirmed the obvious with a weary nod. “Good grief, as Charlie Brown used to say. I guess you got me.”
“I’m glad because I need you.”
“Great. How’s Felicia gonna feel about you missing another meal?”
“She’ll be fine,” Rawls said, hoping this was true.
“Well, damn it, if you’re on the case, so am L Have you e-mailed the sysadmin?”
“Yes, but he never returned the message. I’ll have to call him.” The phone number and e-mail address of the network system administrator were included in the data supplied by the trace route program.
“If he has any sense, he’s probably gone home for the day.”
Rawls picked up the phone. “Then I’ll track him down at home.”
“You really got a bug up your ass about this.”
“Colorfully expressed.” Rawls started dialing. “The sysadmin will give us the name and street address of the site manager. Then I say we drive over and pay the gentleman a visit.”
“And shut him down.”
Rawls nodded, thinking of Miss January and the two women before her—women whose lives, whose bodies, had been put on public display.
“Damn straight,” he said. “We shut him down.”
8
C.J. found Adam Nolan in the lobby, just as Tanner had said. He was deep in conversation with Delano, the desk officer, and C.J. glimpsed the easy smile that had first caught her attention across a Westside bar when she was new to the city, nearly four years ago.
“Hey, Adam,” she said.
He looked up from the desk, and the smile flashed again, then faltered. “C.J.”
There was an awkward moment when they didn’t know how to greet each other—with a hug or a handshake. The hug won. They embraced briefly, and she had time to notice that he had lost some weight and gained some muscle. He wasn’t quite as scrawny as Tanner thought.
“Working out?” she asked when they separated.
He shrugged. “Joined a gym. Nothing serious. You look good.”
“Thanks. You too.”
More awkwardness. She had no idea what he was doing here.
Glancing around the lobby, she saw Delano eyeing them with a smirk.
“Show’s over, Fred,” she said coolly. “Nothing more to see here.”
Delano merely chuckled.
Yeah, it was definitely good for a laugh when Officer Osborn’s ex-husband showed up unexpectedly at the end of her watch. Just another installment in the ongoing soap opera that was Newton Station.
“So,” Adam said, shifting his weight self-consciously. He was outfitted entirely in blue—dark blue suit, tie and shirt of a lighter shade. A lawyer suit, as Tanner had observed. The tones brought out the blue in his eyes. “You taking care of yourself?”
“Always do.” She didn’t tell him she’d nearly gotten shot a couple of hours ago. “How’s Brigham and Garner treating you?”
“Like the genius I am. I’ve brought in three new clients already.”
“You’re a rainmaker.”
“Pulling my weight anyway. Not too shabby for a junior associate counsel.”
“Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be at work now?”
He shrugged. “I’m taking a late lunch.”
She glanced at her watch. Nearly four o’clock. “Very late. I guess you just happened to find yourself in the neighborhood ...”
“Not likely.”
“I didn’t think so. This isn’t exactly your territory.” Adam lived in Brentwood and worked out of law offices in Century City.
He gave in, admitting the obvious. “I came over to see you. Timed my break so I’d catch you when you were getting off work. Although as it turned out, I had to cool my heels awhile.”
“Why?”
“You tell me. I assumed you were putting in a little overtime.”
“No, I mean, why’d you come over?”
He swept a stray hair off his high, tanned forehead. His hair looked blonder than she remembered it. He must be spending time outdoors, maybe at the beach. “I thought maybe we could grab some coffee before you go home and I head back to be a lawyer.”
“Coffee?”
“Is that so strange?”
“Frankly, yeah. I haven’t seen you in what, two months?”
“I’ve been busy. They work you ragged when you first sign on. I’ve called you,” he added defensively.
“True.”
“I’ve tried to stay in touch.”
She turned away briefly, thinking of what Tanner had said. He wants you, Killer. “I guess that’s what I’m wondering about. Why you would do that.” She looked at him. “We’re not a couple anymore, Adam.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I think I’m aware of that. The divorce proceedings made it reasonably obvious.”
“Right. I know. I’m sorry.” She asked herself why she was apologizing to him.
He reached out and touched her arm. “Just because it’s over, does that mean we can’t get together sometimes and, you know, talk?” He smiled, and once again she glimpsed his insouciant charm. “I mean, is that so nuts, to still want to be friends?”
“No,” she said softly, “it’s not so nuts.” You dumped him, Tanner’s voice reminded her, and he hasn’t gotten over it. “Except I’m not sure where you think it might lead.”
“It doesn’t have to lead anywhere.”
“As long as we’re clear on that.”
“We’re clear. So ... coffee?”
She had no desire for coffee. All she wanted was to go home and step into a hot shower. But she couldn’t disappoint him when he’d come all the way over here.
“Coffee it is,” C.J. said brightly.
9
“Man,” Tanner said, “she is really a hard case.”
Deputy Leonard Chang glanced at him from the passenger seat of the Chevrolet Caprice. The slums of Walnut Park blurred past in the slanting light of late afternoon. It was only four o’clock, but in January the days ended early.
“I take it,” Chang said, “you’re talking about Osborn again?”
Tanner saw the look on his partner’s face—a blend of irritation and boredom. He tried to justify himself. “She gets to me,” he managed.
“I noticed.”
“Okay, so I’m hot for her. I mean, come on, she’s got the whole package.”
“With that kind of sweet talk, you can sweep her right off her feet.”
“I didn’t mean ... When I say ‘the whole package,’ I’m talking brains, guts, attitude.”
“And looks.”
“Well, yeah. But not just looks. I’m not that shallow.”
“You’re not?”
“Well, I can be, but in this case there’s more to it.”
“Think she knows that?”
“Hell, sure she knows. I’ve told her how I feel.”
“Have you?”
“What are you, my shrink? I’ve asked her out—seventeen times by her count. I turn on the charm every time I see her.”
“Maybe you should turn off the charm and just be, you know, a regular guy.”
Tanner reflected on this. “It’s an idea.”
“Hardly original, but I’ll take the credit anyway.”
“Thing is, I’m not sure I can be just, you know, regular. When I’m around a woman, it’s like I’ve got to prove something. Like being just me isn’t good enough. Shit.” He chuckled. “You really are my shrink.”
“I’m charging a hundred bucks an hour, partner. Pony up.” Chang paused. “There might be another reason she’s not going for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe—well, maybe it’s because you’re SWAT.”
Tanner glanced at him, incredulous. “You kidding? SWAT is an asset, man, as you ought to know.” Chang was a member of Tanner’s SWAT call-up team. “Haven’t you ever used it for a pickup line?” Tanner dropped his voice
an octave and intoned, “Yeah, baby, I’m a cop, all right—and I’m on the SWAT team. We go after the real bad guys.”
Chang was laughing. “Hell, with a line like that, what do you need Osborn for?”
“Guess I don’t,” Tanner said.
“So forget her.”
Tanner nodded. It was good advice, and he abided by it for all of thirty seconds before he turned to Chang. “Why’d you say that anyway? About SWAT?”
“I thought the plan was to forget her.”
“I’m just curious. I mean, who ever heard of a cop who’s got a problem with SWAT?”
“Some cops do.”
Tanner steered the Chevy Caprice onto Wilmington Avenue. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind. It’s not important.”
“The hell it isn’t.” Tanner was getting ticked off now. He pulled up to a curb, parking the patrol car, and pivoted in his seat to face Chang. “What are you trying to tell me anyhow?”
Chang found a stick of gum in his pocket and took his time about unwrapping it and putting it into his mouth. Finally he answered, speaking around a wad of Bubblicious. “She came out of Harbor Division, didn’t she?”
“So what?”
The radio crackled with a priority call, but it was nowhere near their location and another unit took it.
“Come on. Rick,” Chang said. “Don’t you remember what went down in Harbor two, three years ago? The warehouse thing?”
“Oh,” Tanner said slowly. “Yeah.”
“She might have been there. Might have seen it.”
“I never thought of that.”
“That’s why I’m the brains here. Now let’s cruise, okay?”
Tanner nodded and pulled away from the curb, thinking.
The warehouse thing was one of the worst failures in the history of LAPD Metro’s D Platoon—the SWAT team. Three bank robbers armed with automatic rifles had been pursued into an industrial district outside of Long Beach, at the western edge of Harbor Division. Trapped, they took refuge inside a warehouse. But they didn’t go in alone. En route from the bank they carjacked a station wagon after crashing their van into an embankment. The four people in the wagon—father, mother, two kids—became hostages. The family of four went into the warehouse too.
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