It had taken Karen about four hours to decide that maybe Lockwood could be a blessing in disguise. He had invited her for an after-work cocktail, which was pretty much a Washington tradition. Most of the important business in D. C. eventually got done in bedrooms or bars. Although she was determined to stay out of his bedroom, she was hoping a few shooters would make an offbeat idea she had seem attractive to him. The Norwegian computer had caught her interest. One thing that always got Karen's motor revving was being flipped off by anybody.
The Pennet Systems Administrator had dissed her, and now she was even more determined to crack the system. Lockwood might hold a key.
The Cellar was near the U. S. Customs building, so there were a lot of friendly faces as they walked in and found a booth in the bar. He ordered a Scotch shooter and a beer back. To promote bonding, she had the same, and they sat for a long moment looking at each other.
"You're very persuasive. I don't know why I came," she finally said disingenuously, wondering how to broach her question in a way that would encourage him to sign on.
"You're shooting my tender self-esteem in the heart."
"Come on, Lockwood, I've heard of you. You're a one-man Internal Affairs project," she said, choosing a direction. "How many IA investigations have you been through in the last year and a half?"
"I stopped counting."
"I heard five," she said, hitting the exact number.
The fact was, there had been three weeks last August when all he did was work with his A. G.-appointed lawyer on his growing list of Internal Affairs citations. He had offended most of the Washington, D. C., IA silks in general, and Vic Kulack in particular. Almost as this thought struck him, he saw Kulack lumber through the door, with two vertical columns of shit who also worked on the fifth floor. Kulack rolled his shoulders when he walked. It was bad John Wayne. He was big but doughy. It amazed Lockwood how anybody could make a career out of trying to destroy the careers of others. For his money, Internal Affairs was a division loaded with nosebleeds and bend-ovens who had to prove that their own low agency test scores were nothing more than unfortunate accidents. Jealousy of competence was the fuel that drove them.
"I think those guys in IA suck," she said, picking up his exact thought.
"Why do you want to get into Pennet?" he finally asked, one eye still on Kulack, who went into the other room with his friends and took a table out of sight.
"The only thing that a remailer computer offers to its customers is anonymity. Pennet is a gathering place for sexual deviates. Pedophiles and necrophiliacs chat on that service regularly."
"Naaaaaw," he said, dragging it out.
"You asked me a question. I'm trying to answer you. Are you always such a wiseguy or do you ever have a serious moment?"
"I'm working off a disappointment. I got broomed off my Global Airlines case this morning," he said, wondering instantly why he'd told her that. "So, you figured to go lurking in that computer and see if you could pick off a hot one?"
"That's about the size of it. But I'm shot down. I'll never get through that blocking system. I get three chances at three passwords, then I'm locked out for ninety days. Even if I change computers, I'll be using a walker by the time I penetrate it. What I need is a great cracker."
"Probably right. You could use a guy who jacks these things for a living… One of those cyber-thieves could probably break through that Pennet blocking device in minutes."
"Like who?" she asked, her eyes on him.
"I don't know. I'm not a subscriber to Cyberworld. You find somebody."
"How about Malavida Chacone…?" she asked.
Instantly he looked up from his shot glass at her. "Where'd you hear about him?" he said, his guard coming up swiftly.
"Didn't you arrest him?"
"What's going on here, Karen? You trying to work me?"
"The FBI was calling him the Mac Attack when he was only seventeen. He'd been out on the electronic highway since he was twelve, driving his Macintosh war wagon, cracking into everything, buying BMWs, sending the bills out to some black hole in cyberspace. I heard you finally got him 'cause an angry girlfriend blew him in. But if it hadn't been for that, you never would've caught him."
"Actually, I try to never get out of bed when I work a case. I like to wear my silk jammies with the little pink-and-blue clowns and do it all by phone." He was choking back anger. He'd worked for six months to catch Malavida, who had been on the Customs "Ten Most Wanted" list for computer crimes that crossed the border. Lockwood had slept in his car outside Malavida's mother's apartment in Pico Rivera for four nights. He'd co-opted Malavida's girlfriend. The phone call from Tia had finally burned Chacone, but Lockwood had planted the seed.
"Don't get pissed off. I'm just saying Malavida could do it."
"He's doing a five-spot at the Federal pen at Lompoc. He'll probably do good time and be out in a year or so, but till then, he's out of service. So forget it." He didn't get any further because Vic Kulack threw his shadow across their table and conversation.
"You get the paper I sent you?" Kulack said, grinning. They both looked up at him.
"Which one? You've been papering me so much, I can't shit fast enough to use it all."
Kulack sat down uninvited, in a free chair at the end of the booth. Besides being doughy, he had hair that looked like it had been cut by a lawn mower and a big, square raptoresque jawline.
"Understand the DOAO's put you up on blocks and Girlfriend is my case after all."
"Back up, Vic. You're crowding the plate," Lockwood warned softly.
Kulack leaned over and grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the dish, then smiled at Karen. "You wanna little advice, honey? Give this Loony Tunes the gate, 'cause when I get through with him, there won't be enough left to scrape up an' flush."
"This was a private conversation. Do you mind?" she said.
"You're Karen Dawson, I heard about you. I'm Vic Kulack. My friends call me Brute, because I take guys like Lockwood here an' give 'em attitude adjustments. Since Lockwood's gonna be tied up giving IA depositions till the year 2000, why don't we get together and give lust a chance?"
Karen turned to Lockwood. "What a specimen. Somebody should examine his relationship to the gene pool."
"Already did. He's in the maggot family."
"Don't maggots breed in garbage?" she asked drolly.
"That explains the funky smell," Lockwood answered.
Kulack was looking from Lockwood to Karen and back. His face flushed red. "I'm not through with you… I'm gonna knock your hard-on down with a hammer, Johnny." He got up and lumbered off. Karen and Lockwood looked at each other in silence.
"Poetic," Karen finally said.
"Yeah." Lockwood was looking at the IA investigator, who rejoined his two buddies. Suddenly the Cellar seemed stuffy. He finished his drink and picked up his wallet.
"Wanna go?" she said, reading his mood change again and realizing she had blown her chance to enlist him. She decided to try again later.
He nodded and they stood up. After a minute they were back out on Constitution Avenue. The gathering darkness was turning the city into a fairyland full of uplit buildings and statues. A bus lumbered past.
"For whatever it's worth, despite the mess you're in with IA, I heard you're the best," Karen said softly. "Since we're assigned together, is there any way you can think of to help us get into Pennet?"
"What's with you and that Norwegian computer? It's more than just a hunch you're working, isn't it?"
"I did a field interview with a pedophile last June when I was still working on my last doctorate. Before he went to the Federal pen, he was in the D. C. lockup. He told me that the Pennet computer has code-locked 'rooms' where these sex freaks go and talk to one another. The Customs Service hired me because I have two doctorates in criminal psychology, a master's in deviant sexual behavior, and an RN in psychological addictions."
"I got a C-plus in algebra. 'Course, I had to cheat."
&nb
sp; "Come on. I shouldn't be updating VICAP… That's for a data-entry clerk. I'm the best walking, talking criminal behaviorist in the Federal government, but they've got me picking cotton in the basement. Maybe it's because I'm not an agent, or maybe it's because I'm just a chick in this boys' club, but either way, it makes no sense. I want to use that Pennet computer and hook one of those sex criminals, but I've gotta get into the sucker first."
"Nice knowing you, Karen. See you tomorrow." And then he reached out and shook her hand in what they both knew was a ridiculous moment, so he ended it quickly and walked away. Karen watched him go… a thin, handsome, dark-haired man in a cheap suit.
Chapter 6
ROLLERBLADING
In the dream, he was on Thunder Mountain near Washington, D. C. He was trying to Rollerblade down the side of its rock-encrusted east face. His ex-wife, Claire, and his ten-year-old daughter, Heather, were watching him. The rocks were treacherous, and he was moving too fast. He kept going over one particularly steep incline and, as he did, he would look down the horrible rock-strewn face of the mountain and realize he was a goner. Then, as if by magic, he was back up on top, putting on the Rollerblades and heading off, gaining speed, out of control, just like before, the rocks making balance and purchase impossible.
The phone woke him up. He sat upright, trying to get his bearings. His bed was a mess, the sheets kicked onto the floor. He'd had better sporting experiences. It was three A. M., his sinuses were blocked again, and he had a headache. He rolled over, grabbed his pocket inhaler, and gave his sinuses a shot before he picked up the phone.
"Yeah…?"
"Did I wake you?" It was Awesome Dawson.
"I was Rollerblading."
"You were what?"
"Forget it. What's up?"
"I'm back in B-16 and that Systems Administrator wasn't fooling. I'm completely S. O. L. on this computer. All I'm getting is a bunch of `Connection refused' messages when I try to log in."
"Thanks for the update." He felt like hell and his mouth was dry. He guessed he'd been mouth breathing. He leaned back against the headboard and rubbed his eyes.
"I've heard the stories about you, Lockwood. They say you're a rule-breaking kamikaze. This afternoon, I was trying to con you; now I'm just going to ask you straight out-I want you to get Malavida Chacone out of jail to help us."
"Get Malavida out of the Federal lockup? That's all you want?"
"I got his whole file here. They just sent it down from Records. He got busted the first time when he was sixteen, and get this: When his hard-nosed parole agent from the California Youth Authority started hassling him, Malavida transferred his entire bank account to Donny Osmond at the Children's Miracle Network telethon. I love that." She waited for some response and didn't get one, so she plunged on. "Malavida's busted into just about every high-security computer in America, including the payroll computer at the Pentagon. I checked with a hacker friend of mine at Princeton. He said not just anybody can break into a closely guarded computer like Pennet. It's a science. Like you said, there are only a handful of crackers good enough to do it. Malavida is one of them."
"Forget it, Karen. I'm on thin ice with the DOAO as it is. The way I'm going, my next stop in law enforcement will be riding shotgun on a Brink's truck."
"Come on, they wouldn't do that to you. You're Customs' top gun, the old sky-guy."
"Your doctorate is in psychology, mine's in bullshit, so knock it off. To get Malavida out of prn, I'd have to go to an Assistant U. S. Attorney in the Sixth District in California, and I'd have to get this guy to write me a prn furlough request. The PFR has to state plainly why I need Malavida out. Illegally cracking into a computer overseas isn't gonna qualify. Even if it did, I'd have to make arrangements, in advance, to have him jailed every night in an approved lockup, and those arrangements would have to be approved by the Assistant U. S. Attorney. Then I'd have to take the furlough request to the same AUSA who put Malavida away in the first place. I'd have to get him to sign off on it. By that time, there're gonna be so many yellow lights flashing in the Federal prn system, they're gonna think there's been a nuclear war. SES is gonna find out I'm shopping this paper around, and if they don't shut me down, I'd have to get a court order written, and then, maybe, I get him out for twenty-four hours. And even if I could do all of this, it would take our clubfooted Justice Department a few years before the final paper is issued." He was wide awake now and sitting on the side of the bed. A long, thought-provoking silence from Karen greeted this diatribe.
"There's gotta be another way," she finally said, undeterred.
"There isn't. I'll see you in the morning." And he hung up.
Of course, there was another way, but if he tried it in his current predicament, he would be better off Rollerblading down Thunder Mountain. He suddenly wished he could talk to his daughter, Heather. He looked at his watch. It was after midnight in California. Claire would kill him if he called in the middle of the night. He looked across his neat, functional bedroom to his dresser where his ten-year-old daughter's picture was in a silver frame. It was her class picture, taken last year. Her smile was lopsided, trying to cover a missing tooth. He had joint custody but Claire had recently moved to L. A. She had been offered a vice-presidency and a big dollar promotion with the media-buying firm where she worked. He had not filed court papers to prevent the move. This act of legal generosity had cost him his weekend visits with Heather, but he didn't have the heart to deny Claire her big opportunity. He'd denied her so much while they'd been married. Sitting there at three A. M., picking at the same old emotional scab, he wondered how he had gotten so fucked up. He still loved Claire, and yet she had divorced him. He desperately missed Heather, only she was three thousand miles away. How could he have traded them away? He tried to convince himself that he'd had no choice; that events had demanded his desertion of them. Lockwood tried to believe it. He curled around that trash can fire like a beggar looking for warmth, but found none. Was that what all this crazy behavior was about? Was he so mad at himself that he was slowly causing his own destruction?
The next morning, he joined Karen in the basement in Room B-16. The VICAP packets were still hung up somewhere in Records and they still couldn't break into Pennet. The Systems Administrator had the host box saying "Connection refused" and dropping them back to their own system prompt whenever they tried. Karen was in a bad mood. Lockwood had been turning the problem over in his mind all morning. A plan was forming that, in truth, had more to do with seeing Heather and Claire than Malavida Chacone.
"Okay, look," he finally said, "there is a way I could get Malavida out. But if I screw it up, I'm gonna probably end up doing his time for him."
"We'll do it together," she said earnestly.
"That's a nice sentiment, Karen, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it, but the fact is, you're a civilian, and these guys can't and won't do anything to you. On the other hand, I'm dogshit on the sidewalk around here. All week, people have been stepping carefully around me. On top of that, I'm being periscoped by Kulack. So if anybody is going to get hammered, it's me."
"John, if you take the pipe, I'll take it with you."
"You really want to try this, huh?"
"Lemme hear and I'll let you know."
He told her, and when he was finished, she was smiling. "You can do that?"
"I don't know," he finally said. "I did it once before and nothing happened. But I think I got really lucky."
"Malavida's all the way out in California. How're we going to get there? We'll never get reimbursed for airfare."
"That's the easy part. We'll use the DOC's personal jet. His pilot is an old friend of mine."
"The Director of Customs?" She was shocked, but smiling. "You really do walk the edge, friend."
"Walking the edge is our basic Fort Nowhere operating philosophy," he said, and they shook hands.
Earlier that morning, he had called the DOC's pilot, Red Gustafson, in the Customs ready room at
D. C.'s National Airport. Red and Lockwood had worked on a joint-op drug interdiction in Southern Florida and had become good friends. Red happened to have mentioned to him two days before that the Director's jet was due for an engine nacelle hot section sometime soon. All Customs planes were serviced at Lockheed in Burbank. Lockwood asked Red if he could make the trip that weekend, and if he and a friend could hitch a ride. Red had set it up and told Lockwood to come along.
Lockwood and Karen met Red at the Customs shed at ten o'clock Saturday morning. They walked through the humid heat to the blue-and-white Citation and got aboard. The Citation was the only jet in civil aviation that was rated to be operated with one pilot. They got in and buckled up; by 10:30 they were airborne, climbing to thirty thousand feet and heading toward California.
They settled back as Red made a banking right turn, leaving the National Airport departure pattern. The little jet hummed quietly. Lockwood could again smell Karen's perfume in the cramped cabin.
They landed seven hours later at Burbank Airport after refueling at Tucson. The L. A. time, was 2:30 in the afternoon. Red said that they would have to go back to Washington Sunday night. He gave Lockwood a rough departure time of six P. M. and a beeper number, then took off across the heat-shimmering pavement, looking for the crew chief in the Lockheed hangar.
They rented a yellow LeBaron convertible and put the top down. Lockwood drove onto the freeway with his jacket off. Karen had her head back, breathing in L. A.'s funky air. Lockwood had been stationed in L. A. for two years, so he didn't need a map. He used the downtown exit from the 110 freeway, on Sixth Street.
The Federal Building was between Fourth and Olive, near the L. A. library. It was a fifteen-story brown-brick structure with no architectural significance. The top three floors were given over to Assistant U. S. Attorneys for the Sixth District. Lockwood left Dawson in the lobby coffee shop and took the elevator up.
Final Victim Page 4