‘I need her. Fast,’ Sorrell commanded. Haye resisted making any smart-ass quip.
The CCTV clock imprint jumped to twenty-eight minutes later, when Bryce Horrigan pulled up in a cab, having come straight from the airport. He headed across the lobby to the elevator, for even though he had never been to this hotel before, he’d stayed in more than enough to know how to find a room without troubling the front desk staff. Bryce walked confidently, with his chin jutting out, which meant he looked down his nose at people, both physically and metaphorically, before admiring himself in the elevator’s mirrors.
‘He was one cocky son of a bitch,’ Haye scoffed. Sorrell thought the remark was pretty observant. Bryce knocked on the door of room 1410 and entered moments later. It would be the last time he was seen alive.
Exactly eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds later, ‘hat man’ left the room, sticking to his same routine of hogging the corridor walls and keeping his head tilted down. But this time the elevator was packed and he shuffled to the side, staring at his shoes and trying to sink into the background.
‘I want to speak to every one of them, too,’ Sorrell instructed, pointing to his screen.
‘Looks like a bachelorette party, cap’n. Shouldn’t be too hard to trace, but they look pretty wasted.’
‘Hat man’ walked through the lobby, almost more slowly than when he arrived, to make sure he attracted as little attention to himself as possible.
The Baltimore Police Department computer whizz-kids, as Sorrell called them, had made sure all the images were in ‘real time’, with footage of the suspect walking along Fleet Street, taking a left onto South Central Avenue, before all trace of him was lost on Doyle Alley.
‘Hit the hotel management hard,’ Sorrell demanded. ‘If they don’t play ball, threaten to bring every maid, security man and receptionist downtown. I want whoever rented out that room, whoever planned to clean it and the hooker who planned to use it, in an interview room by the end of play.’
‘What about the Twitter trolls and the pro-lifers, boss?’ Haye protested. ‘Shouldn’t we be working on them, too?’
‘I guess. The press seem to like all that bull. Cowan, too. But last time I checked we were detectives. It’s not our job to sell papers or chase ratings. We just follow the facts. Hitting the hotel is definitely our main priority. We can keep working the Twitter angle as well, but it’s absolutely not going to be the focus of this investigation.’
Haye had worked with Sorrell long enough to know that was the end of the conversation. Sorrell was a hard ass all right, but Haye had to admit he was right more often than not. Like the time Haye was working on the case of a married woman who had gone off with some guy, after a night dancing, before she turned up dead in a disused car park. Sorrell had insisted Haye hit her best friend hard – really apply the pressure – under the assumption that women always share things with their girlfriends. Haye had been convinced his boss was wrong on that occasion. But, sure enough, the best friend eventually admitted her cousin had gone off with the victim. The cousin got life in jail.
But Haye really feared his boss might have got it wrong this time – and that he should be placing more importance on the social media side of things. His iPhone was constantly vibrating with Twitter alerts about the case.
16 #WarpedSenseOfHumour
Edwina Tolan @QueenBee
Just done 2 hours at the gym, now ready for lunch with the girls at Jenners.
Patricia Tolan’s mother, Edwina, was an Edinburgh ladies-who-lunch walking stereotype. When she wasn’t in the gym, or pounding the capital’s cobbled streets training for a 10k, she filled her time with charity fundraising drives. Known as Eddi, she knew everyone who was anyone in Edinburgh. Her sharp features mirrored her sharp manner, although she could ooze with charm when required.
But Edwina was definitely a doer. If something had to get done, then she did it. Her no-nonsense approach, and intimidating demeanour, meant she wasn’t someone you said no to easily. It was this drive and determination that made her a prized and sought-after asset for the charity boards. Lately though, much of her attention had been focused on her daughter, Patricia.
‘Pasty’ Tolan had been carefully moulded in her mother’s image. Edwina had watched with glee as Patricia’s status soared, albeit on the coat-tails of Bryce Horrigan – like her mother, it was the way she had been tutored to be.
Of course, Edwina had been a shoulder to cry on, too. Advising Patricia to keep a stiff upper lip when she suspected Bryce of having several affairs.
‘Turn a blind eye, dear. Act as if nothing has happened. God knows I had to do it often enough with your father,’ would be her general advice.
But Mr Tolan had never flaunted his affairs. Far from it. In fact, there had been only one, with his secretary-cum-mistress, which had lasted nearly as long as his marriage. And contrary to what she told her daughter, Edwina had failed to handle it with dignity and respect. She had instead burst into her husband’s office, grabbed a dagger-shaped letter opener from his secretary’s desk and tried to gouge her love rival’s eyes out, until her husband had dragged her away. The affair had petered out shortly afterwards when the secretary was moved to another branch as far away as possible from Mr Tolan, and more importantly for her safety, from Mrs Tolan.
But Bryce had been unusually cruel with his affairs. He had boasted about them to Patricia, tormenting the poor girl until she could take no more. She had come back from New York an emotional and physical wreck and desperately needed her mother’s comfort and protection. And there was no one more protective than the human lioness Edwina Tolan.
Patricia called her shortly after being interviewed by April.
‘How did it go, dear?’ Edwina asked.
‘Exactly as planned, Mama. I even gave her some old photos to show what a sweet boy Bryce had once been. That chubby little reporter lapped it all up for the rag,’ Patricia replied with a smile. ‘I didn’t even pay for the coffees.’
Both women laughed at an in-joke that no one in their right minds would find funny.
17 #MakingAHashOfIt
Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter
Off Stateside to cover the @BryceTripleB case. #FeelsSurreal
‘I’m off to Maryland,’ Connor announced within the confines of the broom cupboard. The news editor, Big Fergie, had just got the go-ahead from the managing editor to send Connor to the US. With falling revenues and tightening budgets, all travel now had to be approved at the most senior levels.
‘Oh, what’ll you be doing there?’ April asked.
‘Bryce Horrigan. Dead. Remember?’ Connor said impatiently.
‘Eh, in Maryhill?’ April asked quizzically.
‘MaryLAND. I swear your hearing is getting worse.’
‘Pardon?’ April asked with her trademark throaty laugh.
‘You were random enough even before you became deaf as a post,’ Connor replied.
‘I’ve been to America, you know,’ April said. ‘I went to New York on a press trip.’
‘I can see you being like dipsy Carrie in Sex And The City,’ Connor said, half bored. ‘Apart from all the sex. Right, I’m off home to throw some clothes in a bag; my plane leaves tonight. You’ve to keep working the Bryce case, this end. So stay in touch, I’ll be picking up all my emails. In fact, I really should give you a crash course in Twitter,’ Connor added, checking his watch.
The colour drained from April’s face. She wasn’t just scared of new technology, but wide-eyed terrified. Connor only needed to mention the latest piece of social media and her heart would skip a beat.
‘How has a technophobe like you managed to survive so long in newspapers?’ Connor said, teasing her.
‘It wasn’t like this when I started, that’s for sure. I had a phone, a typewriter and an ashtray – and the ashtray was used more than anything else.’
; The truth was that by sheer determination and bloody-minded stubbornness, April had eventually overcome the technological obstacles put in her way, like when emails and the Internet had come along in the late-Nineties. She had slowly but surely learned to use them, even though she never truly understood how they worked. But it was the constant advancements of new technology that kept giving her cause for alarm. She would moan, ‘Have they not invented enough already without giving me something else to worry about?’
‘Okay, are you paying attention?’ Connor began. ‘A tweet is like a text message. But instead of being on your mobile phone it’s on the Internet. With me so far?’ he asked hopefully.
‘But you read your tweets on your mobile,’ April interjected.
Connor sighed heavily. ‘Yeah, but I’m reading them on my Twitter app… Anyway, that’s not important. Try to focus. So a tweet is 140 characters long and they can be seen by anyone who looks up your username. But your followers will be able to see what you write in their timelines.’
‘Followers?’ April asked quizzically.
‘Yeah, people who “follow” your tweets,’ Connor replied slowly as if speaking to a child. ‘Also, if I follow you, and you follow me, we can then DM – direct message – each other in private. Okay?’
‘Not really, but that’s nothing new,’ April replied truthfully.
‘Then there’re hashtags,’ Connor added.
April stifled a giggle.
‘Would Miss Lavender like to share what’s funny with the whole class?’ Connor said in a headmaster’s tone.
‘I remember doing hash once. I had a laughing fit. I couldn’t stop for hours. Then I got the munchies and couldn’t stop eating.’
‘So I see,’ Connor muttered under his breath. ‘Hashtags can be used to group tweets together by topic. And an RT is a retweet. So if I like something you have posted, I’ll retweet it to all my followers to show what a clever thing you’ve said, or what a complete idiot you are. Or perhaps I’ll just favourite it. That’s like a “well done” nod of approval. Either way it gets you noticed. Then there’s trending.’ Connor paused momentarily as he looked at April’s blank expression. ‘I do hope you are just taking the time to soak all this information in rather than stroking out on me?’
‘Yes, please continue,’ April said, snapping out of her trance-like state.
‘Trending is when a word, phrase, topic or name is tagged faster than anything else – so it starts trending. For example, the name Bryce Horrigan has been trending for most of the day. But he’s been replaced with Justin Bieber now.’
‘So his death was just a flash in the pan to Twitter users?’ April asked.
‘Bingo. Welcome to the Twitter generation, who are always hungry for the next trending topic.’
Connor took the time to set up an account and password for April then announced he had to go. April stood up, clutching her right hip, which had been giving her bother of late, before lightly touching Connor’s arm. ‘Be careful over there. I don’t want you ending up like you friend.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Connor said mockingly, ‘but Bryce and I were friends a lifetime ago. Somewhere down the line he lost his way. I’d love to find out when.’
18 #Fidel
‘People just post bullshit all the time?’ Sorrell said, irritated after reading pages of tweets from people Haye followed.
‘Granted, the majority is babble, cap’n,’ Haye replied almost apologetically.
‘Jeez, so my homicide investigation is competing with people talking about the latest boyband song?’
‘Yeah, you’ve summed it up pretty well there, cap’n,’ Haye replied.
Haye had never truly respected his superiors until working for the captain. He saw them as either career suits or seeing out their days till their pensions. But Sorrell was different. He still had the instinct of a street detective, in spite of his senior position.
He had also stopped Haye going off the rails. In the early days, it wasn’t unusual for the young detective to turn up at work reeking of stale alcohol and cheap perfume. That all changed when Sorrell was promoted to head up the homicide squad. The captain hadn’t brought Haye back on track; he’d fallen into line on his own free will with renewed purpose and enthusiasm. Haye was soon hitting the gym at night instead of the bars. A year later, the captain had promoted him to be his deputy. He had genuinely not expected nor coveted it. He hadn’t even applied for the post until he was told to. Instead, he was given it during a typically brief conversation with Sorrell.
His captain had just finished talking about a case, when he casually concluded, ‘Oh, and Haye, you’re my new deputy. You start Monday.’
Haye had been totally shell-shocked. ‘But cap’n, I didn’t ask. Everyone else has been desperate for it.’
‘Exactly, they’ve been kissing my ass for months. Makes me sick. That’s why you’ve got the job.’
‘Aw jeez, cap’n, and I thought it was because of my detective skills and management potential.’
‘You’ll get there in time, Haye.’
And that had been the end of the job ‘interview’. But that was just the way Haye liked it. All work conversations with the cap’n were short and concise. That’s because Sorrell actually took time to think things through instead of just ‘bumping his gums’ – a phrase the cap’n was fond of using.
When Haye turned forty, Sorrell had taken the department to a bar to celebrate. As a surprise, the cap’n had even invited Haye’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, Sam. It was, without question, one of the happiest moments of his life when he hugged his daughter surrounded by his close work colleagues and a boss he had nothing but the utmost respect for.
But Haye was more than just a hard-working and loyal cop; he also had ambitions. The last thing on his mind would be to groom himself for the captain’s job, even though that would be the natural conclusion. Instead, with the permission and blessing of Sorrell, he was seconded to the Baltimore Police Department’s new cybercrime division. There, he attended seminar after seminar, given by everyone from Internet security experts to various visiting IT professors. However, it was a talk given by an ex-felon, Peter Genasi, that resonated.
Genasi had been a low-level street thug before turning his attentions to cybercrime. Haye had asked him why.
‘It’s easy, that’s why. Cops forget all these yos have been raised on Xbox, man. They know all about systems, broadbands, hacks and cheats. Hell, I was playing the Box before I could speak. Working your way around a company’s security systems is just a matter of perseverance. So while you guys are busy lifting yos, I was breaking into company systems and encrypting their data with ransom-ware. I could earn $5,000 a day. Easy.’
‘And these company’s would actually pay you?’ Haye asked incredulously.
‘Not the corporations. They call the FBI on your ass. But medium-sized companies? Twenty, thirty, forty workers? It’s cheaper for them to pay 5k to get their company back than pay an IT crisis company 20k to take a month to fix it.’
Haye shook his head in disbelief. ‘So if you’re so smart, Genasi, how come you got caught?’
‘The usual: greed. Greed and laziness. After I made my first $100,000 I couldn’t be bothered doing the hours of research into new targets. So I went back to hitting old ones. But this time they were prepared, weren’t they? Once bitten, as the saying goes. I got lifted still sitting in my boxer shorts, man. Red-fucking-handed. So now I do this shit. Tell you good folks about how bad men like me operate.’
Haye liked Genasi. He was a crook, but he was honest about being a crook. ‘Bet you’d go back to your old ways if you could?’
‘Yeah, but this time I won’t get caught.’
‘That, my friend, is what they all say. Next time the judge won’t be so forgiving,’ Haye retorted.
‘Next time I’ll be sending you a photo from a beach in Cu
ba. Some lovely cutie serving me cocktails.’
‘Shit, you’ve really thought this out. The communists could run riot with someone with your skills,’ Haye replied.
‘Damn straight. Just call me Fidel Genasi from now on.’ And so he did. From then on the cyber-crook-turned-security-expert Peter Genasi was always called ‘Fidel’ by Haye. They formed a close personal and working relationship when the company who hired Genasi won a year-long contract with the new Baltimore cybercrimes unit.
Haye would need all of Fidel’s expertise and guile now more than ever.
19 #AvengingAngel
Baby Angel @BabyAngel
(to Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder)
Do you want to know where BH is going to be?
Geoffrey Schroeder could remember with great clarity the moment it had happened. He’d been in two minds over his next move and was browsing through his timeline as usual, when he received the tweet just moments after he’d been notified he had a new follower. The Twitter user’s profile didn’t give much away. There was a picture – or avatar – of a newborn baby, along with a short profile which made for ominous reading: God’s assassin. My mission is to destroy all baby killers.
It came as something of a surprise to Schroeder as he only had around a dozen followers, and most of those were spam accounts promising thousands of followers if you signed up to their service. The others were from the dwindling handful of friends he still had left. But Geoffrey followed thousands of other tweeters, all related to pro-life and pro-choice groups, or those connected with the medical profession who carried out abortions. He’d spend hours each day sifting through the various posts.
He was also one of Bryce Horrigan’s ten million followers. Geoffrey had read all of Horrigan’s messages, of which there were many as Bryce was a serial tweeter. The chat show host was constantly bragging about what famous person he’d met and what they had said to him, and how they’d become such ‘great mates’. Even someone of limited intelligence like Geoffrey Schroeder knew a phoney when he saw one. But from the fluff of the showbiz world, Horrigan would work himself up into a rage online over the latest attack on some abortion clinic, or he’d speak in the defence of whatever doctor had had his life threatened for carrying out terminations.
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