Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘Civic duty got the cops busting my chops after the wreck. Give me a break.’’

  ‘‘Let me get this straight. You want me to pay you to talk about what you saw the evening of the hit-and-run?’’

  ‘‘I read in the paper the driver’s out on bail, two hundred fifty grand. Lot of money floating around this case. Why should lawyers and the bail bondsman get it all, stiff the eyewitness?’’ He hitched up his pants. ‘‘You ain’t even started bidding yet.’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe this.’’

  "You want to know, the cops want to know, the driver will want to know."

  ‘‘The cops won’t like that.’’

  ‘‘Let them put in an offer. Maybe make me a real good witness. For the prosecution, or else for the defense. Who knows? It could go either way right now.’’

  ‘‘Get out of here,’’ I said.

  ‘‘I’ll give you right of first refusal. Just ’cause you’re so cute.’’

  He bent over for his toolbox, and the pants slid way down. There it was: the plumber’s friend, America’s other crack problem. My win.

  ‘‘You heard me. Out.’’ I pointed at the door.

  ‘‘Your loss, honey.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so. Your ass could use a good waxing.’’

  That afternoon, boiling with anxiety, I took a run. The mountains shimmered green and the sky curved above, flawless blue. Coming back past the Old Mission I heard the organ echoing out the doors of the church, and found myself detouring inside to listen for a minute. Sometimes a Bach fugue can give you the fortitude you need.

  When I came out, the man in the gray suit was standing on the church steps.

  ‘‘Ms. Delaney? Dale Van Heusen, FBI.’’

  His voice had the high, insistent tone of a drill. The suit was too large, as though he wanted to look bigger than he was. I walked down the steps.

  He came with me. ‘‘Running gear in church? I didn’t know that sweat and holy water mixed.’’

  ‘‘How can I help you?’’ I said.

  He pointed to the Spanish fountain, and we sat down on the edge.

  He said, ‘‘This is how it’s played. I ask you questions and you tell me what I want to know, in complete detail. Do that, and you’ll have an easy time, a straight shot at getting home. Got the picture?’’

  Water dripped from the mossy fountain, and koi swam among the lily pads.

  I said, ‘‘Why are you questioning me, Mr. Van Heusen?’’

  ‘‘Agent Van Heusen.’’ He shot his cuffs. ‘‘Shall I go over the rules again? You seem to be an intelligent woman. I thought you’d get it the first time.’’

  He had the face of a badger, unprepossessing and nasty behind the eyes. Deep in my mind I heard a high-pitched droning, an alarm. Part of me wanted to run, part wanted to dump him into the fountain, and part wanted to draw swords.

  He said, ‘‘How long have you known Jesse Matthew Blackburn?’’

  En garde.

  ‘‘Three years and three months. Are you inquiring, or verifying?’’

  ‘‘How well do you know him?’’

  ‘‘You’re joking, right?’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘You must know that he and I are engaged.’’

  ‘‘He has a lot of money for someone in his twenties.’’

  I didn’t respond.

  He said, ‘‘You weren’t enticed by it?’’

  I almost laughed. ‘‘Jesse’s money is invested in his house. And mutual funds. And long-term disability insurance.’’

  ‘‘I see. Did he tell you not to talk to me?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. ‘‘Because I get the distinct feeling you’re trying to protect him.’’

  ‘‘You’re right. If you’d tell me why you’re asking questions about him, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so worried.’’

  ‘‘An honest citizen shouldn’t feel worried about talking to the FBI.’’

  ‘‘Oh, please.’’

  He brushed lint off his trousers and straightened the crease. ‘‘I’m sure Mr. Blackburn has warned you to watch your words, and reminded you to stay in his corner. But ask yourself what he has to gain by letting you take the heat for him.’’

  ‘‘This is preposterous.’’

  ‘‘Before his accident, did you know his confederates?’’

  ‘‘Confederates?’’

  ‘‘It means associates.’’

  ‘‘I know what it means.’’ And what it implied. Accomplices.

  ‘‘Who did he hang around with? The Sandovals?’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

  ‘‘What kind of activities were they engaged in?’’

  ‘‘Swimming, biking, running.’’

  ‘‘Anything else?’’

  ‘‘Drinking beer.’’

  ‘‘None of them were wealthy at that time, were they?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Did Mr. Blackburn have any other sources of income besides his salary?’’

  He thought Jesse and the Sandovals were in on Brand’s scheme. That was clear.

  I said, ‘‘No. He saved his summer salary to pay for law school. During the school year he worked part-time on campus.’’

  ‘‘Daddy didn’t spring for his tuition?’’

  The droning sound was returning to my head, but now it was the hum of anger.

  ‘‘Jesse’s dad sells office supplies. He doesn’t have the money to spring for anything.’’

  ‘‘Is that why his son wanted to become an attorney? Money?’’

  ‘‘You’re not a lawyer, are you?’’ I said.

  ‘‘No, I’m a CPA.’’

  An accountant. A man who added for a living, whose deepest dreams involved carrying the one to the tens column. What was he after?

  He took out a notepad and thumbed through it. ‘‘And during this time, Adam Sandoval was at Cal Tech, correct? Did he ever work at the Jet Propulsion Lab?’’

  ‘‘Not that I know of.’’

  ‘‘JPL is a NASA lab. If he had access to government computer systems, you should tell me.’’

  Computers again, with a new twist. I resisted the urge to say, Ask him yourself. This rude interrogation would loosen Adam’s screws.

  He said, ‘‘Why are you trying to influence the testimony of Stu Pyle?’’

  The plumber. ‘‘I’m not. What did he tell you?’’

  ‘‘That you paid him to visit you.’’

  The top of my head felt hot. ‘‘If he said that, he was trying to worm money out of the cops. He’s conducting a testimony auction.’’

  ‘‘Testimony about what, precisely?’’

  ‘‘Identifying the woman in the BMW.’’

  ‘‘Ah.’’ He flipped through his notepad. ‘‘And you believe her to be whom?’’

  I couldn’t see the harm in telling him. ‘‘Mari Vasquez Diamond.’’

  He looked at the notebook and nodded. ‘‘If Pyle is really trying to work that angle, he won’t get far. We have independent confirmation that she was with Brand the evening of the hit-and-run. And you needn’t pry into that any longer.’’

  Van Heusen reached into his jacket and handed me three photos.

  ‘‘Do you recognize any of these people?’’

  The crop-haired girl, Win Utley, and Mickey Yago. My hair felt as if it were sizzling in the sun.

  I said, ‘‘The two men are the ones who jumped Jesse. The girl . . . I can’t prove it, but I think she snatched my purse. Why are you asking me?’’

  ‘‘Has Mr. Blackburn or Adam Sandoval ever spoken about i-heist?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ I thought about it, and nodded at the photos. ‘‘Is that what these guys call themselves?’’

  ‘‘Their racket is stealing from people electronically. They commit blackmail via computer.’’

  ‘‘They’ve demanded two hundred thousand dollars from Jesse. He rep
orted this to the police.’’

  ‘‘And what are they blackmailing him about?’’

  Touché. I had walked right into that one. Van Heusen was close to smiling.

  I said, ‘‘Lieutenant Rome told you about the demand, didn’t he? That’s why you’re here now. It’s because they roughed Jesse up.’’

  Van Heusen held up the photos. ‘‘Mickey Yago headed a cocaine trafficking organization in Los Angeles, dealing to rich college kids and the dot-bong crowd. He has now moved on to other enterprises.’’ He touched Win Utley’s picture. ‘‘This fellow worked for the IRS before Yago corrupted him.’’ The girl’s photo. ‘‘Cherry Lopez is Yago’s arm candy, and the Artful Dodger of cyberspace. ’’

  I looked closer. ‘‘What’s this?’’ With a finger I traced a line up her neck.

  ‘‘Tattoo,’’ he said. ‘‘Legend says it runs uninterrupted from head to toe.’’

  ‘‘It looks like a snake.’’

  ‘‘Snake, or computer cable.’’

  It reminded me of the tattoo I had seen on the leg of the woman sitting on the balcony at Kenny’s house, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I said, ‘‘Jesse and Adam are the victims in all of this. Brand may have stolen money from this i-heist group, and that’s why Yago demanded payment from Jesse.’’

  ‘‘Uh-huh.’’

  ‘‘This is extortion. What are you going to do about it?’’

  ‘‘What do you know about smurfing?’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  He watched my face.

  I said, ‘‘Smurfing, as in the Smurfs? Those blue gnome cartoon characters?’’

  Van Heusen stood up. The interview was over.

  I said, ‘‘Wait. That’s it? What about i-heist?’’

  He tucked the notebook, photos, and pen back into his coat pocket. ‘‘They’ve perfected a method of ripping people off one layer of skin at a time. And if I find out you have anything to do with these people, you’re in just as deep as your boyfriend.’’

  18

  I found Jesse and Adam at UCSB, working out in the pool. Jesse looked shark-smooth, the water streaming across his shoulders. The injury had stolen part of his kick, but not all; he had partially recovered what the doctors called ability against gravity, and the buoyancy of the water gave him power he didn’t have on dry land. He swam a thousand meters while I watched, finishing with two hundred meters butterfly.

  Bringing it home on the final lap, he dug in, accelerating toward the wall, stretching for the touch. He glanced at the timing clock. Pulling off his goggles, he hung on the lane line. I walked to the edge of the pool and crouched down.

  ‘‘You negative split that last hundred,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Great.’’ He spit into the gutter. ‘‘I told you the wrist was okay.’’

  That’s what he was doing here, I thought, besides burning off stress: feeling competent, in control. Take that, H2O. In the next lane, Adam flip-turned and pushed off. Jesse cruised to the ladder and pulled himself onto the deck. I tossed him his towel.

  ‘‘I just had a chat with the FBI,’’ I said.

  I told him about it, and admitted my puzzlement about Van Heusen’s final remarks.

  Jesse said, ‘‘Smurfing? Did he mean surfing?’’

  "I don’t think so. I’ve never heard that term, have you?"

  ‘‘No. It sounds as if it involves unnatural acts with a gnome.’’

  Adam finished and swam toward us under the lane lines. He bobbed next to the ladder, catching his breath. Jesse told him about Van Heusen, and asked the question.

  ‘‘Smurfing, yes,’’ Adam said. ‘‘It’s a computer term. A kind of security breach.’’

  ‘‘Computers,’’ I said. ‘‘Security intrusion again.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know much about it, but come over to my office and we can find out more online,’’ he said. ‘‘And I know exactly the site to start with.’’

  I said, ‘‘Don’t tell me. Mako Technologies.’’

  Adam’s office in Broida Hall showcased the perks awarded to scientists laboring as postdoctoral fellows: his name on a notecard thumbtacked outside the door, metal bookcases, ugly linoleum crisscrossed with scuff marks. And he didn’t care.

  ‘‘View of the ocean,’’ he said, turning on the lights. ‘‘If you jump out the window, and it’s high tide.’’

  He sat down at his desk and went online, fingers clicking hard and fast.

  He hunched forward. ‘‘Here we go. Mako has a library of articles about security threats.’’

  Jesse pulled close to the desk and I leaned over Adam’s shoulder. I could see a list of topics—Computer Crime, Hostile Code, Information Warfare. Adam searched for ‘‘Smurfing’’ and turned up an article on Denial of Service attacks. We skimmed it.

  Jesse said, ‘‘I don’t get it.’’

  ‘‘I don’t either,’’ Adam said.

  Smurfing attacks were aimed at ISPs. They fooled networks into sending thousands of ‘‘are you there?’’ messages to the ISP, which swamped it. Adam rubbed a hand over his face. How it connected to i-heist, I didn’t know.

  I said, ‘‘Can I see what else is on the site?’’

  Adam leaned back. ‘‘My mouse is your mouse.’’

  I leaned over the keyboard and selected News. Up popped a list of press releases.

  ‘‘Gee,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘It doesn’t lead with ‘Brand Kills Again.’ Quelle surprise.’’

  Press releases included ‘‘George Rudenski Testifies to Congress’’ and ‘‘Scholarship Benefit Sparkling Success.’’ There were photos from the costume bash at the museum: Kenny Rudenski dressed as Steve McQueen, and the two Zorros side by side.

  ‘‘Uh-oh,’’ I said.

  Zorro Two, whom I didn’t get a good look at that night, had a trim brown beard and a curly blond ponytail sticking out from beneath his hat.

  ‘‘It’s Mickey Yago.’’

  ‘‘No way,’’ Jesse said. He and Adam leaned toward the screen.

  Adam said, ‘‘What does it mean?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  Jesse stared at the photo. ‘‘But it can’t be good.’’

  Jesse rode back into town with me. Halfway home I pulled into the drive-through lane at In-N-Out Burger, joining a line of cars inching along like communicants toward the altar. My Explorer was the only vehicle not toting an In-N-Out bumper sticker cut up to read, IN-N-OUT URGE.

  Jesse said, ‘‘I had the dream again.’’

  I glanced at him. ‘‘The same?’’

  ‘‘This time he touched me. Hand’s squeezing my arm and I’m staring at the sky; the shadow’s right above me.’’ He rubbed his arm. ‘‘I think I know what it means.’’

  I pulled up to the menu. ‘‘Brand’s getting under your skin.’’

  ‘‘No. I think it isn’t a dream. It’s a memory.’’

  The intercom squawked, asking for my order. But I was looking at Jesse.

  He said, ‘‘I think Brand got out of the BMW and walked down the hill to see if Isaac and I were dead.’’ He searched my face for a reaction. ‘‘Think that’s crazy?’’

  ‘‘No. It’s chilling.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know how long I blacked out. Minutes, maybe. He would have had time.’’

  The intercom squawked again. A horn blared from the car behind me. I ordered, hearing the horn again, impatient. Jesse stuck his arm out the window and gave the driver the finger.

  I pulled forward. ‘‘Don’t bother. Anybody that desperate for fast food deserves pity, not reproach.’’

  My window was still down, and I could hear the honker’s voice shouting into the intercom. A sharp, twangy Oklahoma voice. I looked in the rearview mirror.

  ‘‘It’s Taylor.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ He turned around.

  I eased up to the cashier’s window and paid, took my food and pulled forward.

  Jesse watched Taylor drive up to the window. ‘‘Jesu
s, look at all those fries.’’

  I turned into a parking space.

  ‘‘She’s digging straight into them. Look at her go. My God, the woman’s a machine. A terrible, unstoppable eating machine.’’

  I turned off the engine. ‘‘I need to talk to her about stealing my address book.’’

  ‘‘I want to meet her,’’ he said.

  My hand was on the door handle. ‘‘No, you don’t.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I do.’’

  ‘‘I’ll introduce you another time.’’

  ‘‘She swallowed that last helping of fries whole, including the box. I think she unhinged her jaw to do it.’’

  ‘‘Not now.’’ I opened the door. ‘‘Stay here. Please.’’

  ‘‘You ask too much.’’

  His face could look devilish at such times, eyes gleaming, smile so white.

  ‘‘Don’t you trust me?’’ he said. ‘‘To be sweet to Cousin Tater?’’

  She was pulling away from the cashier’s window. Giving Jesse a look, I got out and waved to her.

  The red Mazda braked. I saw Taylor’s face through the windshield, fries sticking out between her lips. Her eyes bulged. Recovering, she swallowed, and waved.

  She swung into a parking space and jumped out. She was dressed in lemon yellow workout gear, with lines of sweat dampening her shirt. ‘‘What a neat surprise.’’

  ‘‘I’d like my address book back, please.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.’’ She batted her eyes at me. ‘‘But I do know that tomorrow evening you should plan to be at Nikki’s house. Seven p.m. So don’t be a party pooper, just— Oh, is that Jesse?’’

  He had stayed in the car, a rare moment of acquiescence, and turned on one of my CDs. The voice of Patsy Cline was now keening from my car stereo, singing ‘‘Crazy.’’ He was singing along.

  Taylor strode to greet him, wiping grease from her hands onto her aerobics shorts. Approaching the car, she hunched her shoulders and drew in her hand, as though she were going to shake with a Smurf.

  ‘‘Well, hello there,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s so special to meet you.’’

  He thrust his arm out the window. ‘‘Taylor, you don’t know what a thrill this is.’’

  ‘‘My, aren’t you the gentleman.’’ She took his hand in both of hers. ‘‘You’ll excuse the way I look. I must have burned off a thousand calories running on that treadmill. ’’ And she cringed. ‘‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk about running.’’