Cold Spectrum

by Craig Schaefer

  “You don’t need to disturb Mr. Diehl’s employees. I can answer any questions you have—”

  I stood toe-to-toe with him.

  “Five seconds. If you’re still standing here when I get to zero, I’m arresting you for obstruction of justice, and you can spend the night in a county lockup while we look for your inexplicably missing paperwork.”

  “This is unreasonable,” Linkletter sputtered, “and if you think this showboating is going to—”

  “Four,” I said. “Three. Two.”

  He flung up his open hands. “Fine! Fine. Going. But you haven’t heard the end of this.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “we’re just getting warmed up.”

  He didn’t know it, but he was partially right: we didn’t need to talk to all the people on our list. I’d compiled it from the company website, picking random managers from random departments, twelve in all. The officers brought them down in small batches, sitting the nervous-looking bureaucrats along the designer sandalwood benches.

  The one we really wanted was lucky number thirteen. Agent Cooper, dressed in a prim skirt and blouse and keeping her poker face on tight. Jessie and I stood over her.

  “Cooper,” I said. “You’re Bobby Diehl’s personal assistant, correct?”

  “That’s right,” she said, pretending not to know me.

  “Then you know this building better than anyone. You’re our official tour guide. On your feet.”

  Linkletter was pacing, gripping his cell phone with one hand and plucking his hair out with the other. He stopped hissing into the phone long enough to look my way. “Are any of these people under arrest?”

  “Not at all,” Jessie said, surveying the glum and worried faces. “As soon as we finish executing our search, you’re all free to either talk to us or leave. Of course, if you leave, you’re gonna look super guilty. You should probably consult a lawyer. But not this one—this guy looks shady to me.”

  “Take us to your IT department,” I told Cooper. She rose, scowling at me, and led the way.

  I walked at her side, close, while Linkletter and a squad of local agents filled the hall at our back.

  We got a little distance, and Cooper leaned in close, her voice a hard murmur. “The hell is going on? Are you trying to ruin my operation?”

  “Change of plans,” I told her. “The rest of your team: Where are they? Do you have a way to send them underground?”

  “Scattered around Diehl’s other facilities around the country. We’ve got a go code for mission abort—I can send a burst transmission from our safe house in Lincoln Heights. Only four left. Bobby’s been hunting for traitors. I’ve lost two of my teammates in the last week.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Captured? Interrogated?”

  “Suicide.” Her lips formed a hard, tight line. “Before they could be interrogated. My people know their duty, Agent Black.”

  “Benjamin Crohn escaped custody, and he’s on his way to Bobby with a peace offering. Vigilant’s database, including dossiers on you and your team. We’re trying to stop him, but no guarantees. Here’s what’s going to happen: as soon as we’re done here, you’re going to be placed under arrest and moved to a secure federal facility.”

  “Meaning, if you manage to salvage what’s left of this op, I’ve got perfect deniability, and I can be reinserted.” Cooper nodded once, sharp. “Thank you for that.”

  “And if not, you can disappear cleanly. Send the rest of your team underground, Agent, that’s an—”

  Linkletter barged ahead of his escort, getting in between us. “You don’t need to tell these people anything, Ms. Cooper. I strongly recommend you hold your silence.”

  “I plan on it.” Cooper frowned, throwing up an imperious hand. “This is insane. Have you notified Mr. Diehl yet?”

  The lawyer brandished his cell phone. “Working on it.”

  “Work harder. He is not going to be happy.”

  Down a short flight of stairs, the IT department was part cubicle farm, part tomb, the lights dimmed and the air just shy of freezing. Our band of agents swept through the room and took control—herding the employees into the aisles, covering junction boxes, physically dragging a few of Diehl’s techs away from their keyboards before they could delete anything. Behind a long wall of glass, tall server banks hummed and strobed in silent harmony.

  I tapped my earpiece. “We’re in.”

  “Okay,” Kevin’s voice said, “just get to the head of IT, grab his computer, and slot the USB stick I gave you. I’ll take it from there.”

  We already had the IT department’s supervisor. He was one of the “suspects” we’d called up to the lobby for questioning. His empty office was a technophile’s dream: fractal screen savers played on three ultrawide monitors arrayed on steel arms around a skeletal steel desk. Two more oversize screens hung on the back wall of the room, the Diehl Innovations logo animated and spinning in gold. Jessie and I walked Cooper inside, the lawyer hot on our heels. I pulled back the director’s ergonomic chair.

  The dangling screens bloomed to life. Bobby Diehl stared down at us, his face mirrored on both displays. He forced a humorless smile. Judging from the bags under his eyes and the bristle on his cheeks, he hadn’t been having a good couple of days. Or sleeping.

  “Hey, folks, Bobby Diehl here.” He gave up on the smile. “Cooper? Linkletter? Why are these people in my tower?”

  “I’m very sorry, sir—” Cooper started to say as Linkletter talked over her.

  “They . . . they have warrants.” The lawyer wrung his hands. “I’m working on it. The rest of the firm is inbound.”

  “Working on it,” Bobby echoed. “Is this what ‘working on it’ looks like?”

  I sat at the computer and tapped the space bar, banishing the swirling fractals. The director’s monitors flashed a password prompt. Jessie stepped over to the hanging screens and looked up at Bobby.

  “Our paper’s in order,” she told him. “We’ve got a warrant to search these premises and seize any evidence relevant to our investigation, as well as freeze any bank accounts related to Diehl Innovations and put an indefinite hold on any financial transfers.”

  “What?” Bobby gaped at her. “You can’t . . . you can’t do that! Linkletter, tell her she can’t do that.”

  “Actually, we can,” I told him. “Burton Webb alleges money from the illegal RedEye program was paid not directly to you, but to Diehl Innovations. That makes Diehl Innovations a criminal enterprise under the RICO statutes. Which, in turn, means its assets are frozen, pending investigation. We don’t need to indict you personally; we’re going after your company. Ready for the fun part?”

  “Harmony,” Jessie said as she pointed at the screen, “look at that face. This man is ready for the fun part. Hit him.”

  “As established by the Supreme Court in United States v. Sullivan, 1927, James v. United States, 1961, et cetera, illegal gains are still considered taxable income. As we speak, a good friend of mine in the IRS special-investigation unit is getting the green light on a full audit of you and your company. We’re talking floor to ceiling, every penny counted—”

  “—up to the elbow with no lubrication,” Jessie finished for me. “You wanna act like Al Capone? We’re gonna treat you like Al Capone.”

  I pointed at the monitor. “I need a password to access this system.”

  Cooper stared at her shoes. Linkletter stared at anything but Bobby’s frowning face.

  “Don’t tell them anything,” Bobby seethed.

  “Ms. Cooper?” I said. “You’re his right-hand woman. Don’t tell me you don’t have access to every computer in this building. I can and will arrest you for obstruction if you refuse to cooperate.”

  I caught the faintest glimmer of recognition as she looked my way. She saw exactly what I was doing: giving her a chance to strengthen her footing with Bobby and look like a loyal subject, in case we had to send her back inside undercover when this was all over.

  “Cooper,”
Bobby said, “don’t do it. Don’t you dare.”

  “I’m running out of patience, Ms. Cooper.”

  She wavered on her feet, pretending to be torn—then she snapped. She screamed like a madwoman, charging at me with her fists flailing. I grabbed her wrist, locking her arm and throwing her over my hip, slamming her down onto the carpet. I wrenched her arms behind her back and slapped the cuffs on.

  “Congratulations,” I told her, “you just assaulted a federal agent, which officially makes you the dumbest person in this building. What’d she win, Jessie?”

  “Shiny new bracelets and a taxpayer-funded vacation,” Jessie said.

  Bobby clapped his hands. “Bam! You see that? Loyalty. That’s what I pay the big bucks for. Don’t worry, Cooper, I’ll have you out in time for dinner. Hey, Linkletter—you might want to take some notes. You know what? Even better idea: how about you go and scrub the toilets by the mail room? That might be more your speed. Incompetent ass.”

  I pointed at Linkletter. “Your turn.”

  He edged backward. A pair of local agents hit the door, hearing the commotion. They grabbed Cooper and dragged her outside, still kicking and screaming.

  “I . . . I don’t know any passwords,” the lawyer said. “That’s not my job.”

  “Then go find someone who does,” I said. “You’ve got five minutes before you join Cooper in the back of a squad car.”

  He hustled out and shut the door behind him. Leaving Jessie and me alone with Bobby Diehl.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Up on the double screens, Bobby’s twin visages twitched. His bottom lip curled as he stared down at us.

  “All I did was kill your boyfriend,” Bobby pouted. “Overreact much, you crazy bitch?”

  Bobby was too flustered to lie, so that was a minor relief. The story we’d spread about Cody dying in Talbot Cove had apparently taken root just like we hoped it would.

  “It’s that time of the month,” Jessie deadpanned. “We’ve been working together long enough that our cycles are synchronized, and we get really mean for a few days.”

  “It’s true. We get these hormonal urges to tear down corrupt corporations and send entitled billionaire assholes to prison.” I shrugged. “Women, right?”

  Bobby held up his hands. “Okay, okay, no witnesses—it’s just us now. Let’s cut the bull and get down to brass tacks. What do you want?”

  “Just told you,” I said. “You, behind bars, for the rest of your life.”

  “We’ll also take ‘you, dead,’” Jessie added. “In fact, I’m really leaning toward dead. We just thought we’d drag your name through the mud, destroy your career, and make your life a living hell first. Even you’ve gotta admit: you had it coming.”

  “No,” Bobby said, “what else do you want? What’s it gonna take to make this all go away? You want money? I’ve got money. You want an island? I literally just bought my own island. You can have it.”

  “You ever seen a problem in your life you couldn’t buy off?” Jessie asked.

  “No,” he said. “Because there’s no such thing. Everybody has a price.”

  I shoved my chair back. I stood up and walked to stand before the screens, my chin high.

  “I don’t,” I told him.

  “You—” He flailed, fumbling for words. “You started this fight. You came after me first, remember?”

  “You were trying to unleash an alien god from outer space,” Jessie said. “So, yeah. We felt a strong inclination to intervene. We get touchy about things like that.”

  “No. No. That was my birthright, and you stood in my way.” He jabbed his finger at the screen. “You started this fight. And everything that happens now is on your heads. Your fault, not mine. And you tell Burton Webb—you tell that worthless little snitch that there’s nowhere in the world he can hide from me.”

  I spread my hands, taking in the room.

  “I’m not a big fan of gambling,” I said, “but I’ll make you a bet. I bet we find you before you find him.”

  He moved close to the camera. First his face filling the lens, then just his eyes, burning a hole in the screens. Close enough to see the beads of sweat on his brow, the tangled strands of his eyebrows. He didn’t blink.

  “After I’m done with him,” he whispered in a gravelly hiss, “I’m coming for you.”

  The feed went dead. The office fell silent.

  “I think we shook him up,” Jessie said. “What do you think? Did he seem shaken?”

  The door rattled open. A young man in his twenties, dressed in a sweater-vest, sheepishly poked his head in.

  “Uh, hi. Dude outside told me you needed my boss’s passwords?” He held up a yellow sticky note, affixed to his index finger. “I’m his backup when he’s on vacation, so I’ve got ’em all written down.”

  “Come on in.” I gestured to the computer. “Where’s Linkletter?”

  He shrugged as he trudged in. “The lawyer? Don’t know, he just told me to bring you the passwords.”

  I didn’t like that. From the look on Jessie’s face, she was feeling the same.

  “Find him,” I told her. “I’ll take care of this.”

  She darted out of the office. Every exit was covered, but if he was wandering the building looking for evidence to destroy, we needed to know about it. I took the sticky note from the kid’s finger and sent him out, too. A few taps of the keyboard, and I was inside the supervisor’s system. I slipped a slender black USB stick from the inner pocket of my jacket and slotted it into the PC. A moment later windows sprouted on the screen like mushrooms, screens filling with colored code. The text spooled out faster than the reels of a slot machine.

  I tapped my earpiece. “Okay. Payload delivered, what now?”

  “You see it working?” Kevin asked.

  “I see something happening.” I squinted at the screen. “Lots and lots of really fast text whipping by, and windows opening and closing themselves?”

  “Sounds about right. Give it one more minute, just to be safe, then yank the USB. The worm’ll take care of itself. Not only will it snarl up net traffic inside the building—then spread to any other network that that network is connected to, hopefully clogging up the works until they get it under control—I added in a little search-and-destroy algorithm just for kicks and giggles.”

  “What’s it do?” I asked.

  “It hunts for anything that might be Vigilant’s proprietary data. Then it copies those files to a hidden sub-directory so I can retrieve them later and scrubs the original data clean. The worm looks for specific keywords that don’t have any business being on Bobby’s computers—specifically, your names, and Crohn’s name, too. Downside is, if you’ve got any Diehl Innovations appliances at home, your warranty’s probably about to disappear.”

  “I threw out my Diehl coffeemaker. Jessie, do you have eyes on the lawyer?”

  Jessie’s voice crackled in. “No, and it’s pissing me off. Meet me in the lobby?”

  I gave it another minute or so. Kevin’s worm kept chugging along, pouring syrup in the company network, so I turned off the monitor and headed upstairs. Jessie was over by the elevator doors, talking to a pair of bored-looking SWAT officers.

  “. . . seventies, black dye job, around my height?”

  One of the officers nodded. “Yeah, saw him pass by a couple of minutes ago. He didn’t try to go upstairs, though—we’ve got the whole place on lockdown. Nobody goes up without a police escort and your say-so.”

  “Did he try to leave?” I asked.

  “Nobody’s leaving, Agent. Like I said. Lockdown.”

  “I shouldn’t be worried about this joker,” Jessie said, giving me the side-eye. “And yet.”

  “And yet. He’s up to something. He knows he can’t get out past the police cordon. He knows he can’t get up to the floors where they keep the company records, so he’s not trying to throw a paper-shredding party . . .”

  I thought back to the IT office and Bobby’s words. Bobby was a murdero
us, self-entitled narcissist, but he was also a genius. I couldn’t imagine he didn’t have some kind of a fallback, just in case of disaster. Then it hit me. I stormed over to the front desk and grabbed a receptionist’s attention.

  “Mail room,” I said. “Where is it, and does it have its own bathroom?”

  “Up the hall,” she told me, pointing. “Not its own, exactly, but there’s a unisex bathroom just across from the entrance. Is there something I can help wi—”

  I was already moving. Jessie scrambled to catch up, matching my stride.

  “Whatcha thinking?” she asked.

  “He wasn’t insulting Linkletter,” I said. “That reference to the mail-room toilets was way too specific.”

  “He was giving him orders.”

  I jiggled the door handle. It gave, the door swinging open on freshly oiled hinges.

  “Bingo.” My gaze swept slowly across the pristine bathroom. “Now let’s figure out what they were.”

  There wasn’t much to look at. Three stalls with beige dividers, each one open and empty. A couple of sinks facing a long mirror, harsh white light bars over our heads. A hand dryer on the wall and a jumbo-size trash can in garish orange plastic shoved into the back corner. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Nothing but the garbage can, which was big enough to hold a couple of bodies. Way too big for a small office bathroom. I yanked up the lid. Nothing inside but crumpled paper towels. Then I grabbed the rim and hauled it back a few feet, away from the corner.

  A square patch of tile underneath it, about three feet wide and almost as long, wasn’t the same color as the rest of the floor. I lifted my foot and stomped my heel down on it. It thumped. Hollow.

  I dropped to one knee and felt around the edges of the square. A section of tile gave under my fingertips, pivoting back on a concealed hinge to expose a pewter keyhole. I poked my head out into the hallway.

  “Sergeant,” I called out, “we’ve got a spider hole here.”

  The SWAT troopers brought up a breaching shotgun. Two deafening blasts, roaring like cannon fire and echoing off the tiled walls, and the concealed hatch yawned back on shattered hinges. The rungs of a ladder led down a concrete tube into a tunnel below.