Five in a Row

by Jan Coffey

  “Do you think the radio has to be turned on to open the door for him?” Hinckey asked.

  She thought about that for couple of seconds. “I don’t think so. I mean, with the new cars, the stereo equipment is powered up the moment you turn on the engine. So he’s in charge as soon as the driver turns the key in the ignition.”

  “The hip-hop station is just a signature thing,” Ben said.

  Hinckey nodded. “Most serial killers leave a distinctive signature.”

  “There are two or three dozen manufacturers of automobile stereo equipment,” the agent accompanying Hinckey put in. “In a lot of cases, the brand of stereo equipment in the car might not be decided until the moment of purchase. How could he tap into so many companies?”

  “It doesn’t matter who the final assembly house is, or under what name the stereo equipment hits the market,” Emily answered. “They all start with components. I have to do a little research on that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if only one or two companies do the PC boards for every manufacturer out there. My guess is that the contamination started at that level.”

  “Would disconnecting the radio from the car work?” Hinckey asked.

  “It should. But that would be a very slow process. It’s not like unplugging a wire from the wall. It has to be done by the dealers or some professional.”

  “We need quick response. How do we check for the virus on the stereo systems?” the SAC asked. “I need the nuts and bolts of what to do.”

  “We’re back to ground zero on that one. I’ll go back to the lab. Maybe you can get some of your people to join me there. I assume what we’re looking for will be a lot different in the premutation stage, before he’s executed the file. And we can’t forget, this entire idea is still nothing more than a hypothesis.”

  “You found it the first time around. You’ll do it again,” Ben told Emily confidently.

  Hinckey was already talking on his cell phone, issuing orders.

  “Before anyone takes off, there’s something here that you all should see.” Ben picked up the laptop. “I was just browsing through Emily’s e-mail from the past couple of days and this was what I came across.”

  Emily moved next to him.

  “Chic123456789@hotmail.com,” she whispered. “The e-mail address alone sounds like spam.”

  “I thought so, too, until I opened it up.” Ben let Emily read it first before he let the others see it.

  “Debbie Vasquez,” she whispered tensely. “How come I know that name?”

  Hinckey moved behind them. He started reading the e-mail aloud.

  Dear Ms. Doyle,

  You don’t know who I am and writing this e-mail is so weird that I don’t know where to start. But I think it’s important for you to know what’s going on. At least, if I were you, I’d appreciate someone telling me what’s going on.

  I’m a terrible writer. On top of it, I’m really nervous. And I have a class at the community college this afternoon that I need to get ready for.

  I’ll start from the beginning. My name is Debbie and I live in Albany, New York. I have this next-door neighbor that’s young and got a good job and I thought he was cute. (I don’t think that anymore. I think he’s a psycho.) Anyway, I was at his town house this morning and he’s got hundreds of your pictures taped on the walls of his basement office. And he’s got this huge picture of you in his bedroom and living room. Now, maybe you know about this. Maybe you know him. But I had this sick feeling that you don’t.

  I got your e-mail from this flyer he has pinned to his office wall in the basement. I figured, if you want to call me, I can tell you more. And if you don’t and deal with fans like this all the time, that’s okay, too. I feel better just writing the e-mail. Really got to go.

  Debbie Vasquez.

  “She also left her phone number,” Hinckey finished.

  Ben watched Conor as he sat down next to his mother, putting his arm around her.

  Emily had her head sunk in her hands. “The name is familiar.”

  “It should be. She’s the woman who was killed in Albany yesterday,” Hinckey announced, glancing inside the folder he’d given Emily half an hour earlier. “She must have written that right before she was murdered.”

  Forty-Six

  Special circumstances warrant special actions.

  Lyden Gray’s two-story condo came under the authority of federal agents and the New York State Police at 11:59 p.m. on Tuesday night. They arrived with a warrant, but there was no need for prior notification. Adam Stern, representing Colter Associates, was an invited observer during the entire search. The suspect wasn’t home, but that didn’t stop the officials from entering.

  The hundred or so pictures of Emily covering the walls of the basement office were enough to convince them that this time they had the right man. He fit the profile, and the agents were certain the computers in the condo would provide more evidence. While those on the scene gathered and marked everything, Adam stepped out into the cool night air to call Ben.

  “His name is Lyden Gray. Twenty-four years old. Home-schooled by his mother in a one-horse town called Lebanon in central New York State. Later on attended New York Polytech. Very smart. A total introvert. Lives next door to Debbie Vasquez. He uses Emily’s pictures to wallpaper his office and bedroom. And, surprise, surprise, he works for Hudson Hills Software.”

  “Did they arrest him?”

  Next door, everything was dark. Beyond Debbie Vasquez’s apartment, Adam looked at the bright windows of the other condo units. No one was going to sleep tonight. An accident, a death and now a police raid, all in the same block in a couple of days. “No. He’s not home. They’ve already been in contact with his employer, though, and Mr. Gray is supposedly on a business trip to Connecticut. He left this afternoon.”

  “Do they know where he’s staying? Who he’s visiting?”

  “Yes, but he’s been a no-show so far.”

  “How about his computers?” Ben asked. “Is anyone going through them?”

  “They’re marking everything and are sending them to the lab where Emily is working in Connecticut,” Adam answered. “We can’t even get past his security screen here.”

  “How soon will the computers get here?”

  “Very soon. Hinckey has been on the phone with the operation leader at least a half dozen times. They’re sending a helicopter that should be here any minute. Emily should get everything before daybreak.” Adam paused. “How’s Emily making out with the radio idea?”

  “We just got to the lab a half hour ago. It’s too early to tell. Those computers in Albany might be our quickest answer.”

  “That, or meeting Mr. Gray’s ultimatum.”

  “And that’s not going to happen,” Ben responded without hesitation.

  Forty-Seven

  Three charcoal-gray Ford sedans pulled up to the passenger drop-off at the departures terminal at 4:45 a.m., and an agent quickly emerged from each of the vehicles. From the middle car, a dark-haired woman got out and looked around nervously as she hiked a carry-on bag up onto her shoulder. She was wearing a black suit and flat shoes. She accepted the laptop that one of the agents handed her and pulled it up on the other shoulder.

  “Hope you know what you’re doing, Ms. Doyle,” the agent nearest to her said, closing the door after her.

  “So do I,” she said in a low voice. “I have to insist that you not follow me in. You know the instructions.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We don’t like it, though.” The agent looked at his watch. “You still have over an hour before the flight. If you want to reconsider this—”

  “Thank you for bringing me to the airport.” Without another word, the woman quickly went through the revolving door into the terminal.

  Bradley International Airport was gradually waking up at the early hour. With the exception of a few commuter passengers and a pair of coffee-carrying skycaps, she didn’t pass anyone until she reached the American Airlines ticket booth. She was third in li
ne. It took only a few minutes for her to reach the counter.

  “You have a ticket for Emily Doyle?”

  The airline attendant stifled a yawn as he punched her name into the computer. “Prepaid. American Airlines Flight 1121 to Grand Cayman with one stop, arriving at 10:40 this morning. You have some identification, Ms. Doyle?”

  She pushed her open wallet across the counter and waited. The attendant looked at the license and then glanced up before looking at the license again.

  “I believe there may be a special note with regard to this ticket,” she said casually.

  The attendant looked at her for a moment before getting off his chair. “Give me just a second, will you, Ms. Doyle?”

  Going to a phone away from the counter, he spoke for a moment. She could see him getting his instructions. He glanced at her and nodded before hanging up. He handed the wallet back.

  “Thanks for waiting.” He punched in a few more numbers, asked her about any additional luggage, and then assembled the tickets for her. A minute later, he slid the tickets across the counter. “You have a great flight, Ms. Doyle.”

  Special Agent Christine Smith nodded and turned away.

  Walking through the terminal, she tried not to look right or left. As a trained FBI agent, she knew the importance of letting the rest of the team do its job. If Lyden Gray was here and close enough to see she wasn’t Emily Doyle, one of the other agents would surely spot him.

  Her instructions were clear. Check in as Emily Doyle. Board the flight for Grand Cayman and upon arrival, go directly to the Hyatt Regency. The Brits were already on board and MI5 would join the operation in George Town. If the perpetrator was waiting in Grand Cayman, they’d nail him there.

  Forty-Eight

  Six computer engineers employed by the FBI followed Emily’s directions as they worked their way through the mountain of information. All of them had been working in the lab through the night. Fatigue and frustration showed on each individual’s face.

  Ben had been a bystander and an expeditor when needed, watching the entire proceeding. He was also the one Hinckey called to get information updates every half hour or so.

  He and Hinckey went back a few years. Ben had first met the FBI SAC during a training session in his early law enforcement days. In those days, the Special Agent had been working in homicide special projects. The September 11th attack and investigations afterward had restructured Hinckey’s division. Ben’s understanding was that he now worked exclusively in counterterrorism.

  “Anything new?” the SAC asked, calling Ben on his cell phone at 5:37 a.m. Time was growing short.

  “Your guys still can’t believe it. The encryption level on Lyden’s personal computer was more complex than anything the FBI uses. Emily was able to crack it, though, about twenty minutes ago.”

  “That’s great news,” Hinckey said enthusiastically. “What does he have in the vault?”

  “Lots of things. But the first relevant thing they’ve found so far is a component registry ID,” Ben said, walking closer to where Emily sat paging through volumes of code.

  “What does he do with that?”

  Ben sat on a metal stool next to Emily’s chair and looked over her shoulder. “It seems that he’s been using a cross-referenced list between automobile VIN numbers from state motor vehicle databases and the component registry ID on his own computer to know whose cars he’s taking control of.”

  Emily nodded to Ben, agreeing with his explanation.

  “Jesus. So let me see if I understand this correctly. Is every unit on that component database infected?”

  Emily nodded again, obviously able to overhear Hinckey’s question.

  “My expert says they are,” Ben answered.

  “How many items are on that list?”

  “We’re still counting,” Ben told the agent.

  “Give me an approximate number.”

  “Three million and still counting,” Emily answered grimly.

  Ben relayed the information.

  Hinckey cursed profusely. “Any solutions? Anything happening with the stereo system idea?”

  “No. Not yet. Emily has been totally focused on Gray’s personal network of systems. The rest of your crew have been working on the stereo angle.” Ben saw the nearest engineer shake his head. “We have nothing yet.”

  “That’s not too good. We have a second broadcast out there about the recall of the stereo systems on certain models. But the clock is ticking faster than we can get the message out.”

  “Then make it urgent. Raise the terror-alert level. Classify it as a terrorist attack,” Ben suggested.

  “My superiors have decided that the political fallout of raising the alert level on an individual’s criminal act outweighs what we theorize that he can do. It’s not like we have intelligence-based decision making here. Until there is more solid proof of what he can do, they won’t raise the alert level. They’re putting all the eggs in one basket. They want to believe that we’ll arrest him.”

  Ben could hear the frustration in the agent’s tone. “I bet you’re missing the good old days in homicide.”

  “In a way, I am. It was a hell of a lot easier chasing down crooked politicians and murderous mob figures, than trying to keep up with all this fucking technology.”

  Ben figured Emily had heard that comment, too, as he saw her make a face and shake her head in disagreement. He smiled at her.

  “So do you think Gray will show up at the airport?”

  “We hope he’ll show up someplace. And when he does, we’ll be ready for him.”

  Forty-Nine

  The bus driver turned the volume down on the radio. He’d heard everything he wanted to hear. It was going to be a perfect fall day in D.C.

  At Second Street, Devon looked at his watch as he waited for the light to change. 5:59. Right on time.

  The last run of the shift, he thought, and a beautiful morning was dawning. The week, so far, had been so nice. And at the end of the month, it would be five years driving a Metrobus. Almost a year and a half driving this route. My Lord, where did the time go? Maybe he’d take the missus out dancing, just to celebrate. Maybe even a little dinner. Yeah, wine with dinner, dancing at the club and a little romance later on.

  Devon looked to the left at Folger Square and Providence Park beyond it. The leaves on the trees were starting to turn. The foot traffic was just starting, and he watched a woman in a running suit jog in front of the bus as the light changed. A very shapely woman.

  He loved this job.

  Accelerating through the intersection, Devon looked at the traffic on Second Street. It was still light.

  He could see the Capitol South bus station ahead on the right, and two of the seven riders on the bus stood up and moved toward the rear door. He’d have a full bus after this stop. The Blue and Orange line trains would fill his vehicle up, no problem.

  Devon turned off the radio as some crazy kid music started playing on the station. He put his foot on the brake as the bus approached First Street. He was reaching for the blinker light when he realized the bus wasn’t reacting.

  “What the—?”

  The bus began to accelerate and Devon stared at the controls. Pumping the brakes, he tried to steer the bus to the side of the street, but the wheel just turned in his hand.

  The riders were shouting at him, but there was no slowing down. He yanked at the emergency handbrake and felt the bus slow only slightly. The engine was roaring, and in a moment the brakes were squealing as the bus continued to speed up.

  He had no control.

  They raced by the Capitol South station and Devon could see New Jersey Avenue coming up fast. There was no traffic ahead of them but the light was against them. He released the emergency brake and then yanked on it again. It was totally useless.

  As they approached the intersection, he leaned on the horn, trying to get the attention of the vehicles on New Jersey. In seconds, they’d reached the cross street and the bus suddenly t
urned to the right. As they rounded the corner, Devon’s horn continued to blare. The bus went up on two wheels and then bounced hard as it righted itself on New Jersey, just missing a cyclist and two pedestrians.

  The bus driver looked ahead. The House of Representatives office buildings lined the street on either side.

  “Shit.”

  He knew where they were going. The U.S. Capitol Building lay straight ahead, its white dome rising above the trees on the grounds.

  This was a terrorist attack, and his bus was being used for it.

  They were doing seventy by the time they reached Independence Ave. The gate ahead was closed. It had been since the 9/11 attacks.

  “Brace yourselves,” he shouted back at the riders.

  A second later, the bus hit the concrete barriers, driving them back. One of the riders came sliding fast from the back, hitting the front console with his shoulder, just as the front tires exploded. The bus began to swerve wildly, hit the curb, and then spun around, tipping over onto the grass.

  Devon was hanging from his seat belt, looking down into the face of the rider who was now lying on his back against the front door.

  The engine raced for only a moment and then stopped.

  Fifty

  The FBI had set it up so that any calls would be forwarded to the lab—from Emily’s home, her cell phone and the Eatopia Café. The agents were not going to miss an opportunity to communicate with Lyden Gray, in case he decided to call again.

  They were monitoring Emily’s e-mail account, too. She was logged on at a computer in the lab, and one of the agents was watching for incoming mail and any other activity.

  At ten after six, the café line rang, and a chill settled on Emily’s spine. She realized that for the past ten minutes, her vision had been a blur, her heart racing. She’d been staring at the computer screen, but she’d been too wound up, waiting for the other shoe to drop.