The Blue Nowhere: A Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

She muttered, “Your gang friend.”

  He asked, “Have you heard from him?”

  “Me? No. Why would I? I don’t see any of your friends anymore.” Looking over her shoulder at her sister’s children, she stepped farther outside and pulled the door shut, as if she wanted to separate him—and the past—firmly from her present life.

  “What are you doing here? How did you know I was . . . Wait. Those phone calls, the hang ups. They came up ‘call blocked’ on caller ID. That was you.”

  He nodded. “I wanted to make sure you were home.”

  “Why?” she asked bitterly.

  He hated her tone. He remembered it from the trial. He remembered that single word too. Why? She’d asked that often in the days before he went to prison.

  Why didn’t you give up your goddamn machines? You wouldn’t be going to jail, you wouldn’t be losing me, if you had. Why?

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he said to her now.

  “We have nothing to talk about, Wyatt. We had years to talk—but you had other things to do with your time.”

  “Please,” he said, sensing that she was about to bolt back inside. Gillette heard the desperation in his voice but he was past pride.

  “The plants’ve grown.” Gillette nodded toward a thick boxwood. Elana glanced at it and for a moment her façade softened. One balmy November night years ago they’d made love beside that very shrub while her parents were inside, watching election night results.

  More memories of their life together flooded into Gillette’s thoughts—a health food restaurant in Palo Alto they ate at every Friday, midnight runs for Pop-Tarts and pizza, bicycling through the Stanford campus. For a moment Wyatt Gillette was hopelessly entangled in those memories.

  Then Elana’s face hardened once more. She gave another glance inside the house through the lace-covered window. The children, now in their pajamas, trotted out of sight. She turned back and looked at the tattoo of the palm tree and seabird on his arm. Years ago, he’d told her he wanted to get it removed and she’d seemed to like the idea but he never had. Now he felt he’d disappointed her.

  “How’s Camilla and the kids?”

  “Fine.”

  “Your parents?”

  Exasperated, Elana asked, “What do you want, Wyatt?”

  “I brought you this.”

  He handed her the circuit board and explained what it was.

  “Why’re you giving it to me?”

  “It’s worth a lot of money.” He gave her a technical specification sheet for the device that he’d written out on the bus ride from the Goodwill store. “Find yourself a Sand Hill Road lawyer and sell it to one of the big companies. Compaq, Apple, Sun. They’ll want to license it and that’s okay but make sure they pay you a big advance up front. Nonreturnable. Not just royalties. The lawyer’ll know all about it.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “It’s not a present. I’m just repaying you. You lost the house and your savings because of me. You should make enough to recover that.”

  She looked down at the board but didn’t take it from his outstretched hand. “I should go.”

  “Wait,” he said. There was more he’d wanted to say, so much more. He’d rehearsed his speech in prison for days, trying to figure out the best way to present his arguments.

  Her strong fingers—tipped in faint purple polish—now kneaded the wet porch banister. She looked out over the rainy yard.

  He stared at her, studying her hands, her hair, her chin, her feet.

  Don’t say it, he told himself. Do. Not. Say. It.

  But say it he did. “I love you.”

  “No,” she responded sternly and held up a hand as if to deflect the words.

  “I want to try again.”

  “It’s too late for that, Wyatt.”

  “I was wrong. What I did won’t ever happen again.”

  “Too late,” she repeated.

  “I got carried away. I wasn’t there for you. But I will be. I promise. You wanted children. Well, we can have children.”

  “You have your machines. Why do you need children?”

  “I’ve changed.”

  “You’ve been in jail. You haven’t had a chance to prove to anybody—yourself included—that you can change.”

  “I want to have a family with you.”

  She walked to the door, opened the screen. “I wanted that too. And look what happened.”

  He blurted, “Don’t move to New York.”

  Elana froze. She turned. “New York?”

  “You’re moving to New York. With your friend Ed.”

  “How do you know about Ed?”

  Out of control now, he asked, “Are you going to marry him?”

  “How do you know about him?” she repeated. “How do you know about New York?”

  “Don’t do it, Elana. Stay here. Give me a—”

  “How?” she snapped.

  Gillette looked down at the porch, at the spattering of rain on the gray deck paint. “I cracked your online account and read your e-mail.”

  “You what?” She let the screen door swing shut. Luxurious Greek temper flooded into her beautiful face.

  There was no going back now. Gillette blurted, “Do you love Ed? Are you going to marry him?”

  “Christ, I don’t believe you! From prison? You hacked into my e-mail from prison?”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Ed’s none of your goddamn business. You had every chance in the world to have a family with me and you chose not to. You have absolutely no right to say a word about my personal life!”

  “Please—”

  “No! Well, Ed and I are going to New York. And we leave in three days. And there’s not a single goddamn thing in the world you can do to stop me. Goodbye, Wyatt. Don’t bother me again.”

  “I love—”

  “You don’t love anyone,” she interrupted. “You social engineer them.”

  She walked inside, closing the door quietly.

  He walked down the steps to Bishop.

  Gillette asked, “What’s the phone number at CCU?”

  Bishop gave it to him and the hacker wrote the number on the specification sheet and jotted “Please call me.” He wrapped the sheet around the circuit board and left it in the mailbox.

  Bishop led him back down the gritty, wet sidewalk. He gave no reaction to what he’d just witnessed on the porch.

  As the two of them approached the Crown Victoria, one with perfect posture, the other with a permanent slouch, a man appeared out of the shadows across the street from Elana’s house.

  He was in his late thirties, thin, with trim hair and a mustache. Gillette’s first impression was that he was gay. He was wearing a raincoat but had no umbrella. Gillette noticed that the detective’s hand was hovering near his pistol as the man approached.

  The stranger slowed and cautiously held up a wallet, revealing a badge and an ID card. “I’m Charlie Pittman. Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Bishop read the card carefully and seemed satisfied with Pittman’s credentials.

  “You’re state police?” Pittman asked.

  “Frank Bishop.”

  Pittman glanced at Gillette. “And you’re . . . ?”

  Before Gillette could speak, Bishop asked, “What can we do for you, Charlie?”

  “I’m investigating the Peter Fowler case.”

  Gillette recalled: He was the gun dealer killed by Phate, along with Andy Anderson, on Hacker’s Knoll earlier that day.

  Pittman explained, “We heard there was a related operation here tonight.”

  Bishop shook his head. “False alarm. Nothing that’ll help you out. Good night, sir.” He started to walk past, gesturing Gillette to come with him, but Pittman said, “We’re swimming upstream on this one, Frank. Anything you can tell us’d be a big help. The Stanford people’re all shook up ’cause somebody was selling guns on campus. We’re the ones they’re beating up on.”

  “We’re n
ot pursuing the weapon side of the investigation. We’re after the perp who killed Fowler but if you want any information you’ll have to go through troop headquarters in San Jose. You know the drill.”

  “Is that where you’re working out of?”

  Bishop must’ve known police politics as well as he knew life on the mean streets of Oakland. He was suitably evasive as he said, “They’re the ones you ought to talk to. Captain Bernstein can help you out.”

  Pittman’s deep eyes scanned Gillette up and down. Then he glanced into the murky sky. “I’m sure sick of this weather. Been raining way too long.” He looked back to Bishop. “You know, Frank, we get the scut work, we county folks. We’re always getting lost in the shuffle and end up having to do the same work somebody else’s already done. Get kind of tired of it sometimes.”

  “Bernstein’s a straight shooter. He’ll help you out if he can.”

  Pittman looked over Gillette once more, probably wondering what a skinny young man in a muddy jacket—clearly not a cop—was doing here.

  “Good luck to you,” Bishop said.

  “Thanks, Detective.” Pittman walked back into the night.

  When they were inside the squad car Gillette said, “I really don’t want to go back to San Ho.”

  “Well, I’m going back to CCU to look over the evidence and grab a few winks. And I didn’t see any lockup there.”

  Gillette said, “I’m not going to escape again.”

  Bishop didn’t respond.

  “I don’t really want to go back to jail.” The detective remained silent and the hacker added, “Handcuff me to a chair if you don’t trust me.”

  Bishop said, “Put your seat belt on.”

  CHAPTER 00010110 / TWENTY-TWO

  The Junípero Serra School looked idyllic in the early-morning fog.

  The exclusive private school, located on eight landscaped acres, was sandwiched between Xerox’s Palo Alto Research Center and one of the many Hewlett-Packard facilities near Stanford University. It enjoyed a wonderful reputation and was known for launching virtually all of its students to high schools of their (well, their parents’) choice. The grounds were beautiful and the staff was paid extremely well.

  At the moment, however, the woman who’d been the receptionist of the school for the past few years wasn’t basking in the benefits of her working environment; her eyes were filled with tears and she struggled to control the tremors in her voice. “My God, my God,” she whispered. “Joyce was just here a half-hour ago. I saw her. She was fine. I mean, just a half hour.”

  Standing in front of her was a young man, with reddish hair and mustache, wearing an expensive business suit. His eyes were red, as if he’d been crying too, and he clasped his hands in a way that suggested that he was very upset. “She and Don were driving to Napa for the day. To the vineyard. They were meeting some of Don’s investors for lunch.”

  “What happened?” she asked breathlessly.

  “One of those buses with migrant workers . . . it veered right into them.”

  “Oh, God,” she muttered again. Another woman walked past and the receptionist said, “Amy, come here.”

  The woman, wearing a bright red suit and carrying a sheet of paper headed with the words “Lesson Plan,” walked to the desk. The receptionist whispered, “Joyce and Don Wingate were in an accident.”

  “No!”

  “It sounds bad.” The receptionist nodded. “This’s Don’s brother, Irv.”

  They nodded and stricken Amy said, “How are they?”

  The brother swallowed and cleared his emotion-thickened throat. “They’ll live. At least that’s what the doctors’re saying now. But they’re both unconscious still. My brother broke his back.” He forced back tears.

  The receptionist wiped away her own. “Joyce’s so active in the PTA. Everybody loves her. What can we do?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Irv said, shaking his head. “I’m not thinking real clearly.”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  Amy said, “But everybody at the school’ll be here for you, whatever you need.” Amy summoned a stocky woman in her fifties. “Oh, Mrs. Nagler!”

  The gray-suited woman approached and glanced at Irv, who nodded at her. “Mrs. Nagler,” he said. “You’re the director here, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Irv Wingate, Samantha’s uncle. I met you at the spring recital last year.”

  She nodded and shook his hand.

  Wingate recapped the story of the accident.

  “Oh, my God, no,” Mrs. Nagler whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Irv said, “Kathy—that’s my wife—she’s up there now. I’m here to pick up Sammie.”

  “Of course.”

  But Mrs. Nagler, sympathetic though she was, nonetheless ran a tight ship and wasn’t going to deviate from the rules. She leaned over the computer keyboard and typed with blunt, polish-free nails on the keys. She read the screen and then said, “You’re on the authorized list of relatives to release Samantha to.” She hit another key and a picture popped up—the driver’s license photo of Irving Wingate. She looked up at him. It was a perfect match. Then she said, “But I’m afraid there’re two other things we have to verify. First, could I see your driver’s license, please?”

  “Sure.” He displayed the card. It matched both his appearance and the photo on the computer.

  “Just one more thing. I’m sorry. Your brother was very security minded, you know.”

  “Oh, sure,” Wingate said. “The password.” He whispered to her, “It’s S-H-E-P.” Mrs. Nagler nodded in confirmation. Irv gazed out the window at the liquid sunlight falling on a boxwood hedge. “That was Donald’s first Airedale, Shep. We got it when he was twelve. That was a great dog. He still raises them, you know.”

  Mrs. Nagler said sadly, “I know. We sometimes e-mail each other pictures of our dogs. I’ve got two weimaraners.” Her voice faded and she put this sorrowful thought away. She made a call, spoke to the girl’s teacher and asked that the student be brought to the main reception area.

  Irv said, “Don’t say anything to Sammie, please. I’ll break the news to her in the car.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll stop for breakfast on the way. Egg McMuffins’re her favorite.”

  Amy of the crimson suit choked at this bit of trivia. “That’s what she had on the class trip to Yosemite. . . .” She covered her eyes and cried silently for a moment.

  An Asian woman—presumably Sammie’s teacher—led a skinny redheaded girl into the office. Mrs. Nagler smiled and said, “Your uncle Irving’s here.”

  “Irv,” he corrected. “She calls me Uncle Irv. Hi, Sammie.”

  “Wow, you grew your mustache back like totally fast.”

  Wingate laughed. “Your aunt Kathy said I looked more distinguished.” He crouched down. “Listen, your mommy and daddy decided you could take the day off school. We’re going to go spend the day with them in Napa.”

  “They went up to the vineyard?”

  “That’s right.”

  A frown crossed the girl’s freckled face. “Dad said they couldn’t go till next week. Because of the painters.”

  “They changed their mind. And you get to go up there with me.”

  “Cool!”

  The teacher said, “You go get your book bag now. Okay?”

  The girl ran off and Mrs. Nagler told the teacher what’d happened. “Oh, no,” the woman whispered as she shouldered her portion of the tragedy. A few minutes later Samantha reappeared, her heavy book bag hooked over her shoulder. She and Uncle Irv started out the door. The receptionist whispered to Mrs. Nagler, “Thank God she’ll be in good hands.”

  And Irv Wingate must’ve heard her say this because he turned and nodded. Still, the receptionist did a brief double take; the smile he offered seemed just a little off, like an eerie gloat. But the woman decided she was wrong and put the look down to the terrible stress the poor man had to be under.

/>   “Rise and shine,” the snappy voice said.

  Gillette opened his eyes and looked up at Frank Bishop, who was shaved and showered and absently tucking in his ornery shirttail.

  “It’s eight-thirty,” Bishop said. “They let you sleep late at prison?”

  “I was up till four,” the hacker grumbled. “I couldn’t get comfortable. But that’s not really a surprise, is it?” He nodded at the large iron chair that Bishop had handcuffed him to.

  “It was your idea, the cuffs and the chair.”

  “I didn’t think you’d take it literally.”

  “What’s to take literally?” Bishop asked. “Either you handcuff somebody to a chair or you don’t.”

  The detective unhooked Gillette and the hacker rose stiffly, rubbing his wrist. He went into the kitchen and got coffee and a day-old bagel.

  “By any chance, you ever get any Pop-Tarts around here?” Gillette called, returning to the main room of CCU.

  “I don’t know,” Bishop responded. “This isn’t my office, remember? Anyway, I’m not much for sweets. People should have bacon and eggs for breakfast. You know, hearty food.” He sipped his coffee. “I was watching you—when you were asleep.”

  Gillette didn’t know what to do with that. He lifted an eyebrow.

  “You were typing in your sleep.”

  “They call it keying nowadays, not typing.”

  “Did you know you did that?”

  The hacker nodded. “Ellie used to tell me I did. I sometimes dream in code.”

  “You do what?”

  “I see script in my dreams—you know, lines of software source code. In Basic or C++ or Java.” He looked around. “Where is everybody?”

  “Linda and Tony’re on their way. Miller too. Linda’s still not a grandmother. Patricia Nolan called from her hotel.” He held Gillette’s eyes for a moment. “She asked if you were okay.”

  “She did?”

  The detective nodded with a smile. “Gave me hell for cuffing you to the chair. She said you could’ve spent the night on the couch in her hotel room. Make of that what you will.”

  “Shelton?”

  Bishop said, “He’s at home with his wife. I called him but there was no answer. Sometimes he just has to disappear and spend time with her—you know, because that trouble I told you about before. His son dying.”