Play To Kill

by P. J. Tracy

  'So this really is just a coincidence?' Gino asked.

  Smith frowned. Apparently he was as uncomfortable with the word coincidence as everybody else in law enforcement. 'It appears that way.'

  Grace, Annie, and Harley all pulled up chairs next to Roadrunner and watched as he loaded the clips from the surveillance footage onto a dedicated computer that ran the facial-recognition software.

  'Are you going to limit Web-search parameters, buddy?' Harley asked.

  'No.' He turned around in his chair. 'Should I?'

  'It's gonna take forever if you don't. Start out small and match against a few social networking sites first.'

  'Okay. I'll start the search with MySpace, YouTube, and Facebook. They're the biggies.'

  Annie, who was looking particularly fetching in a floral- printed silk caftan today, gave Harley a rare compliment. 'That's the most sensible thing that's come out of your mouth in days.'

  Harley waggled his eyebrows at her. 'Everything out of my mouth is sensible. You're just finally getting it, doll face.'

  'Keep the dream alive, Harley,' she snipped back. 'Sophistry becomes you. And don't ever call me doll face again, or else I'll…'

  Grace tuned out the ongoing tete-a-tete between Harley and Annie and let her eyes drift up to the wall-mounted television they rarely watched but had kept on since the box fiasco had started. Every channel, on network and cable, was still running nonstop coverage of Minneapolis in chaos. How long would it take before this scenario replayed itself in other cities across the country, and across the planet? Probably not long. Global interconnectedness had seemed like such a great idea at its inception, but like all powerful things, it had its dark side - a seriously big dark side - and they were on the frontlines.

  Annie had apparently burned out her war of words with Harley, because she was watching the television now, too, her lips pursed in a glittery pink pout that matched the shimmering silk poppies on her dress. 'This is just plain craziness. Look at those freeways - plumb full of nice people who are scared to death to stay in their own city. That's not right, and we need to do something about it.'

  Grace sighed. 'The only real solution is to change human nature, and that we can't do. The Web might be inciting bad behavior and providing a global audience, but in the end, we're still talking about bad people, not bad technology.'

  'The thing that drives me crazy is there are too goddamned many places on the Web where the bad guys can hide,' Harley grumbled. 'If we took away their hiding places, maybe they'd think twice.'

  Roadrunner spun his chair around. 'I just launched the facial-recognition software. Now it's a waiting game.' He looked at Harley. 'And there's nothing we can do about their hiding places, Harley.'

  'Oh yeah?' Harley grumbled. 'There's lots we can do, if we have the cojones to do it.'

  Roadrunner rolled his eyes. 'Oh yeah? Like what? We've been tap-dancing in and out of these hostile servers and sites for the past week. The people we're looking for know how to stay stealth, and every single post that predicted crimes has been bounced around the globe through anonymity software, botnets, networks of firewalls, you name it. There is such a thing as untraceable.'

  'I know that, dipshit, I worked with you on all the traces we tried. My point is, we need to cut off the head of the hydra. There are foreign servers we know about that are protecting bad guys seven ways to Sunday and won't grant access to law enforcement. So what are we supposed to do, play nice? Follow international laws that promote cyber crime? Hell no. We shut 'em down. Every time we find a foreign server tag associated with a crime? Bang! Denial-of-service attack. Viruses. Whatever. And we'll just keep shutting them down the minute they go back on-line.'

  Annie gaped at him. 'Sweet Jesus, Harley, you've lost your mind. We can't do that.'

  'Why not?'

  'First of all, it would probably incite an international incident. Second of all, we would surely end up in those orange jumpsuits.'

  Roadrunner was smirking at Harley. 'Besides, dipshit, do you know how many servers there are in this country alone, let alone the world? You might as well try to empty the Pacific Ocean with a teaspoon.'

  Harley scowled back. 'Okay, so maybe shutting down servers isn't the answer. My point is, our lawbreaking has always been in proportion with whatever crime we're trying to solve. But the crime is escalating, and so we have to, too. Laws don't keep up with technology, and those laws deserve to be broken.'

  'I agree with you, Harley,' Grace said quietly. 'The problem is, there will always be criminals out there, whether or not we shut down servers or compromise the anonymity networks that protect them. All we can do is try to keep up, and help the cops make an example of the criminals we do catch.'

  'Pretty ironic that four people who repeatedly break the law spend so much time fighting crime,' Annie said, scrutinizing a chip in her new manicure.

  'Did I hear something about breaking laws?' Gino's voice preceded him into the room, along with Magozzi and Smith.

  Harley chuckled. 'Just international law. Nothing you need to worry about, buddy.'

  'How's it going with the surveillance footage?' Magozzi addressed the room, but his eyes were fixed on Grace.

  'Hi, Magozzi. The program is running now.'

  'Pull up some chairs, darlings,' Annie drawled. 'We've got some time to kill.'

  Ten minutes later, Roadrunner let out a whoop and Harley started laughing so hard, he doubled over, and everybody in the room descended on Roadrunner's computer.

  'What is it?'

  Harley took a few seconds to catch his breath. 'We got a match,' he pointed to the enhanced picture of one of the kids from the surveillance tape. The program had pulled up a second picture from MySpace. 'Can you believe it? This kid was smart enough to use anonymity software that's so complicated, you practically need two brains just to install and config it, but there he is, right on MySpace, full name, city, and state. What a dumbass.' He looked at Magozzi. 'How many Kyle Zellicksons do you think live in Minneapolis?'

  Magozzi smiled. 'Pull up the white pages and we'll find out.'

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-five

  'Oh my goodness.' John Smith slid into the middle of the Caddie's backseat and started playing with all the electronic controls at his disposal. The back windows went up and down; the rear AC fan went on and off; and some really annoying rap blared out of the back speakers before he figured out how to shut it off. 'I don't know what this orange button does.'

  'Lumbar support,' Gino said, snapping his shoulder harness with a proprietary click, as if he thought absolutely nothing of this kind of ride. 'But you won't get it in the middle. Right side, right seat, left side, left seat. The middle passenger suffers. It's kind of a junker.'

  Magozzi closed his lips on a smile and backed out of Harley's driveway.

  'Is this standard for MPD, or just Homicide?'

  'Confiscated from a drug dealer,' Magozzi said, toughing down on the accelerator because Gino was a corrupting influence and made him want to show off. 'Gino bribed one of the garage evidence guys so we had sweet wheels while ours were being fixed.'

  What do you usually drive?'

  'A tacky brown sedan with no heat and no AC and enough get-up-and-go to get up and fall down.'

  'I see. So what's the bribe for this kind of transportation?'

  'Gino's wife's lasagna. She'd cook your heart out.'

  'Hmm.' John stretched his arms out over the backseat. 'What are the chances of a retired Federal agent tucking into your department?'

  Magozzi shrugged. 'We've always had a little problem with the Feds. The SAC here is pretty much of an asshole.'

  'And it's a tough gig,' Gino added. 'No picnic. They put me on the dunk tank at the MPD festival last year.'

  'What's a dunk tank?'

  'That would be man's ultimate humiliation. You sit on this little seat over a tank of water, and the public throws balls at a target that tips the seat so you fall in. If the seat's high enough abov
e the water, the impact flattens your balls.'

  John thought about that for a minute. 'Are you serious?'

  'I am.'

  Magozzi squealed the Caddie's rubber at the turn off Snelling onto Lexington. You want the lead on questioning these kids?'

  Smith shrugged. 'Your city, your precinct.'

  'I think the Feds trump the cops on terrorism.'

  'That is where the working-together part comes in. Besides, when it comes to terrorism, I'd let a Brownie troop take down a possible witness if they wanted.'

  Gino turned to look at John in the backseat. 'You're starting to talk like a cop.'

  'I'm practicing so I can get lasagna and a Cadillac.'

  'Good God, Leo, are you listening to this guy? A week in the Midwest and he's starting to get funny.'

  John closed his eyes. Another item for the slippery-slope list. Violating Bureau policy, violating Federal law, consuming alcohol on duty, and now stepping away from stern and proper agent demeanor. He was shedding pieces of who he was, who he had always been, like a dog with mange. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and put on his Bureau face. 'I am also certain that both of you have more experience interrogating juveniles. We don't get many offenders that young at the Federal level.'

  'They're not juvies,' Magozzi reminded him. 'Eighteen, both of them.'

  'Barely. I am also a little uncomfortable questioning these boys in particular. Technically, we don't have a great deal to support their involvement.'

  'Bullshit,' Gino snorted. 'Little bastards are in this so deep we're going to have to rip their balls off and stuff them in their ears to get them to talk. And personally, I'm looking forward to that.'

  Magozzi caught a glance of John's alarmed look in the rearview mirror. 'Gino hasn't done that in a really long time,' he said genially.

  The house was a surprise - one of the largest in a new development of McMansions people bought on credit to impress their neighbors with how much money they supposedly had. Magozzi knew the inside by heart. Lots of electronics, lots of granite and upscale appliances in a kitchen they never used, lots of bills hidden away in a drawer somewhere. People with real money never bought places like this, because there was something tacky that shone through all the pretense of luxury like a Target T-shirt under a cashmere sweater.

  The doorbell was a melody - didn't anybody have normal doorbells anymore? - and whoever was inside took a while answering. Magozzi took point, as always; Gino was off to the side, and John Smith hung back a little, ceding the lead to the cops, who did this kind of thing a lot more than he did.

  The man who finally came to the door was dressed in what old movies had taught him wealthy men wore at home in the evening. In his peripheral vision Magozzi saw Gino cover his mouth quickly, and he didn't blame him. The idiot was wearing one of those silly shiny robes over his white shirt and suit pants. 'Good evening, sir,' he said respectfully, flipping open his badge case and holding it up. 'Are you Mr. Zellickson?'

  'Yes, Officer. What can I do for you?'

  'Detective Magozzi, MPD. This is my partner, Detective Rolseth, and this is Special Agent John Smith of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is your son Kyle at home?'

  Mr. Zellickson looked genuinely confused. Yes, he is… did you say the FBI?'

  'That's correct, sir.'

  'What on earth would you want with my son?'

  Magozzi smiled briefly. 'Just a few questions, sir. We think he and a friend of his may have inadvertently witnessed something pertinent to a crime we're investigating and hoped he'd be willing to help us out by answering a few questions.'

  'Really. Well, of course he'd be happy to help if he could…' He pressed his lips together and frowned at John Smith. 'I don't understand the FBI connection. Does this have anything to do with the boxes today?'

  Goddamnit, Magozzi thought, he wasn't as dumb as his doorbell. Yes, it does.'

  'Good heavens. I can't imagine Kyle seeing anything and not mentioning it… this whole thing is terrible, and to tell you the truth, I think it frightened him a little.'

  Magozzi nodded. 'I'm sure it did. The point is, witnesses often see things without realizing what they saw, so they never think to mention it until someone asks them about it.'

  'Oh.' He chewed on his lip a while and tugged at his pants, which Magozzi thought was always a bad sign. Bull readjusting the jewels before taking a stand. Worse yet, Mr. Silk Robe wasn't opening the door and inviting them in. 'I do want to be helpful, Officers. Please don't misunderstand. But Kyle is my son, and having the three of you show up at my door at this hour wanting to question him about what happened today makes me very uncomfortable. I think I'd like to call our lawyer.'

  Magozzi nodded. 'Then that's exactly what you should do, sir. As a matter of fact, if you have any reason to believe that your son might have been involved in the placement of these boxes all over the city- '

  'Good God, no! It's not that. I just meant… it's so ridiculous. Kyle was valedictorian of his graduating class. Four-point-oh since he was a freshman. Voted most popular, most likely to succeed…'

  Gino made a face and rolled his head. 'Oh, man, you gotta be kidding me. You have a kid with a four-point-oh?

  I got a sixteen-year-old who thinks four-point-oh is an IQ score. You're a lucky man, Mr. Zellickson.'

  Kyle's dad blinked at Gino, and then smiled tentatively. 'Thank you. He's a great kid.'

  Gino gave him a lopsided smile. 'Obviously. Let me know when he's between girlfriends. My daughter may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but she's a sweetheart, and a looker to boot, and I'd sure like to see her hooked up with a young man who takes education seriously.' He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged at Magozzi. 'Come on, Leo. Let me tell him what's up. The guy's got the army at the door and has every right to be concerned.'

  Magozzi looked down at his shoes and pretended to think for a moment.

  John was watching the two cops without saying a word, thinking he'd learned more in the past three minutes than in all his years of law enforcement.

  'I suppose,' Magozzi finally said.

  'Great. Okay, Mr. Zellickson, this is the deal,' Gino said. We got some surveillance video from some of the sites where the boxes were planted, and we caught a pic of Kyle and his friend' - he pretended to consult his notes - 'Clark, something…'

  'Clark Bradley?'

  Yeah, that's the one. They weren't carrying a box or anything, and we're not thinking for one minute they were involved, but they were pretty close to a spot where one of the boxes was found, so we figured maybe, if we were really lucky, they might have seen something… like somebody setting down a box, for instance. And what's so freaky about that? A guy setting down a box? You'd never think twice about it. But in this case, maybe it means something.'

  Kyle's dad frowned. Where was this?'

  'The Metrodome.'

  The man got manicures, Magozzi realized, wondering why that still gave him the creeps. His hand was pressed against his chest as if to quiet a relieved heart, and his buffed nails glinted on the black silk of the silly robe.

  'Oh, for crying out loud,' Mr. Zellickson said, smiling for the first time since he'd opened the door. 'They have open skating at the Dome on a couple of floors whenever nothing else is going on. Kyle and Clark go all the time. They love their Rollerblades.'

  Gino opened his hands and grinned. 'And they were blading on the film.' His grin disappeared. 'However - and I'm telling you this as a father, because I'd want to know if it were my kid - neither one of them was wearing a helmet.'

  Mr. Zellickson's eyes narrowed. 'I will definitely talk to him about that. Come in, gentlemen. Kyle's in the basement doing some homework. With Clark, as it happens. You can talk to them both at the same time.'

  Gino beamed at him. 'How lucky can we get?'

  Kyle's mother pretty much hated the basement, which suited Kyle just fine since it meant she didn't come down here very much. Once in a blue moon the tornado siren on the corner
blew its brains out and busted everybody's eardrums, and that was the only time she came down to the space Kyle had made his own. He and Clark had tacked up band posters on the wall, and hidden under those were the really fab posters of girls with big hooters hanging down to their belly buttons that made you want to do things to yourself no matter who was looking.

  Clark was kind of a superdweeb. He'd been wearing jackets with zippers instead of snaps, duh, when he and Kyle had first hooked up, but he was a pure CSI genius. He'd seen every show about a million times, and watched all the cop and autopsy shows on cable until he nearly fried his brains out with a TV Ph.D. in how to do crime and make assholes out of the cops. Better yet, he carried a bong in his backpack and scored a lot of green from somewhere, because he always had a Glad bag full in his jockey shorts.

  They were slumped on the sprung-out couch in the basement room mainlining tortilla chips and chocolate, watching the big screen Kyle's dad had hung on the wall to keep his precious progeny occupied while he and the mother of the year did whatever the hell they did upstairs. Last time he'd checked they'd been watching some reality show about a bunch of weird people trying to beat each other at stupid games on a deserted island. Tonight they were glued to the coverage of all the boxes that were turning the city upside down.

  Have you done your homework, Kyle?

  We're doing it now, Dad. Clark and I are watching the PBS special on the Civil War for history class.

  That's good, Son. I heard that was a good series. So you're not watching the network news?

  Nah. It's all about the boxes, and that's a little scary, you know?

  It is, a little. Your mom and I were thinking we might all head up to Duluth tomorrow to visit jour grandparents.

  'Well, that sucks,' Clark said quietly, just in case Kyle's dad was still at the top of the basement steps, trying to think of something else to say. Most of the time he worked about forty hours a day, which made him the ideal dad in Clark's opinion, if you had to have one at all. But occasionally, when he took a day off because the world was ending or he had a killer hangover, he took a shot at father-son bonding with Kyle, and those days were just plain creepy. He'd come down to the basement and ask them how they were doing, and they'd say they were doing fine, and he'd say, 'No shit,' as if that kind of talk would put him in the cool-dad category or something.