Kep shuddered. “Do you honestly believe my nose can tolerate hotel gyms?”
Bernadette was silent. She needed to get to the police station, but Kep was nowhere near ready to go.
Kep pointed up Chicago Street away from the lake. “I followed this street to the Milwaukee River. There’s a wooden walkway right beside the water. The river is frozen, and it’s beautiful. I followed the walkway to the confluence, where it separates two buildings of million-dollar condos from a small marina. When the wooden walkway ended, I found myself at the edge of Lake Shore Park. It’s a great run. I almost slipped and fell a few times because of the icy footpaths, but when I arrived at the art museum, I turned back toward the hotel and walked right past the gourmet donut shop.”
It was the most talkative she’d seen Kep this trip—besides when he was trying to keep Professor Lightman off kilter. She would welcome it if they hadn’t been running late. She tilted her head. Maybe Kep was one of those horrible morning people.
Speaking of which. “Let’s go inside. I’ll grab you some coffee while you run up and get ready.” Bernadette turned toward the revolving door.
“Oh, I think I’d like a hot tea before I go up.” He pointed to the bag. “I do not partake of gourmet donuts often.”
“What did you get?”
“I was intrigued by their maple bacon donut,” Kep continued, “but bacon gets soggy in icing. Left out in the open, it begins to break down from the sugars and the oxygen in the air. The maple bacon donut they had didn’t smell very good, so I didn’t purchase any.”
Wow, when he gets going, he can’t stop. “We’re running late, Kep.”
“Eventually, a few other unusual flavor combinations won me over. The three donuts I purchased smelled the best. I think I will like these.”
She looked out of the corner of her eye at him. “You don’t think I will like them?”
“I don’t have solid footing from which to make a decent recommendation. You like salmon and spicy mustard, after all.”
She smiled and then realized he wasn’t joking.
Bernadette walked in through the revolving door, Kep on her heels, and turned toward the restaurant. The line had dwindled to two people.
Kep stood behind her—a little too close. She could smell his sweat. Surely he was aware of how his post-run odor was affecting the air around him.
He must have noticed her face. “Shall I sit at a table on the other side of the lobby?”
“Sure.”
“Do they have tea?”
“It’s a full-service espresso bar, Kep. So yes, I’m certain they do. What kind do you want? You kind of strike me as a Lipton tea fan.” She smirked.
Kep took the bag of donuts from Bernadette and turned up his nose. “I prefer English Breakfast. If they have none, Earl Grey will suffice.” He walked away.
After she gave the cashier their orders, the barista brought her a pot of hot water and tea bags—they had plenty of English Breakfast—with a side of milk. She hurried across the lobby, balancing it all, to the seating area with sofas and low tables. Kep was at a small table next to the window, and he was staring out at the street, the snow lightly falling, nearly in slow motion. He didn’t even turn to her as she set the teapot, tea bags, and milk on the table in front of him.
She walked back across the lobby, hoping the barista wouldn’t take too long to make her cappuccino.
After she claimed her scalding-hot drink, she returned to the table only to find it empty.
“I didn’t even get a donut,” she muttered.
Chapter Ten
Bernadette finished her cappuccino, then filled her cup with coffee from the heated urns three times. She scrolled through her phone, checking on Sophie’s grades on the school’s online system. Her English grade was down to a B-. Her math score had slipped several points, too.
Well, what did you expect? You’ve upended the girl’s life.
She got up from her chair for another refill and found the urns had vanished. She checked the clock on her phone: 9:06.
Over an hour late. Great.
She looked around the lobby. Dr. Woodhead was still nowhere to be seen.
“Maura’ll kill me if I show up without him,” she muttered. She took out her phone and texted Woodhead.
* * *
I’m ready to go. We were supposed to be at District 5 an hour ago
* * *
Bernadette walked to the hall leading to the elevator, but found no one. For a moment, she considered ordering another cappuccino, but when she looked back at the espresso bar, the line stretched into the lobby.
She stepped up to the registration desk.
“Hi, there,” Bernadette said. “Can you ring Kep Woodhead’s room? We were supposed to meet down here an hour ago.”
“Certainly.” The woman behind the desk tapped on her computer, then picked up the phone. After a moment, she set it back in its cradle. “I’m afraid there’s no answer.”
Bernadette looked at her phone. No reply to her last text. She hesitated, then heard Maura’s words: your unique skill set.
* * *
I’m leaving in 2 minutes with or without you
* * *
“No worries,” she said brightly. “If you see him, tell him to take a cab.”
Bernadette parked on Vel R. Phillips Avenue in front of a pale yellow house with brown trim, the snow piled up a couple of feet high on the parking strip. She looked out of the driver’s-side window across the street to the flat-roofed one-story brick building. The lettering on the brick column under the eaves read Milwaukee Police District 5. This was the correct location, all right, but Bernadette had expected a larger building, perhaps three or four stories, and not in a residential neighborhood. It could have been mistaken for an elementary school or a dentist office. Maybe that was the point.
Taking a deep breath, Bernadette opened the door and hurried across the street. The sky had clouded over, threatening to snow. For now, the weather held off.
She went in through the front doors and to the front desk, where she stepped up to the officer on duty.
“Good morning,” he said, and smiled at her. It felt like the first friendly smile she’d seen in days. She looked at his badge—Chesapeake. Then back into his eyes: dark brown and kind. He seemed to be around Bernadette’s age—and she realized she’d been staring.
“Morning.” Bernadette took off her puffy purple jacket and draped it over her arm. Her black pantsuit wasn’t tailored as well as one of Maura’s outfits, but at least it flattered her shape more than the boxy coat. “I’m one of the CSAB people, here for the next few days. Or weeks. Depending on how quickly we solve the Kymer Thompson case.” She pulled the identification out of her purse and opened the badge holder.
Chesapeake handed her a visitor’s badge—no rings on his left hand. “Nice to meet you, CSAB person. What’s your name and phone number?”
Bernadette felt her cheeks redden. “I—I’m sorry?”
He pulled the log sheet on the counter toward him. “For the log sheet. We need your name and cell phone number.”
“Of course,” Bernadette said. The tips of her ears burned. She lowered her head to look through her purse. She pulled a business card out. “Here you go—all my information.”
“Thank you,” he said, eyes dancing. “Still need to sign in, though.”
Once upon a time, before she’d married Barlow Finnegan, she might have flirted with the police officer—but she’d forgotten how. “There should be another of us coming along shortly,” she said. “Kep Woodhead.”
Officer Chesapeake nodded. “Your boss has him on the list. He’s not in yet. You can go back to the detectives’ station. Through the double doors, down the hall, then on your right.”
She checked her phone—9:38—as she walked through the double doors and down the hall.
Curtis Janek, still wearing his soft dark brown leather jacket he’d had on the day before, sat in front of two computer mo
nitors that sat on a large conference table. Maura and Detective Kerrigan Dunn stood behind him, watching over his shoulder.
Maura glanced up and waved Bernadette over. Maura stood two inches taller than Bernadette’s five-five, with long hair in tight curls and wide-set, inquisitive dark eyes. Her brown skin, a shade lighter than Chesapeake’s, was flawless and perfect; her camel-colored peacoat and cream scarf appeared elegant yet effortless. Bernadette quickly walked over and stood behind the two women. Lines of code flew by on both screens.
“What are we looking at?” Bernadette whispered to Maura.
“We found a keylogger on Thompson’s personal machine,” Maura murmured back. “Curtis is running a check now to see if it matches the profile of any known malware.”
“I’ll have to run additional tests to be one hundred percent sure,” Curtis said, “but from the installation logs, I’d be shocked if the keylogger didn’t come from the work machine.”
“What makes you say that?” Bernadette asked.
“The dates of the transmission logs,” Detective Dunn said. “The keylogger became active in late August. But the logs on the personal machine don’t show any transmissions until right after Labor Day.”
“A long weekend when Kymer Thompson might have brought some files home,” Maura suggested.
Curtis nodded. “Right. A USB drive was the likely source of the infection.”
“Do you really think this is relevant?” Bernadette asked. “Malware gets onto PCs all the time.”
“Curtis doesn’t think this is normal malware,” Maura said.
“I didn’t say that,” Curtis said. “It’s a customized version of Fogability.”
“Fogability?”
“Yes. That’s a popular keylogging program I’ve seen before—there’s nothing new about the malware itself.”
“Good work, Curtis.” Maura moved her hand to his shoulder and clapped it twice. “Do you think you can find out who this program belongs to? Where the logs went?”
“Possibly. Give me another three or four hours.”
“A call to the university IT department might save us all some time,” Maura said. “If they put on the keylogger at the request of a third party—or of the administration—we can eliminate this as an avenue of inquiry.”
“The IT specialist showed up yesterday in front of the chapel,” Bernadette said. “Nick LaSalle. He’d met Kymer Thompson before—he said Thompson had tried to get him to come to church. And he mentioned the hallucinogens.”
“Why didn’t he give a statement?”
“I, uh, scared him off, I guess,” Bernadette said. “He was a little jumpy anyway, and I started asking him softball questions on the way over. Only I guess they weren’t softball enough.”
Maura tapped her foot. “We may need to talk with him about this program. Maybe he’ll reconsider.”
Bernadette grimaced. It was time to come clean. “I saw him afterward. After we left campus. He was walking toward the river down Highland Avenue. I followed him. He crossed at a light in front of me, and I lost him in the crowd.”
Curtis frowned. “What were you following him for?”
“I thought I’d see if I could put things right,” Bernadette said. “Ask about security cameras at the Freshie, keep it professional. But then maybe I scared him off.”
Maura nodded. “So we need to talk to Nick LaSalle for multiple reasons, and he’s avoided you twice.”
Bernadette changed the subject. “Speaking of the keylogger, have we looked into Kymer Thompson’s financials? Anyone steal money from his online bank account? Tried to open a credit card in his name?”
“Not that we’ve found,” Curtis replied.
“And—if this is related to the murder,” Bernadette said, “why leave the malware on the PC?”
Maura pursed her lips. “It’s possible the killer didn’t have time, or couldn’t log in. It could have been installed by one person and Kymer Thompson killed by a different person.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Bernadette paused. The sound of Curtis’s fingers flying over the keys was distracting. “Is the keylogger still on Thompson’s work PC? Do we know if there are keyloggers on any of the other computers?”
“Not yet. We can check when we go back.”
“Why not let them know now?”
“Because,” Maura said, “it’s possible that people in the IT department did it. Maybe our friend Nick—or someone who works with him. Perhaps they were bribed or otherwise compromised. It does us no good to tell them.”
“What if someone from IT deletes the malware before we can get to it?”
Detective Dunn took a step back. “Excellent point. Maybe we should go there now.”
“Bring the cybersecurity team to them,” Curtis said, typing on his laptop. “They might complain that the computers regulate the fish water or something. Don’t give them an opportunity to make excuses.”
“This isn’t our first rodeo,” Detective Dunn said, her nostrils flaring.
“Not ours either,” Curtis replied.
“Okay—we’re all on the same team here,” Maura said, putting her hands in front of her, palms out, as if she were a soccer player who’d tripped an opponent. “Let’s make sure we move as quickly as we can to gather the right evidence.”
Detective Dunn nodded and walked out of the room.
Curtis turned to the screen, which had spit out search results.
Bernadette leaned forward. “What does it say?”
“It looks like the keylogger on the home PC was activated in early September,” Curtis said. “When it was installed, it started transmitting data to an IP address registered to a company in the Maritime Antilles on September 7.”
“And you said the work PC infected the home PC?”
“That’s my theory.”
“But isn’t that unusual?”
“Yes,” Curtis agreed. “Usually home PCs are the ones infected first, because workplaces are usually more stringent about security than home users.”
“But not in this case?”
“No. Thompson copied four spreadsheets onto a USB thumb drive on September 4—I assume it was at work, because the spreadsheets contain information regarding the lampreys, and the author name of the spreadsheet matches one of Thompson’s co-workers. The USB drive we found has the keylogger on it too, and I think that’s how it hitched a ride home.”
“Have you found anything in the transmission logs?”
“All of the spreadsheet data, information about the fish and the lampreys, some details about the, uh, harvesting of the iron-rich amino acids—it’s all there.”
“Something for everyone,” Maura mused. “Information for the eco-terrorists, the fishing Mafia, the pharmaceutical competitors.”
“And that’s just the work stuff,” Curtis said.
“What else did it transmit?”
“Schedule of the Agios Delphi services. Personal email. Online banking passwords. Social media account information.”
“Anything interesting in social media?”
“I was going through that,” Curtis said. He clicked on a line of code on the screen and the monitor filled with a dozen photos of an attractive young woman with light brown hair, large ice-blue eyes, and a beauty mark on her cheek.
Bernadette blinked. “Huh. Lots of pictures of his girlfriend.”
“What?” Curtis asked.
“His girlfriend. Annika Nakrivo.”
“That’s not Thompson’s girlfriend.” Curtis clicked on one of the pictures and it enlarged, showing the woman next to a man in a tuxedo with an award in his hand. “That’s the actress Mariska Sikmo.”
“Mariska who?”
“Sikmo. She’s in a bunch of indie films. Period pieces, stuff like that.” Curtis looked at Bernadette. “The beauty mark is kind of her thing.”
“Oh,” Bernadette said. “And Annika’s beauty mark is above her lip, not on her cheek.” She stepped closer. “Annika’s got more of a squa
re face, too.”
“Hang on,” Maura said, peering over Curtis’s shoulder. “I’ve seen her somewhere.”
“Any one of a dozen movies,” Curtis said.
“No, that’s not it.” Maura’s eyes lost focus, then snapped back. “She was in that TV series—Six Wives. I knew I remembered her.”
“Six Wives?”
“Historical drama about Henry VIII.” She looked in triumph at Curtis. “She played Anne Askew.”
Curtis’s mouth fell open. “And—and Annika Nakrivo looks exactly like her?”
Bernadette scratched her temple. “I wonder,” she mumbled.
“What?”
“Well—when Kep and I talked with her yesterday, she said she’d been a member of the church for a while. I wonder if she saw that TV series, realized how much she looked like Anne Askew, and then found this religion. Maybe she felt like it was too big a coincidence—that it was divine interference.”
“Divine interference?”
“Not all tinfoil hats are, uh, made of tinfoil.” Bernadette exhaled loudly. “Okay, that’s not an elegant analogy, but you get what I mean.”
Maura raised an eyebrow.
Curtis scrolled down. “You said Thompson was devout?”
Bernadette nodded. “That’s what his priest said.”
“I believe it. All these photos of Mariska Sikmo and not one shot of her nude or even from that lingerie scene she did—” Curtis snapped his mouth shut and started typing again.
Maura leaned forward, ignoring him. “When were those images downloaded?”
“I’ve got evidence from the first night the keylogger was on here.” Curtis scrolled. “Tapered off a little around January, though. Still visits these sites every so often, but not with the frequency he used to.”
“Why would he need to?” Maura said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “Thompson had his very own Mariska Sikmo—or his very own Anne Askew, if you want to look at it like that.”
“Do we know if she started dating him after she got the job in the lab?” Curtis said.
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