“I hear you,” said Greenly.
“Dan, I have an appointment at the Law School, but please call if there’s anything I can do to help,” said Choi, checking his watch. “And let’s grab dinner sometime and catch up.”
“Sounds good, Tony.”
After Choi had departed, I turned to Greenly. “Let’s talk about campus security cams that might have caught a shot of the killer, or possibly his vehicle,” I suggested.
“My guys have been working that angle since we found the body,” Greenly replied. “So far, nothing. The problem is, UCPD doesn’t have a campus-wide security system. There are cameras scattered around in unrelated networks, but none in the Botanical Garden.”
“So where are they?” asked Deluca.
“Mostly where there are concentrations of students,” Greenly explained. “Over 150 security cams are in our on-campus housing areas, primarily to prevent theft. 200 or so watch over the UCLA Associated Students Store—again to prevent theft. Like I said, there are various departments using security cameras, but—”
“—no centralized monitoring,” I finished.
“Correct. Nevertheless, we have been checking security-camera networks one-by-one and reviewing footage for the time in question. So far we’ve been concentrating on the south end of campus, particularly in the vicinity of the Botanical Garden. Nothing so far.”
“Any surveillance in the parking areas?”
Greenly shook his head. “You’re referring to the young woman who was abducted from Parking Structure 3?”
“Right. A grad student named Ella Snead. By the way, we haven’t released that to the media yet.”
“We don’t talk to the press, so don’t worry,” Greenly assured me. “As for the parking structure, we may not have cameras, but we do keep a record of anyone using a credit card to pay for parking. Would that information be helpful?”
“Absolutely. Can you fax us those records?” Deluca jumped in, withdrawing his wallet and handing Greenly a business card.
“Consider it done,” said Greenly. “You can also pay for parking by phone using our Parkmobile system, or register your vehicle for payment, or get a quarterly permit. I’ll include those items in the report as well. Regrettably, our self-service pay stations also take cash, so your guy might not be on any of those lists.”
“Damn,” said Deluca.
“Let’s get back to the security cams,” I suggested. “We figure Ella was returning from class when she went missing. Could you look up her class schedule for that evening and check any cameras that might have caught her walking to and from Parking Structure 3?”
“And maybe get a shot of someone following her?” said Greenly, realizing where I was going. “We’re on it.”
“How about taking a look at the parking structure?” suggested Deluca.
“Sure,” said Greenly. “It’s about a mile from here. Where’s your car?”
“Law School lot.”
Greenly glanced at the ridge behind us. “I’m parked closer, up on Tiverton. C’mon, I’ll run you guys over to Lot 3.”
“You, go, Paul,” I said, deciding there probably wasn’t much to see at Parking Structure 3. “I’ll check on our canvass across the street and meet you back here when you’re done.”
As Deluca and Greenly started off, I ducked under the perimeter tape and headed toward a knot of onlookers near the news vans. Noticing several patrol officers working the edges of the crowd, I approached one of the patrolmen. “Got a minute?” I said, flashing my credentials.
“Yes, sir,” the young patrolman replied, nearly snapping to attention. From his spit-shined shoes, razor-creased uniform, and freshly shaven face, I concluded that he was probably still in his probationary “boot” year on the force.
“Relax,” I said, noting that his nameplate read, “Olsen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not going to bite, Olsen,” I continued. “At least not just yet. Where’s your field training officer?”
“That’s my TO over there talking with the Asian woman,” said Olsen, pointing across the crowd. “Want me to get him?”
“No, I want to talk to you,” I said, leading him away from a cluster of curious reporters. “How’s the canvass going?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Meaning you haven’t turned up squat.”
Olsen reddened. “Uh, that would be correct, sir.”
“Nobody suspicious in this crowd of concerned citizens?” I asked, still wondering how the killer had known to phone me when I entered the garden.
“No, sir, nobody suspicious,” said Olsen, smiling at my sarcasm. “Not that I’ve noticed, anyway. Everyone’s just curious about what happened.”
“What are you telling them?”
“Not a damn thing, sir.”
“Keep it that way,” I said, deciding that Olsen was doing a good job and a word to his sergeant was in order. “Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.”
I returned to the garden’s entrance and ducked back under the tape, still puzzled by the timing of yesterday’s call. As I saw it, there were two possibilities: One, an accomplice had been watching from the street or a nearby building. Or two, the killer’s perfectly timed phone call had been a coincidence. I had trouble believing the latter, but it was something I still needed to consider.
Then another thought occurred. I pulled my iPhone from my pocket, hit the “settings” button, and selected “Wi-Fi.” Seconds later my screen displayed several dozen Wi-Fi networks in the vicinity, all requiring passwords. I shook my head, deciding there were too many to investigate on my own.
Instead, I called Taylor.
She picked up on the third ring. “What’s up, Kane? I thought we weren’t going to compare notes until later.”
“We weren’t, but something’s come up. I’m at the Botanical Garden. What are the chances of getting someone from your CART unit down here to meet me?” I asked, referring to the Bureau’s Computer Analysis Response Team. “It may be a little out of the norm for your Bureau techs, but it’s important.”
“If it’s important, no problem. What do you need?”
“I need to locate a Wi-Fi router.”
Twenty minutes later, Deluca and Greenly rejoined me at the garden’s south gate. Greenly departed shortly afterward, promising to stay in touch. Taylor arrived shortly after that, accompanied by a man I recognized from the FBI’s CART unit, having worked with him on another case. He was carrying several pieces of electronic equipment, including a radio antenna that looked like a fish backbone—with progressively shorter metal tubes fastened like ribs to a central connecting spine.
“Thanks for coming, Taylor,” I said. Then, turning to the technician, “Arturo, good to see you again.”
“You too, Detective,” said Arturo.
“Paul, how’s it going?” said Taylor, extending a hand to Deluca.
“Can’t complain,” said Deluca, taking her hand. “Banowski sends his best.”
“Back at him. How’s he doing? Still trying to lose weight?”
“Uh-huh. Now he’s even hitting the gym. He’s so proud of his rock-hard abs, he’s protecting them with an extra layer of fat.”
“Sounds about right,” Taylor laughed.
“By the way, Kane told me about your kayak competition,” Deluca went on. “Third place in a world-class event. Who knew you were a jock? Anyway, congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Taylor replied, looking pleased.
As Deluca and Taylor were talking, I noticed a purplish discoloration on Taylor’s neck. “Go a couple rounds with someone?” I broke in, not having recalled seeing the bruise the previous evening.
“What?” said Taylor. Then, a hand going to her throat, “Oh, that. I, uh, tangled with a rock at the competition,” she mumbled. “So tell me about this Wi-Fi router you want to locate.”
“And what’s with the TV antenna?” Deluca chimed in, glancing at Arturo’s oddly shaped apparatus.
; “It’s a Yagi directional antenna,” Arturo explained. “It’s tuned to detect Wi-Fi frequencies, not television signals.”
“Huh?” said Deluca, still looking puzzled.
“I’ve been wondering how the killer managed to phone me at exactly the right moment yesterday, just as we arrived at the dumpsite,” I explained. “When his call turned out to be from Orange County, I thought maybe he had an accomplice who tipped him off. Then another possibility occurred.”
Taylor jumped in. “You think our unsub may have set up a surveillance camera?” she asked, slipping into Bureau-speak.
I shrugged. “It’s been done before. Here, check it out.” I withdrew my phone and brought up the display showing Wi-Fi networks in the area. “I need to know how many of these have a view of the garden.”
“No problem,” said Arturo. “But first, maybe we can narrow things down a bit. Where were you exactly when you got your call?”
I glanced at the foliage behind me. “At the dumpsite.”
“Then let’s begin there.”
After logging in with the patrolman keeping the crime-scene record, we proceeded single-file down the winding footpath into the garden, arriving minutes later at the bamboo thicket where the killer had hung Sandy Stafford’s corpse.
“I was standing about here,” I said, gazing up at the bamboo.
“This may have been a mistake,” said Arturo, after running a cable from his antenna to a compact receiver he had brought with him. “There’s no line-of-sight from the street to this part of the garden. Well, at least we can start by getting some basic directions.”
After adjusting a knob on his receiver, Arturo swung his antenna across the garden, starting at the bamboo and turning in a full circle. “We’ll need a reading from a second location to actually pinpoint each router,” he said, walking a dozen yards down the path. Then, still checking his receiver, he began another rotation. “Hmmm . . . that’s odd.”
“What?” I asked.
“Every available Wi-Fi network is east of here, probably in buildings on Hilgard,” Arturo answered, turning in the opposite direction. “Except for one. And it’s close.”
Just then my cellphone rang.
I checked the screen: “No Caller ID.”
I raised a hand for silence, activating my recording app at the same time. All eyes turned toward me as I answered the call.
“Hello, Detective Kane,” said a voice that sounded all too familiar. “I see you’ve brought friends.”
I remained silent. If possible, I didn’t want my voice on the recording, or any extraneous noises, either. Nevertheless, I motioned for Arturo to keep searching.
“Cat got your tongue, Detective?”
Walking quietly, I trailed behind Arturo. Antenna out front, he moved into a patch of ferns.
“Oh, I understand. You’re recording this, aren’t you? Of course you are.”
I continued to remain silent, signaling for the others to stay where they were.
Pointing his antenna up the slope, Arturo crossed a small stream. I followed, climbing a bank covered with some kind of flowering shrub.
“Getting warmer, Detective.”
Arturo froze upon arriving at a dirt path higher up. Glancing back at me, he pointed to a copse of conifers farther up the slope. About twelve feet above the ground, fastened to the trunk of a tall cedar, I could just make out the lens of a webcam. The device was cleverly hidden in branches, the lens poking from a small gray box.
“Ah—you’ve found me.”
At that moment, I’m not certain what I felt. There was a rush of excitement, but along with it came a nagging suspicion that something was wrong. It all seemed too easy—as if we had been meant to find the killer’s webcam.
“Congratulations, Detective Kane,” said the digitally modified voice. “We have made contact, you and I. Nevertheless, if you think Edmund’s paltry principle will assist in your niggling investigation, you’re sadly mistaken.”
With that, the line went dead.
15
Starbucks
Dr. Erich Krüger removed his AirPods, powered down his prepaid cellphone, and took a final sip of coffee, leaving the cup half full. Allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction, he stored his wireless earphones and returned them to his briefcase.
All in all, he decided, things were progressing well.
Reclining in the front seat of his Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan, Dr. Krüger continued watching the sylvan scene on his laptop, tracking Kane and his gaggle of assistants through the Botanical Garden. Revisiting the UCLA site, if only in cyberspace, reminded Dr. Krüger of the exquisite experience he had enjoyed on Friday night.
And from there, his thoughts naturally turned to his latest acquisition.
Did he have time to visit?
Outside, traffic on Camino Del Mar was beginning to pick up. Dr. Krüger glanced at his watch. He had been in the seaside city of Encinitas checking on his next calendar girl, Miss August, when he had received a motion-activated alert from the UCLA webcam. Unfortunately, he was still thirty minutes from home. Complicating matters, he had a consultation appointment scheduled for noon that day at his Rancho Bernardo office, precluding any thought of paying a visit to his current guest—at least for the moment.
Regretfully, a session with Ella would have to wait.
Dr. Krüger shut down his webcam software, exited his voice-masking program, and closed his computer. After disconnecting the burner phone, he placed everything in his briefcase—with the exception of the cellphone, of course. That would have to go.
Leaning across the passenger seat, Dr. Krüger opened the glove box and withdrew a monogrammed silk handkerchief, using it to remove any stray fingerprints he might have left on the phone. Then, briefly stepping from his car, he placed the cheap cellphone on the asphalt and splintered it beneath his heel. Next, the shattered device went into his half-full Starbucks cup, the plastic top secured in place. Again using the handkerchief to remove any remaining fingerprints, he placed everything into a clean paper bag. Later, the bag and its contents would be deposited in a trash receptacle several blocks distant.
Attention to detail was a habit Dr. Krüger had embraced long ago. What might seem an insignificant detail could make the difference between freedom and incarceration, and Dr. Krüger intended never to be caught.
Dr. Krüger started his car and exited the Starbucks lot. As he pulled onto Camino Del Mar, he allowed himself another brief smile, deciding that things were progressing better than well.
Better than well, indeed.
Just as planned.
16
Bombshelter Bistro
Our CART team will want to take a look at that webcam, Kane,” said Taylor, digging into her Cobb salad. “Mmm, this is delicious,” she continued. “And we’ll need a copy of that phone recording, too.”
Upon discovering the killer’s webcam, I had called criminalist Frank Tremmel from SID back to the site. Using a ladder, Tremmel and an assistant had removed the surveillance device, along with taking photos and plaster casts of several indentations at the base of the tree—presumably left by the killer’s ladder. Afterward, for the first time feeling guardedly optimistic about the investigation, we had elected to grab lunch at the UCLA Bombshelter Bistro—a student hangout on a pleasant, tree-lined terrace just north of the Botanical Garden.
“Don’t worry, Taylor. As soon as SID is done, I’ll make sure your guys get a look at the webcam,” I assured her, finishing the last of my turkey sandwich. Rocking back in my chair, I glanced around the food court. Behind us, a scattering of students had gathered beneath a vine-covered pergola—some working on laptops, others having a bite to eat between classes—none near enough to overhear our conversation.
“And the phone recording?” Taylor persisted, reaching for her iced tea. As she did, her jacket sleeve rode up, exposing another bruise—this one on her wrist.
“Kayaking must be more of a contact sport than I thought,” I
noted.
“Sometimes,” Taylor replied, noticing my glance. “Don’t try to change the subject,” she went on, pulling down her sleeve. “What about your phone recording of the killer’s voice?”
Deluca, who had ordered short ribs, julienne vegetables, and potatoes, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “Speaking of that recording, we need to discuss some ‘fruit of the poisonous tree’ issues here, Taylor,” he said, starting on another rib. “California requires two-party consent for phone recordings.”
While waiting for Tremmel to arrive, I had checked my trap-and-trace on killer’s call, establishing that the transmission had originated from an untraceable phone in San Diego. By then, Arturo had departed to return to the CART unit in West L.A., and the three of us had listened to the recording in private. Several times, in fact—so we all knew what was involved.
“There is no expectation of privacy in the commission of a felony,” Taylor pointed out. “Besides, the federal requirement for voice recordings is single-party consent. You consented, didn’t you, Kane?”
“That’s not the point,” I replied. “I haven’t had time to get a warrant for recording the killer’s voice, and if this gets to court in California, I don’t want to take even the slightest chance of the case getting kicked on a technicality. Don’t forget, even though he’s masking his voice, the guy hasn’t actually admitted to the commission of any crime. The privacy issue may not apply.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply saying that I’ll be happy to send the Bureau a copy of the voicemail that the killer just left on my cellphone.”
“Voicemail, huh?” said Taylor, clearly unhappy with my solution.
“Works for me,” said Deluca.
Taylor shrugged. “If it comes out . . .”
“Then we’re back to the poisonous tree issue, which we’re trying to avoid,” I said. “Are you good with this or not?”
Taylor hesitated. “You’ll have to delete the part where the killer mentions your conversation being recorded.”
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