by Drew Murray
Status in the Valley comes from having the fastest-growing, hottest product. Bonus points for being a young age. Money is the official scorecard.
What I did, walking away, confuses guys like Hicks. On one hand they’re convinced that I’ve lost my mind, the only possible explanation for dropping out of the race. On the other hand, they’re glad I’m now one less voice they have to drown out for attention.
“Is he an almost-billionaire like you?” Dana asks.
I snort. “Not like me. I invented something, founded a company, and built it. He’s a corporate drone; he never invented anything. I don’t know if he’s ever even written a line of code. But he’s rich, sure. Second from the top at Pyntel.”
“Really? What’s he doing here?” asks Dana.
“He said he was getting in touch with his customers,” I say, looking over her shoulder. Hicks has disappeared into a swarm of twenty-year-olds in Pyntel t-shirts handing out swag.
“Do you believe him?”
“Not for a second. It’s a pretense for him to be here.”
“Think it’s connected to Caplan’s murder?”
“Caplan?” I look back at the corporate flunkies in their khakis and team shirts. “Not directly. But the connection to the Fukushima Unicorn is too much coincidence to ignore. If Pyntel managed to get their hands on it, they’d monetize it into products worth hundreds of billions.”
“You think he knows it was here,” says Dana.
“Show me what happened to Caplan, and I’ll tell you.”
She squints at me again, evaluating. Finally, she looks me in the eye and says, “Brace yourself.”
CHAPTER NINE
There’s blood. A lot of it.
Caplan’s body has been taken away by the coroner, but the bathroom where he met his end has been left as is. Probably because they think the FBI would want to see it for ourselves. As I hold my hand to my face to try and filter out the coppery smell of blood that’s sprayed or smeared on just about every surface, including the ceiling, I think I really could have done without.
Try as I might to avoid it, that smell gets deep into the back of my throat and I cough, barely managing not to gag. Thankfully, there’s nothing but Tropical Blend in my stomach to make a repeat appearance if I did.
“You all right?” Dana asks, looking at me, a frown creasing her forehead. I suspect she’s afraid I’m going to contaminate her crime scene.
Not sure I can speak without vomiting, I nod, hoping it comes off as more confident than I feel.
“Haven’t seen a lot of gore, have you?” she says.
I shake my head. No, I really haven’t. We saw photos of violent crimes at Quantico, but since then I’ve been in Cyber where most of the crime takes place online, at a distance. Sure, I’d seen some fuel for nightmares: child pornography, tortured victims of human trafficking. But not messy murders, and definitely not in person.
One side of the room is stalls. The other is split in half with a partial wall between the urinals and a handful of sinks, set into a granite countertop with a dark grain. One of the sinks is completely soaked in blood; everywhere else has been sprayed.
“Let me run it down for you,” says Dana, snapping her gloves into place. She looks over at me. Do I see a flicker of sympathy in her eyes?
“The blood trail starts here,” she continues, pointing at the sink soaked in blood. “Spatter is consistent with his head striking the edge of the counter. Caplan was most likely hit from behind, smashing his head down. There’s a corresponding wound on his forehead.”
She draws an imaginary line across her forehead with one finger of her nitrile gloved hand. The Tropical Blend churns. Ugh.
“After that, there was a struggle. It’s going to take Miller and his team some time to work out the sequence of events from the spatter patterns. They cross over each other all over the place. Suffice it to say, Caplan didn’t go right down. Whether he fought or was just flopping around, we can’t tell yet.”
One of the stall doors has a smear on it. He surely went in there at one point. I look at the floor in front of the toilet. Smudgy footprints in the blood are swirled around in a circular pattern.
“Someone tried to disguise their tracks,” I say, pointing at the footprints.
“Good eye,” says Dana. “There are at least two distinct sets of prints so far. One belongs to Caplan, the other to the unsubs.”
“Unsubs? There was more than one?” asks Decker. He’s leaning up against the door, hanging back and watching, trying to look casual. I’m not buying it. He’s rigid, muscles tense. I wonder how many crime scenes like this he’s seen, but then, he was in the Army, so he’s probably seen worse. Maybe it’s his natural uptightness. Maybe you never get over seeing this stuff.
“We can’t tell, so we’re assuming the possibility of multiple suspects at this point,” Dana says. “Whoever made the tracks went back and smeared them out to hide the tread patterns. Could have been one, could have been half a dozen. No way to know until the techs go over every one of them.”
“How long is that going to take?” Decker asks.
“Too long,” I say. “Any sign of the Unicorn?”
“There’s a void on the counter,” she says. “Miller caught it. The dark pattern of the countertop hides it well, but there’s definitely a line to the right of the sink. Something was up there. But it wasn’t a hard case like the one in the hotel room.”
“How do you know?” asks Decker.
“Wavy line?” I ask Dana. She nods. “Something soft. A bag?”
“Miller can’t say for certain, but that seems likely.”
“Radiation?” I ask.
“Inconclusive. Miller said nothing rose above background levels, but if it was only in here for a few minutes it wouldn’t leave much of a trace.”
“Did he check the rest of the building?”
“Yeah, nothing.”
I sigh. Did I really think it would be that easy to find?
“Anything else left behind?” I ask. “Anything on him?”
“Wallet, hotel key card, the usual,” says Dana.
“Phone?”
She pauses, unsure. She takes out her phone and looks something up. “No. Miller’s report doesn’t list a phone. Not at the scene, none on the body.”
“What about his hands?”
“His hands?” Dana asks, pinching her eyebrows together.
“Were they covered in blood?”
“Wait a second,” she says, scrolling through the report. “Yes, they were bloody. Except for the right index finger. That was wiped clean. That’s weird.”
“It’s obvious.”
“How did you know about that?” asks Decker, unfolding his arms and cocking his head to the side.
“His phone. We know he had it when he left the hotel. It isn’t here now. So, the killer, or someone else, took it. If it’s locked, it’s useless.”
“The fingerprint scanner,” says Dana. “Would have been easy while the blood was still wet, before it got sticky. Definitely happened after someone cracked his skull open.”
Gross. That’s enough. I’m out of here.
I walk back out onto the Con floor, thankful to get away from that smell. Looking down at my feet, I remember I’m wearing my favorite pair of Converse. Just my luck. I should have known better. I lift them up to look at the soles. At first glance they look clean, but the sole is dark and—
“What are you doing?”
Standing there on one foot, the other pulled up to examine the sole, I look up to see a short, portly man scuttling my way. He’s got a receding hairline but thick, bushy eyebrows over dark brown eyes that are glowering at me. His olive complexion is flushed and he’s puffing.
“Take off those gloves,” he says, pointing a meaty finger. The thick gold rings on his hand sparkle in the bright lights of the vendor hall.
“What?”
“You look like a cop; take off those gloves.”
“I am a cop. FBI
,” I say, reaching into my pocket.
“No badges,” hisses the portly man.
Sally Park pushes through the crowd and hurries toward us. The portly man must be Farber.
“All right, settle down,” I say, dropping my foot back to the ground.
“Don’t tell me to settle down,” he says, balling his hands into fists. “You’re supposed to be keeping this out of sight.”
Park arrives, clutching her clipboard to her chest, tiny beads of sweat on her brow.
“These are the FBI, Mr. Farber. They have no uniforms, and you said to let them in if they have no uniforms,” says Ms. Park.
“I said not to let them in if they looked like cops, like wearing uniforms. Cops around the entrances look like security. Cops wearing gloves and gathering in groups inside looks like there’s a problem. Smarten up. Details, Sally!” he says, waggling a finger at her. She lowers her head quickly, murmuring an apology. I don’t think this is the first time he’s cut her down.
“It’s all right, Ms. Park,” I say, taking off the gloves and balling them up inside out in my fist. “I’m finished anyway.”
“You’re finished?” asks Farber, wheeling on me. “Good, so I can get that room cleaned and reopened? That’s supposed to be the bathroom for the celebrities. They’re going to be pissed if they don’t have their own bathroom away from the weirdos.”
“Hold on, I didn’t say we’re finished with the room. I’m just finished with the gloves.”
“Are you messing with me?”
“You’d know it if I was.”
“So, when are you going to be finished? I need that room.”
This guy’s on fire. I get that he wants his Con to get back to business as usual, but this Caplan guy had his lights snuffed out just a few hours ago. The blood is barely dry. Probably still sticky in some places. My stomach lurches.
“What’s going on out here?” says Decker, coming up behind me.
Good. Let Decker handle him. My stomach flops over and I remember I still haven’t eaten anything. Maybe food would settle it, unappetizing as that is after what I just witnessed. I start walking away.
“Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere. That’s right, walk on out of here, public servant. There’s business to be done here.”
“Easy,” says Decker. There’s a warning in his tone. The storm is brewing. “A man’s dead here.”
“Yeah, well, it’s one guy. Business goes on. My business.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard someone so callous about another life. I worked human trafficking cases, after all. But there’s something different today. I wish it was the way Caplan was killed, or anxiety about the Unicorn, or a lack of sleep. If I’m honest with myself, I know what it is. The last time I saw blood like this was the night Sterling killed Kate Mason. When he sliced her throat, the blood spraying down her chest, I turned away. I couldn’t watch. I didn’t want to see what I’d done.
My face burns with the memory of my mistake. I clench my hands into tight fists, fingernails digging into my palms. My breathing is ragged. I spin and I’m back in front of Farber. Close. Invading his personal space, but not touching him. I loom over him, forcing him to look up at me.
“Look, Farber, I don’t think you know who you’re talking to.”
“Sure, I do,” he says, poking a finger at my chest, but stopping shy of making contact. “Just another cop. We’ve already got too many here. One phone call and I can have you removed.”
“First, one question,” I say so close I know he’s smelling Tropical Blend. “Where were you last night, Mr. Farber?”
He stops abruptly, like he just ran into a wall. His mouth flaps open and shut.
“At home, not that it’s any of your business,” he says, but his voice wavers, a crack in the bluster.
“I decide what’s my business. And I’ll tell you who I am. I’m the guy that can put out one Tweet to a million followers and have this place emptied out within the hour.”
“Bull.” But there’s no conviction. This isn’t going at all like he expected. He’s thinking it over, trying to figure out if I’m bluffing.
“Oh, I’d listen to him,” says Decker. “He’s got his own Wikipedia page.”
“Suit yourself.” I take my phone out. At first, Farber just stands there glaring at me as I type. Soon enough he starts to look nervous, biting his lip and shifting his weight before he relents.
“Fine. But I told you, no gatherings of cops,” he says finally, leaning over to look around me at Decker and Dana. “You’re not wearing gloves, but you look like cops.”
“What about him?” Decker asks, pointing at me.
He glares at me, his eyes settling on my X-Wing fighter t-shirt.
“He’s fine, he looks like one of them,” he says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd.
“They’re fine, too,” I say. “They’re cosplaying The X-Files. Mulder and Scully.”
Farber’s eyes dart back and forth between Decker and Dana. His mouth opens and then closes again. He has no idea what I’m talking about.
“Whatever,” he says finally. “But stop standing around.”
Farber turns and storms off, Sally Park chasing along behind him.
“Wasn’t Mulder a white guy?” asks Decker.
“He doesn’t know that,” I answer.
“He’s going to call Chief Wilmont,” says Dana. “Then Wilmont’s going to call me.”
“We’re going to get a call from Burke,” says Decker.
Still in my hand, my phone buzzes with a message.
“Well then we’d better get moving.”
CHAPTER TEN
Bradley W: Got something, can you talk?
Me: Not right now. Tell me.
Bradley W: Caplan into Dark Net.
Me: Seriously? Doing what?
Bradley W: Still working on details. Looks like marketplace.
Me: Buying or selling?
Bradley W: Selling.
Me: Fukushima Unicorn?
Bradley W: Yup. Auction.
Me: Who won?
Bradley W: You’d really better call me.
Me: FaceTime in 5.
I need to find someplace quiet enough to talk to Bradley, and it isn’t out on the main floor of the vendor hall. Making my way through the crowd, it seems like the flow is always going the other way, so I’m left sliding around the masses, dodging people left and right.
“Where are you going?” Dana asks. I hadn’t even realized she was following me.
“I need to make a call.”
“You went a little hard back there, don’t you think?” she asks turning sideways to pass between a Wookie and a zombie.
“Farber’s an asshole,” I reply, reaching the end of the aisle and breaking out of the crowd.
“No disagreement here,” she says, catching up and walking beside me. “You always this blunt?”
“I don’t like to waste time.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Where are we headed?”
“We?”
“Listen, I didn’t get saddled with two FBI agents because a collectibles vendor got killed in a bathroom,” she says, keeping her eyes on the crowds ahead. “Whatever you’re here for, it isn’t to catch a murderer. That’s on me, even after you leave. But whatever case you’re working is connected to my homicide, so we’re either in this together, or getting in each other’s way. In my years on the job, I’ve learned that together leads to closed cases and getting in the way leads to cold cases. I prefer closed. You?”
She’s not wrong.
“A panel room. That’s where we’re headed,” I answer.
“What’s that?”
“Where they have presentations, talking about your favorite show, or books, or get cosplay tips or whatever. They’re quiet.”
“Who are we calling?”
“My technician in LA. He’s got something.”
She waves me on with a smile, and we go back to working our way through
the crowd.
The panel rooms are on the other side of the main entrance. In each, a podium at the front faces about fifty chairs arranged in rows. Small for a Con, but with four walls and a door, perfect for me.
In the first one we come to, a young woman in a Kawaii maid café outfit with bright pink hair is setting up wigs and costume pieces on a table next to the podium.
“FBI,” I say, holding up my badge. “We need the room. Now. Out.”
The young woman looks put out, but she leaves quickly. I close the door behind her.
“Give me a hint,” says Dana.
“Our vic’s been a bad boy online,” I say, taking out my phone and setting it on the podium. “He’s been on the Dark Net.”
“The Dark Net? Like where you can find a hit man? How did he do that?” Her jacket is pulled back again and she’s resting her hand on her hip. This is what I’ve come to coin her “investigator” pose.
“Hit man, or bulk drug shipments, or child prostitutes. The Dark Net’s invisible to search engines like Google. But if you have the right software, it’s wide open.”
“What was a guy like Caplan doing there?”
“Looks like he was trying to sell the Fukushima Unicorn.”
Concern crosses her face like a cloud. Elements of a much larger, darker world have arrived in her city. But she doesn’t look surprised or fearful, like this is something she’s never seen before. Mostly she seems disappointed.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Miami.”
The call connects and Bradley’s clean-shaven face appears. He’s a youthful thirty with a jaunty, hipster hairstyle. Normally it’s coiffed high above his head, but today it flops over on its side, a casualty of the late night before.
“Will, can you speak?” he asks, seeing Dana over my shoulder.
“Go ahead. This is Detective Lopez, local PD. Caplan’s murder is her case.”
“Sure, Boss,” he says, turning to his left. There’s some clacking of keys as he brings up notes on his second monitor.
“Caplan was deep into the Dark Web,” he continues. “I’m still trying to catalogue it all. But it seems he started going there after finding some threads on Reddit about sketchy celebrity stuff. At first, it was limited to things like fappening-style nudes and, I kid you not, a lock of George R.R. Martin’s hair. Basically, anything he thought he could make a buck off of.”