by Drew Murray
“I think we should look at Hicks.”
“The corporate guy?” Dana asks. “Why would we look at him?”
“I think he might be rogue. He’s looking for a Hail Mary.”
Without using Keira’s name, I fill them in on what she told me about Hicks dipping his pen in the company inkwell.
“To save his job, he’s got to come up with something so valuable it makes the inevitable lawsuit worth spending a lot of cheddar to defend,” I say, swirling the coffee around in the cup. “What could possibly be that valuable?”
“The Fukushima Unicorn,” says Dana, clapping her hands and looking me in the eye.
“Bingo. When I visited Hicks and Morley at the RV earlier today, Hicks was a wreck. Far from the schmoozy guy he was first thing in the morning. The first time, approaching me, he had time to prepare, to put on his game face. But the second time, I caught him off guard. Then there’s Morley. She said his mood shifted to the dark side overnight. The night of the murder.”
“So, he’s in a bad mood,” says Decker. “That doesn’t make him a kidnapper.”
“What if Hicks was after the Unicorn, confronted Caplan for it, failed to get it, and killed him?” Dana asks. “Caplan said he had an assistant. We know that he was referring to Amanda, but no one else would, so Hicks would think the auction was still on. He takes Amanda figuring she would still be leverage against whoever Caplan’s assistant is.”
“Are you sure this isn’t a holdover from the Valley? Some beef you had with him back in the day?” asks Decker.
“Absolutely not,” I say, then I think about it. No, still probably not.
“We haven’t identified all the bidders,” says Dana. “Who else could be one?”
“All right, all right! You want to take a look at Hicks, be my guest,” says Decker abruptly. “But we’re still bringing in Farber in the morning. He’s our best lead.”
“Will, what do we know about how they grabbed Amanda?” asks Nassar, changing the topic and breaking the tension.
“So far Bradley confirmed that she landed in town, and checked into her hotel. After that nothing. We’ve been working it back from the ransom note.”
She looks over at Griffon by the coffee machine, pouring himself a cup. “Why don’t Peter and I start working it from the other end?” she says. “See if we can figure out how they grabbed her.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Go ahead,” says Decker, glaring at me.
“Ping Bradley, he’ll fill you in on the hotel details. Do you still have his coordinates?” I ask, ignoring Decker. I’m not telling Nassar what to do. I can’t help it if she’s looking to me as a thought leader.
“Right here,” she says, waving her phone. “We’re on it. Let’s go, Pete.”
The two agents take off down the hall, a spring in their step I’m envious of.
“I’m calling it,” I say, stretching my arms above my head. “I’m going back to the hotel to get some sleep.”
“Before you go, Decker says you guys found a video loop at the Convention Center,” says Dana.
My arms flop back to my sides, a frown creasing my brow. Finishing off the last of the coffee in the paper cup, I crush it in my fist before tossing it in the garbage.
“Decker caught the loop in the video by spotting a bus where it shouldn’t be. Which was great, by the way. Amazing that you caught that.” Might as well toss him a bone. He’ll still be here tomorrow.
Dana nods. “We reviewed that with the chief. He asked if that’s why we don’t have footage of Farber there last night.”
“The video is useless,” I say. “They could have recorded the loop days ago and used it to overwrite the entire evening’s footage.”
“Except they didn’t,” says Dana. “The bus number Decker gave is a special route that runs Thursday to Saturday for the college kids hitting the patio scene. It only runs during late summer and fall. This year, it started this week. That footage has to be from last night.”
My hands rise up to perch on my hips as I consider the implications.
“So?” asks Decker. “Why does it matter when the video came from?”
“If you’re planning a hack like this,” I say slowly as I gather my thoughts, “you want the most boring footage possible. Nothing unusual in it to draw attention or highlight a date, like a car accident, or a storm. The best thing to do is to get it in advance, so it’s clean. You take your time to access and review previous footage to find the best clip before laying it down. Whoever hacked it last night didn’t do that. They grabbed the most recent video and replicated it. Copying over all the evening’s files. They rushed it.”
Decker’s eyes widen. “You think they left traces?”
“Good news and bad news,” I say with a deep sigh. “Bad news is the hack was clean. Super clean. No way we can track it.”
“Well then, what’s the good news?” asks Decker clenching his fists.
“Same thing. The hack was super clean. Too clean for teenage kids. Way too clean for a luddite like Farber. Who do we know that could execute a flawless hack, on the fly, that fast?”
Decker thinks for a second. Working it out. Opening his mouth in a silent gasp, he’s like a kid at Christmas opening the last present and hoping like hell it’s the thing he’s been bugging his mother about for weeks.
“Dragoniis?” Decker whispers.
I nod.
“Boo-yeah!” he shouts, pounding on the table.
Dana and I both jump, our backs as straight as Decker’s, eyes popping wide open.
“Whoa, easy, big guy,” I croak, catching my breath. “Save it for the morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Back at the hotel, I stand looking at the double doors to the Presidential Suite, and inside, its giant, king-sized bed. My eyes are dry and drooping, my breathing is labored, my feet ache, and I’m thinking slowly.
But I can’t stop. Not yet. Something nags away at the edges of my mind, not quite coherent enough to form a thought. There’s something I’m missing about Caplan the night of his murder. Something at the hotel.
Holding the room’s key card in my hand, I review what we know. Caplan came back to the hotel, in shirtsleeves due to the hot night. When he leaves for the Convention Center, he’s wearing a jacket, in theory to conceal the Fukushima Unicorn. Leaving the protective Pelican case behind, he carries the Unicorn on him. Why not take the case?
He couldn’t conceal it. Why does he need to conceal it? Because one or more bidders found out who he is, and they’ll do anything for it. It almost cost Miller his life. Somehow, Caplan figured out they were on to him.
But if he carries the Unicorn without the case, it’s giving off radiation. In small doses it’s harmless, but prolonged exposure would be dangerous. Not just for him, but for anyone in the same room with it. Miller didn’t pick up any radiation at the Convention Center, so either it’s not there, or it’s shielded.
Why move it in the first place?
When Caplan arrived at the hotel, one of Golovchenko’s men was waiting for him. When they got off the elevator, they left video coverage. Did Caplan notice he was being followed sometime after that? We noticed because we were looking for something suspicious. What if Caplan didn’t?
My hand hovers over the key card reader. I need sleep. I know my body and I know that if I don’t get rest, I won’t be thinking clearly. I’ll be struggling to keep up with Decker mentally, which is not a good state of affairs. At the same time, I know I won’t be able to rest right now. Not with this thing gnawing at me. I need an answer.
I pull my hand back. The thing nagging at me coalesces into a thought. More of a what-if question, really, but I know where I can go to get the answer.
Too tired to text on my way down to the hotel security office, I call Bradley.
“We need to look into Hicks,” I say when he answers. “I need to know where he’s staying, his travel plans, everything.”
“Martin Hicks? The Pyntel guy? He�
�s pretty savvy, he could know we’re looking around.”
“Then do it on the sly.”
“That’s harder, Will.”
“If he finds out we’re looking at him, he’ll lawyer up with an army of suits and we won’t get anywhere near him. And if he’s got the Caplan girl …”
“He’ll dispose of the evidence. Right, got it, Boss. I’m on it. I’ll have something by morning,” Bradley says, hanging up.
Dwayne answers right away when I knock on the security office door.
“Agent Parker! I just started. I’m on the night shift this week. Is Agent Decker with you?” he asks, looking over my shoulder.
“No. Do you mind if I take another look at the system?”
His face falls in disappointment, but he lets me in.
The key card data is stored in a relational database. It’s structured in a set of tables, each with raw data linked together through a key. One of the tables is called “Guest Room Doors” that logs each time a door opens and closes. To keep the table organized, each time a door opens, the occurrence is assigned a unique number.
Those unique numbers aren’t accessible through the key card software system itself. I need software that can read straight from the database. I could upload the entire database to Bradley in LA, but it’s large and that would take some time. Besides, he’s working on Hicks. It’ll be faster if I do this myself.
While the database software I need is downloading from the FBI’s servers, Dwayne tells me a story about his dog. At least, I think it was about his dog. It could have been his Mom. I’m not entirely sure, as I struggle to stay awake.
Once the database software is installed, I get to work. I go to the entry where Caplan opened his door at 10:59 p.m. Looking at the raw data, I go backwards, one by one, through the records. I’m in luck, the keys are in sequence.
Caplan’s entry was record number 1957862. The entry before, also at 10:59 p.m., was a door on the third floor. At 10:58 p.m., a door on the ninth floor. There are several entries for 10:58 p.m. and 10:57 p.m. It’s a big hotel so, in any given minute, several doors are being opened.
I work backwards this way for a while, hunched over the screen and mumbling to myself until even Dwayne loses interest and wanders back to his desk. One at a time, row by row, I go back. My finger leaves a greasy streak on the monitor as I drag it upwards.
Finally, I find what I’m looking for. 10:50 p.m. Two records, right next to each other. 1957791 and 1957789. But there’s no 1957790. The record is missing. I go back another ten minutes to be sure, but there are no other gaps in the database. Whatever happened in between has been erased.
Digging deep in the last of my energy reserves, I text Bradley to get a copy of the database.
Momentarily, I consider calling Dana or Decker, but my need for sleep wins out, and I make my way back to my room instead. Leaning against the wall in the elevator, I remember watching Caplan stand right here in the video. Someone went into his room nine minutes earlier.
What did Caplan find when he got there? Was someone still in the room? Or was something out of place, tipping him off? If the intruder had left, wouldn’t there be another missing entry?
Pressing my palm to my forehead, I struggle to concentrate as the elevator door opens and I stagger down the hall.
No. Once they were in, they could have propped the door open like cleaning staff do, using the manual flip-lock. Then they could leave without creating another record.
Whatever Caplan found spooked him. The Unicorn was still there, but now he knows his room isn’t secure. Minutes later, he leaves with it under his coat, soaking up rads.
Later, someone hacks the hotel security system and erases a single database entry. I’m certain the entry was a record of the door to Caplan’s room being opened. Finding and deleting that one entry with such precision, all without leaving a trace, took serious skills. It had to be Dragoniis.
Finally swiping my key card in the reader, I stumble into my suite. The last thing I remember is managing to kick off my Converse before collapsing on top of the bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I wake to the gray light of morning coming in through sheer curtains. In my haste for sleep last night, I didn’t close the blackout blinds. Another thing I didn’t do was set an alarm, so I have this strange sensation of being disconnected from time and space. Floating that way for a moment, I indulge in the isolation from everything, including my thoughts.
Until memories of my nightmares hit me like a hurricane.
They’re the same images that have been haunting me for years. Jack’s office. The computer monitor. The speakers. Bruce Sterling. Only this time with a new twist: it isn’t Kate Mason’s throat he’s holding the shining knife to. It’s Amanda Caplan’s.
Calling out groggily to my phone for the time, it answers with its customary “good morning” at the end. I curse at it, in reply. It’s been nearly five hours. At ninety minutes each, that’s three complete sleep-state cycles. I can live with that. Throw some caffeine on top, and I’ll be good.
Picking up my phone reveals messages from Bradley. I slept right through the alert tones. He has a background on Farber, a location on Hicks, and just an hour ago, a final message that the image analysis is done.
To speed my waking, I shower quickly in cool water. Sleep deprivation isn’t as easy to shake off in my thirties as it was in my twenties. Clean and dressed, I check the mini-bar to see what I’ve got to work with, without going anywhere. Room service crosses my mind, but then I’d have to talk to someone. Inefficient. I need fuel on the run today.
The large fridge is stocked with cold beverages. Skipping past the beer and liquor, I find soda, but that doesn’t pack the punch I’m looking for. Thankfully, on the bottom row I find the familiar tall cans of energy drinks. I pick a sugar-free one. Breakfast of champions.
After a long drink from the frosty, cold can, I finally feel like I’m up to full speed. Checking my inbox, I find an email from Bradley with the enhanced image. This is our best clue to where Amanda is being held, and I eagerly tap the icon.
The tech team at the field office has applied their algorithmic wizardry to the original file to get the clearest picture possible. It’s ten times the size, but the detail is impressive. Tapping to enlarge it, Amanda Caplan’s face fills the screen, eyes wide and glistening behind chunky, teardrop frames. I scroll down to see her nostrils are flared. The orange ball of the gag presses into her open mouth. She’s not wearing any lipstick. Makeup overall is minimal.
Bradley said her parents were divorced. How much did she see Roger? Why did she come here? Simply to spend time with her father? Or is she in on the Fukushima Unicorn sale? Would Roger put his daughter in that kind of danger? But then, I’m not sure he knew how much danger he was in until it was too late.
Sliding further down, the laptop’s screen comes into view. Before the enhancements, I could clearly see the Google doodle for the day, but not much else. Now I can make out the menu bar at the top of the Mac’s screen. It isn’t tack-sharp, there’s only so much the techs can do, but it’s enough to see the browser type and the time.
I’m lucky. They aren’t using Apple’s Safari, or Google’s Chrome. It’s Firefox, a browser that used to be popular, but now only has a single-digit percentage of Mac users.
Zooming in on the Google doodle yields even more info. The doodle that day was a long animation after which a button to enter a mini-game appeared. Since the doodle is in mid-animation, with no button visible, I know that the screen had been refreshed just moments before the picture was taken. Certainly, within the minute displayed on the system clock in the upper right corner of the screen.
Zooming back out a bit, I scan the rest of the image. Amanda’s arms are tied to the chair. With the enhancements you still can’t see much of the chair itself, but you can see that what’s holding her are leather cuffs.
Blood rushes to my fingers, a thousand tiny pinpricks announcing the new flow. Real, ta
ngible clues I can work with. I’ve got a precise moment in time and I know what they were doing in that precise moment. Plus, Amanda’s bonds are unusual. Unusual is good. It’s too early to put a checkmark in the win column, but I can see the path to get me there.
My heart pounds with excitement. That or the energy drink breakfast. Time will tell.
Next, I have to do something I’ve been dreading would be necessary since I saw the ransom photo: eat crow.
Opening the curtains reveals the city below, The Convention Center reflecting the early morning sun from its curved white roof. It’s even earlier in California. Waking up the person I need to call isn’t going to win me points, but somewhere out there in the city before me is a terrified young woman being held against her will. They have what I need to find her. No getting around it. I dial.
When they don’t answer on the first attempt, I hang up, close my eyes, and try again. The second time, the call is answered on the third ring.
“What?” says a male voice in irritation.
Not a great start. This is going to be a tall mountain to climb.
“Rick, it’s Will.”
“You know every phone in the world has call display, right?”
“It’s early. I wasn’t sure if you’d looked.”
“Damn right it’s early, nice of you to notice. What do you want, Will?”
“A favor.” There’s no sense in beating around the bush.
“Are you kidding right now?”
It’s not like I don’t understand. I do. Rick Downie’s a solid guy. And the outfit he ran was decent. But mine was better, and faster. When we put him out of business, he sold what was left to Google. It wasn’t a total disaster; he and his team were given jobs in the behemoth. Which is why I’m talking to him now.
“It’s not for me,” I say. My mouth is dry. I pick up the can of energy drink, only to find it empty.
“Oh, of course not. It never is, is it? Like, breaking up with someone. It’s for their benefit, not yours.”