Blood of Others (32 page)

Olivia heard
the hydraulic groan of the flaps
adjusting the Chicago jet’s final approach for San Francisco.

The short visit with her
relatives in Oak Park had been wonderful. Her cousin, Heather, had visited from
St. Louis with her adorable little boys. Seeing them ignited Olivia’s maternal
desires. She could not resist constantly cuddling her “sweet angel nephews.”
The family get-together had lifted her aunt’s spirits, inspiring plans for a
Thanksgiving reunion at Olivia’s house.

Her eyes glistened.

Not long ago, she had been lost.
Iris Wood’s tragedy had forced her to examine her own life, to meet others
on-line; good people who had encouraged her, like Mr. Caselli had, to jump into
life. To risk her heart. She was indebted to them, for now she had Ben. She was
so lucky.
It all goes to show you that you never know what fate has in store
for you.

The pilot dimmed the cabin
lights, and the metropolitan Bay Area glittered below. Olivia hoped Ben had
received her message that she was returning on an earlier flight. The airline
had tracked her down, alerting her to it. Had she left a Chicago contact
number? She wasn’t sure. She shrugged it off as the landing gear doors grumbled
open.

In San Francisco, Wyatt tried to
reign in his rage over Sydowski’s accusation and the way he shoved his
information aside, refusing to even listen.

Wyatt’s key stuck in his lock
before it worked. He kicked the door closed behind him. The red message light
on his answering machine was flashing. One new message.

“Hi Ben, it’s Liv. I’m rushing to
get on my plane at O’Hare. The airline has me returning on an earlier flight.
Something about a computer thing with my fare, an early departure. I know
you’re busy at work so please don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll take a taxi.
So, see ya when I get home.”

Just as well,
Wyatt
thought,
I don’t want to meet Olivia in this mood.
He grabbed a beer,
flopped on his sofa to study his copy of the Las Vegas material Reed had given
him.

Maybe he should use it to try
tracking this guy? It was genuine data, judging from Sydowski’s reaction.
Reed’s computer friend had only got so far, but he didn’t have the arsenal
Wyatt had. Nobody did. He glanced at the CDs and disks Gricks had given him.
Wyatt knew that if he conducted an unauthorized probe, it would be his job. He
tried to make sense of what
he
knew. The suspect was Eugene Vryke from
Maryland, but they had no real résumé on him. So far, the FBI’s Internet
people, who had taken over Iris Wood’s system, hadn’t produced any cyber-stuff
on anybody. If they had, no one had told Wyatt.

They had focused on airport
rentals from Maryland. Fort Meade was in Maryland, along with several
high-level military installations, the area where Gricks said secret research
was done on INFERNO.

Wyatt glanced at the Las Vegas
pictures, Carla Purcell’s cryptic e-mail, possibly a direct road into the
suspect’s domain. Wyatt had no authority to take it. It would be his job. So
what?
You’re already serving the time, might as well commit the crime.
He fired up his computer, inserted the last of the CD’s Gricks had given him.
There were five strategies remaining. The password prompt appeared and Wyatt
typed
Sleepy, Grumpy, Doc, Dopey.

His fingers trembled slightly as
he began working on the person who had written to Carla Purcell:

Dear CP:

I just have to know, if you
found the right man, could you forgive him the sins of his past life?

iamu

At that moment, in the San
Francisco homicide detail, the call to California from the FBI’s Baltimore
field office on Eugene Vryke’s alias, Neil Chattersly of CiceroComputrex, set
off a turf war between the SFPD and the FBI. It burned with the same intensity
as a Fourth of July sparkler before an agreement was reached.

Vryke was a federal suspect, the
information was FBI information. The FBI would take the lead on taking him
down.

Using the name Neil Chattersly,
Vryke was registered as a guest at the new SlumberLand, one of the scores of
large hotels located along El Camino Real in San Bruno, just south of San
Francisco International. Security camera video footage from the midafternoon
was compared with the United Coast rental picture to confirm it was Vryke. He
had not checked out. Housekeeping quickly confirmed he was absent from the
sixth-floor room but his belongings appeared in use. Toothbrush on the bathroom
countertop. Computers on the desk. The maid recovered a bathroom glass that the
Bureau printed in a mobile evidence van parked in a nearby hangar, which was
being used as the San Francisco FBI SWAT team’s command post.

They moved swiftly, establishing
perimeters. The rooms next to Vryke’s, above and below, were seized by the FBI.
Agents dressed in SlumberLand staff clothes, or appearing as tourists, worked
on the floor, stairways, elevators. Snipers took points in rooms and rooftops
of hotels adjacent to the SlumberLand. Jetliners roared overhead, strobe lights
and turbines lighting up the night.

Less than a quarter mile from the
SlumberLand, Sydowski and Turgeon joined the small law enforcement army
listening and waiting at the FBI command post. The constant thunder of aircraft
left the investigators alone with their thoughts. For Sydowski, one of the most
chilling aspects emerging from Vryke’s case was the rising number of victims
they could now link to him. Since he and Toronto police had submitted their
cases to the VICAP and ViCLAS systems, offering the most comprehensive
evidentiary details on Vryke’s crimes, program specialists were calling with
more matches. The FBI was trying to arrange a multiagency emergency meeting in
Quantico.

The black coffee in Turgeon’s
takeout cup rippled with little circles as she read the latest sheet. “Jesus,
Walt.”

The number of women now feared to
have been murdered by Eugene Vryke in the U.S. and around the world now stood
at twelve.

In his apartment at his keyboard,
Wyatt lost track of time as he attempted to tiptoe his way into the suspect’s
system. Bleary-eyed and exhausted he had only three untried strategies
remaining of the twenty Gricks had supplied. Nothing was working. Wyatt rubbed
his face when his monitor clicked, the screen’s contents vanished into a single
pinpoint of light. His system went down.

“What the hell.”

In a futile gesture Wyatt
unplugged everything, replugged it, restarted, waiting for it all to come up.
Instead, a galaxy of alien data blurred across his monitor in a blizzard of
static.

Wyatt looked into his monitor and
froze.

Olivia appeared on his screen,
smiling, as if talking to the viewer.

“May I help you?”

“I understand you offer
forgiveness here?”

A man’s voice. Was he behind a
camera? A hidden camera?

“Excuse me, I don’t quite --”

“Cards. Forgiveness cards--”

The image vanished.

Olivia.

Wyatt swallowed, struggling to
comprehend.
But the store’s closed now. What the hell?
He knew Olivia’s
e-mail. Her username was livinsf.
It can’t be Olivia.
With no time to
consider ethics, Wyatt got into Olivia’s Internet e-mail system easily. Her
last exchange was with iamu. Who was that?

Is there anyone out there who
can truly forgive the sins of a past life?
iamu asked.

I am the one,
she had
responded.

Now I have the courage. I’ll
never be alone again. Thank you livinsf.

All the blood drained from
Wyatt’s face.

Oh, Jesus. He’s here. He’s
stalking Olivia.

Wyatt dialed Olivia’s home
number. It rang unanswered. She wasn’t yet back from Chicago.
Her message.
He replayed it. What airline? What time? He played the message.

“…something about a computer
thing with my fare, an early departure…” Again. “…a computer thing...”

Computer.

What airline? Did he have time to
search? Who would know her flight number? Her family in Chicago. Their names?
He didn’t know. Her aunt.
Think.
He had no clue.
Call the airline.
Damn. Start with the big ones.
He’d be on hold forever. Wait. Her mother
had died, just a few years ago. Wyatt called the San Francisco airport paging
service to have Olivia Grant paged, then switched on his high-speed police
laptop, logged onto the
Star
archives. Obits. Entered his credit card.
Searched.
Grant
and
Olivia
and
daughter,
and what was her
aunt’s first name?
Maureen.
He submitted his search.
Come on. One
match. There it is….daughter Olivia and sister Maureen Latzer, husband Randall
Latzer, of Oak Park, Illinois.
Wyatt called directory, then placed the call
on his cell phone, rushing to his car.

‘Hello, you’ve reached…”

Damn.
Taking a breath, he
left a message and his cell phone number, then drove to Olivia’s house, praying
she was home.

He rang her doorbell. No answer.

Wyatt walked to the rear,
startled by a cat chasing a squirrel near a rear basement window. A motion-detector
light switched on, he saw a hairline fracture of glass. Crouching down, he used
his penlight to inspect the window. He saw a shoe impression. Wyatt swallowed.
He saw the carefully cut glass, saw the loosened bars, tapped at it and it fell
in, smashing inside. He studied the impression. It matched Vryke’s Colossal
Sports Strider on the case board.

Jesus! He’s here.

Wyatt called 911. Went to the
rear door, broke the glass and entered with his gun drawn, searching every room
and closet of the house, then waited at the front gate for the patrol unit,
flashing his star, explaining. They searched again. He called Turgeon’s cell
phone.

“Linda, he’s here. Vryke’s in San
Francisco.”

“We know.”

“You know?”

“Listen, Ben. It’s okay. But I
can’t really talk now.”

There was so much background
noise.
Jets?

“Just tell me if she’s with you,
Linda.”

“Who?”

“Olivia. My -- Olivia Grant.”

“I don’t know what you’re --
Listen, We’ve got a line on him. Everything’s under control. Relax. I got to
go.”

Turgeon hung up.

Damn. He had to find Olivia.

“Could you guys hang out here?
Half an hour or so? Have something to eat. Just to check on the welfare of the
resident and call me.” He left his card. “Please?”

The uniforms shrugged. They’d
stay as long as they could. Wyatt’s cell phone trilled as he headed to his car.

“Randall Latzer here.”

“Thanks for calling, Mr. Latzer.”

“You’re the detective Olivia was
going on about. She’s sweet on you, sir.”

“Randall, did she say what flight
she was on? It was changed and I was supposed to pick her up.”

“Yes, got it written down. Let’s
see…”

Wyatt’s cell phone began beeping,
his battery was dying. He had to get to the airport. He needed to be certain.

“Funniest thing. A man called
here and said she had to be on an earlier flight. Here we go.” Randall Latzer
recited the airline flight number.

“Hope you’re at the airport,
Ben.”

“Why?”

“Because her plane is due to
arrive now.”

Wyatt smashed his gas pedal to
the floor. His mind racing through the fastest possible route to San Francisco
International.

“A man called here and said
she had to be on an earlier flight.”

No. This can’t be.
A joke.
Would the cops do this to him? Did they hate him that much to set him up? Push
him over the edge? Weaving through expressway traffic, lights glaring, horns
blaring, Wyatt grabbed his dying phone, punching the number for Turgeon’s cell
phone.

“Turgeon.” He could barely hear
her.

“It’s Wyatt. Linda, he’s at the
airport. I think he’s at the airport.”

“Ben we know you can’t ---” Then
he heard Sydowski. “You are
off
this case, Wyatt! Stop calling!”

Landing gear locked, Olivia’s jet
whined to earth near the SlumberLand just as an FBI SWAT team member spotted
movement in Vryke’s hotel room.

The commander gave the green
light for a hard entry, and four heavily armed members stormed the room. It was
empty. The movement was a curtain billowed by the air conditioner’s fan,
throwing an eerie shadow.

One of the agents drew his team’s
attention to a wall covered by a large fabric mural the hotel had installed to
muffle sound. Something was visible from under a corner. They lifted it, then
yanked the mural down, jaws dropping.

God Almighty.

Photographs of women were pinned
to the wall. Floor to ceiling. Color headshots.