Mortal Fear (6 page)

What is it, Kiesha? asks the chief.

We traced Strobekker, David M.

A cumulative catching of breath in the conference room. Rap sheet? Mayeux asks tentatively.

No.

Minnesota DMV?

No citations. Had one cara Mercedesbut the plate expired last year.

So who is the guy?

An accountant for a glitzy firm in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

I realize that Kiesha is trying to communicate something to Chief Tobin through eye contact alone. Despite her telepathic urgency, she is unsuccessful.

What is it, dear? asks Arthur Lenz, as though he has known the woman since childhood.

Hes dead, she says, almost as if against her will. David M. Strobekker was beaten to death in an alley in Minneapolis eleven months ago.

A hot tingle races across my forearms.

Holy shit, says Mayeux. What are we dealing with here?

Daniel Baxter points a finger as thick as a Colt Python barrel at Kiesha. Details?

Minneapolis homicide says it looked like a mugging gone bad. Strobekker was single, probably homosexual. He was slumming on a bad stretch of Hennepin Avenue. His skull was so pulped his boss couldnt recognize his face.

Dr. Lenz emits a small sound of what I can only interpret as pleasure.

Positive ID? asks Mayeux.

Dental records and a thumbprint, Kiesha replies. His company kept thumbprint files; dont ask me why. But it was Strobekker for sure.

Not for sure, I say, surprised to hear my own voice.

Why not? Baxter asks sharply.

Well... say Strobekker is the killer. Say he decided to fake his own death so that hed never be suspected in later crimes. He takes a thumbprint from a wino, puts that in his own personnel file, then kills the wino and pulps his face.

What about the dental records? asks Baxter.

I shrug. Im just thinking out loud.

You watch too many movies.

I must see the body immediately, Lenz says to Baxter, his eyes still on me.

Jeff, call the Minneapolis field office, orders Baxter. We want a judge wholl give us an exhumation order
ASAP. Then call the airport and book the first flight up there.

What are you looking for? I ask.

A pineal gland, among other things, says Lenz, watching me closely. Ever heard of it?

I shake my head while I memorize the term. My knowledge of anatomy is limited, but my wifes is encyclopedic.

The two women who died in California were linked because a pathologist from San Fransisco happened to mention an unsolved homicide case to a colleague at a convention. A woman had been murdered by strangulation, then had both eyes removed and wooden stakes driven through the sockets. When the pathologist sectioned the brain, he found that the points of both stakes terminated in the third ventricle of the braina little too perfectly for him. Stranger still, he found that part of the pineal gland was missing, which the stakes would not account for. The colleague who heard thisa pathologist from Los Angeleshad an unsolved homicide that was completely different in almost every respect. A woman had been beaten to death with a claw hammer, probably by someone she knew. Her brain sustained horrific damage. But this did not explain why much of her pineal gland was gone. This chance conversation ultimately linked the crimes. Then the police promptly charged down the wrong track and decided they were dealing with cult murders.

Lenzs tone of voice when he says police earns him few friends in this room. He points his index finger at me.

You tied those two victims to four others, through EROS. All four of those women also died from severe head wounds, or sustained postmortem head trauma. Pistol shot, shotgun blast, lethal fall. One was decapitated, as was Karin Wheat. Were exhuming the first three and conducting repeat autopsies on the heads. If the condition of the brains permits it, I strongly suspect we will find that these women are missing all or part of their pineal glands.

The psychiatrist is staring at me as though he expects me to start filling in gaps for him.

What the hell does the pineal gland do? I ask.

As Lenz and Baxter stare silently at me, my survival instinct tells me its time to test the bars on this cage. Look, I say, directing my words to Chief Tobin, I think you guys have definitely stepped out of my area of expertise. Can I go home now?

Not just yet, Tobin says. Do people ever use their real names on this sex network?

I try to suppress the feeling that Im going to be spending the night in a New Orleans hotel, if not jail. Almost never. The code names are what allow them the freedom to say and be whatever they wish. They might exchange phone numbers to facilitate an f2f meeting, but

Whats f 2f ? asks the chief.

Face-to-face.

Oh. So did the victims give him their numbers?

Not in the conversations Ive printed out.

So how do you think hes learning their names?

I think hes somehow gained access to our accounting files. Theres a master client list in the companys administrative computer, with account numbers, addresses, everything. Thats where I got Strobekkers name.

Who has access to that list? asks Baxter.

Myself, Miles Turner, Jan Krislov. Maybe a few techs. Thats it. The computer handles the billing automatically. Its a pretty sophisticated system.

Who is Miles Turner? asks Lenz.

Hes the primary sysop. We grew up together in Mississippi, but he lives in New York now. Hes the one who got me into this job.

So you think the killer is hacking into the accounting database, says Baxter.

I dont know. Miles tells me its impossible, that the list is protected like nuclear launch codes, but as far as I can see its the only way the killer could get the names. He must have seen that master list at least once. Maybe printed it out.

Not the only way, interrupts Mayeuxs partner. You or this Miles character could have given the list to someone. Or
sold
it to them.

Im on the verge of telling this guy to fuck himself when Baxter asks, Who does security for EROS?

Miles, I reply, still watching Mayeuxs scowling partner.

This Miles Turner is highly proficient with computers? asks Baxter.

Highly doesnt come close.

He has a degree?

MIT.

Serious program, says one of the younger FBI agents.

Graduate degree? Baxter presses.

Degrees, plural. I dont know the exact names, but his specialty is computational physics.

If hes so damned smart, asks Mayeuxs partner, how did Strobekker break through his security?

Its clear that everyone detests this little rat as much as I do, but his question is a good one. I dont know. And he refuses to believe anyone has.

How many techs are there? asks Baxter.

Four, five. Im not positive they have access to the master list, but I think if they wanted to see it, they could figure a way. Theyre good. Miles handpicked every one.

The two younger FBI agents are murmuring between themselves. From the lips of one with whippet eyes I catch, ... nail that fuck with a phone trace... subcontract some NSA geeks... next log-on... no time before Baxter silences them with a glare.

Mr. Cole, he says gently, if you dont mind, wed like you to draw us a floor plan of the EROS offices before you go.

This startles me. I cant do that.

Why not?

Ive never been there.

Never?

Theyre obsessively private about the place. Why do you need that anyway?

No one answers.

Youre not gearing up for some kind of Waco thing, are you? This is nothing like that. Theres a reason for all the secrecy. We have very famous clients.

Relax, Baxter says. Were not the ATF.

Youre all initials to me, Mr. Baxter.

We can arrest your ass right now! yells Mayeuxs partner, finally losing control. I dont know why the hell we havent already!

Go ahead! I shout back, my anger boiling over. You want to arrest me for linking these homicides for you? The press might be real interested to hear a story like that. In fact, my wife knows one of the TV news anchors here from her school days. Maybe I should give her a call.

Lets
everybody just calm down, Chief Tobin booms. With his department under fire from all quarters for corruption, the last thing he needs is more press scrutiny.

Now can I go home? I ask again.

The chief looks hard at Baxter, who in turn looks to Lenz. Lenz finally gives a reserved nod. Baxter reaches into his inside jacket pocket and passes me a card. This is the number of our headquarters in Quantico, Virginia. I want you to check in once a day for the next few days. Obviously well need to speak with you again. Possibly at some length.

Mayeuxs partner looks like he just swallowed a cigarette butt with his coffee, but Chief Tobins hard gaze keeps him muzzled.

Id like to study your EROS printouts on the plane, says Lenz. You are going to leave them with me?

I open my case, lift out the thick stack of pages, and drop it at the center of the table. Theyre all yours. But when Jan Krislov lands on me with both feet and a dozen lawyers, Im going to expect some payback from you guys.

Leave Krislov to us, says Baxter.

Measuring Daniel Baxter against my mental image of EROSs cold-blooded CEO, I stifle a retort and turn to go. One foot is outside the doorway when Lenz says, Mr. Cole?

I turn back, expecting some
Columbo
trick just as I taste freedom. Lenz smiles oddly. What instrument do you play?

The question throws me off balance. Is this some bullshit Barbara Walters question? What kind of tree would I
like to be? But of course its not. I do play an instrument, and somehow Lenz knows that. Guitar, I answer blankly.

The psychiatrist nods, a trace of disappointment in his eyes. Do you sing?

Some people think so. I never did.

The rest of the group looks from me to Lenz, then back again, trying to understand this odd coda to our meeting. My bewilderment holds me in place until the psychiatrist says, Calluses, Mr. Cole. You have well-developed calluses on the fingertips of your left hand.

The hand closes involuntarily. I squint at Lenz, imprinting his face in my memory, then turn and step into the hall.

On my way out of the station, I pass a knot of middle-aged men in sweat-stained suits. They are obviously waiting for something. Their angry voices mark them as anything but Southerners, and before I am out of earshot I realize they are waiting for me.

I quicken my steps.

Once outside, I reflect on Dr. Lenzs little performance. Hes an observant man. But is he smart? A smart man would simply have noted the calluses and bade me farewell. Unless he felt that quickly discovering what instrument I play was important. But even then, a smart man would have remained silent after I answered his question, leaving me mystified by his deductive skills. Yet Arthur Lenz insisted on doing a Sherlock Holmes impression for his captive audience of Lestrades. Why?

The doctor was showing off. I dont know why, but this is somehow important. I cannot escape the feeling that the entire low-key meeting was a carefully orchestrated interrogation designed to look and feel like anything but that. Baxter and Lenz playing good cop while the NOPD played the heavy. Or maybe its more complicated than that. But if they really suspect me, why not arrest me and give me the third degree? Or throw me to the out-of-state wolves who were waiting for me?

One thing is certain. The FBI controlled that meeting. I am free because they want me free. Why do they want that? Could the FBIlike Chief Tobinbe afraid of
the media? Its possible. After seven murderseight including Strobekkerthe Bureaus elite serial killer unit has managed to link exactly none of the crimes. Wrongly accusing the good citizen who connected the murders for them might make their precious Unit an object of ridicule on
Nightline,
not to mention
Hard Copy,
which is already feeding on the case.

I have only intuition to go on, but the voiceless voice in my head has rarely failed me. As I pull the inevitable parking ticket off the windshield of my Explorer and drop the crumpled ball into the gutter, that voice is saying one thing loud and clear:
You have more problems today than you had yesterday.

One of my office telephones is ringing when I turn the key in the front door of the farmhouse. Thinking its Drewe, I race to catch it.

Hello, snitch.

This is not Drewe. The voice in the earpiece is at once strange and familiar. It belongs to Miles Turner.

Youve really shaken things up, havent you, he says.

What have you heard? I ask, shocked at the sauna-level heat that has accumulated inside the house during the day.

Jan is very upset with you.

I figured. Did the FBI call her?

I hear a faint
tsk
. Did they
phone
her? No, Harper. That would be much too easy for the Federal Bureau of Incompetence. They showed up at the door of our offices with a search warrant.

What? At EROS? When?

Two hours ago. Special agents from the New York office.

What did they see?

Not much. Jan locked the master client list in the file room the minute Reception buzzed her and said the FBI was in the building. She refused to give them a key, and that room is like a vault. Actually, it
is
a vault. It reminds me of your grandfathers bomb shelterEisenhower chic. Its got a time lock. Seventy-two hours before that monster opens. I guess the FBI could blow it open or cut it with a blowtorch, but they havent tried. They just posted two men outside it. They didnt even confiscate our servers. Jan thinks the raid was pure intimidation.

I dont think so, Miles. All six of those women I told
you about were murdered this year. Karin Wheat makes seven. And David Strobekker, the man I thought was the killer, makes eight.

So says the FBI.

Come
on,
man. Wake up and smell the fucking coffee! I overheard one guy whispering about phone traces, bringing in the NSA, George Orwell stuff.

As a matter of fact, Jan is about to give the FBI permission to set up tracing equipment right here in the office.

This stops me. But you just said she hid the master client list from them.

She did. But Jans no fool. She knows shes walking a fine legal line. There is apparently some question of a duty to warn. Warn the subscribers, I mean. She feels that by cooperating with the FBI in tracing Strobekkeror whoever he isshe demonstrates that shes not obstructing the FBI merely for the sake of doing it.

At least somebody up there is thinking straight. How long do they think it will take to trace Strobekker if he does log on again?

If hes stupid, no time at all. Personally, I dont believe they have a chance in hell.

You sound glad about it, damn it!

Miles laughs softly. I havent heard you this excited in a while. Did Karins death affect you so deeply?

I swallow. You knew her?

Of course. We exchanged quite a few messages during the wee hours. Karin was one of the pillars of Level Three. A thoroughly interesting woman.

I think quickly. I... I know that. But

But you never saw any of my aliases in exchanges with her, right? Thats what youre thinking?

Yes.

I have many names, Harper. Even you dont know them all. He pauses. You dont always tell women youre a sysop, do you? That you know who they really are? That would spoil the fun, wouldnt it? Its amazing how the perceived anonymity of a code name lets them open up, isnt it? Especially the actresses. Theres nothing quite like boffing a three-million-dollar thespian on-line
while she thinks you think shes someone else, is there? You can play them like your guitar then, cant you?

I say nothing.

And how is Drewe Welby, M.D. taking all of this? Did she finally break the camels back and send you running to the FBI?

I didnt go to the FBI, I snap. I called the New Orleans police. The FBI was already on the case. Damn it, Miles, were talking about murder.

So?

So?

EROS is like an organic system, Harper. Constantly evolving. Powerful emotions flow through it every day. Sexual emotions. Were accustomed to monitoring massive levels of input, or throughput, if you will. But
output
has always been a possibility. And sex has always been integrally bound up with death. Why anyone should be surprised by all this is beyond me.

Miles, put aside your bullshit philosophizing for a minute. Dont you realize that EROSs primary obligation is to protect the security of its clients?

Youre the one who trivialized that obligation by revealing the names of subscribers to the police.

I shake my head. Youve finally flipped out, man.

You realize, he says coolly, that youve exposed yourself to litigation by your action. Your employment contract is quite specific about that. I would feel derelict as a friend if I didnt warn you that you will almost certainly be hearing from Elaine Abrams in the next few days. I would speak to my attorney.

It suddenly strikes me that Miles Turnerwho grew up in Rain, Mississippiis speaking without a trace of Southern accent. He has finally succeeded in his lifelong goal of erasing his roots.

Listen to me, Miles, I implore, reaching for some vestige of the boy I once knew so well. Innocent women are being killed and mutilated. Im trying to stop that. If you and Krislov dont understand that, youre going to get steamrollered by the FBI. Ive met the guys running this investigation. Theyre from the Investigative Support Unitthe serial killer guysand they are serious people.

I gather they are, he says, finally showing a touch of pique. And you and I are their prime targets.

I am silent.

Surely you see that, Harper? You and I are the only two menapart from my technical staffwho have access to the real names of the subscribers. Obviously the master client list is the map the killer is using to choose his victims.

Obviously. So how did he get access to it?

Im looking into that.

You told me those files were protected like nuclear launch codes.

My system architecture is ironclad, he snaps. Still, even the best operating systems sometimes have flaws no one knows about. They come that way from the factory.

How many technicians are there, Miles?

Six.

More than Id thought. If the killer isnt hacking his way through your security, and you or I didnt do the killings, that means one of those six guys did.

No.

How do you know?

I just do.

This stops me. When Miles Turner sounds this certain, he is always right. The police would never accept that, of course, but I do. But how can he know? Trying not to slide too far down that neural pathway, I say, Look, am I fired or what?

Fired? he echoes as if the notion has never crossed his mind.

You just said Krislov was pissed at me. Its not like Im essential to the running of the network.

Of course you are. You and I are the only two full-duty sysops.

What about Raquel Hirsch?

Shes licking her lesbian lips off on Montserrat. Not due back for another week. Besides, shes only part-time and doesnt know enough about technical matters to defrag a hard drive.

What if I quit?

You cant.

My contract says I can. I made sure of that. This was only going to be a trial thing anyway, remember? A goof.

Miless voice lowers to its snake-charming register. But youve stayed at it all these months, havent you? You
like
it. Besides, if you quit, youll lose your fifty-yard-line seat.

Jesus. I dont need the aggravation, Miles.

No? What about your on-line friends, then? Or should I say lovers? Are you ready to tell them good-bye forever? Your employment contract
does
forbid you from ever trying to contact them in person. If you quit, Ill probably have to remind Elaine Abrams about that clause.

Fuck you. I quit.

What about Eleanor Rigby?

I exhale slowly, my grip tightening on the phone. What do you know about Eleanor?

I know shed be positively despondent if you dropped off of EROS without explanation.

Miles knows he has me. The truth is, I dont really want to quit. After summoning the nerve to go public with my suspicionsand being proved correctI want resolution. Miles just pisses me off. Ill stay until Raquel gets back, I tell him, my voice tight.

Good man. Oh, youd better start getting your alibis organized. Your FBI friends will be asking, and it can be difficult to remember where one was on so many different nights so many months ago.

I have nothing to hide, I say firmly. Im innocent.

There is a long silence, then a strange, muffled sigh. When Miles finally answers, his voice seems burdened by age beyond his years. Harper, have you learned so little during your time with EROS? You speak of innocence with such conviction. Are any of us?

Then he hangs up the phone.

I look around the office at the familiar landmarks of my existence, the EROS computer (custom built by Miles), the Gateway 2000 I use to make my futures trades, two
laser printers, the antique laboratory table that functions as my desk, the twin bed I crash on during marathon trading sessions, the guitars hanging over the bed. Lifting my feet from the floor, I spin the swivel chair in a circle. The window flashes past again and again, merging with reflections from framed prints, antique maps, the unsheathed Civil War sword carried by one of my maternal ancestors at Brices Cross Roads. When I stop spinning I am facing a sport coat.

My fathers coat.

It droops from a wire hanger on a nail driven straight into the wall. The jacket appears to be cashmere, with thin vertical stripes of black and wine. It is absolutely motionless. There is a reason for this. The coat is made of wood.

I commissioned this piece from a sculptor I discovered one summer in Florida. He is a big blond guy named Fraser Smith, and he sculpts nothing but clothes, quilts, and old suitcases. The day I met him, I compulsively bought two of his pieces and in the after-sale chatter learned that he was originally from Mississippi. I dont know why his work affects me so strongly, but I dont question it. Things actually worth buying are rare.

My fathers taste in clothes was exceptionally bad as a rulemostly synthetic fabrics in loud colorsbut he bought this jacket while serving as an army doctor in Germany in 1960, the year I was born. All I can figure is that the store was out of electric plaids, leaving him no choice but to buy this jewel for warmth. Twenty years later, he gave it to me after I remarked on its quality, and I wore it often. Ten years after thata year after he diedI carefully boxed it up and sent it UPS to Tampa, Florida, where Smith kept it four months, then shipped both the jacket and the sculpture back to me with a bill for fifteen thousand dollars.

It was worth every cent.

Why, I dont know. Maybe because the jacket says something to me about the permanence of the apparently transitory. For what is that jacket but an articulated memory? As surely as the jacket is here with me, my father is here with me. And for all his failings, which were many, he was a man of principle when it came to the
big things. And I know, as I sit here worrying about the consequences of my recent actions, that I am doing only and exactly what my father would have donethe consequences be damned.

Maybe thats Miless problem. He had no such anchor. Miless father left him and his mother to fend for themselves when Miles was five. People said Miles was his spitting image, but since Mrs. Turner kept no pictures of that no-count SOB in the house, we could never confirm or deny this. He certainly didnt look like his mother, a petite, harried woman. He was tall even as a child, all bones and tendons, which in a small town usually leads to school sports. But Miles was apathy personified. When one coach tried to talk him into playing basketball, he just stared until the man walked away. That was a common adult reaction. Miless eyes are grayish blue, and you cant see anything in them if he doesnt want you to. Theyre like background pieces in a stained-glass window. Nothing there but space. Yet, like the sky, they can come alive with everything from thunderheads to blazing blue light.

According to local legend, Miless father was a mean drunk and a gifted engineer who helped the Army Corps of Engineers figure out how to stop a bad sand boil in the levee west of Mayersville in 1973. Because of that, people said Miles got his brains from his father. Miles hated them for that. He hated anybody who ever said it. I think he took it as some sort of insult to his mother, who was no rocket scientist, to be fair to the gossips. Yet Annie Turner was clever in her own way. She never remarried (or even divorced, for all the town knew) but she did manage to become involved with certain solvent gentlemen (railroad men, for example) who happened to be passing through Rain during times of financial distress.

Miles never talked about any of those men. When they were around, we knew to stay away from his house from noontime on. Once, shooting squirrels out of season, we ran into the Turner kitchen to grab some .22 bullets from the drawer and saw a man standing in the kitchen with his shirt off, drinking milk from a half-gallon carton. He looked old as the hills to us (at twelve) and had milk dribbling
down his chin. When we got outside and Miles fumbled the bullets into the .22, his eyes sort of glazed over and he took a couple of steps back toward the house and before I could spit he put two bullets through the top pane of the kitchen window. When I crashed into his back and pulled him down, I felt his shoulders shaking like the flanks of a horse run almost to death. I had to hit him in the face to get the gun away, and then we ran like hell until we couldnt hear anyone screaming behind us. Miles didnt say anything for about two hours after that. We just walked along the weedy turnrows dividing the cotton fields, rapping the hard, knobbed stalks everybody called nigger knockers against the rusty barbed wire. I went home at dark. I dont know if Miles went home at all.