Night Talk (21 page)

“I'm not sure. We know a couple things. Her son was anti-government. And Ethan said she listens to your show. That's at least encouraging. Who knows—she may have had her own strange encounter.”

It wasn't sarcasm this time. Maybe the fact that Ali was on the run in an anonymous car from murderous mysterious forces had altered her perception of the world she lived in.

Mrs. Shaw's house was on a quiet street lined with small but nicely kept houses. Hers was a single story, Southern California Spanish—beige stucco walls, orange clay roof tiles, arched windows, dark wood front door. Variations of the faux-Spanish style were widespread in L.A. No rack of iron bars on the windows of her house or any of the others on the street was a good sign in a metro area where addicts sometimes fed their urges with smash-and-grab break-ins.

They parked on the street around the corner from her house so the woman wouldn't get a look at Franklin's car.

Mrs. Shaw answered the door. And stared at Greg.

“I'm Greg Nowell.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

She was in her late fifties and didn't try to look younger. She wore a flowered smock over green slacks and a pink blouse. They had heard a vacuum cleaner going when they rang the doorbell. Her eyes were a little red.

“I'm sorry about Ethan,” Greg said. “Unfortunately, I didn't drop by to tell you that. I came because the authorities believe that I received secret information Ethan had hacked. I didn't.”

“I'm Ali Neal. I worked with Ethan.”

She looked both of them over for a moment, then said to Ali, “Ethan mentioned you once when I called him. He said he was having a drink with a beautiful woman in a West Hollywood bar.”

“I'm afraid I'm implicated, too,” Ali said, “if for no other reason than Ethan and I worked at the same place.”

“I know this is a bad time,” Greg said.

“It's not the greatest time but then, I don't think it will be any better tomorrow. I guess you two had better come in.”

They entered a living room that had, like the outside of the house, a pleasant, comfortable and solid, familiar feel—dark blue lush carpeting, brown, stuffed couch and chairs, widescreen TV on the wall, to the right of the TV a bookcase with a leather-bound set of
Encyclopedia Britannica
dated before the Internet.

She directed them to the couch and sat in a chair facing them. The vacuum cleaner was nearby.

“We're sorry to intrude upon you,” he said.

“It's all right. Having a son addicted to street drugs didn't make the loss any less but made it less surprising. The uncertainty of loving someone who has been a ticking bomb for a decade is almost as bad as losing them. I thought I'd lost him years ago when he overdosed. It's really sad because he had such great talent. Did you know he was a child prodigy?”

They shook their heads.

“He wasn't even in his teens when he learned computer programming and started writing programs. An early hacker, too. He just couldn't stand someone not letting him open a door and look in.” She sighed. “What is it that they think Ethan gave you?”

“I wish I knew. I first heard about it when the authorities barged into my office with a search warrant. They believe Ethan hacked into a secret program being run by the government. I imagine it was something that would be embarrassing to the government if exposed to the light of day. He worked for the NRO so the obvious conclusion is that it has something to do with their spying. Did he say anything to you about what he'd found?”

“Not a word. But he wouldn't have. He knew I was set against his hacking. He had such great talent to build programs but he wasted it figuring out ways to penetrate them. Mr. Mond also asked if Ethan had given me anything.”

“You were also searched?”

“Thoroughly. They came in like gangbusters and swept through the house first with just their eyes. Then they went high-tech. I think they used a device that not only looked in the walls of the house, but even the containers of flour, sugar, cereal and whatever else I had in the kitchen and around the house. Some sort of handheld X-ray machine. I'm sure my neighbors thought it was a raid on a crack house.”

“Did they find anything?” Greg asked.

“I don't know what they found. They took everything out of here electronic and everything that belonged to Ethan. And I mean
everything
. Not just an old computer he hadn't used in years, but shoes, socks, toothpaste, underwear, you name it. They said they'd give me an inventory but I haven't seen it yet.”

“Did they mention us?” Ali asked.

“No, not really. They wanted to know about his girlfriend Jaime. She wasn't on my list of favorite people for Ethan to associate with because it's bad for an addict to be around another addict, but I gave them her address. Ethan and she were always arguing, maybe because they weren't on the same chemical mix, I don't know, but I know she's another hacker and that was another reason it was bad for him to be around her.”

Greg asked, “Did Ethan ever mention something called the God Project?”

She shook her head. “No. Is that what he hacked into?”

“Maybe. Right now we don't know what he did, but the name has popped up. Do you by chance have a picture of Ethan? I spoke to him a number of times but never met him in person.”

The picture she retrieved from the bedroom showed Ethan as reedy, even a bit gaunt, lanky and bony; he had a narrow face with thin lips and an intensity about him. He could pass for a computer nerd though Greg wasn't sure there was a prototype.

“That was taken two years ago after he'd completed six months of rehab. I took the picture because he looked better than he had in years. But he was never able to stay away from drugs. I guess there was a hole inside him that didn't get filled when he was born.”

“The girlfriend, Jaime,” Greg said, “it's possible Ethan said something to her about what he was hacking into. Would you mind giving us her address?”

She copied the address for them from a well-worn address book.

They thanked the woman and Greg told her they would be in touch if they made any world-shattering discoveries.

They were both quiet and introspective as they went to the car, even down. Greg knew they shouldn't have had high expectations from Ethan's mother, but they did anyway. The only thing of real value they got from the meeting was the full name and address of the girlfriend.

“Do you think we can really risk seeing her? She doesn't sound like she's going to be as stable as his mother. She might turn us in, pronto.”

“Do we have a choice? She's the only lead we have. If we can't get something from her, I don't know where we'd go next.” Pulling away from the curb, Greg said, “It's probably an exercise in futility, but I think we have to talk to the girlfriend even if Mond's wrecking crew has already been there. Let's just be ready to run like hell if she starts screaming for the cops.”

“Do you think Mrs. Shaw called Mond?” Ali asked.

“We'll know for sure if the police are waiting for us at the girlfriend's place.”

 

41

Jaime Balzar lived in Culver City, back up the 405 freeway from El Segundo, and they again took city streets to avoid steady surveillance.

The apartment was above a Chinese restaurant that looked like all the Chinese restaurants Greg had ever seen but it stood out because the street was lined with otherwise faceless buildings, all three stories with flat roofs, no shutters, balconies or personality. The only architectural distinction in the neighborhood besides basic stucco walls and square aluminum-framed sliding glass windows were the wrought-iron bars on the bottom-floor windows and gang graffiti.

The only police presence visible when they drove down the street was a parked car with a police wheel chock to keep the car from being moved until outstanding fines were paid. Fat chance of the fines ever being paid—the car looked abandoned and stripped.

The street wasn't Crack Heaven, but the buildings needed patching, paint and more occupants who weren't cooking batches of meth in their kitchens.

Ethan's girlfriend lived on the second floor, up a dim stairway that hadn't been swept for a while. The stairs had a sharp, sour smell.

“Ammonia?” Ali asked.

“I've heard meth cooking described as smelling like ammonia. And cat urine.” He gave her a grin as they went up. “Something else I learned as a talk show host. Better than reading encyclopedias.”

“What else did you learn?”

“Last night, before Ethan turned my world upside down, I had on a fingerprint expert who said now they not only can ID people from the swirls, they can tell the sex of the person, what he ate and if he dealt drugs or took them.”

“Fascinating. You must be a real hit at parties.”

When they reached the top of the steps, he said, “Now that I'm getting to know you better, Ali, you know what I like about you?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Not one damn thing.”

Jaime Balzar answered the door after they knocked three times and were turning away because they assumed she wasn't home.

Skinny, wearing a jogging outfit that looked like she had died and been buried in it, angry and stressed, Jaime didn't appear ready for company. She was twentyish going on a bad eighty. She had tired eyes and bitter lips. Life had been an uphill battle that wore rough edges on her.

“We were friends of Ethan's,” Greg said.

“Ethan's dead. No friends.” She slammed the door.

Greg knocked. “We need to talk to you.”

“Fuck off,” came through the door.

Greg glanced at Ali and said, “Five minutes, fifty dollars.”

The door opened as if Ali Baba had spoken magic words. And he had. If there was one thing addicts understood it was that money bought moments of elation in their lives.

She gave them a once-over, then stood aside to let them in.

The room had a small couch that looked like Jaime had found it with a “free” sign on it outside on a curb. Two blankets were on the couch. That was about it for furnishings. The rest had probably gone to feed her habit. No computer was in sight, either. As a hacker, she must be pretty far gone to have let that go, though Greg thought it was more likely that she had been paid a visit by Mond.

“Give me the money.”

He gave her twenty dollars. “The rest after you answer our questions.” He hoped that it didn't occur to her that she might get more money by turning them over to Mond.

Getting a better look at her, he realized she had meth syndrome symptoms: dry skin, scratches on arms and face, “meth mouth” blackened teeth and a state of agitation.

“The feds have been here? Searched the place? Questioned you?”

“Yes—yes—yes.” She scratched her head.

“What did you tell them about the file Ethan hacked into?”

“I don't know anything about what Ethan was doing. He did his thing, I did mine. I wasn't his keeper. Why don't you ask that bitch who led Ethan around by his dick?”

“What's her name?”

“I don't know, some bitch that got her hooks into him. He was always talking about her, said he'd dump my ass for her, but it was just talk. She got whatever she wanted but didn't want him.”

Greg asked, “Did he say anything about her?”

“I don't know, I don't remember. I didn't give a shit about her. I don't give a shit about anything.”

“What'd he tell you about the God Project?”

“The what shit?”

“Did Ethan tell you about what he hacked into at work or give you anything to keep for him?”

“Hell no. And if he did, the cops have it. He didn't have much here, but they took what he had. Mostly a bunch of dirty clothes.”

Greg and Ali exchanged looks. She had to have been aware of what Ethan was up to at least in general terms. If nothing else Ethan would have bragged about what he was doing, but it was useless. If she knew anything it was probably stuck in a burned-out part of her brain.

He gave her the money and made a last try because he was desperate. “If you have real information you'll get more.”

They were to the door when she dropped a bomb.

“What would you pay for Ethan's flash drive?”

Greg asked, “You have his flash drive?”

“I have it.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

He exchanged looks with Ali and then asked the woman the obvious. “Your place was searched. How did they miss it?”

“They're not as smart as they think they are. Ethan's the one who told me where to hide it. He's hidden stuff from narcs there.”

“What's on the flash drive?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. My computer's broken. But Ethan told me to hide it because it was important.”

Something was wrong with the story. But he was too desperate to walk out. “When did he tell you that?”

“I don't know, I don't remember, yesterday, a couple days ago. He told me to give it to you if anything happened.”

“To me?” Greg asked. “Do you know who I am?”

“Ethan's friend.”

“How do you know I'm Ethan's friend?”

“Fuck you—you said so.”

She was right about that. “Did he give you my name? Tell you the name of the person who would be—”

“Stop it!” she shouted. “You want the fuckin' thing or not? Give me the money.” She scratched her head and then her arms, drawing blood.

“Where's the flash drive?”

“Where's the money?”

He took a hundred out of his wallet.

“More.”

He shook his head. “We don't know what's on it. It might be blank. Take it or leave it.”

She went into the kitchen and they followed. Pots and pans and dishes filled the sink and poured over onto the countertop. Food was encrusted but that didn't matter to the flies.