Surveillance (Ghost Targets Book 1) (11 page)

"Wait," Katie said. "I know this story."

Ghoster snorted. "You
should
," he said, and watched her eyes for a minute, but she couldn't place it. "Oh, my..." he said. "Okay, here's the pieces you're missing: just before I left college to start my own business, I helped Martin and his partner incorporate a business to sell database licenses and software support to AT&T and later, of course, everyone else." He chuckled. "Right. That business was called Total Awareness Monitoring Systems. It went public four years later under the name of Hathor."

Her jaw was hanging open long before he got to the end of that. "We're going after
that
 Martin Door?"

Ghoster laughed. "How many do you think there are?"

"No, I just didn't... I mean, I haven't heard the name in so long. He's not much in the news." Ghoster grinned at that, too, but she didn't know why. She said, "So when you said there were only two people who knew more about the system than you, you meant the two people who built it." He nodded, clearly enjoying her sudden appreciation of the situation, but it felt like a lead weight in her stomach. She was in way over her head. "It was Martin Door and...the other guy. Something Mexican—"

Ghoster cut her off with a raucous laugh, and when she frowned at his outburst he laughed harder. Finally he took control of himself enough to explain. "Whitest kid you've ever seen."

"No," she said. "I mean—"

"I know, I know. Velez. Jesus Velez, plus four or five others tagged on there to make it sound more ethnic." He shook his head. "Lord, girl, you're supposed to be in Ghost Targets and you can't even spot an alias unless it's the name of a supernatural creature." She frowned harder and he went on. "Fine. Martin and Velez. They're both aliases. Like I said, Martin used to be David Linson, but no one has called him that since college. Velez had some privacy concerns when Martin went to add their voiceprints to the TAMS database—"

She nodded. "And that eventually became the Hathor identity database."

"And they never bothered to fix it," he said. "Precisely. And over the next decade, they had fewer and fewer reasons to, until everyone in the world, government included, preferred Hathor IDs over any others."

"That's crazy," she said. She sat back in her seat, thinking about it. "They're the original ghost targets, then."

"No..." he said, trailing off as he thought about it. "Not really. I mean, not for that." He shook his head. "Technically, there's no law against using a fake name in Hathor. It's awfully hard to do, especially today, but I can't see the FBI going after them for grandfathering themselves into their own system."

For the first time in the conversation, Katie realized she had some information Ghoster didn't. Her father
had
 gone after them, and she knew exactly how it had turned out. She'd lost track of the names, but now that she knew who this Martin
was
, she had a lot more to hold against him.

She picked up her handheld and brought Martin's information back up, and switched to the location information Ghoster had been examining earlier. It showed him in Buenos Aires, Argentina. This morning he'd spent three hours in a corner coffee shop, and another two strolling through the neighborhood before he returned to his apartment where he spent the rest of the day. Looking back through the previous week, the guy had a pretty quiet lifestyle. Pizza, beer, and coffee defined most of his expenses. That explained his dumpy figure.

On a whim, she said, "Hathor, connect me to Martin Door." The connection buzzed twice, and then Hathor invited her to leave a message. She decided against it. She checked on his location at the time of Ms. Linson's murder, but it was just another day like today. He'd spent the morning at a coffee shop, and the rest of the day at home. She poked Ghoster, interrupting whatever he was listening to on his headset.

"How hard is it to fake an alibi?"

"Hmm?" He reached up to mute his headset, and then turned his attention to her. "What, like a location history?" He shrugged. "Aggregators are pretty shy about that, but there's dozens of independent operators who advertise the service. I don't know anyone but me I would trust to do it right, though." He grinned at her distrustful look and shrugged. "But, yeah, Martin could do it. Easy. Although... I have to say, I agree with your analysis. I couldn't reconstruct the elevator scene you described, but I was able to get a good look at the front doors when your ghost opened it. I poked around a little bit last night, and I can't find any glitches in the erasure, so...frankly, I don't see a reason for the cloud."

He took a deep breath. His brows came down. He shook his head. "I don't get it. That cloud—the blackout, as you've been calling it—that's basically a big red flag waving over Martin and Velez. Either one of them could do a clean ghost, spic and span, so I don't see any good reason for the cloud." He thought for a moment longer, then shrugged again. "But, yeah,
because
 of that, you'd better bet he would be smart enough to paint himself a perfect alibi, knowing that cloud would look like his personal fingerprint." He waved at her handheld, which still showed a record of Martin's comings and goings. "That's almost certainly fiction, no matter how you slice it."

He watched her for a moment, to see if she'd have any follow-up questions, then turned the volume back up on his headset when she didn't speak up. For her part, she couldn't put words to the deep disquiet building in her chest. She'd built her career on the information Hathor provided. She had been good at tracking down suspects, predicting their movements and discerning motive out of the oily wash of information swirling in the system. She had been a damn fine cop. But now what was she? Without Hathor, with every word Hathor said to her a lie, she was pretty much nothing.

The thought nagged at her, no matter how she fought to push it away. She blacked the window, slouched down in her seat, and pretended to sleep for the rest of the flight. Her mind was buzzing, though, more accusation than ideas. When they landed in Little Rock, she had no idea what she needed to do.

She stopped in the concourse, Ghoster almost bumping into her, and when he looked down she pinned him with her eyes. "I have an appointment at the Aggregator's office at two. I was too distracted to ask last night, but what do you intend to do here?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, watch over your shoulder. This is the regular police work, right? The part where you pretend Hathor doesn't exist anymore and do the hardcore sleuthing? I thought it might be fun to watch."

"It's not," she said. "Detective work is slow and tedious until inspiration strikes."

"Right," he said, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing at all like programming."

"I guess what I'm asking," she said, still irritated and letting it show, "is what kind of help can I expect from you?"

"I'll find Martin for you," he said. "Hundred percent money-back guarantee." He watched her eyes to make sure she caught that. She wasn't paying him a dime. When he continued, his voice was less playful, dry. "I want to see how this thing shakes out. And, killer or not, Martin was my buddy once. I plan to make sure you make a clean bust."

It wasn't a friendly sentiment, but Katie could accept it. Either he didn't know her, and he was just generally suspicious of cops—or he knew more than she thought, about her father's involvement with TAMS, and he was worried she would make it personal. Rick's reaction to his presence at the office certainly gave him reason enough to worry either way. She was a clean cop, though, and she was prepared to prove it. Anyway, Ghoster had already proven useful enough to make up for his personality.

"Keep close, then," she said. "And keep your eyes open. And if you see something that I miss, feel free to speak up. I don't have your technical grasp." He nodded, once, and she turned toward the exit. "Hathor, I need a car to take Ghoster and me to the Helen building, now." By the time she got to the curb, the car was waiting.

It was a chill, sunny day, and as the car wove through traffic her stomach rumbled in complaint. Breakfast seemed a long way off, but a glance at her watch told her there was no time for lunch. The car deposited them out front of the Aggregator, and zipped off while Katie stood staring up at its facade.

She didn't need any time to consider it. She knew this building. She knew the whole block, from hours spent running up and down it, trying to gauge the exact size of the blackout. But now, seeing it in real life, there was an unsettling dichotomy of familiarity and strangeness. She'd never bothered to pull up source video, so she was used to seeing the blank white planes of the building's face, not the polished granite surface, sparkling in the early afternoon sunlight.

The people passing on the street were new, too. She hadn't spent much time in an active replay outside the young woman's office building, and all of that had been late at night, so the streets had been nearly empty. Now, in the light of day, the deathly alley she knew from all her research transformed into a bustling thoroughfare, and the people were all so cheerful, so friendly—something she definitely wasn't used to on the streets of Brooklyn or DC. For years, all her time in HaRRE had been in places on her home turf, so she'd long since forgotten what it was like to visit a familiar place for the first time, in real life.

So she stood staring until Ghoster looked up from his handheld, then looked up at the facade himself, then finally asked, "What?"

"Nothing," she said, then shook her head to try to lose the sensation. The thought of retracing her virtual steps through those doors, and riding up the elevator almost overwhelmed her, for just a moment, but she fought that down, too. "Nothing. Let's go."

She didn't stop for the receptionist, but said in passing, "Katie Pratt, FBI, I'm here to meet with Penelope Hein in Administrative." The second elevator on her left dinged open as soon as she approached, and Ghoster followed her in. She felt foolish for it, but she was glad he was there with her.

As the doors shut, he glanced at her over his shoulder, then fixed his eyes on the door once more. "It's weird," he said, "I wouldn't expect Martin to get involved with a place like this."

"What do you mean?" She felt awkwardly conscious of the courtesy recorder in the top corner of the elevator, saving everything they had to say, but Ghoster wasn't so shy.

"It's a skin market. Matchmakers, psh. I haven't seen one yet that stayed legit, once they saw the profit potentials on short-term matches." He shook his head. "Martin wasn't ever into that sort of thing. And, forget that. 'Helen,' for Helen of Troy? I'd think that would upset him even more." He trailed off, thinking. "I guess Cupid, Aphrodite, Venus—Adonis, even—they're already used up, but they could have done something better."

"What are you saying about Martin?"

"Hmm?" He glanced back over his shoulder again, and shook his head with a serious look. "Oh, Martin wasn't into the commerce side of his software. He was religious about it. This stuff was supposed to change the world." He sighed. "Maybe that's why he flipped. Finally—finally!—decided to take advantage of his wealth, picked up a trophy wife, and then she ends up working for a Hathor whorehouse." He nodded in a definite sort of way. "That's your motive right there. Guy would've gone ballistic."

Katie said nothing, but her eyes drifted back up to the recorder in the corner. She just hoped his imprudent words went unheard long enough for her to finish her interview. If Ms. Hein was listening in now, the entire appointment could be spoiled. The thought had barely formed in her mind when the doors fell open on a familiar foyer, and Penelope Hein stood waiting with a welcoming smile.

"Hey, y'all," she said, leaning on the accent for the sake of the Yankees, unless Katie missed her guess. "I'm so glad ya could make it down here. Terrible, terrible what happened to Janey, but we've got to get it behind us."

Katie returned the smile, and shook the offered hand. "As you know," she said, "I'm with Ghost Targets. We're involved because there are technical issues surrounding Ms. Linson's death that prevent Jurisprudence providing a reliable suspect, and your police department asked for our assistance to resolve it."

Penelope nodded vigorously, without her smile wavering. "Exactly, exactly," she said. "No, yeah, I'd heard there was something like that. It's just terrible. Terrible. She was such a pretty girl. So young."

"Well," Katie said, stepping past Penelope into the room. "All I need is a few minutes of your time. If I could speak with some of your other staff, too—anyone up here who really knew Ms. Linson, or might have known what she was working on recently."

Penelope frowned. "Isn't that...usually... I mean, we have courtesy recorders
everywhere
 up here."

Ghoster pushed forward at that. "Actually," he said, "could you show me the controls for the recorders' access point? Sorry," he reached past Katie to extend his hand, and pasted on a salesman's grin to match the woman's. "I'm Jeremy Gustaud. I'm a technician supporting Katie's investigation."

"Of course," Penelope said. "We have...umm...."

"Maybe I could talk with your database admin?" His grin never slipped, but Katie could feel his opinion of Penelope change. "I mean, I wouldn't want to take up your valuable time with any of this."

"Of course," she said, and looked relieved. "Marco, send Diane up here to help out the technician." She turned to Katie, Ghoster forgotten. "We can talk in my office."

Ms. Hein's office was a vast space that felt more like a living room than a business office. On the far wall a monitor played some soap opera, and Penelope muted it with a spoken command as soon as they entered the room. There was no desk, but a pair of loveseats and a pair of plush armchairs gathered around a coffee table, next to a simulated fireplace. Penelope sank into the nearest armchair and waved Katie to the place next to her on one of the loveseats.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Penelope said. "Can I get you something to drink? A snack? Anything?"