Abandoned: A Thriller (49 page)

I want to jump up, tell him to fuck off. I want to laugh in his face and slap him. I hold myself back, waiting for Alan.

“Tell you what, Douglas,” Alan says, his voice mild. “I’m going to let my experts comb those servers first. If they don’t find anything, if I need your info, then I’ll be back and we’ll talk deals. If it turns out I don’t need you”—he shrugs—“then have fun getting passed around.” He leans forward. “Leo Carnes is a vegetable now because of you. Fuck off and die.”

He stands up and heads toward the door. I follow, dumb.

I stop before leaving, turn.

“Why?” I ask Hollister.

He glares at me, his eyes full of tears and hate.

“Because,” he says. “You ruined everything.” He stands, strains against his chains, and shouts at the ceiling. The cords on his neck stand out; veins throb at his temples. “You ruined everything!” he screams.

Guards rush in as we leave.

Back to hell. I shudder a little at my own satisfaction. But only a little.

Alan sits as we drive, silent, brooding.

“Sorry about that, back there,” I offer. “I’m still …” I sigh. “Maybe AD Jones is right and I’m not ready to come back. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

He waves me off. “I understand—and that’s the problem. Five years ago I might have reported you. Today? I was just as bad, and I still don’t care.” He sighs and falls silent.

The sky is blue again as we leave the prison behind, but invisible rain falls, trapping us, and only us, in a prison world of gray.

“We found it,” James tells me.

It’s mid-afternoon. Alan and I barely spoke on the hour-plus drive back to the office. What was there to say? We’d condoned the rape of a man because of our rage. We felt vindicated and soiled, all at the same time.

“That was fast,” I say.

“It didn’t take long. It wasn’t that it was well hidden. It’s that no one would have found it unless they were looking for it. It seems innocuous enough, and under most circumstances, it would be, but it did the job it was meant to do.”

“Which was?”

“There were two programs. Both were installed with root access on the key servers at the ISP where Hollister worked. One was a search program. It would search email, chat rooms, instant-message logs when kept, and various other things, looking for combinations of keywords.
Kill my wife, divorce
, and
hate
, stuff like that. It was pretty sophisticated.”

“Sounds cumbersome,” I say. “Wouldn’t you come back with thousands of results?”

“Yes, but the sophistication of the program was that it grabbed a
one-line snippet of each ‘conversation.’ It’s pretty easy to scan through and to then know what to discard and what to follow up on. Take a look.”

He hands me a printed page. Each line is preceded by a date, a time stamp, a number, and, at times, an email address. “What’s the number? An IP address?”

“That’s right.”

I read over the page and see that James is right. It’s simple to separate the wheat from the chaff. The keywords are highlighted in bold type.

One excerpt from an email sent by bob4121 says: That diamond ring as a gift, just
killed my wife!

“Good job, Bob,” I murmur.

Another begins:
I hate my wife.
We are
getting divorced
and I
wish she was dead.

I hand the page back to him. “I get the idea. What was the other program for?”

“It was a kind of digital drop. Like a mass mailer. Send a message to it, and it forwards that message to two or three hundred different free email addresses.”

“Free makes it virtually impossible to trace,” Alan points out.

“The first program interacts with the second. It puts together a summary and then passes it over to the digital drop. The drop program sends the summary to every email address on its list.”

“What were the benefits to him of doing this?”

“Numerous. Since the programs are given root access, they have permission to access anything on any server they’re placed on. This lets them perform without raising any red flags. They can get into email, server logs—anything they have the password for.”

“Let me guess: Hollister provided the programs with the passwords they’d need.”

“Unconfirmed, but it’s the best guess. Initial installation of a program like that would have had to be done by an administrator or someone with the admin passwords to the server.”

“Dali probably offered him a discount,” Alan says. “When he found out that Hollister worked for an ISP, he probably said,
Put these programs on your servers and I’ll cut fifty thousand off what you’re supposed to pay me.”

“Sounds risky,” I say. “Wasn’t he taking a chance by leaving a trail?”

“Yes and no,” James explains. “They were very well written. They execute in the background and put no strain on the servers at all. They keep no logs themselves, and Hollister would do regular purges of references to the programs from the server logs. That’s actually how we found them. Hollister hasn’t been around to delete from the logs. Even if they were discovered—if Hollister had been hit by a car or had a heart attack—so what? They’d be dismissed as an interesting but generally unimportant exploit from a hacker. Even if they were followed up on, good luck tracing him via those hundreds of email addresses. Most of them are probably dormant, and even the ones that aren’t could be set to forward to another address, which could then forward to another, ad infinitum.” He shakes his head in reluctant admiration. “It’s his brilliance. Keeping it simple. He had you for four weeks, for example. Can you tell us where the building was or what he looked like?”

“No.”

“Same principle here. The difference is, Douglas Hollister took out some life insurance.”

Excitement surges inside me. “What?”

“He modified the program, or got someone to modify it for him. It had a built-in IP logger. Here’s how it worked: Dali would occasionally access the server directly so that he could modify variables that the programs used, such as adding or deleting keyword combinations or email addresses. Hollister had the program log every access to it.”

“Why not just look at the server logs?” I ask. “Isn’t every incoming access logged?”

“Sure. Millions of them.”

“Ah.”

“This was easier. It was isolated to the programs themselves, which meant the IPs logged would belong to Dali.” My eyes widen. “That’s good.”

“There’s more. Douglas compiled a list of all the email addresses Dali was using and plugged them into a custom email program, which he then made Web-accessible. He could access the program in any Web browser and do two things with it: send an email out to those addresses, or email a list of them to himself. It’s obviously how he sent the warning email to Dali from prison.”

“More insurance,” Alan says. “Maybe that’s why Douglas got overconfident about not paying Dali off. Thought he could blackmail him.”

“A miscalculation,” James observes.

I frown. “Seems strange Dali wouldn’t consider the possibility of something like this happening.”

Callie speaks up for the first time. She’s stayed quiet, though I’ve felt the weight of her gaze on me. “I think it goes back to what I talked about before: risk assessment. He could have weighed the possibility against the necessity and decided the risk was justified.”

“He did take precautions,” James continues. “We’ve tracked the IPs used to a series of Internet cafés, a library—he used public systems, probably paid in cash.”

“Shit,” Alan says.

Something stirs inside my head. A glimmering. I frown. James looks at me closely. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I feel like what you just told me is trying to meet up with some other information about the case. I can’t grasp it yet. Tell me again where he accessed the Web?”

He checks a paper. “Internet café. Internet café. Internet café. Library—”

“Stop.” I feel it now, swimming toward me, growing in size and clarity. “Library. That’s it.”

“What’s it?” Alan asks. “I’m confused.”

“Earl Cooper,” I say. I smile at James. “Which of these things is not like the other?”

“Library,” he answers, nodding. “I get it.”

“Explain it to the lesser minds, honey-love.”

“Cooper talked about mental maps. We find places of comfort and security both consciously and unconsciously.”

“I remember.”

“Dali goes to Internet cafés because they provide anonymous access. It’s a faceless location. He goes to a library for the same reason, and while it does provide the anonymous computer access, the location isn’t faceless. Think about it. Libraries are personal places. They’re cared for by someone, and they belong to a community. Librarians remember people. They keep an eye on the books, make sure the patrons don’t mistreat them; there’s a sense of ownership in a library that you’re not likely to find in an Internet café.”

“Not to mention the difference in the level of traffic going through it,” James adds.

“Okay,” Callie says slowly. “I’m starting to understand.”

“Dali’s careful, and while the choice of a library’s not exactly what I’d call
high
risk, it is a behavioral anomaly. Remember what Earl said: Mental maps are formed both consciously and unconsciously. They exert their influence in both ways too. So why does Dali feel a connection with this library? Why does he feel unconsciously safe enough to use it?”

Alan snaps his fingers. “Because it’s familiar.”

“That’s right. And why is it familiar?”

Callie supplies the answer this time. “Because it’s in the area.”

James sits down at his computer. He checks the library address and types it in. A moment later the location appears on Google Maps. “Down in the Valley,” he says. “Near Reseda and Oxnard.”

“Where are the property searches you guys did?” I ask.

“Here on the computer. I tabulated them by zip code. It didn’t lead us anywhere. Too many of them, incomplete records, and so on.”

“It’s a shot in the dark, but let’s try again. We can narrow the area now. Let’s take the lists five miles in each direction from the library and look for anything that pops out. From what I recall, Cooper was on the money. It felt like a storage place. It had six-to eight-foot-high chain-link fencing around it.”

“Lot of storage places in that area,” Alan says.

“We can eliminate any franchises,” James provides. “You’re required to pay royalties, and you run the risk of inspections.” I nod. “That’s good. So?”

“It’s better than nothing,” Alan agrees. “Start printing, James. We’ll divvy it up and see what we see.”

Five miles yields nothing. Excitement wants to die, to become discouraged, but we’re used to this. Sift through the useless, nine out of ten times you find nothing but more useless. One time in ten you find a diamond. We’ve all found enough diamonds over the years to keep going.

We widen the diameter to ten miles. Alan grinds his heavenly grounds and brews coffee for all of us except James, who drinks green
tea. He’s always been that way. I’ve never seen him drink whiskey or Coke or take a sip of coffee. Tea and water, that’s it.

When it does appear, it stands out in neon, and it makes my stomach dip. It’s too simple, far too cute, and it makes me wonder again about Dali and the truth of what drives him.

Meet Storage Solutions
, the entry says.

I’m just storing meat.
Those were his words.

I check the distance. Just eight miles away from the library.

“I think I have it,” I tell them.

I explain. Callie makes a face of disgust. “‘Storing meat’? Gross.”

James takes the address and types something into his computer. A page comes up with a list of facts. “It’s been in business for more than twenty years. The building itself has been there longer than that, but not by much.”

“He could have converted an existing structure,” Alan points out. “Lot cheaper to do that in Los Angeles.”

“Building permits were pulled twenty years ago,” James confirms. “Doesn’t say what they were for, but there were quite a few. The building was a concrete structure from the beginning.” He taps a few more keys. “No income information. That’s all I have. Not enough to be sure or to get a warrant, on the face of it.”

“Let’s go see it,” I say. “I’ll know if it’s the place, and my testimony will get us a warrant if it is.”

Space exists at a premium in Los Angeles, as with any large city. The best butts up against the worst, as all try to live in relative harmony. The address we find ourselves at sits on a large lot on a side street off Victory Boulevard. Next to the structure is a fenced-in, boarded-up gas station. A sign asks patrons to
PLEASE BE PATIENT WHILE WE UPGRADE OUR FACILITIES
! The sign is rain-battered and sun-faded, as though the upgrade of the gas station is long forgotten.

A half block away is Victory Boulevard, busy at all times of the day and night. Just around the corner is a bustling adult-video store, a fish-and-aquarium shop, and a haberdashery, just to name a few. Most signs are in English, some are not, but other than the gas station, every storefront seems occupied.