Authors: Chris Patchell
Still, the way Dana stared at her caused her hackles to rise. There was more to Dana’s visit. She could feel it. Whatever it was, she wished Dana would just cut to the chase and get the hell out of her office. The woman gave her the willies.
“Is that it?” Jill prompted, keeping her gaze locked on Dana.
Dana smiled then, a rather unpleasant smile. Though at first glance she’d thought Dana attractive, on closer inspection Jill found the woman’s features coarse, her hazel eyes a little too far apart. Dana spent hours at the gym, no doubt about it. The thick muscles of her arms testified to the number of pull-ups she could do. It was all a little mannish for Jill, who preferred her own sleek runner’s build.
“Jamie thought I’d upset you.”
Jamie
. The hairs on Jill’s arms prickled. She forced a smile of her own.
“So Jamie told you to apologize? Do you always do what he tells you to?”
Dana’s expression hardened. Jill could see the cracks in her makeup as her mouth flattened into an angry line.
“I’m not his lap dog.”
“What are you then?”
Dana cocked her head. Wry amusement lit the woman’s hazel eyes. A smile curved her thick lips.
“A colleague.”
“Nothing more?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Jill lied. “I just want to understand the political landscape.”
“Hmmm,” Dana said, skeptically.
With slow, deliberate strides, she sauntered toward the door. Her hand gripped the knob, and then, turning back toward Jill, she paused.
“Just a little word to the wise about Jamie,” she said, her voice dipping low, into a conspiratorial purr.
“What’s that?” Jill asked, feigning boredom.
“Jamie’s fickle,” she answered, and turned on her heel.
Jill stood up and watched Dana’s retreating form slither down the hall. Was that a warning? Was Dana trying to mark her territory? The idea rankled Jill, and she decided there was only one way to find out.
Her heels clicking on the tile floor, Jill stopped outside Jamie’s door. He looked up at her soft knock and cast a subtle glance over her shoulder, as if checking the hallway to see if they were alone.
“Jill.”
“Mind if I interrupt?” Her smile was disarming.
“I’ve got ten minutes,” he said, letting her know that it was not an open-ended invitation.
With a nod, she entered, closing the door softly behind her. He swung his chair around to face her, and her heart jolted in response to the intensity of his blue eyes. There was something electric about his presence that set her on edge.
“Apologies. I haven’t had much time for you this week. My schedule has been a bloody mess.”
Her lips twisted as she stared at him. His attempt to disarm her was not going to work.
“You’ve been busy,” she said,
“It’s been a right mad week.” He glanced past her toward the door, as if worried that they might be interrupted, before returning to her face. “So what can I do for you?”
“I just had a visit from Ms. Evans.”
“Oh, good. Did the two of you patch things up?”
Jill frowned. Patch things up? He made it sound like they were two girls having a catfight on a playground, not grown women. Professionals. Colleagues. Would he have phrased it this way if they had been men? She thought not. An awkward silence stretched between them, and a bitter smile crossed Jill’s face.
“Well, she apologized for being blunt, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. Dana is very results driven. She’s a little too aggressive at times.”
“Aggressive.” Jill cocked an eyebrow. “She’s that, all right, but I don’t think she came to my office to apologize.”
“Oh?”
“Time for a little truth now, Jamie. Is there something going on between the two of you?”
Jamie’s gaze shot past her. His eyes narrowed, and she saw a flicker of irritation flare in his blue eyes.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, the last vestige of warmth stripped from his voice.
Jill inclined her head slightly, her eyebrows arched, her expression knowing.
“Don’t play dumb. You’re a smart guy, it should be easy to figure out.” Sarcasm spilled easily from her lips, and she felt a bitter pool of acid bubble at the pit of her stomach.
Jamie cocked his head as he regarded her with a sour look. She raised her chin, refusing to let him intimidate her.
“I’m not engaging in this conversation, Jillian.”
Jillian
. He was pissed. He only used her full name when he was angry. If she had any remaining doubts about how he felt, all she had to do was look at his face. Anger glittered in his hard eyes. Although part of her knew she should stop pushing, she couldn’t. He was going to tell her the truth. He owed her that much.
“Why not? Too personal?”
Jamie’s face flushed scarlet as he stared at her, the thin veneer of tolerance stripped away. She knew at once that she had pushed him too far.
“Personal. Inappropriate. Take your pick.” His words were clipped and icy.
“Is it?” She crossed her legs, eyes defiant. She knew she shouldn’t push any further, but she couldn’t stop the flood of resentment she felt
from spilling over. She already played second fiddle to Alex’s career. She wasn’t going to stand in line for him behind another woman, especially not a bitch like Dana Evans.
Jamie leaned so close she could smell his cologne. Leather and soap. Unbidden images sprang to mind—nights in her hotel room, the taste of his mouth on hers. His voice grew dangerously quiet.
“This isn’t the place.”
“Then when? I haven’t seen you all week.” Her voice bumped up a notch in volume, and she cringed inwardly, hearing the whiny tone of a disgruntled teenager. He shot a meaningful glance over her shoulder, and she said, more softly, “You’ve canceled our one-on-one. You’ve avoided me all week. Just when are we supposed to talk?”
“I have a video conference with the team in India this evening, but why don’t we meet for dinner afterward? Say around eight-thirty at A. P. Stumps? We’ll get a booth, have some wine, and talk things through. Sound good?”
His smile was disarming, and despite herself she felt the frigid wall between them shift. This was more like it. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe Rachel’s paranoia about cheating men was rubbing off on her. Maybe Dana Evans wanted Jamie back and was trying to scare off the competition.
“I’ll wear something nice,” she added with a wicked twinkle in her eye.
Jamie nodded and gave her a tight smile.
“Lovely,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T
he five-degree drop in temperature was welcome, Alex noted as he opened the door to the lab. The sophisticated cooling system hummed, pumping out cold air to compensate for the cluster of computer servers and workstations running on overdrive.
Alex strode purposefully to the back, anxious to get an update on Natalie’s secret email account. She had been missing almost two days now, and every hour was critical. He went in search of Kris Thompson, the unit’s top technical guy—
girl
, he corrected himself. Too young to officially bear the title of Guru, Kris was a recent MIT graduate and the most gifted hacker Alex had ever met, although her technical prowess was overshadowed by her innate shyness.
Kris was as straight-laced as they came. Raised Mormon, she had broken with the church and her family when she left for college, but the deep-rooted, conservative morals remained. Her sharp mind was masked behind a shy smile and an assortment of shapeless sweaters. Alex sometimes wondered if her dedication to her job was at the expense of her social life. Or in place of one.
Kris looked up as Alex approached.
“What did we get from Natalie’s hard drive?”
“I found two email accounts. The default one you’ve already seen. Nothing of interest, just friends, school assignments, the usual. The second was linked to her Me account.” This news confirmed what Emily had told him.
Kris’s mouth was set in a grim line. “There’s a handful of emails from a guy who goes by the handle ‘47Knucklehead.’”
“Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.” Alex rubbed his chin. “What does it mean?”
Kris stared at her screen as she shrugged. “I’m guessing that it’s not a nickname from an overly critical parent. I’ve done a lookup on the term, and aside from the obvious, there are a few other references. A kids’ clothing line, brand name for acoustic-guitar strings …”
“You’re kidding, right?” asked another technician whose workstation bordered Kris’s. Terry Parrish raked his long hair out of his face and smirked at Alex.
“Don’t you two
knuckleheads
know anything about motorcycles?
“Okay,
Motor-head
, enlighten us.”
Alex sighed. Terry delighted in needling Kris. Mostly, she ignored him, but now her eyes filled with a look of pure irritation. With a cocky half smile, he angled his chair toward hers.
“What’s it worth to you?” Terry’s suggestive smile met Kris’s dark frown.
“Come on, Terry. Out with it,” Alex said, the warning evident in his tone. This wasn’t the time for grandstanding. Terry sighed, looking over at Alex.
“The knucklehead was an engine designed for a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. It was named the knucklehead because of the distinctive shape of the rocker covers. You know what rocker covers are, right?” Terry flashed a condescending grin. “They stopped making the knucklehead in 1947 and replaced it with the panhead engine in ’48,” Terry added, continuing to recite the history of Harley-Davidson engines. “Followed by the ever-popular shovelhead in ’66.”
Alex tuned out the running commentary on the history of Harley-Davidson engine types and verbalized his train of thought.
“So, if Knucklehead has one of these motorcycles …”
“Hogs,” Terry corrected. “You’ve got to respect the classics, man. There was the ’65 Mustang, the ’62 Corvette, and the ’47 Knucklehead. It was the best of its class.”
“Right. Hogs,” Alex said, barely skipping a beat. “Can we use this to narrow the search?”
“’Fraid not,” Terry said, eyes darting back to his computer screen in a reflexive motion before settling back on Alex. “There are enough of them floating around that it wouldn’t pinpoint him. But we could use it as a cross-check once we have a little more to go on.”
“What do you say? Want to go for a ride?” Terry winked at Kris and patted the motorcycle helmet beside his monitor.
“Shut up,” she snapped, and turned away.
“Good God, woman, you have a mouth like a sailor.”
“Are you still talking?” Kris asked, stubbornly staring at her computer screen.
“Terry,” Alex suppressed a smile and shook his head.
“What about the IP trace?” he asked Kris
“Sadly for us, the guy’s no dumbass. He’s using a software program to spoof the IP address so we can’t pinpoint the location of where the email was sent. At least not yet. I’m still working on it. We’ll need a warrant to trace his identity through his ISP. I’ll start the paperwork.” She adjusted her glasses with a quick, unconscious movement and peered back at Alex.
“Son of a bitch,” Alex grumbled. He knew there were lots of ways someone could change the email header information to substitute the IP address of the originating computer for a phony one. The email programs capable of manipulating a user’s IP address ran the gamut from simple to very sophisticated. Alex hoped that their suspect wasn’t too smart.
If the guy took the time to spoof his IP address, he would bet money that this was no innocent encounter. He was trying to cover his tracks. Pedophiles were notoriously paranoid—with reason. There were ways
to penetrate this type of online smoke screen, but they took time. And Natalie didn’t have time.
“Here’s a copy of their email exchanges.” Kris handed Alex a file folder.
“Does the pattern match any of our known operators?”
“This guy’s new. I haven’t found anything using OPPS.”
Kris inclined her head slightly as she met Alex’s grim stare. The Online Predator Profiling System database was one of the department’s best tools for identifying and apprehending online predators, and as he pondered this development, Kris continued.
“I do have some good news, though. They were planning to meet for coffee in Fremont on Saturday afternoon.”
“That’s something. Fremont. A Harley-Davidson would stick out like a nun in a brothel there.”
“You sure about that?”
Terry peeked around his monitor as he continued. “Harleys are pretty common, I’m just saying. There are a lot of doctors and lawyers who drive them, not just the outlaw biker types you see in movies.”
“Hippies don’t drive hogs, and the IT crowd along the canal drive Ducatis,” Alex sighed.
“Maybe.” Terry’s shrugged, sounding unconvinced.
“I’ll keep following the IP trail,” Kris said.
“Call me as soon as you get something.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
Alex thumbed through the email printouts on his way back to his desk. Tossing the file on top of the already cluttered surface, he ignored the thick stack of pink while-you-were-out messages. He knew what they were—a long list of updates he needed to provide on other cases. But they could wait. Instead, he dialed Jackson’s extension. After four rings, he was transferred through to voicemail.
“I’ve got an update on the Watson case. Call me when you get this.”
He hung up, leaned back in his chair, and studied the emails more closely. The first few were “get to know you” types. Innocent enough
on the surface. Natalie sounded older than sixteen. Good vocabulary, prose free from the typical slang. No
dude
s or
like
s to be found. No telltale IM colloquialisms. The emails to Natalie were simply signed “J.” No name.
After the initial flurry, the tone between them changed and became more familiar. Knucklehead asked questions about where she went to school and what she liked to do. So he knew that she was a high school student, but he made no specific age inquiries.
Alex rubbed his chin as he continued to read. Knucklehead requested a picture, which she sent, and although he was definitely older, he did not come across as menacing. He wanted to win Natalie’s trust before he tried to set up a meeting.