Final Victim (1995) (5 page)

SunOS UNIX (ring2ice)

login:

She typed in "darkstar." They waited. After a few seconds, Pennet responded with:

password:

She then activated Crack on her computer and it made three password attempts. After the third attempt the screen read:

login Incorrect

Connection closed by foreign host.

Then some line noise put some garbage on the screen:

*R#W8c^41%

"What's all that jabberwocky?" John said, leaning in. "It's pissed. I think it's swearing at me."

Then the screen shouted:

DARKSTAR, you have excessiv
e i
nvalid logins. You are locke
d o
ut for fifteen minutes.

NOTIFYING SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR.

And the screen went black.

"Cheese it, the cops!" Lockwood said, grinning.

"Look, you may think this is funny. I don't. Why don't you just go get some coffee?"

"You gonna keep trying with the Systems Administrator watching?" "What's he gonna do, jump on a plane from Oslo, come over here, and knock me in the dirt?"

"Good point."

They waited fifteen minutes. It was a strange lull, because she seemed to have nothing to say to him and he couldn't think of anything to say to her. So they waited in silence, with their eyes on the wall clock. The basement room was cramped and underlit. The ornate Customs building had once been Washington's Department of Labor building. It was a stone-faced edifice with Corinthian columns and a brass front door. But the decorating scheme ended below the first floor. The basement would have made a good set for a Bela Lugosi film. There were exposed pipes running along hard concrete hallways.

The last minute clicked off the clock and, without saying anything to him, she telnetted to Pennet, again. They were back in the good graces of the remailer computer. The screen said amicably:

Connected to ring2Ice
. A
nonspennet
. N
o Escape character Is ',V

SunOS UNIX (rIng2Ice)

login:

She went through the same sequence and basically the same thing happened, only this time the Systems Administrator had a surprise waiting for them:

U
. S
. CUSTOMS GOV. OPERATOR

YOU ARE LOCKED OUT FROM THIS HOST FOR 90 DAYS.

ALL FUTURE PACKETS FROM YOUR SITE *WILL*BE*REFUSED*.

Suddenly, she was dumped back to her own system prompt. "Busted," Lockwood blurted.

"Shit," Awesome Dawson said.

Chapter
5

The Cellar was a brick-faced bar-restaurant on the first floor of an office building on Constitution Avenue. The interior was a cross between a fifteenth-century Dominican monastery and an Irish pub. Some fool had further complicated the mix by hanging a model of a Grumman Sky-hawk with a ten-foot wingspan from wires in the middle of the main room. But it didn't matter, because most of the people in the Cellar were serious drinkers and seldom looked up.

It had taken Karen about four hours to decide that maybe Lockwood could be a blessing in disguise. He had invited her for an after-work cocktail, which was pretty much a Washington tradition. Most of the important business in D
. C
. eventually got done in bedrooms or bars. Although she was determined to stay out of his bedroom, she was hoping a few shooters would make an offbeat idea she had seem attractive to him. The Norwegian computer had caught her interest. One thing that always got Karen's motor revving was being flipped off by anybody.

The Pennet Systems Administrator had dissed her, and now she wa
s e
ven more determined to crack the system. Lockwood might hold a key.

The Cellar was near the U
. S
. Customs building, so there were a lot of friendly faces as they walked in and found a booth in the bar. He ordered a Scotch shooter and a beer back. To promote bonding, she had the same, and they sat for a long moment looking at each other.

"You're very persuasive. I don't know why I came," she finally said disingenuously, wondering how to broach her question in a way that would encourage him to sign on.

"You're shooting my tender self-esteem in the heart."

"Come on, Lockwood, I've heard of you. You're a one-man Internal Affairs project," she said, choosing a direction. "How many IA investigations have you been through in the last year and a half?"

"I stopped counting."

"I heard five," she said, hitting the exact number.

The fact was, there had been three weeks last August when all he did was work with his A
. G
.-appointed lawyer on his growing list of Internal Affairs citations. He had offended most of the Washington, D
. C
., IA silks in general, and Vic Kulack in particular. Almost as this thought struck him, he saw Kulack lumber through the door, with two vertical columns of shit who also worked on the fifth floor. Kulack rolled his shoulders when he walked. It was bad John Wayne. He was big but doughy. It amazed Lockwood how anybody could make a career out of trying to destroy the careers of others. For his money, Internal Affairs was a division loaded with nosebleeds and bend-ovens who had to prove that their own low agency test scores were nothing more than unfortunate accidents. Jealousy of competence was the fuel that drove them.

"I think those guys in IA suck," she said, picking up his exact thought.

"Why do you want to get into Pennet?" he finally asked, one eye still on Kulack, who went into the other room with his friends and took a table out of sight.

"The only thing that a remailer computer offers to its customers is anonymity. Pennet is a gathering place for sexual deviates. Pedophiles and necrophiliacs chat on that service regularly."

"Naaaaaw," he said, dragging it out.

"You asked me a question. I'm trying to answer you. Are you always such a wiseguy or do you ever have a serious moment?"

"I'm working off a disappointment. I got broomed off my Global Airlines case this morning," he said, wondering instantly why he'd told her that. "So, you figured to go lurking in that computer and see if you could pick off a hot one?"

"That's about the size of it. But I'm shot down. I'll never get through that blocking system. I get three chances at three passwords, then I'm locked out for ninety days. Even if I change computers, I'll be using a walker by the time I penetrate it. What I need is a great cracker."

"Probably right. You could use a guy who jacks these things for a living. . . . One of those cyber-thieves could probably break through that Pennet blocking device in minutes."

"Like who?" she asked, her eyes on him.

"I don't know. I'm not a subscriber to Cyberworld. You find somebody."

"How about Malavida Chacone . . . ?" she asked.

Instantly he looked up from his shot glass at her. "Where'd you hear about him?" he said, his guard coming up swiftly.

"Didn't you arrest him?"

"What's going on here, Karen? You trying to work me?"

"The FBI was calling him the Mac Attack when he was only seventeen. He'd been out on the electronic highway since he was twelve
,
driving his Macintosh war wagon, cracking into everything, buying BMWs, sending the bills out to some black hole in cyberspace. I heard you finally got him 'cause an angry girlfriend blew him in. But if it hadn't been for that, you never would've caught him."

"Actually, I try to never get out of bed when I work a case. I like to wear my silk jammies with the little pink-and-blue clowns and do it all by phone." He was choking back anger. He'd worked for six months to catch Malavida, who had been on the Customs "Ten Most Wanted" list for computer crimes that crossed the border. Lockwood had slept in his car outside Malavida's mother's apartment in Pico Rivera for four nights. He'd co-opted Malavida's girlfriend. The phone call from Tia had finally burned Chacone, but Lockwood had planted the seed.

"Don't get pissed off. I'm just saying Malavida could do it."

"He's doing a five-spot at the Federal pen at Lompoc. He'll probably do good time and be out in a year or so, but till then, he's out of service. So forget it." He didn't get any further because Vic Kulack threw his shadow across their table and conversation.

"You get the paper I sent you?" Kulack said, grinning. They both looked up at him.

"Which one? You've been papering me so much, I can't shit fast enough to use it all."

Kulack sat down uninvited, in a free chair at the end of the booth. Besides being doughy, he had hair that looked like it had been cut by a lawn mower and a big, square raptoresque jawline.

"Understand the DOAO's put you up on blocks and Girlfriend is my case after all."

"Back up, Vic. You're crowding the plate," Lockwood warned softly.

Kulack leaned over and grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the dish, then smiled at Karen. "You wanna little advice, honey? Give this Loony
Tunes the gate, 'cause when I get through with him, there won't be enough left to scrape up an' flush."

"This was a private conversation. Do you mind?" she said.

"You're Karen Dawson, I heard about you. I'm Vic Kulack. My friends call me Brute, because I take guys like Lockwood here an' give 'em attitude adjustments. Since Lockwood's gonna be tied up giving IA depositions till the year 2000, why don't we get together and give lust a chance?"

Karen turned to Lockwood. "What a specimen. Somebody should examine his relationship to the gene pool."

"Already did. He's in the maggot family."

"Don't maggots breed in garbage?" she asked drolly.

"That explains the funky smell," Lockwood answered.

Kulack was looking from Lockwood to Karen and back. His face flushed red. "I'm not through with you. . . . I'm gonna knock your hard-on down with a hammer, Johnny." He got up and lumbered off. Karen and Lockwood looked at each other in silence.

"Poetic," Karen finally said.

"Yeah." Lockwood was looking at the IA investigator, who rejoined his two buddies. Suddenly the Cellar seemed stuffy. He finished his drink and picked up his wallet.

"Wanna go?" she said, reading his mood change again and realizing she had blown her chance to enlist him. She decided to try again later.

He nodded and they stood up. After a minute they were back ou
t o
n Constitution Avenue. The gathering darkness was turning the cit
y i
nto a fairyland full of uplit buildings and statues. A bus lumbered past.

"For whatever it's worth, despite the mess you're in with IA, I
heard you're the best," Karen said softly. "Since we're assigned together, is there any way you can think of to help us get into Pennet?"

"What's with you and that Norwegian computer? It's more than just a hunch you're working, isn't it?"

"I did a field interview with a pedophile last June when I was still working on my last doctorate. Before he went to the Federal pen, he was in the D
. C
. lockup. He told me that the Pennet computer has code-locked 'rooms' where these sex freaks go and talk to one another. The Customs Service hired me because I have two doctorates in criminal psychology, a master's in deviant sexual behavior, and an RN in psychological addictions."

"I got a C-plus in algebra. 'Course, I had to cheat."

"Come on. I shouldn't be updating VICAP. . . . That's for a data-entry clerk. I'm the best walking, talking criminal behaviorist in the Federal government, but they've got me picking cotton in the basement. Maybe it's because I'm not an agent, or maybe it's because I'm just a chick in this boys' club, but either way, it makes no sense. I want to use that Pennet computer and hook one of those sex criminals, but I've gotta get into the sucker first."

"Nice knowing you, Karen. See you tomorrow." And then he reached out and shook her hand in what they both knew was a ridiculous moment, so he ended it quickly and walked away. Karen watched him go . . . a thin, handsome, dark-haired man in a cheap suit.

Chapter
6

In the dream, he was on Thunder Mountain near Washington, D
. C
. He was trying to Rollerblade down the side of its rock-encrusted east face. His ex-wife, Claire, and his ten-year-old daughter, Heather, were watching him. The rocks were treacherous, and he was moving too fast. He kept going over one particularly steep incline and, as he did, he would look down the horrible rock-strewn face of the mountain and realize he was a goner. Then, as if by magic, he was back up on top, putting on the Rollerblades and heading off, gaining speed, out of control, just like before, the rocks making balance and purchase impossible.

The phone woke him up. He sat upright, trying to get his bearings. His bed was a mess, the sheets kicked onto the floor. He'd had better sporting experiences. It was three A
. M
., his sinuses were blocked again, and he had a headache. He rolled over, grabbed his pocket inhaler, and gave his sinuses a shot before he picked up the phone.