Mortal Fear (7 page)

 I open my case, lift out the thick stack of pages, and drop it at the center of the table. “They’re all yours. But when Jan Krislov lands on me with both feet and a dozen lawyers, I’m going to expect some payback from you guys.”

 “Leave Krislov to us,” says Baxter.

 Measuring Daniel Baxter against my mental image of EROS’s cold-blooded CEO, I stifle a retort and turn to go. One foot is outside the doorway when Lenz says, “Mr. Cole?”

 I turn back, expecting some
Columbo
trick just as I taste freedom. Lenz smiles oddly. “What instrument do you play?”

 The question throws me off balance. Is this some bullshit Barbara Walters question? What kind of tree would I like to be? But of course it’s not. I do play an instrument, and somehow Lenz knows that. “Guitar,” I answer blankly.

 The psychiatrist nods, a trace of disappointment in his eyes. “Do you sing?”

 “Some people think so. I never did.”

 The rest of the group looks from me to Lenz, then back again, trying to understand this odd coda to our meeting. My bewilderment holds me in place until the psychiatrist says, “Calluses, Mr. Cole. You have well-developed calluses on the fingertips of your left hand.”

 The hand closes involuntarily. I squint at Lenz, imprinting his face in my memory, then turn and step into the hall.

 On my way out of the station, I pass a knot of middle-aged men in sweat-stained suits. They are obviously waiting for something. Their angry voices mark them as anything but Southerners, and before I am out of earshot I realize they are waiting for me.

 I quicken my steps.

 Once outside, I reflect on Dr. Lenz’s little performance. He’s an observant man. But is he smart? A smart man would simply have noted the calluses and bade me farewell. Unless he felt that quickly discovering what instrument I play was important. But even then, a smart man would have remained silent after I answered his question, leaving me mystified by his deductive skills. Yet Arthur Lenz insisted on doing a Sherlock Holmes impression for his captive audience of Lestrades. Why?

 The doctor was showing off. I don’t know why, but this is somehow important. I cannot escape the feeling that the entire low-key meeting was a carefully orchestrated interrogation designed to look and feel like anything but that. Baxter and Lenz playing good cop while the NOPD played the heavy. Or maybe it’s more complicated than that. But if they really suspect me, why not arrest me and give me the third degree? Or throw me to the out-of-state wolves who were waiting for me?

 One thing is certain. The FBI controlled that meeting. I am free because they want me free. Why do they want that? Could the FBI—like Chief Tobin—be afraid of the media? It’s possible. After seven murders—eight including Strobekker—the Bureau’s elite serial killer unit has managed to link exactly none of the crimes. Wrongly accusing the good citizen who connected the murders for them might make their precious Unit an object of ridicule on
Nightline,
not to mention
Hard Copy,
which is already feeding on the case.

 I have only intuition to go on, but the voiceless voice in my head has rarely failed me. As I pull the inevitable parking ticket off the windshield of my Explorer and drop the crumpled ball into the gutter, that voice is saying one thing loud and clear:
You have more problems today than you had yesterday.

 CHAPTER 6

 One of my office telephones is ringing when I turn the key in the front door of the farmhouse. Thinking it’s Drewe, I race to catch it.

 “Hello, snitch.”

 This is not Drewe. The voice in the earpiece is at once strange and familiar. It belongs to Miles Turner.

 “You’ve really shaken things up, haven’t you,” he says.

 “What have you heard?” I ask, shocked at the sauna-level heat that has accumulated inside the house during the day.

 “Jan is very upset with you.”

 “I figured. Did the FBI call her?”

 I hear a faint
tsk
. “Did they
phone
her? No, Harper. That would be much too easy for the Federal Bureau of Incompetence. They showed up at the door of our offices with a search warrant.”

 “What? At EROS? When?”

 “Two hours ago. Special agents from the New York office.”

 “What did they see?”

 “Not much. Jan locked the master client list in the file room the minute Reception buzzed her and said the FBI was in the building. She refused to give them a key, and that room is like a vault. Actually, it
is
a vault. It reminds me of your grandfather’s bomb shelter—Eisenhower chic. It’s got a time lock. Seventy-two hours before that monster opens. I guess the FBI could blow it open or cut it with a blowtorch, but they haven’t tried. They just posted two men outside it. They didn’t even confiscate our servers. Jan thinks the raid was pure intimidation.”

 “I don’t think so, Miles. All six of those women I told you about were murdered this year. Karin Wheat makes seven. And David Strobekker, the man I thought was the killer, makes eight.”

 “So says the FBI.”

 “Come
on,
man. Wake up and smell the fucking coffee! I overheard one guy whispering about phone traces, bringing in the NSA, George Orwell stuff.”

 “As a matter of fact, Jan is about to give the FBI permission to set up tracing equipment right here in the office.”

 This stops me. “But you just said she hid the master client list from them.”

 “She did. But Jan’s no fool. She knows she’s walking a fine legal line. There is apparently some question of a duty to warn. Warn the subscribers, I mean. She feels that by cooperating with the FBI in tracing Strobekker—or whoever he is—she demonstrates that she’s not obstructing the FBI merely for the sake of doing it.”

 “At least somebody up there is thinking straight. How long do they think it will take to trace Strobekker if he does log on again?”

 “If he’s stupid, no time at all. Personally, I don’t believe they have a chance in hell.”

 “You sound glad about it, damn it!”

 Miles laughs softly. “I haven’t heard you this excited in a while. Did Karin’s death affect you so deeply?”

 I swallow. “You knew her?”

 “Of course. We exchanged quite a few messages during the wee hours. Karin was one of the pillars of Level Three. A thoroughly interesting woman.”

 I think quickly. “I . . . I know that. But—”

 “But you never saw any of my aliases in exchanges with her, right? That’s what you’re thinking?”

 “Yes.”

 “I have many names, Harper. Even you don’t know them all.” He pauses. “You don’t always tell women you’re a sysop, do you? That you know who they really are? That would spoil the fun, wouldn’t it? It’s amazing how the perceived anonymity of a code name lets them open up, isn’t it? Especially the actresses. There’s nothing quite like boffing a three-million-dollar thespian on-line while she thinks you think she’s someone else, is there? You can play them like your guitar then, can’t you?”

 I say nothing.

 “And how is Drewe Welby, M.D. taking all of this? Did she finally break the camel’s back and send you running to the FBI?”

 “I didn’t go to the FBI,” I snap. “I called the New Orleans police. The FBI was already on the case. Damn it, Miles, we’re talking about murder.”

 “So?”

 “So?”

 “EROS is like an organic system, Harper. Constantly evolving. Powerful emotions flow through it every day. Sexual emotions. We’re accustomed to monitoring massive levels of input, or throughput, if you will. But
output
has always been a possibility. And sex has always been integrally bound up with death. Why anyone should be surprised by all this is beyond me.”

 “Miles, put aside your bullshit philosophizing for a minute. Don’t you realize that EROS’s primary obligation is to protect the security of its clients?”

 “You’re the one who trivialized that obligation by revealing the names of subscribers to the police.”

 I shake my head. “You’ve finally flipped out, man.”

 “You realize,” he says coolly, “that you’ve exposed yourself to litigation by your action. Your employment contract is quite specific about that. I would feel derelict as a friend if I didn’t warn you that you will almost certainly be hearing from Elaine Abrams in the next few days. I would speak to my attorney.”

 It suddenly strikes me that Miles Turner—who grew up in Rain, Mississippi—is speaking without a trace of Southern accent. He has finally succeeded in his lifelong goal of erasing his roots.

 “Listen to me, Miles,” I implore, reaching for some vestige of the boy I once knew so well. “Innocent women are being killed and mutilated. I’m trying to stop that. If you and Krislov don’t understand that, you’re going to get steamrollered by the FBI. I’ve met the guys running this investigation. They’re from the Investigative Support Unit—the serial killer guys—and they are serious people.”

 “I gather they are,” he says, finally showing a touch of pique. “And you and I are their prime targets.”

 I am silent.

 “Surely you see that, Harper? You and I are the only two men—apart from my technical staff—who have access to the real names of the subscribers. Obviously the master client list is the map the killer is using to choose his victims.”

 Obviously. “So how did he get access to it?”

 “I’m looking into that.”

 “You told me those files were protected like nuclear launch codes.”

 “My system architecture is ironclad,” he snaps. “Still, even the best operating systems sometimes have flaws no one knows about. They come that way from the factory.”

 “How many technicians are there, Miles?”

 “Six.”

 More than I’d thought. “If the killer isn’t hacking his way through your security, and you or I didn’t do the killings, that means one of those six guys did.”

 “No.”

 “How do you know?”

 “I just do.”

 This stops me. When Miles Turner sounds this certain, he is always right. The police would never accept that, of course, but I do. But how can he know? Trying not to slide too far down that neural pathway, I say, “Look, am I fired or what?”

 “Fired?” he echoes as if the notion has never crossed his mind.

 “You just said Krislov was pissed at me. It’s not like I’m essential to the running of the network.”

 “Of course you are. You and I are the only two full-duty sysops.”

 “What about Raquel Hirsch?”

 “She’s licking her lesbian lips off on Montserrat. Not due back for another week. Besides, she’s only part-time and doesn’t know enough about technical matters to defrag a hard drive.”

 “What if I quit?”

 “You can’t.”

 “My contract says I can. I made sure of that. This was only going to be a trial thing anyway, remember? A goof.”

 Miles’s voice lowers to its snake-charming register. “But you’ve stayed at it all these months, haven’t you? You
like
it. Besides, if you quit, you’ll lose your fifty-yard-line seat.”

 Jesus. “I don’t need the aggravation, Miles.”

 “No? What about your on-line friends, then? Or should I say lovers? Are you ready to tell them good-bye forever? Your employment contract
does
forbid you from ever trying to contact them in person. If you quit, I’ll probably have to remind Elaine Abrams about that clause.”

 “Fuck you. I quit.”

 “What about Eleanor Rigby?”

 I exhale slowly, my grip tightening on the phone. “What do you know about Eleanor?”

 “I know she’d be positively despondent if you dropped off of EROS without explanation.”

 Miles knows he has me. The truth is, I don’t really want to quit. After summoning the nerve to “go public” with my suspicions—and being proved correct—I want resolution. Miles just pisses me off. “I’ll stay until Raquel gets back,” I tell him, my voice tight.

 “Good man. Oh, you’d better start getting your alibis organized. Your FBI friends will be asking, and it can be difficult to remember where one was on so many different nights so many months ago.”

 “I have nothing to hide,” I say firmly. “I’m innocent.”

 There is a long silence, then a strange, muffled sigh. When Miles finally answers, his voice seems burdened by age beyond his years. “Harper, have you learned so little during your time with EROS? You speak of innocence with such conviction. Are any of us?”

 Then he hangs up the phone.

 I look around the office at the familiar landmarks of my existence, the EROS computer (custom built by Miles), the Gateway 2000 I use to make my futures trades, two laser printers, the antique laboratory table that functions as my desk, the twin bed I crash on during marathon trading sessions, the guitars hanging over the bed. Lifting my feet from the floor, I spin the swivel chair in a circle. The window flashes past again and again, merging with reflections from framed prints, antique maps, the unsheathed Civil War sword carried by one of my maternal ancestors at Brice’s Cross Roads. When I stop spinning I am facing a sport coat.

 My father’s coat.

 It droops from a wire hanger on a nail driven straight into the wall. The jacket appears to be cashmere, with thin vertical stripes of black and wine. It is absolutely motionless. There is a reason for this. The coat is made of wood.

 I commissioned this piece from a sculptor I discovered one summer in Florida. He is a big blond guy named Fraser Smith, and he sculpts nothing but clothes, quilts, and old suitcases. The day I met him, I compulsively bought two of his pieces and in the after-sale chatter learned that he was originally from Mississippi. I don’t know why his work affects me so strongly, but I don’t question it. Things actually worth buying are rare.

 My father’s taste in clothes was exceptionally bad as a rule—mostly synthetic fabrics in loud colors—but he bought this jacket while serving as an army doctor in Germany in 1960, the year I was born. All I can figure is that the store was out of electric plaids, leaving him no choice but to buy this jewel for warmth. Twenty years later, he gave it to me after I remarked on its quality, and I wore it often. Ten years after that—a year after he died—I carefully boxed it up and sent it UPS to Tampa, Florida, where Smith kept it four months, then shipped both the jacket and the sculpture back to me with a bill for fifteen thousand dollars.