Moving Target (20 page)

“I was just watching the noon news,” Phyllis replied. “What was the name of the guy who came to the hospital yesterday?”

“Which one?” LeAnne asked. “Andrew Garfield showed up last night; Mr. Crutcher stopped by during the afternoon; and Mr. Dunn was the one who was here in the morning when you were.”

“Mr. Dunn?” Phyllis asked. “That’s the guy from the detention center?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember his first name?”

LeAnne had to think a minute before she was able to dredge it to the surface. Finally, she remembered. “Lowell, I believe,” she said. “Why?”

“I was just sitting here watching the noon news,” Phyllis replied. “A man identified as Lowell Dunn died in a house fire here in San Leandro last night.”

“He what?” LeAnne demanded.

“He died,” Phyllis repeated.

“How is that possible?” LeAnne asked. “He offers to help us one day, goes so far as to say he’s willing to lose his job, and the very next day he ends up dead? Was it arson?”

“No,” Phyllis replied. “According to what the reporter just said, it was an accident with no sign of forced entry; no sign of a struggle. According to her, the fire investigators believe an improperly extinguished cigarette was tossed on top of something combustible. The house was equipped with a smoke alarm that evidently wasn’t functioning.”

LeAnne cleared her table and hurried back upstairs. When she reached the door to Lance’s room, she waved at Sister Anselm and gestured for her to come out to the waiting room.

“What’s wrong?” Sister Anselm asked. “You look upset.”

“The man who came by yesterday and offered to help us died in a fire overnight in San Leandro.”

“The one who offered you the check?”

“No, the other one. Mr. Dunn. He worked at the juvenile detention center. They’re saying his death was accidental, but I don’t believe it. He offered to do what he could to help us, and I’m sure what happened to him is related to what happened to Lance.”

“I think it’s time to call the police department and report your suspicions,” Sister Anselm said.

“If I do that, they’re going to ask me if Lance is awake so they can come interview him.”

“As well they might,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s about time someone heard Lance’s side of the story.”

“Talking to him won’t do any good,” LeAnne said. “I already asked him. The last thing he remembers is being up on the ladder, decorating the tree.”

“Still the cops need to talk to him, and it’ll be better to be cooperative than not. The doctor says he may get moved to a regular room as early as tomorrow. When you speak to the detectives, let them know that’s the soonest they’ll be able to see him.”

LeAnne nodded. “All right,” she said.

Taking advantage of LeAnne’s presence, Sister Anselm headed for the elevator, determined to get some sleep herself. Walking away, she stuck her hand in her pocket. LeAnne Tucker was relieved when the item that appeared in Sister Anselm’s hand turned out to be her cell phone rather than her Taser.

M
arjorie Elkins had said that Kate would make time to see Ali in the morning, but the detective couldn’t have predicted how Ali and the head of Banshee Group would hit it off. By the time the samples were handed over to Donna Sparks, it was close to lunchtime, and Kate insisted on taking Ali to her club.

“It used to be a bit more stuffy,” Kate said. “All male and all Oxford. Then the economy tanked and they needed more revenue, so they let in some of the riffraff, yours truly included.”

The Dons Club turned out to be in town, in one of the old stone buildings that Ali had expected to begin with. They drove into a courtyard, where they were met by a parking attendant. The stately marble and granite lobby would have been at home in any grand hotel.

The properly attired host led them through a bookshelf-lined library and into a cozy but well-appointed dining room where the service was impeccable and the food was even better. Ali thought the roast pork in mustard sauce with green peas was sinfully good, and the conversation wasn’t bad, either. After dessert, followed by more coffee, Ali finally set off on her drive back to Bournemouth far later than she should have, considering the storm visibly bearing down from the north. Sleet started to fall as she pulled into traffic on the Oxford Ring Road.

When her phone rang a few minutes later, she saw it was B. Not wanting to talk on the phone while dealing with dicey weather and an unfamiliar road, she pulled over to the curb to talk to him. “How’s the world traveler?” she asked, “and where’s the world traveler?”

“On the ground in Zurich,” he said with a groan. “I’m in the car on the way to my hotel. Where are you?”

“On my way back from dropping off some blood samples at a private DNA lab in Oxford.”

“Whose blood?” B. asked. “If we’re talking about a crime, why not a regular crime lab?”

It took a few minutes for Ali to lay out the details about how her attempt to identify Jonah Brooks’s killer had been stymied by the local authorities and how Inspector Elkins and Kate Benchley had come to her aid.

“Too bad we don’t have someone like Elkins on our side in Austin,” B. grumbled.

“Why?”

“The first call I had once I got off the plane and before I made it through customs was from Sister Anselm. Yesterday a guy named Lowell Dunn, a facilities manager at the detention center, came forward and spoke to Lance Tucker’s mother. He was of the opinion that a person or persons unknown inside the facility were responsible for turning off the security monitoring system, as well as being responsible for the attack on Lance. He said he even had some idea who might have been involved.”

“Great,” Ali said. “We need him to take those suspicions to the cops.”

“That’s not going to happen,” B. said miserably. “He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Ali asked. “What got him? Car wreck? Heart attack?”

“His house burned down overnight just after he got home from the hospital, where he had offered to help Lance,” B. answered. “Lowell Dunn died of smoke inhalation. At least that’s what the autopsy said. And the fire is being marked down as accidental. Investigators are saying
that it started from a smoldering cigarette dropped on top of something combustible in a trash container. Dunn was a smoker.”

“Which is all very fine except he had just offered to help your guy.”

“Right,” B. replied.

“So Lowell Dunn is dead, and so is Lance’s old computer science teacher. If you’ll pardon my saying so, it sounds like Lance Tucker’s friends and acquaintances are dropping like flies.”

“Agreed,” B. said. “I have Stu working like crazy to find out everything there is to know about both Lowell Dunn and Everett Jackson.”

“What you haven’t told me is why we’re so deeply involved,” Ali interjected. “I’m ready for a straight answer.”

For a moment B. didn’t reply. “I think High Noon was used to perpetrate a series of injustices on a very talented young man, and I’m trying to right that wrong. Lance has invented something that may well be a game changer in terms of cyber security warfare and there are plenty of people, some of them good and some bad, who might want to gain control of his talents and capabilities.”

“I assume you’re one of the good guys?” Ali asked.

“Yes,” B. admitted, “but he won’t have a chance to work for anybody if someone kills him first.”

“If High Noon is involved, who else is?”

“Homeland Security for one,” B. replied. “And UTI, too. They’re about to launch their own security branch.”

“You’re talking about that fifty-thousand-dollar check that came in yesterday?” Ali asked. “Is this part of that?”

“I think so. They’re probably hoping to bring Lance in to help create it.”

“This is beginning to sound like some sort of bidding war,” Ali said.

“It is, with good guys and bad guys thrown into the mix, some of whom don’t draw the line at murder. That’s one of the reasons we’ve been using encrypted files. In case someone is watching, I don’t want to tip a hand about our involvement.”

“I don’t understand,” Ali said. “Why is Lance so valuable?”

“Because he’s the next generation of hacker,” B. explained. “I figured that out when I caught a glimpse of some of the codes he wrote while we were investigating the school district server incident. UTI probably spotted the same thing. Lance made one small error that made it possible for us to catch him, but he’s good—very good. Lots of people are working on HOST projects now, but he’s at the head of the pack.”

“On what?”

“Hide on server technology. Lance calls his GHOST, for ‘go hide on server technology.’ He’s either made or is on the verge of making a real breakthrough in that regard, and any company or governmental agency connected to cyber security is going to want him on their team. They’ll want to use his talent to create ways to penetrate cyber security walls so they can think up ways to defend against same. I’ll admit it straight out: I’d like him on High Noon’s team, but right now my main goal is keeping him alive.”

“How did Sister Anselm get pulled into the mix?” Ali asked.

B. sighed. “Bishop Gillespie just got an eye-popping estimate on the job of bringing St. Bernadette’s Convent up to current building code compliance with twenty-first-century plumbing and wiring. It was down to either fixing the place or abandoning it. I made the good bishop an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“You agreed to take over fixing St. Bernadette’s if he’d send Sister Anselm to help you look after Lance?”

Having had some experience in accepting charitable donations in lieu of payment for work done, Ali could hardly throw stones.

“So which is it, then?” she asked. “Is someone trying to recruit him, or are they trying to kill him?”

“Maybe a little of both,” B. suggested.

“Does any of this have to do with the dark Web?”

Ali’s casual reference to the subject took B. aback. “You know about that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ali said. “I do.”

“Here’s the deal: Lance has created a program that is able to infiltrate
dark Web sites without leaving any cyber footprints. The place is a nightmare for law enforcement and for any number of other people as well. That’s one of the reasons I’m prepared to hire Lance right this minute, and pay him enough to make it worth his while, medical benefits included.”

“Without so much as a high school diploma?”

“I’m hiring a brain, not a framed diploma slapped on a wall. Look at Stu Ramey and me. Do you see either one of us walking around bragging about our respective degrees in computer science?”

Caught up in the conversation, Ali had failed to notice that outside her parked car, snow was falling in huge feathery flakes. It was sticking on the roadway and starting to accumulate. It was only a little past four, but already the sky had darkened to the point that nightfall seemed mere minutes away.

“Look,” she said, “the weather’s turning bad, and I have a two-hour drive ahead of me. I’d better hang up so I can pay attention to the road. If I take a wrong turn, I might end up in London instead of Bournemouth.”

After saying their goodbyes, Ali ended the call but put the phone on the seat. Once she started the wipers, she realized she was dealing with a wholesale blizzard. Hunching her shoulders to the task, she eased the Land Rover into what was now rush hour traffic. Two long hours later, when she exited the A34 toward Southampton and Bournemouth, there were far fewer cars on the road. With the snow still tumbling out of the sky, Ali was glad that the vehicle behind her seemed to be maintaining a safe distance.

She took the roundabout at Wessex Road and Cambridge and started south to the hotel. Though she wasn’t going fast, when an approaching vehicle veered into her lane, years of right-hand driving overcame recent experience: She instinctively swung the wheel in the wrong direction. The road was slick enough that her next move was an overcorrection. As the approaching vehicle dodged back into its own lane and zoomed past, Ali felt the back left wheel of the Land Rover catch on the lip of the pavement and slip off onto the steep shoulder.

What happened next seemed to be in slow motion. Yes, her vehicle had four-wheel drive, but with two of them in the air and a third digging into the snowy shoulder, the remaining wheel lost traction, too, and the Land Rover began to tip. Somewhere in her distant memory, she recalled something her dad had said about exploding air bags breaking people’s arms. At the last moment before impact, she let go of the wheel. After that there was nothing.

“Lady, lady,” a voice called out of the darkness. “Are you all right?”

Ali opened her eyes. The interior of the Land Rover, illuminated by a vehicle behind her, was littered with a layer of deflated air bags and tiny pieces of shattered glass. There was so much pressure on her chest that she could barely breathe. “I’m okay, I think,” she managed.

“Hang on. I’ll help you out of there. There’s a tree next to your door. You’ll have to come out this way.”

That was when she realized that the man was speaking to her through the Land Rover’s shattered passenger window, while she, held in place by her seat belt, was hanging upside down. Her rescuer slithered in through the glass, found the release on the belt, and then eased her down and out into the falling snow. “Come sit in my car,” her rescuer said. “I’ve called the police and an ambulance.”