The Canton Connection (6 page)

It took Jake a twenty-minute cab ride past some of Washington’s fanciest homes to reach the Department of Homeland Security’s Nebraska Avenue Complex, a former U.S. Navy research lab. The crumbling red brick buildings and verdant surroundings hadn’t changed much from its early days as a girls’ school and seminary.

Craig Dalrymple was Todd’s contact at DHS. Solidly built with a friendly smile, the senior management official moved briskly and efficiently toward Jake.

They shook hands and Craig helped Jake get through security without surrendering his FBI identity card for a guest card.

“I reckon our two departments aren’t all that integrated,” Craig said apologetically.

When the DHS wouldn’t even let in an FBI special agent without an escort, it didn’t bode well for the
investigation.

Jake looked around the college-like campus that surrounded a white chapel. “I thought you were consolidating DHS down along the Anacostia River.”

“We are, eventually, moving onto the St. Elizabeths Hospital campus.”

“Wasn’t that a psychiatric ward at one time?”

“Yes, a government-run hospital for the insane. We’re preserving as much of it as we can, in case it comes in handy in our line of work.”

Jake appreciated the grim sense of humor. “When do you move in?”

“Give us a budget and we’ll build it. Coast Guard Headquarters is already there. Next we’ll move our National Operations Center there. And when all that’s in place, we’ll relocate FEMA there as well as TSA, Customs and Border Protection, and Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

Jake was struck by the breathtaking scope of the department, the third largest in the federal government, after Defense and Veterans Affairs.

They reached an anonymous-looking building that could have once been a dormitory. Craig took him inside and Jake was hit by the odor of moldy carpeting.

Craig’s office was adjacent to a janitor’s broom closet, which had the smell of standing water. His computer sat unused behind his desk, and he didn’t bother to turn it on.

Was this the department that coordinated the nation’s cyber security?

Jake decided to cut to the chase. “I
don’t know if computers are your bag, but I’m hoping that DHS is the place that looks after the nation’s cyber security.”

“It is. You have come to the right place.”

Jake was relieved. He had found the right department on his first try.

“How can we help you?” Craig adjusted his weight in his chair to a more comfortable position.

“Specifically, I’m trying to prevent a potentially disastrous cyber attack,” Jake said.

“Stop right there. Did you say ‘prevent’?”

Jake nodded.

Craig pulled a stack of four-color pamphlets to the center of his desk. They all
bore the eagle seal of DHS. Each pamphlet represented a different agency within the department. “Prevention falls into several categories,” Craig said. “If you want to foil a certain party from carrying out a cyber attack, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Uh, that’s kind of what I had in mind.”

“Sorry.” Craig waved a pamphlet at him. “Here we have a large division dedicated to identifying holes in our cyber security. That’s the National Cyber Security Division in the Office of Cyber Security and Communications. They maintain a comprehensive response system, help manage risk and set requirements for cyber security around the country.”

“That’s not what I need,” Jake said. “That’s too theoretical. I need to thwart a specific attack.”

“Now, if you need to study the technology behind the threat, you could go to our Science and Technology Directorate. They can help you ramp up your defenses.”

“I’m talking about a threat to the entire system,” Jake said. “I don’t want to secure just one computer.”

Craig frowned. “What do you mean ‘the entire system’? That sounds pretty comprehensive.”

“I’m talking about people, maybe hackers, maybe an entire government, who might want to compromise the A root server, the computer that holds all the DNS names.”

Craig snatched up another pamphlet. “Then you need our Cyber Security Research and Development Center.”

That sounded promising, except for the word “Research.”

Craig thumbed through the pamphlet. “Let’s see. It says here that the R&D Center works to perfect the internet’s routing infrastructure and Domain Name System. Does that sound right to you?”

“Yeah, everything but the ‘research’ part.” What Jake was looking for was law enforcement. “Listen, your department has the Secret Service, Coast Guard, and Border Control. You carry guns. You arrest people. Can’t you carry
out a simple operation against hackers?”

Craig’s head was still in the pamphlet. “…says they identify database theft and other such criminal activity.”

“I’m sorry. I’m talking about someone hacking into the internet’s Domain Name System. That could affect any industry from banking and finance to manufacturing to Google and Facebook and Apple and Dell Computers and Blackberrys. For that matter, someone could make the entire economy come to a screeching halt.”

That got Craig’s attention. “We do work on occasion with the Department of Defense. Maybe that’s where you ought to start.”

Jake was already getting that impression.

“Look, you guys do all sorts of useful things, stuff that needs to be done. But I think I came to the wrong place. I need to know who’s behind the attack we suspect might happen.”

Craig silently gathered up his pamphlets.

“I do appreciate your time,” Jake said. “But can I ask you one last question?”

Craig shrugged. “Sure.”

“Why are you reading all these pamphlets? You’ve got a computer sitting over there.”

Craig looked at the blank screen. “All the computers in our department crashed yesterday. It might take days to get the whole system back online. In the meantime, I’ve lost all my emails for the past month.”

Jake winced. “Hard to run a cyber security program when your computers are down.”

Craig walked him outside and pointed the way to the security gate where they had entered the complex. “Good luck,” he said, and offered a lifeless handshake.

Jake gave him an appreciative smile. The guy had dedicated his life to the government, and clearly there was no glory in it. Craig and DHS would, after all, be moving to an insane asylum soon.

Jake needed to stop by his office to pick up his car.

From Homeland Security headquarters, he caught a cab to the Metro, then took the red line downtown toward Metro Center. There were few passengers going into town at the end of the day.

He sat by a door and closed his eyes.

The door opened and shut, letting in damp, cool air from the underground stations.

He wondered if Stacy Stefansson ever rode the Metro. She had her own Jeep and her job at Verisign. He pulled out her business card and checked the address. There was only a business address
. The company was located outside the beltway in Reston, Virginia.

Increasing numbers of people got on the train as they neared the center of town. Their business suits, earphones and Kindles pegged them as government workers. If he ever advanced in the Bureau to work at the Hoover Building, could he endure that life?

Metro Center, a busy multi-level hub under downtown DC, swarmed with passengers waiting for their train.

Among the crush of people, he saw a bushy head of blonde hair. The train pulled in, and he edged toward the car where the woman was getting on.

In the harsh light of the car, he could see her squeezed between two men. She was laughing and talking with both of them.

She was also fifty years old.

He grabbed for a handhold and the train lurched out of the station. Stacy Stefansson was Michael Epstein’s responsibility. Jake had other work to do.

When he reached the office,
he hesitated in the parking lot. His car was waiting for him in the dead stillness. The sun was still up, but struggled to filter through the humid fog that hung around the trees. He could drive home, but home had no appeal.

So he went into the building and unlocked the office door.

He knew that Stacy Stefansson was Michael Epstein’s responsibility, and Jake had resolved not to tamper with her as a witness or interfere with Epstein’s investigation. Epstein would uncover her financial circumstances, search for a link to Chu’s company, and establish how she and Chu were on the same bike path at the time of the murder.

But Epstein had not seen her at the funeral or interrogated her. He wouldn’t be able to read her like Jake could. Just a little more information about her might help Jake establish if there was any evidence beyond what Epstein could develop.

Jake would start with where she lived. He didn’t know if she owned a swank condo in Ballston or a house in McLean.

He opened the case file and checked her résumé.

He knew that she jogged in Arlington, so he shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that her address was in a residential section of Arlington.

He scanned down the résumé for more personal details. She had gone to Swarthmore for an undergraduate degree and had worked in the DC area for the past eleven years.

Who were her friends? Did she really know Han Chu, despite what she had told him during the interrogation?

He pulled up Facebook. There weren’t many Stefanssons. But her name did appear.

Facebook blocked the general public from accessing people’s friends, messages and photos. But the FBI had a backdoor into all Facebook accounts. With a search warrant granted by a justice, he could eavesdrop on her activities.

He stood up to grab a Coke from the office fridge. Did he have enough evidence to convince a justice that she was a suspect in the case?

The Coke cleared his mind. She was not a suspect, nor did he have reason to question her credibility as a witness. With a little prodding, she had been up front about witnessing the crime. He had no reason not to believe her.

He wouldn’t attempt to open up the social media line of investigation for the moment.

He shut down his computer knowing that if he had more questions, he could interrogate her directly.

He locked up the office and left for the evening.

He jumped into his car and sat there thinking about his next move. FBI special agents were barred for professional reasons from having a relationship with a witness. He wouldn’t let his interest in her jeopardize his career. But he needed to familiarize himself with some more details of her life.

He drove toward the address he had obtained from her
résumé. Her house was up Patrick Henry Drive, an old, winding road that ignored the grid of streets around it.

He eased along her street, counting off the house numbers. At last he got to her address.

It was a frame house with an enclosed front porch, pale yellow paint and sky blue window frames. It was the kind of place that didn’t cost a lot, but was made nice by a caring owner.

No lights were on inside despite the gathering dusk, and
no car was in the driveway.

Maybe she was out for a run.

He turned around at the next intersection and headed down to the bike trail.

He parked nearby and wandered through the crunchy, burnt grass toward the strip of asphalt. Children rollerbladed by and commute
rs biked home at high speeds. He could still feel heat emanating from the pavement.

A young woman, built like a fireplug, with a monitor strapped to her toned biceps pounded past him with a grim look.

A Hispanic woman in a loose T-shirt and crinkly sweatpants steamed by.

It would be sheer chance if he saw Stacy, but he could envision her.

He pictured her having a loping, athletic stride, like one of those deceptively fast runners that passed him on occasion. Then again, she might be one of those appealingly determined runners who was hopelessly out of shape.

He aimed for his car and turned on the air conditioning.

He stared out at the bike path. The W&OD trail cut straight through the towns of Arlington, Falls Church and Vienna toward the setting sun. It had a wide right-of-way that allowed him to see the entire sky.

Stacy had been jogging westward when the crime took place. Why did she run so far from her home? Surely she had to be in good shape to run that
far.

She lived blocks from the trail, but Han Chu’s company was nowhere near it. Jake had looked up the address of Quantum, and it was located several miles south in the city. Chu was not merely there on a break from work. He had gone out of his way to be on that path.

It seemed like the meeting was more than coincidental. Either Chu was hoping to find Stacy, or she was trying to meet up with him, or both.

But if Chu was hoping to meet up with her, how could he have known that she was coming that far, or
even that she would be off work?

Or was Stacy behind the encounter?
Had she been there to meet Chu?

Jake kept coming back to the question
: did she really know Chu, despite what she had claimed during his interrogation?

He would check with Michael Epstein in the FBI’s Criminal Division the next day to find out if there was any connection between Chu’s company and Stacy Stefansson.

He bet there was.

He drove past Stacy’s house on his way home. He was convinced that he was spending too many late hours doing his job, and he was beginning to resent it.

Her Jeep was parked in the driveway. The house lights were on.

And a man was carrying in groceries from the car.

He was small and spry and wore a business suit. Jake recognized his athletic stride.

It was the Asian guy from the funeral.