The Trigger (6 page)

“I’ll keep working it, but you know there’s not much more we can do.” Gibson took a gulp of the coffee he always had with him. “She’s probably either dead or out there with the preppers.” Gibson’s tone held scorn. He assumed every isolationist was anti-government.

A shapeless worry started to take hold. “Did the victim have ID?”

“No. Start with the missing persons database.”

Could it be Emma?
The thought made his stomach clench. He tried not to visualize her corpse. Just as he had tried for a week not to imagine Emma held captive or hurt in any way. He couldn’t let this investigation get personal. He and Emma were long past. “Where is the victim?”

Gibson pointed at the report. “The Four Corners Motel. They pulled back the winter cover over the pool this morning and found a body in the water.” His boss stood to leave. “I’ll let Agent Dallas know to contact me.”

McCullen drove south on Victor Avenue, looking for the cheap motel near the outskirts of the city. The bright sun and vast blue sky took the edge off his foul mood. Planting season was finally in swing, and he couldn’t wait to get some basil and cilantro growing. He’d missed cooking with fresh herbs.

The dirty-white building came into view on his left. Long and low, it stretched out along the road, welcoming weary travelers with bright orange doors and a huge sign that lit up at night. McCullen had been inside just once—a night that had been both glorious and regretful.

He’d lived in Redding for six years, moving from Sacramento after his bureau training. Part of him wanted to go back to the bigger city with its higher crime rate and faster pace. The other half liked leaving work at five with most weekends free to bicycle, hunt, and garden.

He pulled into the parking lot just as the Shasta County coroner and a crime scene tech loaded the sheet-draped body into a van. A patrol officer stood nearby. McCullen walked over to the van, smelling the rotting corpse from a distance. “Dan Michelson? I’m Agent McCullen with the FBI.”

“Yes, we met in court once.” The coroner was too old to even guess his age, but he refused to retire.

“The Turnbull case. I remember.” McCullen nodded toward the body. “What have we got?”

“Female, probably between twenty-five and thirty-five—based on the condition of her teeth—and dead for at least a week. Maybe longer. She also has quite a dent in her skull, so it looks like someone clobbered her.” The coroner moved toward the driver’s side. “I’ll do the autopsy tomorrow and send over my report, but don’t get your hopes up. The forensic evidence is long gone.”

“Thank you.”
Please don’t let it be Emma
. McCullen braced himself and started for the motel office.

Inside, the smell of cigarettes and burnt coffee was a welcome relief from the wet cadaver odor clinging to the inside of his nostrils. He showed his credentials to the young man at the counter and followed him into a small back office. A fifty-something man with a toupee looked up from his computer.

“Agent McCullen, FBI. Are you the manager or owner?”

“Bob Hamper, owner. I assume you’re here about the body?”

“Yes.” McCullen took a seat in a plastic chair that looked like it had been made in the sixties. “The victim could have been a guest here. Any idea who she is?” He wondered—even hoped— she was a prostitute who worked out of the motel.

“Yes and no.” Hamper took a pull from a silver flask that came out of nowhere. “I’ve been thinking about it since I found her, and she might be connected to the rental car that was left in the parking lot two weeks ago.”

Two weeks ago Emma had been fine. McCullen pulled out his notepad, thinking more clearly now. “What date was that?”

“I’ve been trying to pinpoint it. I think I noticed the car on Thursday, April 25th, so it was probably there before that.”

“What happened?”

“Like I said, the car had been sitting for a couple days, but the license plate didn’t match any guests. So I opened the vehicle and found papers from Shasta Rentals.” Hamper took another pull. “The name Charlotte Archer was on the contract. She’d been a guest here on that Sunday and Monday night and left without turning in her key.”

McCullen jotted down the name but had a sinking feeling it was as fake as the license plate number she’d given the motel. A woman with something to hide. “Did you report any of this to the police?”

“I didn’t have a reason to. She paid for the room in advance, and there was no indication anything had happened to her.” A bead of sweat formed on Hamper’s upper lip. “Shasta Rentals was happy to send someone over to retrieve the car. She may have owed them for a couple more days, but that wasn’t my problem.”

Jackass.
McCullen resisted the urge to correct the man’s thinking. He might need the leverage later. “How did she pay?”

“With cash.”

Of course.
“Describe the woman.”

“Early thirties, short blond hair.” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “Curvaceous.”

That sounded like Emma.
Just a coincidence
, he told himself. “Did she say where she was from?”

“She listed Sacramento.”

That could be phony too, but it was a place to start. “What about the room she stayed in? Did she leave any luggage? Or anything unusual?”

“The maid didn’t report a thing, but you can ask her yourself. She’s cleaning in that area now.” Hamper glanced at his monitor. “Charlotte Archer stayed in room eight. It’s right next to the pool.”

An image of a man dragging her body in the dark popped into his brain. “I need copies of anything she filled out or signed, and I want to see the room.”

Hamper stood. “You’re lucky it’s empty this morning. But we’ve had guests in there since the Archer woman.”

McCullen knew he probably wouldn’t find anything, but if she had been murdered, he needed to see the crime scene. He tried to visualize the scenario: An assailant killing the woman and dragging her to the pool. Then what? Back to the room to get rid of her luggage and anything incriminating. “How often do your dumpsters get emptied?”

“Once a week. They came on Monday.”

Shit
. He hoped he didn’t have to search the damn landfill.

Down the walkway, he found the maid in room nine. The tiny Latino woman remembered nothing unusual about room eight on any recent morning. Charlotte Archer, the mystery woman, had left nothing behind—except a rental car.

An inspection of the room turned up nothing obvious: no blood stains in the patterned carpet that he could see, no broken or scratched furniture. He didn’t even know for sure that the dead woman had stayed in this room or if Charlotte was her real name. He took one last look around to visualize the crime. What would he use for a weapon if he hadn’t brought one with him?

A lamp on the nightstand caught his eye. The heavy ceramic base could do a lot of damage to someone’s skull. It looked clean, but trace evidence was hard to completely eliminate. With gloved hands, he carried the lamp to his car and placed it in an evidence bag. He would overnight it to the crime lab at Quantico. Maybe they’d find a fingerprint, blood, or scalp tissue.

If not, the case looked impossible. Still, he had to give it his best effort. A woman had been killed and dumped, and her family, if she had one, needed to know what had happened. McCullen gathered up the orange-floral bedspread, thinking it might not have been washed and could possibly contain DNA. As he stuffed it into a plastic bag from the trunk of his car, the maid hurried out from next door.

“I think I remember something,” she said, sounding a little winded. “The worried lady from room eight asked me where she could buy a sledge hammer.”

What the hell?

Wednesday, May 8, 6:45 a.m.

Spencer woke feeling upbeat for a change. For the first time in two years, his thoughts were not about his sick wife or the uncertain future. Instead, Sonja Barnes was on his mind. The young woman had commented on his blog a few days ago, then engaged him in a lively conversation about water-purification tablets versus portable purifiers. Yesterday, after she’d applied to join their community, he’d checked out her Facebook page. Her photo had pulled him in like a magnet. She was more than pretty—she was intensely compelling, with bright blue eyes that dared anyone to tell her no.

Now she was here in Redding and wanted to meet for lunch! The thought gave him a rush of pleasure. He headed for the bathroom, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Not bad for forty-two, he thought. No stomach fat, no gray hair. He could still attract a younger woman.

Lisa’s feeble voice called to him from the next bedroom, and a stab of guilt sliced through his heart. He was still a married man who loved his wife. Spencer pulled on a robe and rushed to see what she needed.

“I’m thirsty, hon.” Her cracked lips had dried blood on them.

Had he forgotten to apply lip balm the night before? He’d given her a gentle rubdown with lotion. “Your water bottle is right here.” Spencer grabbed the container and handed it to her. Had she been unable to reach it or did she just need attention? Others in the community helped care for her, but Lisa was still alone for periods of time.

He worried she no longer had the strength to even stay hydrated. How many days did she have? Would she die before he set off the financial trigger? That could be a problem. He would need to report her death to the county coroner—who would want to come out. Spencer shook off the worry. They had made it through rounds of FBI questioning about Emma, and they would get through this.

After a workout on the weight machine, which he hadn’t used in a while, Spencer headed for the data center. Raff was already at work, and he’d been there at midnight when Spencer finally called it quits. The hacker looked up. “You’re late, buddy.”

Spencer laughed. “How’s the progress?”

“Slow. Morgan’s key employees change their passwords twice a day, and they don’t open unsolicited email.”

“Keep at it for now.” Spencer wondered if they could go ahead without Morgan Bank and still achieve the same effect. “We need to start thinking about a plan B.” He had a second assault lined up that would cause power outages in ten major cities, but it would be more effective if the financial collapse was already happening.

Raff turned to him. “As a prepper, what is your biggest fear?”

“I’m a futurist.”

“Same question. What are you most worried about?”

“Global climate change caused by cars and companies that pump massive carbons into the atmosphere. And by climate change, I mean major storms, droughts, and temperature shifts that make our planet uninhabitable for humans.”

“That’s some serious shit, man.” The hacker cocked his head. “You think you’re going to save the species, don’t you?”

Spencer squared his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Cool.” Raff went back to work.

After an hour of grouping emails into sendable chunks, Spencer’s mind drifted back to Sonja and her sudden appearance in his life. An unpleasant thought gave him pause. Was she a scammer? An opportunist? He would be careful until he knew more, but he really wanted her in Destiny. They needed young people, especially women. He didn’t care that her skills had little to offer in the way of technology or medicine.

“Oh, shit.” Raff bolted upright in his chair.

“What is it?”

“They’ve made me. We’ve got a pingback coming.”

A cold fear seized Spencer’s chest. “I thought we had proxy computers.”

“We do.” Raff’s voice was tight, and he didn’t look up as he madly worked the keyboard. “I’m just deleting all my files over there before anyone sees them and figures out what we’re up to.”

“Can I help?”

“Just let me focus.”

Spencer moved toward the window, too nervous to sit and wait. If Morgan’s security pieced together their attack plans, it would warn its customers, and their assault would likely fail. Would they be able to trace control of the proxy computers to Destiny? If they did, Spencer would go to jail, and the community might fall apart. Raff had assured him a trace was impossible, but Spencer knew that in the tech world, nothing stayed impossible. Should he move the computers to an office in town? He could rent a heated storage unit as an immediate backup, then look at available office rentals after his lunch with Sonja.

For five long minutes, the only sound in the room was Raff clicking the keyboard like a transcriptionist on speed, with only an occasional soft grunt. Spencer tried not to pace.

Finally, the clicking slowed and Raff let out a small whoop. “I think I cleared it all in time.”

Relief washed over Spencer. “Thank goodness.” He strode over and stood near the hacker. “We need new proxy computers.”

Raff got up and stretched. “That’s the easy part. I think we need to forget the banks and try an asset management firm. They have less security.”

“But what can we accomplish?”

Raff laughed, almost scornfully. “Bentley & Eastman is an international firm that controls the money of Standford Oil, Conner’s Electric, and the governments of Lebanon and Syria. Just to name a few entities with mad cash. We could cause a major shutdown if we started making their money disappear.”

* * *

Raff was totally charged. He’d been hacking since he was twelve, but compared to this new gig, everything he’d done up to now seemed like goofing off, including hacking into a casino and shutting it down for a few hours. The Palm Royal had lost a lot of money that day, but none of it had gone into his pocket. He was proud that he’d never stolen anything, no matter how easy it would have been. That was important, because until now his life had been a wasteland with little to be proud of. But hacking was an addiction—kind of like gambling, he figured, but with a different kind of payoff. It gave him the only sense of power he’d ever had.

The Claytons were a different kind of power hungry. Maybe a little insane. They wanted to take down society and send everyone back to an agrarian culture. Raff respected the balls it took to launch such a project, but he had to be skeptical. World commerce would likely rebound. Still, with his help, they could do some serious damage, and in the long run, maybe some good too.