Sophie Ang sat in her computer bay with three large screens ranged around what she called “the cockpit.” The low lighting of the FBI’s information-technology floor, the sound-deadening walls and carpet, gave the space a womblike feel—but the cool temperature kept the computers humming and agents alert.
And right now, Sophie was feeling more than alert—she was what she’d heard called “wired in.” Time seemed to stop, and she entered a state of total synchronicity between the computers, her brain, and her body. Sophie called it “the zone.” If she could have, she’d be plugged directly into the mainframe, but such technology didn’t yet exist. She knew it was only a matter of time, and she’d be one of the first to sign up.
Sophie had a mug of strong Thai tea at her elbow, and her long golden-brown fingers flew over the keys as she typed in the latest information on Corby Alexander Hale III direct from the scene, piped to her from Lei and Ken through their secure laptop. The photos Lei had taken, their notes, pictures of the suicide note, porn, and heroin kit all flowed through her fingers into the program she’d built.
She’d named it DAVID. The Data Analysis Victim Information Database was designed to analyze crimes into trend-driven subgroups. Unbound by geography or human bias, DAVID was able to mine law-enforcement databases and use statistical probability to hunt down trends that would be missed any other way—and this time, she was finding a trend with an 80-percent confidence ratio. She could add and take away variables that reconfigured the data based on information as it came in. Nationwide, there was an uptick in suicides. Suicides with inconsistencies. Suicides that weren’t really suicides.
Sophie still vividly remembered watching the news report a few weeks ago that had caught her interest—a series of odd suicides in
Portland. One of the victims, a woman with chronic depression who’d overdosed on sleeping pills, looked uncannily like Sophie’s mother.
When she’d entered all the data and hit Submit, DAVID hummed a long moment, the screen blank.
DAVID didn’t produce conclusions. It used a probability algorithm that had taken her almost a year to write to provide a percentage of confidence that a given hypothesis was true or false. She had typed in the code for “suicide,” having ruled out accidental death herself because of the note and posed quality of the body.
A window popped open: “30-percent chance suicide.”
That made it 70-percent probable that Corby Alexander Hale III had been murdered, or assisted in his suicide by someone else—still technically murder.
Sophie pushed back from her bay and stood up, stretching her arms high above her head, arching her back. She bent back down to lay her palms flat on the plastic chair guard on the floor. Other agents dotted around the room didn’t look up; they were used to Sophie’s frequent workout breaks.
At five foot nine and a hundred and fifty pounds, Sophie Ang was a tall woman with a rangy build and the long muscles of an athlete. She wore loose black rayon pants and a stretchy white blouse with black rubber-soled athletic shoes, well within Bureau guidelines but an outfit that was all about comfort.
Sophie rolled an exercise ball out from under her desk and lay backward, arching all the way over it to stretch. She picked up and crossed two dumbbells on her chest and began a series of sit-ups. When she’d done a hundred, she put down the weights, turned over on her stomach, rolled the ball down to her feet, and did a hundred push-ups.
It was hard to keep fit at a desk job, but Sophie loved mixed martial arts too much to let sitting all day make her soft. After she joined the FBI and learned combat skills, she discovered the Women’s Fight Club at her local gym, and she’d been hooked on the intense sport that was a combination of boxing, wrestling, and martial arts.
As Sophie did the push-ups, her busy brain ticked over this new information on the Hale case—information she knew Special Agent in Charge Waxman wouldn’t like. In fact, she still had the DAVID program under wraps. She dreaded the moment she had to tell the SAC she was running her own software on the Bureau servers. Truth was, she’d hoped to get some results before she disclosed how she’d come to them.
Any defense attorney would have a field day with the fact that an untested, unsanctioned computer program had generated results pointing to their client. Which was, in fact, a good reason to keep the program secret for the moment—there wasn’t a suspect yet to point to, just a confidence ratio that said the boy’s death wasn’t suicide.
The suicide note appeared to be in his handwriting, though frustratingly general. The fact that there was a note claiming suicide was consistent with those other odd deaths—she’d started a subfile on them, and so far there were forty-eight. Forty-eight suicides across five states with oddities, inconsistencies, evidence others had been involved—but they all had solid, uncoerced-looking suicide notes.
DAVID thought that constellation of factors was statistically improbable with an 80-percent certainty.
Sophie pushed herself up off the ball and did a brief sun salutation, stretching out her arms, shoulders, neck, and hands, ending with her palms flat on the padded carpet again. She straightened and strode across the “lab,” as they called it, to the water dispenser with its handy cabinet of glasses. She downed a healthy eight ounces, thinking about the environment of wealth and privilege that young Corby Hale occupied.
Sophie was familiar with that fishbowl life. Her father, an American diplomat posted to Thailand, had met and married her mother there, and Sophie had grown up in a palatial home surrounded by servants. She’d been cared for by a nanny, her every movement supervised and magnified in terms of how it reflected on the family. Not only was she the daughter of a diplomat, but her mother was a cousin to the king. She was related to royalty.
Educated at boarding school in
Switzerland, Sophie discovered a knack for three things: languages, athletics, and computers. None of these was particularly encouraged by her family, and she’d graduated with little recognition of her talents and a lot of value placed on her beauty.
She knew she was what the Americans called a “knockout”—even tall enough to do modeling. With her triangular face, tilted eyes, curly black hair, and golden-brown skin, she was the essence of exotic. Her mother had arranged a marriage for her upon graduation, and by then her parents were separated.
“Come back to the States with me,” her father said. “You don’t have to do this.”
But Sophie thought she did. She’d wanted to please her mother, an elfin beauty afflicted with chronic depression. She’d hoped that by doing what Pim Wat Smithson wanted, she would gain some closeness to a woman who’d always been unreachable.
It hadn’t worked, and the marriage had been a disaster she’d barely escaped from.
Sophie was at home here in this cool cave. Her mind and her skills made her fortune, not looks or bloodline. She’d discovered hand-to-hand combat and was now an expert with weapons, from the standard-issue Glock to throwing knives.
Assan Ang would never beat her again.
She leaned her forehead on the cool plastic of the water dispenser. Assan hadn’t even looked for her. Instead, she’d received a packet of divorce papers in the mail. He’d kept the settlement her parents had given them upon their marriage, and Sophie considered it a bargain to never have to see him again. She refilled her carafe and drank another eight ounces of water with her usual focus.
She had Women’s Fight Club tonight. It wouldn’t do to be dehydrated.
Lei unlocked the gate of her little cottage on the outskirts of
Honolulu. Keiki, her Rottweiler, and Angel, the teacup Chihuahua she was dog sitting, joined forces in a rhapsody of welcome as she pushed the gate open, stepped in, and relocked it.
The yard was enclosed in a six-foot chain-link fence draped in orange trumpet vine that did a great job of bestowing beauty as well as ensuring privacy and security. She always gave a deep sigh of relief to be home, and today was no exception.
Lei squatted down and rubbed the dogs’ bellies, scratched under their chins. If she didn’t do exactly the same thing with each of them, they found a way to wriggle under her hands and compete. She scooped tiny Angel up and patted Keiki’s big broad head, rubbing behind the silky triangle ears as they walked to her little porch. More unlocking here and a quick deactivation of the alarm, and she was really home.
Lei walked into the bright yellow kitchen with its little table and orchid plant. She fed the dogs and left them happily munching, a comical echo of each other with their matching black-and-tan points.
In her room, she stripped out of her black slacks and unbuckled her weapon harness, hanging it off the iron bedstead of the king-sized bed she’d finally replaced after the fire on Maui. She’d rented the little house furnished but for the bed, and it was big enough for her and the dogs to sleep in without bumping into each other.
Looking at the pristine bed linens reminded her of the sad crime scene this morning; she unbuttoned her white button-down blouse, standard FBI “uniform” wear, as she thought about her conversation with Sophie Ang just before the workday ended.
“I don’t think the Hale boy is a suicide.” The tech agent had come into Workroom One, where Lei was using her fuming chamber, a glass aquarium-like cube, to raise fingerprints on the heroin “cooking kit” found beside the boy’s bed.
“We don’t think so either,” Lei said. “Come see.” They both squinted into the fuming chamber. “See anything?” The spoon, lighter, plastic packet, and hypodermic were all in the chamber.
“No.” Sophie Ang wore a short-sleeved shirt, and Lei noticed again the curlicued foreign-writing tattoos that traced down the inside of the agent’s toned arms. She’d always wondered about them.
“That’s the point. Looks like the kit was wiped. Why would Corby Hale wipe his prints off the drug apparatus?” Ken, crisp in his gray suit, leaned down beside them. “So why don’t
you
think this is a suicide?”
“Computer analysis of the scene information,” Ang said.
Lei was still looking at the tattoos. “What are those kanjis on your arms?”
“They aren’t kanjis—they’re Thai writing.” Ang stood, and Lei was struck again by her height, the leashed power of her movements. Marcella and Sophie seemed to be addicted to the Women’s Fight Club they went to together. “I’m half Thai, half American.”
“Oh.” Lei wanted to ask what the tattoos said but already felt like she’d overstepped herself with the very private tech agent. “What’s the computer saying about the case?”
“Seventy-percent confidence ratio that the boy’s death is murder. This additional information will likely bring it up into ninety.”
“What kind of program are you running?” Ken switched off the power to the hood and the lit interior flicked off. “I asked you that earlier during the team briefing on looking at these suicide cases, but I don’t think I got a straight answer.”
Lei hear
d a defensive note in Sophie’s voice. “Classified.”
Ken gave a bark of laughter, putting his hands on his hips. “Got clearance just as high as you, Ang. You running something off the books?”
“I plead the Fifth Amendment.” Ang’s foreign birth sometimes showed up in how she used colloquialisms. “Something I’m working on. I’ll tell Waxman at the right time.”
“Well, so far we’re all on the same page. There’s something
kapakahi
with this one. It’s weird.” Lei told Ang about the boy’s left-handedness and imitated the tricky position needed to inject oneself in a major vein with the nondominant hand.
“What about the suicide note?” Ang frowned.
“That’s what we’re all wondering,” Lei’d said.
Lei pulled her eyes away from the bed and her obsessive thoughts and tossed her blouse and bra into the laundry hamper. She rolled an athletic bra down over small round breasts and pulled on a pair of nylon running shorts and a mesh top, bundling her curling hair into a ponytail.
The suicide note. In a scene that looked staged, it was clearly in Corby’s writing and yet it didn’t reveal any of his real motivation. The note had a stilted, form-letter feel to it that concealed as much as it revealed—like someone had given the boy the words.
Keiki, done eating, saw these signs of imminent departure and began a low rumbling whine of eagerness, intelligent brown eyes tracking her mistress as Lei slid her feet into short athletic socks and laced up Nike Air running shoes. Angel, not so restrained, lapped circles around Lei, yapping with excitement.
The little dog was too small to keep up with Lei and Keiki on their runs but was devastated to be left behind, so Lei had rigged up a secondhand baby carrier that she wore on her chest. She’d been caring for the little dog for more than a year while her owner, a teenager Lei had forged a bond with, served a sentence in Hawaii Youth Correctional Facility in Ko`olau. She scooped up the dog and tucked her in, leaving the little domed head and large pointed ears protruding. She slid a heavy chain collar over Keiki’s head, patted her pockets for her house keys, phone, and pepper spray, and took the dogs outside for their evening run.
The cottage was about a mile from the west end of
Ala Moana Beach Park, and Lei and Keiki made good time jogging along the urban sidewalk to the long stretch of lawn at the beginning of the park. They ran past picnic structures, spreading banyan trees, a long yellow-sand beach, and several homeless tents.
Lei took the dogs to the fenced dog park area. The big Rottweiler lay down panting when they arrived, while Angel made darting runs at the other dogs, barking when she had a mind to. Lei did some stretches off the park bench, watching the families and other dog owners.
A couple sat on the bench near her, their arms twined around each other, sneaking kisses as their dogs, a shih tzu and a pit bull, wandered and sniffed the fenced area. The sight of the couple brought Lei’s loneliness back in a rush as she remembered Marcella’s flushed face and sparkling eyes, Kamuela’s dimpled grin.
Love was in the air, and Lei wasn’t getting any.
It was too much. Lei took out her phone and held down the number seven, Stevens’s speed dial. The phone rang and rang. She listened to his voice tell her to leave a message. Just to hear his voice brought tears prickling up, a dreaded weakness. She hung up, sliding the phone back into her pocket without leaving a message.
She wasn’t tired enough; that was it. Maybe she should give the Women’s Fight Club another try, but she didn’t like the idea of seeing Alika Wolcott, who coached there. They’d dated back on Kaua`i, and she was still uncomfortable with him.
Some more running would help. She went to the nearby water fountain, splashed water over her face and hands, sucked down all the liquid she could hold. Made sure the dogs each got a good drink in the little basin designed for them, clicked the leash back on Keiki, and loaded Angel into the front carrier.
This time she went down to the beach and jogged laps back and forth. Tiny, clear turquoise waves lapped at the sand. The sunset blazed orange against the depthless blue sky, gilding clouds mounded near the horizon. Palm trees lining the beach clattered their fronds in the light breeze, and mynahs squabbled in a towering plumeria tree.
Lei jogged until the restless darkness of her mood was drowned by the thunder of her heart. Finally Keiki began hanging back, tongue lolling, and Lei took the dogs back uptown at a brisk walk.
The phone rang in her pocket, a buzzing vibration. She took it out, checked it before she answered.
“Hi, Michael.”
“Lei.” Just the sound of Stevens’s voice as he said her name made her throat tighten. “You called.”
“I did. I had to tell you—Marcella’s dating someone. It made me miss you.”
“Glad to hear your voice, whatever the reason. Who’s the lucky bastard?”
“Marcus Kamuela. The detective working Charlie Kwon’s case.”
A long pause. “That’s awkward.”
“You think?” She made herself give a little laugh, like it didn’t terrify her. “Anyway, seeing them together—they’re really happy. It made this even harder.”
This. Waiting. Their long separation. She heard the sigh of his exhale.
“God. I miss you too.” She could tell he was running a hand through his dark curling hair. She could picture the shadow of his lashes falling over those blue, blue eyes, his long fingers rubbing them. “Things are moving along.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really. Anchara told me her citizenship application was approved. I met with a divorce lawyer today.”
“Oh.” Lei stopped, leaning against a building, the sharp shadows of evening falling on the windows of the city all around her, Keiki tight up against her side as she bent her head, closing out everything in the world but his voice and the phone. Angel tilted her pointed nose up in the baby carrier and licked Lei’s chin. “So . . . how long?”
“Couple weeks. Could be sooner.”
“Oh my God.” After waiting so long to be together, the imminent end of their separation seemed like a mirage.
“I know. It doesn’t seem real.”
“I can’t believe it either.”
“So what are we going to do? Are you coming here?” Stevens was embedded in his job on Maui, promoted to lieutenant of the Haiku Station where Lei had once worked under Captain C. J. Omura.
“I don’t know.” Lei stroked a finger over Angel’s head, and the tiny dog closed her eyes in bliss. “I was really hating the Bureau for a while, but things are better. Waxman’s lightened up on me, and we’ve always got interesting cases. Let me tell you about this latest one.” She described the contradictory evidence in Corby Hale III’s death.
“We’ve got interesting cases here too.”
“I don’t know what to do. I just know we need to be together. Don’t you think it would be easier for you to come to
Oahu? More opportunity here for you too.”
“I’m just getting settled in as commanding officer. I’d have to see what was available for transfer. You can be sure I wouldn’t have my own station.”
Another long pause. A horn blared nearby, startling Lei. She straightened up from the wall, continued up the cement sidewalk with Keiki at her side. The lush green mountains behind Honolulu seemed to glow in the setting sun as her eyes wandered over them, unseeing.
“We don’t have to have all the answers now. Just . . . we have to be together. When you’re free.” Lei felt her throat closing on longing, a physical sensation like a fist squeezing her chest. It was beyond lust. It was a parched dryness. Only being tucked under his collarbone in her special space against his side could restore her.
“I love you.” His voice was ragged.
Her eyes closed for a second, and it was in that second that she walked into another pedestrian.
“Watch where you going!” Angry words put her back into her body and in this moment on the busy street. She waved apologetically at an older woman pushing a cart.
“I have to go. Call me when you know anything.”
“I will. The minute I know.”
They hung up at the same time. Lei wanted to cry at the severing. Instead she broke into a jog, Angel bouncing in the carrier against her chest. There was respite in the movement and in caring for her dogs, and that night, in getting online to find out everything she could about Corby Alexander Hale III.