BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (27 page)

“No ‘buts.’ Tell me: What are ordinary folks supposed to do when the people who make the laws, who enforce the laws, who interpret the laws, become outright criminals—stealing from them, pushing them around, even murdering them? And when they have enough power to bury all evidence of their crimes? Just what are people like Dan Adair and Adam Silva’s widow supposed to do when they’re up against the likes of Sloan and Trammel and Boggs?”

“I don’t know! I don’t. But how is Dylan Hunter single-handedly going to stop them?
All
of them?”

He said nothing.

“Answer me: What are you going to do? Dylan, I have a right to know!”

“Yes. You do.”

He set the autopilot, then shifted to face her.

“You need to know this: Boggs sent a threatening message against me to the newspaper. And Sloan was behind the attack on me in the garage. I don’t know whether they’re working together or not, or who else may be involved; but I think there are a lot of them, and now they’ve escalated to violence. What they did to Adam shows just how far they’re willing to go.

“So for my own safety’s sake, Dylan Hunter is going to have to lie low for a while. And for
your
sake, you’ll have to stay away from me for a while—and we have to postpone any mentions or public announcements about our engagement. Until I can find out who is responsible—and stop them.”

“Stop them?” The expression on his face scared her. “Dylan, please don’t do what I think you’re going to do. I’ve already warned you about how I’ll react.”

Through the windscreen the bright sun above the cloud bank made his eyes glitter like chips of green ice.

“I’ll do what I have to do. You’ll do what you have to do.”

The words were like a slap in the face. It was so unlike him. They sat just two feet apart, but what was in his eyes—or perhaps absent from them—made that tiny space suddenly feel like a chasm.

“Dylan … I don’t know whether I can take any more of this.”

“Neither do I, Annie.”

“So why did you insist upon seeing me
here
again, Dylan?”

Wonk settled back in his armchair. Three weeks had passed, and he had gotten over his cold. He wore a red short-sleeved shirt hanging over blue jeans. Either contained enough fabric to reupholster the sofa where Hunter sat.

“Security. You’re sure your jammer is on?”

That provoked a grimace.

“Sorry I asked. As you know, Wonk, I’m after some very powerful, very dangerous people. People who have killed, and who won’t hesitate to do so again to cover their tracks or to stop anyone in their way. But I can’t get enough information to pursue this much farther … not legally. That’s why I need to ask you a big favor.”

Wonk shifted in his chair, which moaned in protest. “What favor?”

“I’m sure that their computers and cell phones contain damning communications that might break this whole thing wide open. And from what you mentioned last time, I inferred that you’ve either developed, or have access to, some hacking software.”

“Now, Dylan, wait a minute—”

“Hear me out, Wonk. I wouldn’t ask this unless it were life-and-death. Literally
.
I believe Dan Adair may be targeted next. I already have been. By Boggs and by others.”

“Your face …”

“They wanted to send me a message. Warn me off. I don’t think I’ll get a second warning.”

Wonk blinked several times. He heaved a heavy arm from his lap, took off his eyeglasses, then began to polish them with the bottom edge of his shirt.

“Dylan, I must tell you: I do not like this.”

“I don’t, either.”

“I mean, I do not like where this might take us.”

“Wonk,” he said softly, “we’re already there.”

He stopped polishing his glasses. Then nodded.

“All right. What, specifically, do you need of me?”

Hunter told him.

“That poses no challenges at all. Please wait here.”

Wonk put his glasses back on, and once again went through his labored ritual of rising from the chair. He stood teetering a few seconds, then shuffled around and wobbled down the hallway toward his office.

Hunter had to look at his watch to remind himself what day this was. Thursday. Where the hell did the week go?

He’d been working nonstop on planning his next moves since Annie left the house last Saturday night. She was too upset to stay through the weekend. They hadn’t seen each other or even spoken by phone since.

Yesterday he had spoken to Adair. The man still sounded depressed, though he had managed to get the EPA’s Science Advisory Board to grant him a two-week emergency delay in the hearing.

“Not that it’s going to do any good,” Adair said. “It would take at least six weeks, probably longer, for anyone else to come in and duplicate Adam’s work. And under the circumstances, who would want to?”

“I’m still working on things, Dan. Just hang in there. And please watch yourself and your family—okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Hunter was examining a Vermeer print on the wall when Wonk reappeared ten minutes later. He waddled to his seat, collapsed into it, and held up a thumb drive.

“This,” he said, panting, “contains exactly what you will need. Let me explain …”

Jonathan Weaver looked up toward the light rapping sound on his open office door.

“Come on in, Sally. What’s that you have?”

His white-haired executive assistant, an EPA veteran, bore a dark box and a bright smile. “You are going to like this, sir. A gift.”

She rested it carefully on his desk. It was a mailing carton, already opened and checked by building security. Paper tissue blossomed from the top.

“What’s this?” He probed and parted the tissue, revealing the top of a small bronze bust. He lifted it out. “Would you look at that! That’s John Muir!” He raised his eyes to her. “Who is this from? I have to thank them.”

“But look at the package. It’s been water-damaged. The ink on the return address label is all smeared. You can’t even read it. And there wasn’t a note inside, either … So you weren’t expecting this? Some award from a recent talk, maybe?”

“No idea. None at all.”

She shrugged and chuckled. “Well, then, you must have a secret admirer.”

He laughed, too. “Well, don’t tell my wife. What a shame, though, that I can’t call or send a note. I hope the sender doesn’t get upset with me. Maybe I’ll hear from them soon, though.”

“So what will you do with this? Take it home?”

“Oh, no. It belongs here, don’t you think?” He lifted it in his hands. “I suppose I could stick it over there on the bookshelf. But it’s so nice-looking—and only a few inches tall, even with this nice wooden base. Just the right size to be a paperweight. No, I’ll keep it right here on my desk.”

He slid it over beside the phone and faced it outward, toward the visitor chair.

“It’ll be a great conversation piece.”

Becky Hill, the receptionist at Nature Legal Advocacy, tried to interpret the bewildering sheets of paperwork that the guy had just handed her. It was on official District Department of the Environment stationery, with lots of stamps and signatures.

She looked up at him. He had dark sleepy eyes, longish blond hair, a scraggly goatee. His coveralls were smudged with dirt on the knees. He chewed gum with his mouth open. The plastic-covered contractor credentials pinned to his shirt read:

“You say radon inspection, Mr. Kane?”

He shook his head. “Passive monitoring. The new DDE regs. I was just down in your basement. It tested positive. So now I gotta install these digital radon detectors up here.” He shook the boxes in his arms, making the contents rattle. “Make sure there’s no infiltration. You don’t want bad elements comin’ in here.”

She looked around. It was lunch hour and all the bosses were out. “I don’t know …”

“Won’t take me long—half hour, tops. I’ll just stick these in a few spots, outta the way. Nobody will even notice where they are.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta be across town at one.” He looked back at her.

“Okay … all right.”

Still chewing the gum ferociously, he gave her a smile and a wink, then sauntered off into the office area, whistling.

Diane Baer looked at the clock on the wall. “But it is Friday after four, Mr.”—she squinted again at the plastic badge on his overalls—“Stone. There’s nobody here to help you.”

“Hey, that’s okay,” the red-bearded man said with a grin. “I really don’t need anybody’s help to do what I have to do. Sorry about the time of day. I tried to get up here and see your boss last week, but my appointment was interrupted.”

She scribbled down his name and “SS Energy Audits” from the paperwork he gave her. “So you are a contractor for the EPA?”

“That’s right.” He flipped to the second page and pointed to a line. “See, it’s right here. Like I said, this is for their annual energy award programs. EPA hires us to do energy efficiency audits of nominated companies.” He looked around. “And I can see why this company is a finalist.”

“So what, exactly, do you have to do?”

“Just unscrew and check the thermostats in your offices, see if they’re working properly.” He tugged the brim of his baseball cap. “Do some ambient air-quality readings in the A/C ducts. Then check the solar panels up on the roof. Those are your company’s, right?”

“Yes. We had them installed when we moved into these offices.”

“I see you’re watching the clock. Don’t worry, I promise I’ll be out of here before four-thirty.”

“Oh sure, then, go ahead. Our president will be so excited when I tell him we’re a finalist.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well, frankly, I shouldn’t have told you that much. Finalists are supposed to be confidential till the official announcement next month. But if things turn out like I expect, I think your boss will be in for a big surprise.”

She laughed. “If you’re right, Mr. Stone, I can’t wait to see the look on Mr. Sloan’s face.”

He laughed, too. “Call me Shane.”

Dressed in his long coat and carrying a large paper bag, Hunter took the stairs down from his ninth-floor apartment. A minute later, still carrying the paper bag, he emerged from the stairwell into the sixth-floor hallway wearing a gray trench coat, blond wig, mustache, and glasses. He nodded to a man waiting for the elevator and continued down to the end of the hall. After checking an unobtrusive telltale, which hadn’t been disturbed, he entered the apartment of Wayne Grayson, investment advisor.

This second apartment fulfilled multiple roles, especially now that the police knew about Hunter’s residence three floors above. It was a nearby place to bolt to, quickly and discreetly, during a police raid or other emergency. It served as a cache for items that he could not afford to be linked to Dylan Hunter. It allowed him to keep a couple more vehicles in the building’s garage, including the BMW 7 Series sedan, registered to the innocuous and seldom-seen Mr. Grayson.

It also permitted him to maintain independent systems for secure communications, just in case the cops or some enemy ever tried to bug Hunter’s apartment or hack his computer and phone. That was the role it was serving now.

He closed and bolted the door, left the bag containing his coat on a nearby chair, then disarmed the alarm system. He added the raincoat he was wearing to the pile on the chair and walked casually around the room closing the curtains, just as any law-abiding citizen might.

He spent the next five minutes sweeping the place for planted bugs. Finding none, he moved to the closed door of the interior bedroom, which he had set up as an office. It was the only room without a window, insuring a greater level of privacy. He checked another unmolested telltale before entering.

Next, he powered up the waiting laptop. Following Wonk’s instructions, he inserted the thumb drive, and from it installed email client software that the researcher had customized. He launched the program and tweaked its settings to retrieve email from Dylan Hunter’s public email account—but routed through a high-anonymity proxy server that Wonk had established for other secretive clients. This would create an additional barrier to anyone trying to track back his email correspondence.

All this took a while, but once everything was ready, Hunter let the software retrieve his waiting email. He watched as the stream of messages downloaded.

“Ah … there you are.”

Both Sloan and Lockwood had replied to emails he’d sent them earlier in the day. Sloan’s note was terse. He didn’t know when he’d be able to reschedule an appointment, or “if it would even be worthwhile, given that you already seem to have made up your mind about the facts.” Lockwood was blunter, reiterating that NLA was weighing legal action, and that any further communication should be through the firm’s attorneys. He found no email replies from Weaver or Trammel.

It didn’t matter; he already had what he needed.

He reopened Sloan’s message. Using the “redirect” function in the customized email software, he created a new email. Then he used a second program that Wonk had provided—routing modification software—to strip out all prior header routing information, except for Sloan’s. He then deleted Sloan’s subject line and the text of his reply.

Now he had a blank message whose routing header—even if expanded and checked—would seem to have originated directly from Sloan himself.

He typed in on the subject line: “Re: Inquirer reporter”

In the body, he wrote:

“All:

“The attached from a quick web search re: DH. Not much, but perhaps useful if you have not seen it. Delete this after reading. No need to reply; out of office.

“Damon”

In the “BCC” field of the message, he typed in the email addresses he had compiled for Lockwood, Weaver, and Crane. He liked that touch: It made it appear that Sloan was trying to keep the recipients’ names confidential by blind-copying them.

Finally, he copied a third file from Wonk’s thumb drive onto his computer, then attached it to the new email message. It was a JPEG copy of a newspaper article about the role Dylan Hunter’s articles had played during the recent wave of vigilante killings in Washington. However, Wonk had embedded some hidden code in the image file.