L.A. Bytes (24 page)

“How do you know that?” Visions of the fl eeing motorcyclist returned. Had he been carrying a bag? David thought so.

206 P.A. Brown

“He’s got a workgroup set up. Two machines, this one acted as his server, the other one probably has his newer versions of the code, the one’s he’s working on right now.”

What the hell was Adnan up to? He had hacked the JPL web site, but done nothing except deface it. Was this another attack like that? Get back at the university for kicking him out? Or had he set his sights higher this time?

“I need to know exactly what he was planning to do with that code.”

“Like I said,” Brad muttered. “I can’t tell yet. I need more time.”

“Well consider this a priority. I don’t want you working on anything else, got it?”

“Sure, yeah, I mean, yes, sir.”

§ § § §

David dropped into his chair facing Martinez.

“No luck?”

“Defi ne luck,” he muttered, and told Martinez what Brad had found. While he talked he scratched some notes on a legal pad.

“He’s already hacked one site. Does he intend to do it again? Or is he after more?”

David scrabbled through the evidence boxes on their desks.

He dragged out the photos of Chris and himself.

“Adnan was involved in hacking the hospital.” He tossed them on the desk in front of Martinez. “That was after Chris was approached to look into the Ste. Anne’s situation, so it stands to reason Adnan was responsible for the original hospital attack, the one that brought Chris in. It makes sense Adnan would want to know who they were hiring.”

“So he tracked you down to see who the enemy was?”

“It makes perfect sense in light of what happened since then.”

L.A. BYTES
207

“You’ll never get the DA to buy that. Not with what we got.”

“Then we’ll fi nd her more.”

Martinez shrugged. “I’m not having a lot of luck tracking this guy’s father. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

“Well we know he does. Let’s poke around and keep our ears open.”

David began to dig tentatively through the Internet. At fi rst, his searches returned nothing of value, but then something appeared on his screen. A reference to an old article in
The
Boulevard Sentinel
, a Los Angeles neighborhood rag. Another hour of further digging found a link to the paper itself.

He opened the link and searched it for the article. It had been written over fi ve years earlier and had to be pulled from the archives. The author, Dick Charles, was a vitriolic, fl amboyant writer who clearly wanted his readers to know how strongly he felt on the subject.

The article’s title caught David’s eye: “The American Disappeared?”

The article itself was no less infl ammatory, probably why it had been buried in obscurity.

On September 11, 2001 the world watched in horror as two planes were deliberately fl own into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. Americans were justifi ably enraged by this cowardly attack, but what followed at the prison camps in Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay have shown that evil resides on both sides of the ocean...

David was about to take a pass on the article, when a name jumped out at him. Yousef Baruq.

You wouldn’t think that a naturalized U.S. citizen would be subject to the whims of a secret military cabal, but the story of Yousef Baruq may very well change your mind.

He quickly skimmed the article, which told the story of Yousef, an Iranian who married an American woman, fathered a son, and
208 P.A. Brown

became a naturalized citizen before the Al-Qaeda launched their attacks. He was picked up and detained at Guantanamo Bay. The article hinted he had been released, which would explain how Charles had managed to interview him. David doubted too many reporters made it into Guantanamo Bay.

David saved the piece, then launched another search, this time for the writer Dick Charles. He found several more articles Charles wrote for the Sentinel and one that had appeared more recently in another local paper—
L.A. Alternative Press
.

A third search gave him a number for the paper. Flipping his pad to a clean sheet, he dialed. He went from the receptionist to a junior editor to an associate editor in advertising. No one stayed on the line long enough to hear what he wanted before they put him on hold and shuffl ed him off to yet another faceless voice.

Finally he reached someone who introduced herself as Jane.

“Jane,” David said hurriedly before she could put him on hold. “This is the LAPD calling. I need to ask you something.”

“LAPD? What do you want?”

She sounded suspicious, but that was better than going into the limbo of hold.

“My name’s Detective David Eric Laine. I’m looking for a reporter who did some work for you last year.”

“Who would that be?”

David told her.

“Dick Charles? Hold on a minute—”

“Wait—”

But she had dropped him into limbo again. David resigned himself to another wait. He scribbled in his notes. Adnan Baruq.

Yousef Baruq. Nancy Scott Baruq. Alice Crandall. Herb Bolton.

Laura Fischer. He scratched out the last two names. Then re-added them. Then added one more: Chris.

Was there a link? How was that possible? He traced a line between Herb and Adnan. Two hackers. Three if he added Chris, L.A. BYTES
209

something he didn’t like to do. But honesty required it. How hard would it be for two guys like that to fi nd each other through one of those online places? What about Laura? She was a nurse; Nancy had been a sick woman. Could they have met through Laura’s work? That could have been another way for Adnan and Bolton to meet.

Yousef. Where was the father? Somebody at some time seemed to think he might have been a danger to U.S. interests.

Had those suspicions ever amounted to anything? That would explain the tension between mother and son, especially if the son remained loyal to his father and his mother turned her back on both of them.

David had the feeling it wouldn’t be easy fi nding out who had been sent to Guantanamo.

But he could fi nd this reporter. See if he had maintained contact with Adnan’s father.

Jane fi nally came back on the line. “Dick is on vacation. He won’t be back until the middle of the month.”

Even before he hung up he had Dick in the system. It came back with an address in Van Nuys. He swung around to face Martinez. “What are you up to?”

“I’ve got an appointment with Adnan’s landlord. He’s gonna take me through the place, see if he can tell me anything I don’t already know.”

David nodded. “I got a reporter to talk to.” He fi lled Martinez in on what he had found out so far. Martinez nodded when he heard about Guantanamo.

“A nasty piece of business. How ‘bout we meet up later and compare notes.”

“Dinner at Bill’s?” David could run up to visit Chris from there easily enough.

“Suits me.”

§ § § §

210 P.A. Brown

David took the 134 west, onto the Ventura Freeway and the 405 north to Van Nuys. Rain beat a steady tattoo on the car window as he exited at Sherman Way. It was looking like it was going to be a wet fall.

A middle-aged man in a bathrobe, his wispy fringe of gray hanging down his back in a ponytail, answered David’s knock.

“Mr. Charles?”

“Yes?” He looked at David with narrow, rheumy eyes. “Who are you?”

David fl ashed his badge. Dick looked slightly bemused.

“Okay, what do you want?”

David showed him a printed copy he had made of
The
Boulevard Sentinel
’s article with Dick’s byline. “You wrote this?”

“Says I did.” Charles drew a pair of glasses out of the pocket of his robe. He slipped them on and peered at the paper David handed him. “Yeah, that’s one of mine. Where’d you dig that fossil up?”

“You talked to a guy called Yousef Baruq for this article?”

“Yousef? Sure, I remember him. Pathetic old coot.” Charles squinted up at the lowering sky. “Listen, you want to come in?

Place is a mess, but hey, I’m on vacation.”

David followed him into the pale blue Spanish style bungalow that had probably gone up in the early 40’s when the Valley’s orange groves gave way to urban sprawl. The place was littered with old food containers and bundles of newspapers.

A layer of dust covered most of the surfaces, including a large screen Sony that looked completely out of place amid the Goodwill cast-offs that fi lled the rest of the room. The TV was off. From another room something operatic played.

Charles cleared some newspapers off the sagging sofa and gestured for David to sit. He did, mindful of his wet clothes.

“What can you tell me about Yousef? When did you speak with him last?”

L.A. BYTES
211

“Don’t recall exactly,” Charles said, waving his hand toward him. David caught a whiff of alcohol. “When did I write it?”

“Four years ago,” David said. “Do you know which article I’m talking about? Yousef Baruq and Guantanamo Bay.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.” Charles rubbed thick fi ngers over his unshaven face. “I got hold of Yousef right after they released him. No one else wanted to hear what we had to say back then, that’s why I had to put it in that rag, like anybody ever read it.”

“How did you fi nd Mr. Baruq?”

Charles lit up a Camel and let the smoke trickle out of his nose while he stared down at the article in his hand. His fi ngertips were nicotine stained. “Now that’s a funny story,” he said. “I was doing a story down in this mission on Western and I met this old character.”

“What was he doing down at the Mission?”

“Dying,” Charles said and blew out another stream of smoke.

“Hey, those were his words. He was pretty blunt when I met him.

Said he was dying and the U.S. government killed him and did I want to know his story.”

“And you of course said yes.”

“Didn’t hurt Woodward and Bernstein, now did it? Blasting the government used to get you good coverage. Till we went all Orwellian and shut down the free press.”

“So the government killed him? How exactly?”

“That was his story. Me, I fi gured it was something else. Guy was a last stage junkie with full-blown AIDS.”

David felt cold. “How does Guantanamo fi t into the story?”

“Ah, that’s where it gets interesting.”

Charles got up and disappeared into another room, only to return minutes later with a bottle of Jack Daniels. He fi lled a large tumbler and took a swallow. Thankfully he didn’t offer to share.

212 P.A. Brown

“Interesting how?” David prodded after several minutes of silence.

“Right, interesting. Yousef was Iranian born, he refugeed to the US after the Shah fell. Found himself a younger US bride and had a son. Right after 9/11 Yousef and his family were living in Florida—the FBI picked him up. Apparently Yousef had just gotten his pilot’s license, so of course he fell under suspicion.”

“Why of course?”

“Hah, just being Middle-Eastern put you on the radar back then. Being interested in planes, well imagine how that must have looked!”

“Are you saying they had nothing but a vague suspicion?”

“Vague? Try non-existent. But it didn’t stop them from holding him for eighteen months. Happened to lots of people.

Not all foreign-born, either.” Charles topped up his tumbler. His eyes were starting to glaze. His voice dropped and he slurred his words. “They raped him, you know. It took him a while before he admitted to that and he was never comfortable talking about it. Who can blame him, right? Who wants to admit they got buggered by the US military?”

“Is that where he contracted AIDS?”

“He implied it. Once he was released he couldn’t get a job—go fi gure, right? He moved his family back here, but then apparently everything fell apart. He didn’t have any more luck fi nding work here either.”

“And the drugs?”

“Who knows?” Charles shrugged and took another healthy swig of whiskey. Some of it dribbled down his chin, unnoticed.

“It happens, right? Guy can’t handle the pressure...phhtt...he starts mainlining.”

If Charles lit another cigarette, David worried he might burst into fl ames. He glanced uneasily around the room with its paper scattered within easy reach of any fl ame this drunk triggered.

Would it be poetic justice or a tragic accident?

L.A. BYTES
213

“How did you interview Mr. Baruq? Did you use a tape recorder?”

“Sure, but do you actually think I kept them? From fi ve years ago?” He laughed and hiccupped. “Get real.”

Tuesday, 1:55 pm, USC County General, State Street, Los Angeles
Chris pushed his barely touched dinner tray away and eased into a sitting position. The expected pain came and he held himself still until it faded. He took a deep breath and eased his legs over the side of the bed. The fl oor was a cold shock on his bare feet.

He stared down at his legs and fl exed the muscles of his calves. He put more weight on his feet. The coldness crept up his ankles, setting an ache in his bones.

He stood. A brief wave of dizziness swept through him and he closed his eyes until it passed. When he opened them again Finder was standing at the foot of the bed watching him.

“Jesus,” he snapped. “Are you stalking me?”

“Everybody needs a hobby,” she said. She came around the bed and glanced down. “Nice legs. Are those goose bumps?”

All too aware of his nudity under the thin hospital cover, Chris resisted the urge to sit down and pull the blanket over him.

Mustering all the dignity he could manage, he stared her down.

“Yes, and if you don’t mind I’d like to put something on. David brought my pajamas.”

Finder pulled the red silks out of the bag and held them up.

She whistled. “I can’t wait.”

He leaned forward and snatched them out of her hand. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. If you collapse on me, I’ll personally tie you to the bed until you’re well enough for David to take home.”