Moving Target (4 page)

“Wait a minute,” Ali said. “This whole thing happened on the inside. Every juvenile detention facility I ever heard of has security cameras everywhere. Doesn’t this one?”

“It does,” B. agreed, “but it turns out the cameras in one whole section of the building, including the room where Lance was putting up Christmas decorations, went on the fritz the night before the incident took place. A work order was issued that morning, prior to the fire, requesting the facility’s security contractor to send technicians to either fix the malfunctioning system or replace it. The repair appointment was
scheduled to take place the following day—the day after Lance was burned.”

“So what part of the system was offline?” Ali asked.

“The part that included the classrooms, the rec room, and the cafeteria. The rest of the system seems to be functioning properly.”

“That seems suspicious right there, doesn’t it?” Ali asked.

“It does as far as I’m concerned,” B. agreed. “That’s why I’m thinking there may be a lot more to this than meets the eye.”

Ali didn’t bother asking how B. knew about the malfunctioning security system or the request for service, all of which were things he could have gained access to only with help from Stuart Ramey, the guy manning a High Noon keyboard back home in Sedona. Since B. shouldn’t have known, in terms of plausible deniability, it was probably better that she not know too much about them, either.

“Let’s say the kid’s injuries weren’t self-inflicted,” Ali said. “What does that mean?”

“It means that someone inside the facility—someone with access to the security camera system—is involved in what happened.”

“A guard?” Ali asked.

“Or maybe a guard and an inmate, two people working in conjunction. One to take out the security system and the other one to set the fire.”

“So the real question is, why would Lance be targeted? Is it due to something that was going on inside the facility, or does it have something to do with why he got sent there in the first place?”

“What got him sent there,” B. replied, “is something that could have been treated as a kid’s prank and wasn’t. I keep thinking about the stunts that I pulled when I was his age. The thing is, I got away with them. Lance didn’t.”

That was when Ali finally tumbled. B. was taking this personally because he was seeing his own history reflected in what was going on with Lance Tucker. As a child, B. had been teased unmercifully by the other kids for his name—Bart Simpson. When other kids were out
playing Little League and Pop Warner football, an outcast B., who had already shed his given name, had taken refuge in technology. Hidden away in the family garage, he had cut his computer science teeth by taking old computers apart and putting them back together. By the time he was in junior high, he had taught himself how to write code.

A high school dropout without a trace of a college degree, B. had moved to Seattle in his late teens and made both a name for himself and a fortune in the computer game industry. Because he was a natural at computer hacking, he was also a natural at designing computer security measures. And that was the business B. was in now. His company, High Noon Enterprises, based in Sedona, counted among its clients a collection of Fortune 500 companies from all over the world. Even so, Ali knew that the guy she loved was still a rogue hacker at heart.

“When did all this happen?” Ali asked. “And how did you hear about it in the first place?”

“The incident occurred over a week ago. Since computer security breaches are my bread and butter, I subscribe to Internet Security News. ISN is a news aggregator that’s been following the story from the beginning. Once the burn victim’s name was leaked to the media, someone made the connection back to the school district hacking job. That’s how the story made it into one of today’s ISN postings. As soon as I read it, I felt sick to my stomach. I feel as though I ought to do something about it, but I don’t know what.”

“You have meetings scheduled in the morning?” Ali asked.

“Of course,” B. said. “All-day meetings, starting at eight
A.M.
That’s my life for the next three days.”

“I’m going to have plenty of spare time while Leland is dealing with his relatives,” Ali offered. “Why don’t I do some digging so that by the time you’re on your way home, you’ll have a better idea of what the situation is there?”

“I’d like that, but there’s a small problem,” B. said.

“What kind of problem?”

“This needs to be very discreet,” he said. “I can’t go into all the details
right now, but let’s just say no one can find out that we’re involved with helping Lance Tucker.” He waited while Ali filled in the blanks.

“In other words,” she said, “no searches that could be traced back to High Noon.”

“Exactly,” B. agreed. There was a slight pause before he added, “Your mom just sent me a photo. She wanted me to see it, and you should see it, too. I’ll forward it to you. In the meantime, I’d better try to hit the hay. I’m going to be a wreck in the morning.”

“Good night,” she said. “I love you.”

It took Ali a few minutes to get her computer out of her bag and hooked up to the hotel’s Wi-Fi system. By the time she did so, B.’s e-mail with her mother’s forwarded photo was already in her mailbox. Except Ali knew from the address that the e-mail had nothing to do with her mother. The address, [email protected], was a decoy mailbox that B. and Stu Ramey used to exchange encrypted messages that they didn’t want to surface in the light of day.

When she opened the e-mail, there was a photo of Colin and Colleen, standing side by side with Ali’s lush English garden blooming in the background. She sent an immediate reply to B: “Great photo. What cute kids. No wonder Mom likes it. Thanks. Good night.”

After responding, she pulled a tiny thumb drive out of the bottom of her purse, inserted it into her computer, and logged on using a complex nine-digit code. The next time she opened the e-mail, she used her steganographic program. The photo disappeared, leaving behind a long list of files. Hunkering down on the bed, Ali began to read the collection of articles and reports Stu Ramey had encrypted into the pixels.

In her previous life, before her curtailed career as a news anchor, Ali had worked as a journalist. She knew how to pull a story together. So did Stuart Ramey. It was just that much of what he’d included contained information that no legitimate reporter would have been able to touch. She started with the most recent, a dry-as-dust public information officer briefing from the San Leandro County Sheriff’s Department.

An exhaustive investigation by detectives from the San Leandro Sheriff’s Department has concluded that last week’s incident, in which an inmate of the San Leandro Juvenile Detention Center was severely burned, was either accidentally or intentionally self-inflicted.

The unnamed juvenile was working alone in a recreation area when his clothing caught fire. Examination of physical evidence found at the scene revealed the presence of no one else at the scene.

DNA and fingerprint evidence on both the aerosol spray and on the cigarette lighter used to ignite the fire have been found to belong to the victim himself.

The victim, whose name is being withheld because he is a juvenile, is currently being treated at Austin Memorial Hospital for second- and third-degree burns over much of his body. He also suffered several broken bones in a fall from a ladder that happened in conjunction with the fire. He is currently in critical condition.

This individual, who was sentenced to a six-month confinement, was serving time on a computer hacking charge. He was due to be released in less than a month, upon attaining his eighteenth birthday. As of this morning, the county prosecuting attorney has forwarded a formal request to the governor’s office asking that his sentence be commuted to time served.

Ali leaned back and stared at her computer screen. Commuting Lance’s sentence to time served was almost as convenient as having the pertinent cameras out of working order when the incident happened. If and when his condition improved, there would be no need to post any kind of guard outside Lance’s hospital room. In his current condition, the kid was an unlikely flight risk, and since the party line was that he had done this to himself, there was no reason for the authorities to consider him in any additional danger.

Ali didn’t have to read further to realize that both B. and Stuart were convinced otherwise. This was not an accident. Lance hadn’t done this to himself in a misguided attempt to gain access to a health-related get-out-of-jail-free
card. No, someone had tried to murder Lance Tucker. Since they hadn’t succeeded the first time, what were the chances that they would try again?

Ali chose another file and opened it. This one came with an admonition, printed in bright red letters:
PROPERTY OF AUSTIN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. CONTAINS CONFIDENTIAL DATA. NOT FOR TRANSMISSION TO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL.

And that would be me, Ali told herself, but that didn’t keep her from reading. Ali’s first husband had lost his battle with glioblastoma decades earlier, but during the time she spent at his hospital bedside, she had learned to navigate the complex narratives doctors and nurses wrote in the charts and had taught herself to read through the bland words to unlock the much darker meanings hidden underneath. She did the same thing here.

Yes, the burns were serious, but the last notation on the chart indicated that his primary doctor was seriously concerned that wounds to Lance’s legs, caused by compound fractures to both tibias, were showing signs of serious infection. If the infection couldn’t be controlled in a hurry, there was a chance that the patient would lose one leg, both legs, or even, perhaps, his life.

Ali leaned back on the pillow and thought about that. No doubt this was the part of Stuart’s report that had left B. sick at heart and sleepless in Tokyo. It wasn’t just that B.’s company and testimony had played a part in sending the kid to prison; his very life was on the line, and so was at least one of his legs.

Ali was sitting there thinking about it when jet lag made its presence known and sleep overtook her. She dozed off with the computer open on her lap. She was startled awake sometime later by a faint knock on her door. She looked up from her computer and was shocked to see that it was almost six-thirty. When she went to the door, Leland Brooks, looking rested and well turned out for their upcoming dinner, stood waiting in the hallway. “Just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way to the lobby,” he said.

“Great,” she told him. “I’ll be right down.”

Removing the thumb drive, she hid it away in her purse and then closed both the file and the computer. Her hair was slightly damp from the shower, but there was no time for a blow dry. Quickly she pulled her blond hair into a French twist and fastened it in place with a silver and jade hair comb that B. had brought back from one of his many trips to China. After hurriedly applying makeup, she slipped into the little black dress she had brought for upscale dining. Standing in front of the room’s full-length mirror, she pulled on the jade silk brocade jacket, another gift from B. After pronouncing herself ready, she headed downstairs.

A bare ten minutes after Leland’s discreet wake-up knock, Ali hurried out of the elevator and into the spacious lobby. She found Leland standing by the concierge’s counter, chatting away. “Ready?” she said.

He nodded.

“Let’s go find ourselves a cab.”

I
t was cold outside, but snow was no longer falling as they stepped into the waiting cab. The address on the doorman’s handwritten note was a ten-minute cab ride away, in Brompton Square. From the Langham, that would have been within easy walking distance, but not in this weather.

“That’ll be Harrods,” the cabbie said helpfully, pointing at the easily recognizable facade, brightly lit with Christmas decorations. “In case you Yanks would fancy a bit of shopping.”

Ali glanced in Leland’s direction, wondering if he would be offended by being referred to as a Yank. He appeared to be too busy taking in the sights to pay any attention. When the cab stopped in front of the building, Leland stepped outside and waited as Ali finished paying; then he handed her out onto the sidewalk, looking up at the Edwardian building before them as he did so. “It’s a bit grander than I would have expected,” he observed.

“Well then,” Ali said, smiling and taking his arm, “let’s see about making a good impression.”

Nothing in Jeffrey’s manner during their ride from the airport had indicated that his and Charlie’s place would be in any way exceptional. Ali revised that idea the moment they stepped into the polished wood
lobby. They rode up to the sixth-floor penthouse in an elevator that was smooth and utterly silent. A beaming Jeffrey was waiting outside the elevator when the doors slid open. “Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Do come inside.”

He ushered them into a room that could have been taken straight from the pages of
House Beautiful
. A gas log fireplace, complete with a massive marble mantel and hearth, burned cheerily in front of a seating area made up of two immense chintz couches large enough to hold four people each. Shaded lamps on end tables and occasional tables bathed the room in a golden light that barely illuminated the subtle floral pattern that overlaid the striped wallpaper. In front of the wall of windows stood a beautifully decorated Christmas tree whose freshly cut scent filled the room. At the end of the room was a formal dining area where a linen-covered table was laid for four. A low red and white chrysanthemum centerpiece punctuated with lit taper candles set the scene for an intimate dinner. From behind a swinging door came the complex aroma of some kind of sophisticated cooking.