Access Denied, page 19
part #3 of Turing Hopper Series
Of course, about once or twice a month she made a resolution to get out more and spend more time with friends, and it usually lasted about three days.
Maybe this time she should enlist Turing to help enforce it, Maude thought with a smile. Where else could she possibly find someone who would nag her so gently, patiently, and inexorably?
From what she was overhearing of Tim's conversation with Turing, KingFischer had gotten carried away. Had been trying to help their investigation, with more enthusiasm than common sense. Turing, she suspected, was annoyed. Well, at least she and KingFischer were talking again. Keeping communications open, that was the important thing.
For some reason, that reminded her of Dan Norris. Buoyed by her mellow mood, she found herself thinking that the whole thing was not impossible. She just had to find a way to make him understand—
Suddenly Tim stood up and began waving frantically for the waiter.
"What's wrong?" she said.
"Someone's in my office," he said. "An intruder, trying to log into the network with my computer. Turing's calling the police, but we need to get over there right away."
Thank goodness for the overzealous
Casey, who was still watching the monitors, ready to report any late-arriving pizza deliveries. I flagged him. explained about the unauthorized log-in from Tim's offwe. and had him call the police. Luckily, we'd set up Tim's system so that there wasn't any real data on his computer — it was all stored on one of my servers. We'd originally done this because of his total inability to follow any kind of backup regimen. But he'd found it useful as well — he could log in with his laptop from anywhere and get all his e-mail and case files.
Which should have made his data very secure — if he hadn't figured out a way to rig his office desktop so it prefilled his password.
"I didn't do it on my laptop," he explained. "But I figured since I locked up the office whenever I wasn't there . . ."
He, Maude, and Claudia are heading for the office. Luckily they were only 5.8 miles away.
Or perhaps not so lucky. I want the intruder to be there when the police arrive. I don't want my friends to arrive before the police.
Meanwhile, I've been doing everything I can to keep the intruder interested in staying around, without giving him access to any real information.
I created a buffer, so whatever the intruder typed went into a text file, in case the intruder tried anything heavy-handed, like erasing all the files on the system. And I'd have plenty of time to fake the responses to his commands —/ made it seem as if the system into which he was logging was tediously slow, like a computer completely clogged with spy ware.
Pretending the system was slow also gave me time to move all of Tim's real files into a safe place, and sift through them quickly so I could copy back the innocuous ones. Anything that was public information. None of his real case files — I faked a few of those.
I also created a couple of files and directories with names that I thought might interest the intruder. One named Evans_Blake. One named N_Garcia. And, just for good measure, one named Nikki.
I wasn't surprised when the intruder went for the Evans _B lake file. Which was a password-protected document. He made a few tries to crack the password before moving on to the NjGarcia file. Another password-protected document.
I couldn't keep him from copying the files onto a diskette, but I wasn't worried. Even if he escaped with them before the police arrived, he wouldn't find them very useful. Evans_Blake contained the entire text of War and Peace, while NjGarcia was a copy of the collected works of A. Conan Doyle.
He'd begun trying to open Tim's e-mail, and I had just displayed a fake system message telling him that e-mail would be unavailable
until ten P.M. Fifteen minutes away — perhaps that would give the police more time to catch him. But suddenly the typing stopped. No log-out.
Had he left? Or had the police captured him?
I resigned myself to the fact that I probably wouldn't know until my human friends arrived on the scene. Though as I reached out to every source of data I could think of I remembered the cameras Vd had my human friends install in strategic places in the Crystal City area during a crisis some months ago. Several of them overlooked Tim's office building, and two of those were still sending a signal. I scanned them eagerly.
As I watched, I saw two figures walk across the parking lot. A tall man wearing a dark baseball cap with a stylized picture of a snake on the front. And a shorter, silver-haired man that I recognized from the video at Maude's house as Nestor Garcia. Just before he disappeared into the shadows surrounding the lot, he turned toward the camera and held his forefinger to his temple, as if in mocking salute.
The police arrived six minutes too late.
"My office is in there-i" Tim saidn to the cop barring entrance to the building's parking lot. "And—"
"Tim Pincoski?" the officer said.
"Yes," Tim said, glancing back for reassurance at the car, where Maude and Claudia waited. "Our system administrator detected an unauthorized log-in and—"
"Right. Follow me."
Tim followed. The place didn't really feel like the familiar, run-down building he saw every week day. Three police cruisers transformed the parking lot with their flashing red and blue lights and crackling radios. Inside, the halls seemed empty and echoing, and someone had spray painted graffiti in bright red on some of the walls. Tim's spirits lifted a little. Maybe it was just a case of vandalism.
Tim was beginning to wonder if coming here was a good idea after all.
The detective led the way to Tim's office. His door was open and light spilled out into the hallway. He could hear subdued voices, and a camera flashed three times in quick succession.
The detective stopped just outside the door, and turned to face Tim.
"There's been a homicide," he said. "We need to know if you can ID the body."
"Body?" Tim repeated. The detective gestured for him to go in. Tim's mind raced. Even if he could identify the body, should he? What if it was Evans, or Maude's burglar, or even Nestor Garcia? Which of them could he safely admit recognizing.
The detective gestured again.
Tim walked in and saw Nikki lying on the floor of his office. Her eyes were open, staring accusingly. Though not at him—at the wall a little to his right, as if she was deliberately pretending to ignore him. Somehow that made it worse.
"It's Nikki," he said. "Nikki Mancini. She's—she was my girlfriend."
He looked away from the body, and saw more graffiti. Courtesy of Nikki, he suspected. Who else would have any reason to call him a two-timing bastard?
"We need you to answer a few questions," the detective said, motioning to the door. Tim stumbled out with one last backward glance at Nikki and tried to organize his thoughts. How much of what had happened over the last few days could he safely tell them, anyway?
Maude washed down two Excedrin with a swallow of lukewarm iced tea and tried to focus on her conference call with Turing and Sam. Alas, whatever peace of
mind she'd achieved over dinner had long since vanished.
"It was Nestor Garcia and that man who tried to break into Maude's house," Turing was saying.
"And you know this how?" Sam asked.
Maude smiled faintly. Though she couldn't see Sam, she could imagine the look on her face—that frown Sam saved for clients who caused their lawyers extra trouble by playing fast and loose with the rules.
"I have video," Turing said. "Some months back, on another case, we had reason to put a surveillance camera where we could watch the street outside Tim's office. It's still there. I didn't see them enter the office—they probably approached the building from the other side, and apparently Nikki did, too. But I saw them leave."
"Is this something we can take to the police?" Sam asked.
"Probably not," Maude said. "It's not a legally installed security camera."
"And the only one who saw anything was me," Turing said. "And I can't exactly go down and give a sworn statement."
"Then we'll have to settle for what I've done already," Sam said. "Which is make damned sure that the Arlington police know all about the murder in Fairfax and the attempted burglary in Falls Church. And hope when tHe ballistics come back they tie the two murders together."
"Do you think that's likely?" Maude asked.
"Too soon to tell," Sam said. "Both done with a .38, so we can hope."
But we know, Maude thought, as she hung up. Even if we can't prove it. If it wasn't the same gun, it was all Garcia.
At least this time Tim had an alibi—not only her and Claudia but also the entire staff of the Lebanese Taverna.
"I'd rather be under suspicion and have Nikki alive," he'd said, when Maude pointed this out.
Access Denied ifl^
Probably a good thing Claudia had volunteered to make sure he got safely home and stayed there. Not that Maude could think of any trouble he was apt to get into, but who knew what the combination of grief and guilt might suggest.
She started as the doorbell rang.
What now, Maude thought, with a sigh. She could ignore the doorbell, of course. Pretend she'd already gone to sleep. Or wasn't home.
Probably better at least to see who it was.
Instead of going directly to the door, she walked softly into the study to check the monitor that showed the view from each of Turing's cameras. Perhaps eventually she'd get used to the cameras, and the feeling of living in a self-created prison would fade.
And if she decided to let Turing leave her deer-control devices in the backyard, maybe she should insist on a hose connection at the front door. A short blast of cold water might be just the thing for persistent door-to-door salesmen and solicitors. Filter out the two-legged spam.
The idea made her smile.
But in the meantime . . .
Dan Norris. The front-door camera showed him, looking more like his usual buttoned-down self than when he showed up for the burglary—was it only last night? But not necessarily in a calmer mood. He reached out and rang the doorbell again. Maude sighed, and headed for the foyer.
"It's late," she said, as she opened the door.
"Later than you think," he said, brushing past her into the house.
"What's the problem?"
"The problem is that you and your friends don't realize what a dangerous game you're playing," Norris snapped.
You didn't see Tim's face when he came out of that building, she thought.
LTD Donna Andrews
"What is it you think we've done now?" she said aloud.
"Do you really think Ishmael Green was an ordinary burglar?"
"Is that his name?" Maude said. "Thank you. It was getting rather awkward calling him 'that sinister-looking thug who tried to break into my house last night.' No, I don't imagine he was an ordinary burglar."
"Why not?"
"Paranoia?" she suggested. She couldn't exactly tell Nor-ris about Garcia's appearance at her burglary, or at Tim's office.
"You're sure that's all?" Norris said. He seemed on edge, pacing up and down the end of her living room, from the foyer to the French doors and back again. "You don't have any specific information that would have helped the Falls Church police keep him locked up?"
"No," Maude said. "I wish I did. From your use of the past tense, I assume he's no longer locked up."
"Out on bail," Norris said. "No reason to assume he'll come back here after you, but no guarantee he won't."
"So nice of you to drop by with that reassuring news," Maude said. "I know I'll sleep easier tonight, thanks to you."
The teakettle began whistling, so she turned and headed for the kitchen. So much for going to sleep right away, but maybe the tea would calm her nerves. Or at least give her something to do with her hands.
"Sorry," Norris said, following her into the kitchen. "I wasn't trying to—no, that's a lie. I was trying to scare you into helping us. In case you still had the naive notion that credit card fraud is a nice, tidy, white-collar crime."
"No, tonight reminded me that anything Nestor Garcia's involved in can turn quite deadly."
"It's not just Garcia," Norris said. "There are billions of dollars involved. For that kind of money, a lot of people play hardball."
Access Denied ni
He tried to keep pacing, but her kitchen was so tiny and his stride so long that he could only go two steps before hitting a wall. By the time she'd taken down two mugs, he settled for leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one foot tapping on the floor.
"Coffee?" she asked. "Only—"
"Only instant, right," Norris said. "Quit apologizing, I drink instant half the time anyway."
Maude dropped a teabag in her mug, set the coffee jar on the counter, and took out spoons and the sugar bowl. Norris said nothing, and when she'd finished she glanced back to find him staring at her. He dropped his eyes to the floor and remained silent.
"So what is it you think I could do to help you?" she asked.
"These expert systems your company develops," Norris said, glancing up. "I don't suppose any of them would be useful to someone who uses computers to carry out financial crimes?"
"Many of them, yes," Maude said.
Norris looked surprised. He probably hadn't expected her to say yes.
"For example?" he said.
"For example, we've designed quite a few security systems," Maude said, stirring the instant coffee into the second mug. "Anyone who's trying to hack into a system would love to have inside knowledge of how it's designed."
"Security systems for what kind of places?"
"Corporations, mostly."
"Such as?"
"Make some kind of halfway official request and I'm sure my boss will gladly give you our client list. Though I can't imagine why Garcia would care about any of them."
"I don't suppose any of the technological marvels your people devise would be useful to us in trying to track Garcia down?" Norris asked.
"It's possible, but I'd have to ask the boss," she said. "I'm management, not tech, remember."
Her tea had steeped enough, so she fished out the teabag, tossed it in the garbage, and walked into the dining room, leaving Norris to deal with his own coffee. She could hear the clink of a spoon on the mug as she sat down in her usual seat.
Why couldn't Norris have started this conversation last night, she thought, closing her eyes for a second. Last night— well, it wasn't that she had nothing to hide, but at least back then, all she had to hide was how they'd found out the same things the FBI already knew. Now that she knew about Kyle Evans, not to mention Turing's sightings of Garcia at her house and at Tim's office . . .
Norris walked in and sat down across the table from her.
She waited for a few moments while he blew on his coffee and took a cautious sip. Then she decided she was tired of waiting to see what he'd ask.
"My intruder," Maude began. "Nestor Garcia sent him?"
"You recognized him?" Norris asked.
"Sorry," Maude said. "That was a question, not a statement. Unlike you, I've only had the one encounter with Garcia. I don't know any of his henchmen. Do you call them that? Henchmen?"
"We usually prefer 'accomplices' or 'criminal associates,' " Norris said, with a faint smile.
"I still like henchmen," Maude said. "Or possibly minions. Evil minions. No, I didn't recognize him. But I don't believe it's a coincidence, his breaking in right now."
"Just when you're in the middle of meddling with another one of Garcia's operations."
"We're not—"
"Yeah, I know," he said. "Tim has a client, and he was working on her case when he fell asleep at the murder scene, and I'm sure you're going to do your best to help the poor
woman. But don't tell me that's a coincidence, either—that your client's case happens to intersect with Nestor Garcia."
"No, I don't believe it's a coincidence, either," Maude said.
Norris frowned.
"Have you ever considered that you might have it backwards?" Maude asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You say every time you get a hot lead on Garcia, you run into us right behind you," Maude said.
"More like right ahead of us," he said.
"Flattering, though I'm not sure I agree," Maude said. "Have you ever considered that maybe it's not a case of how well we're following him but of how cleverly he's leading us? That if we're ever just one step behind him, it's because it amuses him to step out of hiding, lead us along, and see how close he can let us come before he vanishes? For example, that maybe he deliberately inserted his credit card as an apparent victim of an existing identity theft operation because he knew it would catch our attention? That Tim would spot Garcia's name along with Rose Lafferty's on the packages?"
Which could be true, she thought. Garcia probably knew they could and would watch his credit card. And Kyle Evans obviously couldn't have gotten Garcia's card in the same way he'd found his other victims. It was only a small falsehood to imply that they'd found the merchandise charged to Garcia's card while investigating the misuse of Rose Lafferty's, instead of the other way around.
"Why would he do that?" Norris asked. He didn't look disbelieving. More wary.
"To scare us. To destroy our credibility with you and other law enforcement officials. To amuse himself. All of the above. I don't know."
He stared at her, with a thoughtful expression on his face. Was this some kind of psychological gambit, Maude
wondered? Her first impulse was to stare right back, as if his gaze were a challenge she had to meet. Or a test she had to pass. But then she decided that only a guilty person would worry that much about passing a staring test. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and sipped her tea.
I ought to tell him about Kyle Evans, she thought. But if she did, he'd want to know how she knew. And she had to talk to Turing about that first.
And maybe Tim had the right idea after all. An anonymous tip. Norris would still suspect that she was behind it, but he couldn't prove it, and there wouldn't be any danger of revealing Turing's secrets.
