L.A. Bytes

by P. A. Brown

  Only nine years till he had his twenty in and he could retire. Chris wouldn’t even be forty then.

  Unwanted thoughts tumbled through his head. He climbed between the sheets and tried to read. The words on the page made no sense.

  The ones in his head were altogether too clear.

  Tuesday, 8:35 pm, Ste. Anne’s Medical Center, Rowena Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

  Chris saw the IP address after nearly an hour of dissecting the logs Terry had collected from all the hospital’s servers.

  Logs generated on each server recorded, among other things, the source and destination IP, the user id and the server that all incoming and outgoing messages came from.

  IT people lived in a world of numbers and strings of code, much as the computers they administered did. Like a magician’s sleight of hand, he was able to pull useful information out of data logs that to most people looked like gibberish.

  IP addresses were like that. Nine digit numbers separated with periods, to most people random. Without meaning. Chris probably recognized at least three dozen IP addresses at a glance and matched them to a particular server, the rest he could classify instantly.

  But this IP he recognized. He’d seen it only recently. It was the IP from Sandman422’s email header, the one that claimed to be coming from Calnexxia. Only here, in the sniffer log, it was listed as sourcing from a server inside Ste. Anne’s.

  L.A. BYTES 45

  Chris stabbed a manicured nail at the line in the log fi le.

  “Recognize this?”

  From over his shoulder Terry studied the output on the screen. “That’s our web server.”

  Chris told him about the two threatening emails he had received from Sandman422.

  “I just fi gured he signed up for a Freemail account,” Chris said. “Instead he spoofed the IP headers just to make me think he was using Freemail. He sent those emails from your web server.

  He may very well be our cracker.”

  “So at fi rst glance anyone examining the header is going to think it’s from someplace else,” Terry said.

  “You know anyone who could do something like this?”

  Terry’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down on his thin neck.

  “I know our guys.” He shook his head so hard, his glasses skidded down his nose. He shoved them back up. “I know who could do it, but I swear that none of them did.”

  Chris believed him, but he pressed anyway. You never knew what people could remember if pushed. “Anybody on staff come to mind?”

  “I know a couple of nurses who seem to know their way around a keyboard.”

  “Anyone who could do this?”

  “Shit, if I knew someone on staff who could do this, I’d hire them myself. They’d be wasted as nurses. I’ve been trying to talk Laura into coming over to our side, but she says she likes nursing.”

  “Fine,” Chris said, wondering who the hell Laura was. “How accessible are these machines?”

  “I supposed a determined visitor could get to one, but, tell me if I’m wrong, doesn’t this kind of thing take time? A stranger’s going to be noticed...”

  “What about a stranger wearing scrubs? Or one of those candy-stripers?”

  46 P.A. Brown

  Terry frowned. “We’re not one of the giant medical centers.

  Most of us have a nodding acquaintance with each other. I still think he’d be noticed.”

  They continued to pour over the logs. In the same fi le Chris had discovered the spoofed IP address, he found another reference that intrigued him.

  “What’s this—another server?”

  “Post01? That’s our mail server.”

  “UNIX?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think he used a sendmail exploit. That’s how he gained root access.” Root access on a UNIX server was like being God.

  A root user could do anything. “He used your web server sitting in the DMZ to attack this box inside and from there he could go anywhere.” The DMZ was the demilitarized zone where things like web servers were kept out of the vulnerable inner ring. Even if a cracker got to them, it didn’t mean they could penetrate the production servers. Unless, like this guy, they were experts at stealth.

  Terry swore. “Can we track where he went? Did he leave a footprint?”

  “We can check time stamps on the fi les in question; see if anyone touched them. We’ll compare your backups, too, verify their integrity.” Chris rubbed a hand through his spiky hair.

  “Listen, let’s take a break. Grab a coffee and work out how we want to approach this.”

  “Sure. I could use a break.”

  Only one table was occupied in the cafeteria. Windows lined one wall, looking out onto the main corridor. Overhead several rows of bright fl uorescent lights washed the color out of everything. Chris glanced at the other occupants. A slight young man shared the table with a big-bottomed blonde picking at a bowl of wilted greens and an African-American woman emphasizing some point with her coffee spoon.

  L.A. BYTES 47

  Terry saw the trio and waved. Only the African-American woman waved back. Both women zeroed in on Chris, and stared at him as he and Terry grabbed coffee and crossed to the other side, to take a table near the far door. Chris resisted the temptation to swing his hips for them. He didn’t really mind it when guys looked at him that way. But it always felt weird when the attention came from women.

  It wasn’t like he’d always looked this way. As a teenager he’d been a skinny nerd, all knees and elbows and acne in a world where the super jock was worshiped. He’d been lousy at sports, sucked at acting and had absolutely no interest in social clubs.

  He’d been horrifi ed by the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him whenever a good looking guy came near. He hadn’t realized what was happening until a senior seduced him in the guy’s locker room in his sophomore year.

  He knew what that made him.

  By the time he graduated, he’d metamorphosed from a scrawny loser into a man who turned heads. There were a lot more encounters like the senior, but by then he’d accepted who he was. In the years he spent at UCLA, then later at CalTech, guys fl ocked to him, bees to the golden poppy fl ower, and he reveled in their attention.

  Then David came along. There hadn’t been anyone since. If he had his way, there wouldn’t ever be again.

  “That’s her,” Terry interrupted, and Chris swung around to follow his look. “Laura, the blonde. She’s the one I told you about. Knows her way around a computer.”

  It was the big-bottomed blonde. Chris studied her over the rim of his paper cup.

  She looked younger than Chris. Mid-twenties. Make-up did nothing to conceal her tiredness, and her black-rimmed eyes glanced his way without making contact. She hadn’t made any headway on the salad, though she still poked at it with her fork.

  “What fl oor does she work on?” Chris asked.

  48 P.A. Brown

  “She works mainly on third. She had some special training in pediatrics and AIDS.”

  “Come on, let’s go meet her,” Chris said. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask any embarrassing questions.”

  Terry gave him a sour look, but led the way over to the table of three. “Hi, Laura,” Terry said. “Kate. Slow night?”

  Laura shrugged, her gaze lingering on Chris. “Quiet enough.

  You’re here late.”

  “Shit happens. Hey, I’d like you to meet Chris. He’s gonna be working with me the next few days. Chris, this is Laura Fischer and Kate Johnson.” Terry glanced at the janitor. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Akeem,” he said, offering them a shy smile. “I just started a few weeks ago.”

  “But he’s fi tting right in, ain’t that right, Akeem?” Kate, the African-American woman, smiled in a proprietary way.

  “We better get back,” Chris said, knowing this wasn’t the time to ask questions. If he wanted to talk to Laura, he’d catch her alone.

  “Sure,” Terry sa
id. “Talk to you later, Laura. Kate. Akeem.”

  Once they were out of earshot, Terry asked, “What’s our next step?”

  “More log fi les. I’d like to take a closer look at your mail server, if that’s okay.” Chris saw the look on Terry’s face. “Hey, we’ve done pretty good so far.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wednesday 12:35 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles When Chris let himself into the house it was after midnight.

  David’s car was still in the driveway but Chris knew he couldn’t assume David was home. How long had he worked? Chris fumed.

  Where was he? Had he been out working the whole time Chris had been at the hospital?

  In the kitchen he found a plate, a butter knife and a glass in the sink, so clearly David had been home long enough to eat something. But did he go back out again?

  Chris rinsed the dirty dishes off and slid them into the dishwasher. Then he wiped the counter down and turned off the downstairs lights as he headed for bed.

  Flipping on the bathroom light, he briefl y considered a shower, then decided morning was soon enough. A quick brush and fl oss and he walked out of the bathroom unbuttoning his shirt and stopped dead when he saw David’s still form under the covers. Sweeney looked up from Chris’s pillow and purred. From the foot of the bed Sergeant barely raised his head off the fl oor.

  So David had come home.

  Chris slid out of his jeans and shirt and slipped under the covers, careful not to jostle the sleeping man. Even so, David rolled over, his arm cradling Chris in a loose embrace. His dark eyes blinked open.

  “Hey,” David said. His smile was warm and sleepy and sexy as hell.

  Chris found himself responding to the look in David’s eyes.

  David eased him over on his back, his arms braced on either side of Chris’s head. He lowered his head and trailed a line of fi re along Chris’s jaw. “’Bout time you came home.”

  50 P.A. Brown

  Chris wrapped his hands around David’s face, bringing it down until their mouths almost touched. “If I knew you were waiting, I’d have been home hours ago.”

  “Well, you’re here now.”

  David nibbled at the sensitive skin below Chris’s ear. Chris shivered and, shoving David’s boxers off, reached between his legs. David groaned.

  “Fuck me, David,” Chris whispered.

  Later, they subside amid snarled bedclothes. Chris played with the damp hairs on David’s chest.

  “Now we have to take a shower.”

  David’s laughter rumbled through him as his lips played with Chris’s salty skin.

  “After you.”

  Wednesday, 6:40 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles David stood at the end of the bed where Chris lay curled around the depression left by his body. He held one of the new Armani dress shirts Chris bought him for his birthday and stared down at the sleeping form. He knew Chris would be pissed when he realized David had gone back to work yet again. Even Martinez hadn’t wanted him back until Friday, though they were desperately short-staffed. He hadn’t told Chris he was going in today, either.

  He had barely pulled into the lot of the drab, whitewashed Northeast Station when Martinez stepped out of his aging Toyota.

  David watched him approach. Overhead, the fl ag hung limply on the fl agpole outside the front door. A black and white pulled out of the back parking lot and turned left on San Fernando Road. The sky was brown and still. It was going to be a hot one.

  Unseasonably hot.

  “You sure you’re okay, Davey? We could do this another day.”

  L.A. BYTES 51

  “I’m fi ne,” David snapped. If Martinez started on him, he’d be getting it from two fronts. Chris was bad enough.

  “Just asking.” Martinez held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “Just don’t want you doing more than you’re ready for.”

  “Sitting around doing nothing is a lot harder than a little work. I rested. That’s enough.” David glanced behind him. Their meeting with Scott’s son wasn’t until ten-thirty. “What have you got?”

  “An interview with...” Martinez pulled out his notebook and fl ipped it open. “Father Dalton at Incarnation. Scott’s church.”

  They’d get some background on the victim, if nothing else.

  “Priests can be dodgy about talking about parishioners,”

  Martinez warned.

  “We’re not asking him to divulge her last confession or anything privileged. We just want to know who her friends were.

  Who she hung out with.”

  Martinez snorted. “I don’t think the Nancy Scotts of this world ‘hang out’”

  “Her acquaintances then.”

  “That he might give up. But you, my friend, are at a distinct disadvantage, not being of the faith. It won’t score you any brownie points.”

  “They don’t score many with me,” David said. He was a little shocked at his own words. It was the fi rst time he had ever disrespected any religion.

  “Getting feisty are we, mijo? That’s not like you.”

  David refused to answer. His foot was already fi rmly in his mouth. He didn’t need to wedge it in further.

  They drove down West Glenoaks Boulevard onto Brand and swung into a near empty parking lot. David braced himself for an interview he wasn’t ready for. He really didn’t want to talk to a priest who probably knew exactly who and what he was.

  52 P.A. Brown

  Wednesday 8:10 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles David was a breakfast man. Chris, on the other hand, was happy if he had access to a fresh pot of coffee.

  This morning even the coffee left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Unbelievable. David had pulled another vanishing stunt.

  This time the car was gone.

  He’d gone back to work. No doubt with Martinez’s encouragement.

  Oh, he knew all the excuses. They were short staffed, Martinez would be overwhelmed. Overworked. Chris wouldn’t like it if David had to patrol alone. Unmarked or not, cops looked like cops no matter what they drove.

  The phone rang. It was David.

  “Well, at least you call,” Chris said, all too aware of how snippy he sounded.

  David sighed. “I have a job to do, Chris, and that’s all there is to it. Des called. He wants us to go for dinner tonight.”

  “I know. Don’t change the subject.”

  David grunted.

  “Fine, we’ll go to dinner and see his surprise.”

  “What surprise?”

  “Des didn’t tell you?” Chris snorted. “He has something to show us. He wouldn’t say what.”

  “Maybe he has a new boyfriend. About time, you said so yourself.”

  “Sure, but... would he do that and not tell me?”

  “Let me see... Des want to one-up drama queen Chris? What do you think?”

  “Drama queen? I am not a drama queen. You really think he could have found someone?”

  L.A. BYTES 53

  Years ago, Des had been brutally raped and endured the torture of watching his lover murdered by the killer David was pursuing. It had taken months of therapy for Des to recover from the trauma and even longer before he’d have anything to do with a man again. There had been a brief fl ing with Trevor, a man Chris thought was all wrong for him, but that, thankfully, hadn’t lasted. Since then, Chris had set Des up with a few of his friends. He knew Des hated being alone; his nature was to be part of a couple.

  “Maybe he’s tired of your matchmaking,” David said.

  Chris bristled. “I don’t match-make. I just knew a couple of guys I thought might interest him, that’s all. And you’re still trying to change the subject.”

  “Okay.” Chris could hear David shift around. “I’m a cop. I’m going to stay a cop. That means the hours are lousy, people I do business with aren’t exactly stellar characters and the pay sucks, but you knew all that when you opted i
n.”

  “Jesus, you make me sound like an email campaign.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t know how else to say it. I love you, Chris, but I’m not changing my life for you.”

  Chris knew David had too much integrity for that kind of compromise. It was one of the things he loved about the man, but Jesus, it wasn’t easy. David’s job scared him spitless.

  In the end all he could say was, “I love you too.”

  Wednesday 9:50 am, Carillon Street, Atwater, Los Angeles Except for some strategizing about how to handle the coming interview, David and Martinez didn’t talk much on the way to Nancy Scott’s apartment. What was there to say?

  Alice, the deceased woman’s friend, came through the front doors of the apartment building fi ve minutes after they pulled into the parking lot. Martinez followed David out of the Crown.

  At the slam of the car door Alice looked over at them. Her gaze 54 P.A. Brown

  darted around the cypress-lined parking lot before settling on David.

  “He’s not here yet?” he asked.

  “Would you offi cers like to wait inside? The boy should be along shortly.”

  “Do you know his name, Mrs. Crandall?”

  “Adam,” Alice said. “Adam Benjamin, though I’m afraid I don’t know his last name—I assume he kept his father’s patronymic, though I don’t recall if Nancy ever mentioned it.”

  “Guess we’ll have to ask him, won’t we?” Martinez said.

  They followed her into her tidy apartment. She vanished into the kitchen; David heard the banging of pots and pans, then the clatter of pottery.

  David and Martinez stood awkwardly in Alice’s living room, eying the beige nightmare surrounding them. Even the paintings on the wall were leeched of color; they were soft, bland pastels.

  David gingerly parked himself on a beige sofa, one of two that faced each other across a blond wood and glass coffee table.

  Martinez took a seat opposite him. His herringbone jacket and puce shirt looked as out of place as the Marlboro man at a society wedding.

  Alice returned bearing a wooden tray holding a Russian tea service. It looked old and well used.