Patrick Bowers 08 - Every Crooked Path

by Steven James

  Possibly.

  “Also,” she continued, “and here’s the big thing: the computer techs managed to find out what was on the USB drive you found in Stewart’s apartment. They just sent me a link. It’s the one we’ve been looking for: Aurora’s birthday.”

  “We need to watch that video.”

  “They warned me that we should be prepared. It’s graphic.”

  We needed to go somewhere quiet and private where we wouldn’t be interrupted, but I also wanted to be able to monitor Christie and Tessa.

  I mentally reviewed the layout of the house from earlier when I was looking around.

  “The library,” I said. “C’mon. Follow me.”

  +++

  The Piper saw a text from Shane that the video of Aurora’s birthday had been discovered: “Things have to happen now, before it’s too late.”

  Alright.

  “Take them to the warehouse and get everything ready,” the Piper replied. “We’ll move up the time frame.”

  +++

  We found our way to the library. I stood near the open window where I could see Christie’s table. Jodie closed the door, locked it, and joined me.

  Then she clicked on the link and brought up the video.

  91

  The footage started on a staircase.

  Someone was descending it, carrying the camera or phone. The person’s trousers and wingtip shoes were visible.

  The walls—paneled.

  The floor—shag carpeting. Light brown.

  The person filming things entered a downstairs rec room with a black sheet hanging from one wall and studio photography lights near it. A large whiteboard stood on a tripod beside it.

  Four people were standing in the room wearing blank white, expressionless masks identical to the one I’d been given. It was impossible to tell for sure, but based on posture, frame, and body size, the people all appeared to be men.

  Two children—one boy, one girl—were playing with a set of blocks.

  They looked about four or five.

  I recognized the boy from the case files in Tobin’s basement. “That’s Ricky Aisely, one of the eighteen victims,” I said softly, unsure if Jodie would know who he was. “His body was found fourteen months ago, eight weeks after he disappeared.”

  This is not good. This is not going to be good.

  “Ricky and Aurora,” one of the people said. I didn’t recognize the voice. “Can you two stand up and look over here at the camera?”

  There weren’t any Auroras in the eighteen names Tobin had identified. She must have been a victim we weren’t aware of.

  The children did as requested.

  “Why don’t the two of you hold hands?”

  They held hands.

  “Good. Now, Ricky, she’s your friend, isn’t she?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Why don’t you give her a hug, show her that you like her?”

  He did.

  “You’re doing so good! Now, Aurora, do you see that candy on the stool over there? If you take off your shirt, I’ll let you have some.”

  But rather than take her shirt off, the girl said, “When can I see my mommy?”

  “Soon, honey. We’re gonna take you back to your mommy in just a little while. But before we do that, we need to celebrate your birthday!”

  Then one of the men wearing a mask wrote on the whiteboard “Aurora’s birthday!”

  Another one of them brought out a knife.

  It went on from there.

  Jodie and I watched it all the way to the end.

  We had to.

  When it was over, neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke.

  Then, all at once, she hurried over to a wastebasket beside the wall and threw up.

  Part of me was numb.

  I tried to distance myself from my feelings of anger and revulsion. “We need to see if the carpet and paneling show up in any of the homes of the other victims. Also, find out if . . . Wait a minute.”

  Jodie returned to my side. “What is it?”

  “I need to watch it again.”

  “I don’t think I can, Pat.”

  “Let me see your phone.”

  I started the video and paused it when the person wrote the words “Aurora’s birthday.”

  I knew that script, that handwriting.

  It was the same as Randy’s suicide note.

  The man who wrote it used his right hand, but there was no tattoo on it.

  I handed Jodie’s phone back to her.

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  Eighteen months.

  But Ricky was taken sixteen months ago.

  Two years.

  The LeBange . . . ?

  That could explain why Stewart was killed. It could also explain why Randy McReynolds was looking for this.

  “It’s not him.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t write it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The suicide note. It’s not in Randy’s handwriting.”

  “So whose handwriting is it?”

  He could have been trying to expose his brother, or maybe to destroy it so his brother couldn’t be found out . . .

  “Do you know whose handwriting it is, Pat?”

  “I think it might be his brother’s.”

  Outside, the cellist stopped playing.

  There was the clinking of glasses and then Marcus Rockwell stepped up front and the chitchat and murmur of conversations faded into a silence inhabited only by the sound of distant traffic and nearby crickets.

  “He’s here,” I said to Jodie. “Let’s go find him.”

  +++

  From her office in the FBI’s Cyber Division, Angela Knight had Lacey working on locating the computer that’d been used to send Francis Edlemore the graciousgirl4 email.

  Lacey came up with the address and Angela could hardly believe where the computer was.

  She called Francis back. “It’s at NYPD headquarters,” she told him.

  “What?”

  “It belongs to Evan Madera. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  +++

  Francis had heard the name before—pedophiles sometimes quoted him—but he didn’t know Madera personally.

  “Do you know why the police have Madera’s computer?” Angela asked.

  “No.”

  “I want you to stay there at the ICSC, Mr. Edlemore. And whatever you do, don’t download that file with the virus. I’m going to see if Lacey can come up with a patch for it.”

  +++

  A podium was positioned near the garden and now Marcus Rockwell approached the microphone. “I’d like to welcome everyone here tonight. It’s an honor to have you. In a moment I’m going to introduce the president of the International Child Safety Consortium, but first let me remind you that we are joined together tonight in a common effort to offer our financial support to their mission of protecting children worldwide from exploitation.”

  As he was speaking, Jodie and I arrived at the table where Billy had been, but he wasn’t there.

  When his wife saw our urgency, she looked worried. “He was called away. Is everything alright?”

  “Where did he go?” Jodie asked, trying to keep her voice soft enough not to disturb the people nearby while Rockwell spoke.

  “I don’t know,” Elle Lachman said. “He got a text, told me he had to leave and that he would see me later tonight.”

  “So he has his cell phone with him?” I said.

  “Yes, I mean. Is he okay? Is something wrong?”

  “We just need to ask him a few questions.” Jodie handed her card to Ms. Lachman. “If he contacts you, I’m going to need you to let me know.”

  We
stepped away.

  “Call DeYoung,” I said. “Get approval to track Billy’s GPS signal from his phone or his car.”

  I tried Tobin.

  No answer.

  “You think Billy is the Piper?” Jodie asked me.

  “I don’t know, but he might’ve been the one to poison Randy. Pull his credit card statements, see if there’s any indication that he purchased Tribaxil or ate at the LeBange on the night Randy died.”

  “If I go after him I might need to leave,” Jodie told me.

  “Go ahead. If I get called away, I’ll have Maria stay with Christie and Tessa.”

  92

  8:00 p.m.

  1 hour left

  The Piper assessed things.

  The Russians had designed the virus to activate now, at eight o’clock, but according to the latest update, it still hadn’t been downloaded.

  As long as the file was opened, things would still work out, but the timing mattered if they were going to make their statement about the vulnerabilities of the ICSC now, during the event.

  +++

  While Jodie went to call DeYoung, as inconspicuously as I could I found Maria Aguirre and had her join me at Christie’s table.

  “This is a global problem,” Marcus was saying into the mic, “and it requires a global solution—a solution that extends across borders, across nationalities, across religions. It has no ethnic or racial divides. It’s a problem that touches people of all economic backgrounds and at every strata of society. And so we need a solution that protects every child no matter who they are or where they live.”

  I asked Maria if I could use her phone. “I need to check a couple things and my account is blocked.”

  After a slight hesitation, she passed her cell to me, and while Rockwell spoke, I went online to see who’d logged in to watch the grooming video Tobin had shown his team last week.

  “Tonight the ICSC will be accepting donations of all kinds,” Marcus announced, “and my hope and prayer is that many more countries will join their efforts. And now, if you would, please join me in giving a warm welcome to the president of the ICSC—Mr. Alejandro Gomez.”

  People applauded as Gomez took the platform.

  The file came up.

  Most of the officers had watched it over the weekend.

  Nearly all had.

  Just two had not: Agent Aldéric Descartes and Officer Chip Hinchcliffe.

  “Thank you, Marcus,” Gomez said graciously. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that we couldn’t have asked for a kinder, more generous host. Could we please give a round of applause for Marcus Rockwell for his hospitality tonight?”

  People clapped again.

  Maria said that all of the Bureau’s task force members were on duty the day that Wooford died.

  But what about—

  “And of course,” Gomez said, “my personal thanks go out to all of you for coming tonight. We have representatives from twenty-eight countries here. I would welcome you all in your own native languages, but since I’m not quite that multilingual, yet—I am an American after all—” Light laughter. “Let me just do it collectively by saying cheers.”

  He raised his glass and those in attendance did as well.

  Last week when I was at Stewart’s apartment, I’d thought about how sometimes evidence isn’t so much finding what is present, but what isn’t present that should be.

  Descartes? Hinchcliffe?

  Why didn’t they watch it?

  That’s the arena of motives—don’t go there, Pat.

  My own phone vibrated.

  A text from an unidentified number: “It’s time to take a ride, Dr. Bowers.”

  I hadn’t been expecting to be called out anywhere until nine.

  Quieting my voice, I told Maria, “It’s happening now.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay with Christie and Tessa.”

  I texted back, “Where?”

  Then waited.

  Gomez went on, “The Internet has forever changed the way we live our lives, bringing together people from across the globe in ways that could never have been imagined just a few decades ago. But along with the many blessings and benefits that the Internet has afforded us has come an unprecedented opportunity for those who would abuse and exploit our children.”

  Jodie sent me a text: “Billy McReynolds has a prescription for Tribaxil. And he ate at the LeBange that night. The security footage shows both him and his brother.”

  My mind was spinning.

  Was he Shane? Was he the Piper?

  “Tonight,” Gomez continued, “we come from different backgrounds, different religions, different continents, but no matter if you’re a conservative or a liberal, whether you wear a baseball cap or a turban, whether you worship God in a mosque or a temple or a cathedral, we share a common goal, a common passion—protecting our children from online threats and predators.”

  I received a reply to my text from a moment ago: “Get your car from the valet.”

  I whispered to Christie, “I need to go take care of something. Keep Tessa close.”

  Though I hadn’t told her what was going on, she could obviously tell it was serious and said, “I’ll be praying for you.”

  Right now I could use all the help I could get. “Thank you. Stick with Maria until you hear from me.”

  As surreptitiously as I could, I made my way to the circular drive in front of the house.

  I kept Maria’s phone with me.

  Through the loudspeakers, I heard Gomez’s voice carry across the lawn. “It’s time for those who would exploit the children of the world to take notice. We are not going to accept it any longer. We are going to do everything within our power to protect our children from victimization, to thwart the efforts of those who would traffic in evil, and to prosecute, to the full extent of the law, those who would steal the innocence of the next generation.”

  I handed my return ticket to the valet.

  “Just a moment, sir,” he said. “We’ll get your car right out for you.”

  +++

  Tessa got a text from Cherise, one of the girls in her class at school: “Is that u?!”

  Attached to it was a link to a video of that undercover police officer changing clothes in her bedroom, but it had Tessa’s name on the file.

  Oh.

  Perfect.

  Everyone was going to think it was her.

  Just wait till word spread.

  +++

  On his way to the warehouse, Blake heard what they were planning with Bowers. He considered things carefully.

  And came up with a plan of his own.

  But it would require relocating his office.

  +++

  The attendant brought my car around.

  “And now,” Gomez concluded, “we’re here tonight to join hands in a common cause. Let’s make the Internet—and our world—a safer place for our children, a safer place for us all. I would like to let you know that Marcus Rockwell has agreed to match funds with whatever we raise tonight, up to fifty million dollars, and he has agreed to share Krazle’s proprietary search algorithms with us to help categorize and optimize our database. So, please, be generous and let’s make a difference that will last a lifetime.”

  The valet parked.

  Exited the car.

  I checked my phone to see if there were further instructions, but none came up.

  He handed my keys to me.

  “Thanks.”

  Before taking a seat at the wheel, I scanned the grounds to see if I could locate anyone who might be watching or texting me.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  I climbed into the driver’s seat and, momentarily, a text came in: “Leave the estate. Park to the side of North Worth
y Drive. We’ll pick you up.”

  I pulled forward and headed toward the gate to the main road.

  93

  8:30 p.m.

  30 minutes left

  Jodie was speaking with the security personnel to find out if they knew anything about Billy McReynolds leaving when she heard from dispatch that they’d located his cell signal.

  She hurried to get her car.

  +++

  Tessa didn’t really want to monitor how many views her little video was getting, so she put her phone away.

  Things would never be the same at school if that video went viral.

  Maybe moving would be better after all? Get out of here? Get a fresh start?

  However, then she had another thought: It’s not about what’s best for you, it’s about what’s best for Mom. She needs to stay close to Patrick. It’s the only way she’ll be happy.

  Everything sifted through her mind, where they were at, where they needed to be.

  She said to her mom, “I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Agent Fleming is staying at Patrick’s apartment?”

  “For now. Yes. Why?”

  “That might be the solution you’ve been looking for.”

  +++

  I found a secluded section of road and pulled over, turned off the car, and retrieved the mask and the hood from the trunk.

  +++

  Francis’s cell rang.

  He checked the screen.

  Skylar.

  What?

  Answer it.

  No, don’t! She’s working with them!

  The phone continued to ring.

  But they’re making her do it. That must be what’s going on.

  Francis answered. “What is it, Skylar?”

  “I’m out front. You need to let me in.”

  “What? You’re here?”

  “Francis, please. They’re after me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please! They’ll hurt me.”

  Don’t believe her.

  I need to! I have to protect her!

  “Alright,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  +++

  I tried Tobin again.

  He didn’t pick up.