In his rambles through cyberspace, he had seen few files so extensively cross-referenced as this one—and those others had been related to grave national defense matters. The system allowed him to search for a subject in the Expired category by means of twenty-two indices ranging from eye color to most recent place of employment.
He typed VALERIE ANN KEENE.
In a few seconds the system replied: UNKNOWN.
He shifted to the file labeled Current and typed in her name.
UNKNOWN.
Spencer tried the Pending file with the same result. Valerie Ann Keene was unknown to the Nevada gaming authorities.
For a moment he stared at the screen, despondent because his only clue had proved to be a dead end. Then he realized that a woman on the run was unlikely to use the same name everywhere she went and thereby make herself easy to track. If Valerie had lived and worked in Vegas, her name almost surely had been different then.
To find her in the file, Spencer would have to be clever.
* * *
While waiting for Nella Shire to find the scarred man, Roy Miro was in terrible danger of being dragooned into hours of sociable conversation with David Davis. He would almost rather have eaten a cyanide-laced muffin and washed it down with a big, frosty beaker of carbolic acid than spend any more time with the fingerprint maven.
Claiming not to have slept the night before, when in fact he had slept the innocent sleep of a saint after the priceless gift he had given to Penelope Bettonfield and her husband, Roy charmed Davis into offering the use of his office. "I insist, I really do, I will listen to no argument, none!" Davis said with considerable gesturing and bobbing of his head. "I've got a couch in there. You can stretch out on it, you won't be inconveniencing me. I've got plenty of lab work to do. I don't need to be at my desk today."
Roy didn't expect to sleep. In the cool dimness of the office, with the California sun banished by the tightly closed Levolors, he thought he would lie on his back, stare at the ceiling, visualize the nexus of his spiritual being—where his soul connected with the mysterious power that ruled the cosmos—and meditate on the meaning of existence. He pursued deeper self-awareness every day. He was a seeker, and the search for enlightenment was endlessly exciting to him. Strangely, however, he fell asleep.
He dreamed of a perfect world. There was no greed or envy or despair, because everyone was identical to everyone else. There was a single sex, and human beings reproduced by discreet parthenogenesis in the privacy of their bathrooms—though not often. The only skin color was a pale and slightly radiant blue. Everyone was beautiful in an androgynous way. No one was dumb, but no one was too smart, either. Everyone wore the same clothes and lived in houses that all looked alike. Every Friday evening, there was a planetwide bingo game, which everyone won, and on Saturdays—
Wertz woke him, and Roy was paralyzed by terror because he confused the dream and reality. Gazing up into the slug-pale, moon-round face of Davis's assistant, which was revealed by a desk lamp, Roy thought that he himself, along with everyone else in the world, looked exactly like Wertz. He tried to scream but couldn't find his voice.
Then Wertz spoke, bringing Roy fully awake: "Mrs. Shire's found him. The scarred man. She's found him."
Alternately yawning and grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth, Roy followed Wertz to the data processing room. David Davis and Nella Shire were standing at her workstation, each with a sheaf of papers. In the fluorescent glare, Roy squinted with discomfort, then with interest, as Davis passed to him, page by page, computer printouts on which both he and Nella Shire commented excitedly.
"His name's Spencer Grant," Davis said. "No middle name. At eighteen, out of high school, he joined the army."
"High IQ, equally high motivation," Mrs. Shire said. "He applied for special-forces training. Army Rangers."
"He left the army after six years," Davis said, passing another printout to Roy, "used his service benefits to go to UCLA."
Scanning the latest page, Roy said, "Majored in criminology"
"Minored in criminal psychology," said Davis. "Went to school year-round, kept a heavy class load, got a degree in three years."
"Young man in a hurry," Wertz said, apparently so they would remember that he was part of the team and would not, accidentally, step on him and crush him like a bug.
As Davis handed Roy another page, Nella Shire said, "Then he applied to the L.A. Police Academy. Graduated at the top of his class."
"One day, after less than a year on the street," Davis said, "he walked into the middle of a carjacking in progress. Two armed men. They saw him coming, tried to take the woman motorist hostage."
"He killed them both," Shire said. 'The woman wasn't scratched."
"Grant get crucified?"
"No. Everyone felt these were righteous shootings."
Glancing at another page that Davis handed to him, Roy said, "According to this, he was transferred off the street."
"Grant has computer skills and high aptitude," Davis said, "so they put him on a computer-crime task force. Strictly desk work."
Roy frowned. "Why? Was he traumatized by the shootings?"
"Some of them can't handle it," Wertz said knowingly. "They don't have the right stuff, don't have the stomach for it, they just come apart."
"According to the records from his mandatory therapy sessions," Nella Shire said, "he wasn't traumatized. He handled it well. He asked for the transfer, but not because he was traumatized."
"Probably in denial," Wertz said, "being macho, too ashamed of his weakness to admit to it."
"Whatever the reason," Davis said, "he asked for the transfer. Then, ten months ago, after putting in twenty-one months with the task force, he just up and resigned from the LAPD altogether."
"Where's he working now?" Roy asked.
"We don't know that, but we do know where he lives," David Davis said, producing another printout with a dramatic flourish.
Staring at the address, Roy said, "You're sure this is our man?"
Shire shuffled her own sheaf of papers. She produced a high-resolution printout of a Los Angeles Police Department personnel fingerprint ID sheet while Davis provided the photos of the prints they had lifted from the frame of the bathroom window.
Davis said, "If you know how to make comparisons, you'll see the computer's right when it says they're a perfect match. Perfect. This is our guy. No doubt about it, none."
Handing another printout to Roy, Nella Shire said, "This is his most recent photo ID from the police records."
Full-face and in profile, Grant bore an uncanny resemblance to the computer-projected portrait that had been given to Roy by Melissa Wicklun in Photo Analysis.
"Is this a recent photo?" Roy asked.
"The most recent the LAPD has on file," Shire said.
"Taken a long time after the carjacking incident?"
"That would have been two and a half years ago. Yeah, I'm sure this picture is a lot more recent than that. Why?"
"The scar looks fully healed," Roy noted.
"Oh," Davis said, "he didn't get the scar in that shootout, no, not then. He's had it a long time, a very long time, had it when he entered the army. It's from a childhood injury."
Roy looked up from the picture. "What injury?"
Davis shrugged his angular shoulders, and his long arms flapped against his white lab coat. "We don't know. None of the records tell us about it. They just list it as his most prominent identifying feature. 'Cicatricial scar from right ear to point of chin, result of childhood injury.' That's all."
"He looks like Igor," Wertz said with a snicker.
"I think he's sexy," Nella Shire disagreed.
"Igor," Wertz insisted.
Roy turned to him. "Igor who?"
"Igor. You remember—from those old Frankenstein movies, Dr. Frankenstein's sidekick. Igor. The grisly old hunchback with the twisted neck."
"I don't care for that kind of entertainment," Roy said. "It glorifies viole
nce and deformity. It's sick." Studying the photo, Roy wondered how young Spencer Grant had been when he'd suffered such a grievous wound. Just a boy, apparently. "The poor kid," he said. 'The poor, poor kid. What quality of life could he have had with a face as damaged as that? What psychological burdens does he carry?"
Frowning, Wertz said, "I thought this was a bad guy, mixed up in terrorism somehow?"
"Even bad guys," Roy said patiently, "deserve compassion. This man has suffered. You can see that. I need to get my hands on him, yes, and be sure that society's safe from him—but he still deserves to be treated with compassion, with as much mercy as possible."
Davis and Wertz stared uncomprehendingly.
But Nella Shire said, "You're a nice man, Roy."
Roy shrugged.
"No," she said, "you really are. It makes me feel good to know there are men like you in law enforcement."
The heat of a blush rose in Roy's face. "Well, thank you, that's very kind, but there's nothing special about me."
Because Nella was clearly not a lesbian, even though she was as much as fifteen years older than he, Roy wished that at least one feature about her was as attractive as Melissa Wicklun's exquisite mouth. But her hair was too frizzy and too orange. Her eyes were too cold a blue, her nose and chin too pointed, her lips too severe. Her body was reasonably well proportioned but not exceptional in any regard.
"Well," Roy said with a sigh, "I'd better pay a visit to this Mr. Grant, ask him what he was doing in Santa Monica last night."
* * *
Sitting at the computer in his Malibu cabin but prowling deep into the Nevada Gaming Commission in Carson City, Spencer searched the file of current casino-worker permits by asking to be given the names of all card dealers who were female, between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty, five feet four inches tall, one hundred ten to one hundred twenty pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. Those were sufficient parameters to result in a comparatively small number of candidates—just fourteen. He directed the computer to print the list of names in alphabetical order.
He started at the top of the printout and summoned the file on Janet Francine Arbonhall. The first page of the electronic dossier that appeared on the screen featured her basic physical description, the date on which her work permit had been approved, and a full-face photograph. She looked nothing like Valerie, so Spencer exited her file without reading it.
He called up another file: Theresa Elisabeth Dunbury. Not her.
Bianca Marie Haguerro. Not her, either.
Corrine Serise Huddleston. No.
Laura Linsey Langston. No.
Rachael Sarah Marks. Nothing like Valerie.
Jacqueline Ethel Mung. Seven down and seven to go.
Hannah May Rainey.
On the screen, Valerie Ann Keene appeared, her hair different from the way she had worn it at The Red Door, lovely but unsmiling.
Spencer ordered a complete printout of Hannah May Rainey's file, which was only three pages long. He read it end to end while the woman continued to stare at him from the computer.
Under the Rainey name, she had worked for over four months of the previous year as a blackjack dealer in the casino of the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas. Her last day on the job had been November 26, not quite two and a half months ago, and according to the casino manager's report to the commission, she had quit without notice.
They—whoever "they" might be—must have tracked her down on the twenty-sixth of November, and she must have eluded them as they were reaching out for her, just as she eluded them in Santa Monica.
* * *
In a corner of the parking garage beneath the agency's building in downtown Los Angeles, Roy Miro had a final word with the three agents who would accompany him to Spencer Grant's house and take the man into custody. Because their agency did not officially exist, the word "custody" was being stretched beyond its usual definition; "kidnapping" was a more accurate description of their intentions.
Roy had no problem with either term. Morality was relative, and nothing done in the service of correct ideals could be a crime.
They were all carrying Drug Enforcement Administration credentials, so Grant would believe that he was being taken to a federal facility to be questioned—and that upon arrival there, he would be permitted to call an attorney. Actually, he was more likely to see the Lord God Almighty on a golden airborne throne than anyone with a law degree.
Using whatever methods might be necessary to obtain truthful answers, they would question him about his relationship with the woman and her current whereabouts. When they had what they needed—or were convinced that they had squeezed out of him all that he knew—they would dispose of him.
Roy would conduct the disposal himself, releasing the poor scarred devil from the misery of this troubled world.
The first of the other three agents, Cal Dormon, wore white slacks and a white shirt with the logo of a pizza parlor stitched on the breast. He would be driving a small white van with a matching logo, which was one of many magnetic-mat signs that could be attached to the vehicle to change its character, depending on what was needed for any particular operation.
Alfonse Johnson was dressed in work shoes, khaki slacks, and a denim jacket. Mike Vecchio wore sweats and a pair of Nikes.
Roy was the only one of them in a suit. Because he had napped fully clothed on Davis's couch, however, he didn't fit the stereotype of a neat and well-pressed federal agent.
"All right, this isn't like last night," Roy said. They had all been part of the SWAT team in Santa Monica. "We need to talk to this guy."
The previous night, if any of them had seen the woman, he would have cut her down instantly. For the benefit of any local police who might have shown up, a weapon would have been planted in her hand: a Desert Eagle .50 Magnum, such a powerful handgun that a shot from it would leave an exit wound as large as a man's fist, a piece obviously meant solely for killing people. The story would have been that the agent had gunned her down in self-defense.
"But we can't let him slip away," Roy continued. "And he's a boy with schooling, as well trained as any of you, so he might not just hold out his hands for the bracelets. If you can't make him behave and he looks to be gone, then shoot his legs out from under him. Chop him up good if you have to. He isn't going to need to walk again anyway. Just don't get carried away—okay? Remember, we absolutely must talk to him."
* * *
Spencer had obtained all the information of interest to him that was contained in the files of the Nevada Gaming Commission. He retreated along the cyberspace highways as far as the Los Angeles Police Department computer.
From there he linked with the Santa Monica Police Department and examined its file of cases initiated within the past twenty-four hours. No case could be referenced either by the name Valerie Ann Keene or by the street address of the bungalow that she had been renting.
He exited the case files and checked call reports for Wednesday night, because it was possible that SMPD officers had answered a call related to the fracas at the bungalow but had not given the incident a case number. This time, he found the address.
The last of the officer's notations indicated why no case number had been assigned: ATF OP IN PROG. FED ASSERTED. Which meant: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms operation in progress; federal jurisdiction asserted.
The local cops had been frozen out.
On the nearby couch, Rocky exploded from sleep with a shrill yelp, fell to the floor, scrambled to his feet, started to chase his tail, then whipped his head left and right in confusion, searching for whatever threat had pursued him out of his dream.
"Just a nightmare," Spencer assured the dog.
Rocky looked at him doubtfully and whined.
"What was it this time—a giant prehistoric cat?"
The mutt padded quickly across the room and jumped up to plant his forepaws on a windowsill. He stared out at the driveway and the surrounding woods.
The short February day
was drawing toward a colorful twilight. The undersides of the eucalyptuses' oval leaves, which were usually silver, now reflected the golden light that poured through gaps in the foliage; they glimmered in a faint breeze, so it appeared as if the trees had been hung with ornaments for the Christmas season that was now more than a month past.
Rocky whined worriedly again.
"A pterodactyl cat?" Spencer suggested. "Huge wings and giant fangs and a purr loud enough to crack stone?"
Not amused, the dog dropped from the window and hurried into the kitchen. He was always like this when he woke abruptly from a bad dream. He would circle the house, from window to window, convinced that the enemy in the land of dreams was every bit as dangerous to him in the real world.
Spencer looked at the computer screen again.
ATF OP IN PROG. FED ASSERTED.
Something was wrong.
If the SWAT team that hit the bungalow the previous night had been composed of agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, why had the men who showed up at Louis Lee's home in Bel Air been carrying FBI credentials? The former bureau was under the control of the United States Secretary of the Treasury, while the latter was ultimately answerable to the Attorney General—though changes in that structure were being contemplated. The different organizations sometimes cooperated in operations of mutual interest; however, considering the usual intensity of interagency rivalry and suspicion, both would have had representatives present at the questioning of Louis Lee or of anyone else from whom a lead might have been developed.
Grumbling to himself as if he were the White Rabbit running late for tea with the Mad Hatter, Rocky scampered out of the kitchen and hurried through the open door to the bedroom.
ATF OP IN PROG.
Something wrong ...
The FBI was by far the more powerful of the two bureaus, and if it was interested enough to be on the scene, it would never agree to surrender all jurisdiction entirely to the ATF. hi fact, there was legislation being written in Congress, at the request of the White House, to fold the ATF into the FBI. The cop's note in the SMPD call report should have read: FBI/ATF OP IN PROG.
Koontz, Dean - Dark Rivers of the Heart Page 13
