Hard Time

by Sara Paretsky

  Robbie said the system was voice– and motion–activated. My hands and knees rustling on the carpet wouldn’t turn it on, but a cough might.

  Inside Baladine’s office, I crawled along the edge of the room and came to the desk from behind. Lying flat, I stuck up an arm and found the switch for his in–office video monitor and turned it off. I got to my feet and held my breath. After a couple of minutes, when no security guards appeared, I relaxed enough to look around.

  I found myself listening tensely for noise. The house was well–soundproofed, and the cheers from the pool came through as only a faint echo. I might have half an hour; I needed to control my nerves and make the most of it.

  The room held everything a manly man wanted in his home office, from the buttery black leather couch in a window alcove to the electronics on the zebrawood desk, which included a shredder, a fax, a scanner, and a videophone.

  I switched on the computer, covering my hand with a Kleenex—I thought it would be impossible to explain away rubber gloves if someone came in on me. The system came up and asked for a password. Baladine’s ship number was what Robbie thought his father would use. When that didn’t let me in I tried the name of the ship. Bingo. To get into Carnifice files I needed another password. I tried the ship ID again, but the machine preferred his service dates.

  I called up the home–security system and set the hall camera to appear in a split screen of the computer. That would give me a little advance warning if Baladine was coming. I checked the doors on the far side of the room. One led to a closet, another to a bathroom, and a third to the far hallway.

  I logged on to the e–mail server and called up the list of clients. Five of my own former clients had little stars by their names; Darraugh Graham had a question mark. I had memorized what I wanted to say and typed quickly, nervously proofreading and correcting my text. Did I want to send to the entire recipient list? I did.

  Next I typed in my own media list and composed another message. When I’d e–mailed my media list I breathed more easily. I deleted all the messages, both from the out–box and from the trash file, so that Baladine wouldn’t know from looking at his mailbox that someone had been using the server. Even if he found me now, I’d done enough to cause him some discomfort.

  Just as a precaution I copied his home–security file onto a floppy, copied his client list onto another floppy, then, while I was still logged on to his network, started looking through his in–box for any messages that might be about me.

  The searches had taken too much time. I was sweating, wondering if I’d better pack up and go, when I saw Baladine and Alex Fisher appear on the hall camera. I turned off the machine, grabbed my floppies, and dived into the closet at the back of the room. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought the closet door must surely vibrate in rhythm with it.

  The two came into the room, talking in such low tones all I could make out was the murmur of their voices. Sweat began soaking my shirtsleeves as I imagined a telltale floppy or tissue alerting them to an intruder.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream when I realized that Baladine and Alex hadn’t come up to look at his computer, but to grab time together while Eleanor was focused on the pool, although I had one bad moment when Baladine spoke loudly enough for me to hear, saying he didn’t remember switching off his office camera. After twenty minutes of frenzied thrashing on the leather couch and the murmured endearments of one barracuda for another, a hand grasped the closet doorknob.

  It opened a crack, but Baladine said, “No, no, my dear, bathroom’s the other door—that’s just a supply closet.”

  Alex, sloppy Alex, didn’t close the door all the way. “I need to get back downstairs, BB. I just got beeped—that means Lacey Dowell’s limo is coming up the drive, and Teddy will want me on hand for her. She’s been temperamental since Frenada died, and we don’t want her going off half–cocked to some reporter.”

  “Like Ryerson?” Baladine said.

  “Ryerson was a newspaperman from day one. I shouldn’t have let him persuade Teddy he could handle television—he was in way over his head. Although we still haven’t found anyone who can handle that “Behind Scenes in Chicago’ segment. Anyway, as the man said, enough of this lovemaking—on with your clothes.”

  “Want to see the replay on television while you dress?”

  “You have a camera back here? God, I thought Teddy Trant was infatuated with his body, but not even he videos himself in the act.”

  “I’m infatuated with your body. This is so I can watch it over and over.”

  “Right, BB. I’ll take that. I don’t need to see myself on the Net, and you’re just the kind of guy to make that kind of use of a tape.”

  They had a few more minutes grappling, with Baladine laughing and then cursing at her for being a damned bitch. I wasn’t an Alex fan, but I hoped that meant she’d wrested the tape from him. Then a sound of hand on flesh and a furious outburst from Alex. I put my eye on the crack in the door. Baladine had Alex’s left arm twisted back and was putting pressure on her wrist. Her face was contorted in pain and she dropped the tape.

  He laughed and said, “I thought you’d see it my way, my dear. But don’t worry, I won’t share you with the Internet. The world at large can’t appreciate you the way I do.”

  She swore at him but finally left when Eleanor phoned up to say Lacey was here and they were trying to find Alex. The door shut behind her. Baladine washed off noisily in the bathroom, humming “Anchors Aweigh.” In another minute he was gone as well.

  By then I was so shaken that I was tempted to quit with what I had—but I didn’t know when I’d ever have another chance like this one. I turned off his personal camera again and went back to the computer. Shutting it off without exiting properly had made it unhappy; I had to wait an extra five minutes while it examined all its files. While it cycled through itself, I looked around for the tape he’d just made. He’d left it on the bathroom sink. I shrugged and slipped it into my pocket.

  Finally I got back to Baladine’s e–mail server and went to his in–box. In June, on the date I’d been in Georgia, I found someone calling himself Shark at AOL reporting on successful drop–off.

  Subject out of town. 3 packs of Colombian Gold successfully deployed in location 1, 4 others at location 2.

  My stomach so tight that my incision started to ache, I copied all of Baladine’s correspondence with Shark. I logged off the Web and went into his data files to search for any material about me, or Shark. I found his detailed report from LifeStory and reports on the surveillance of my apartment. These files identified Shark as D.L. Not that I needed an acronym to tell me it was Douglas Lemour, but I was pleased that Baladine hadn’t felt a need for real secrecy.

  As recently as three days ago, D.L. reported a cruise around my neighborhood to make sure I hadn’t surfaced. He was also looking at Lotty’s place off and on as the safe house the subject usually chooses. I scrolled quickly through the rest of the file and came to an expense report. Five thousand dollars to D.L. for security work. It didn’t seem like enough of a payoff for the amount of misery he’d caused me.

  My heart was starting to beat too hard to focus on the screen. I copied the file and shut the system down. It was high time I was gone.

  On a shelf in the closet where I’d waited out Alex and Baladine, he kept cassettes from the video monitor. After his byplay with Alex, I was curious to see them. I pulled one from the last month Nicola had worked here, another from six months previously. I peeled off the labels, stuck them on the blank cassettes I’d brought with me, and put the blanks in the empty slots.

  I was halfway down the hall when I remembered Frenada. I counted dates frantically on my fingers. Even though I didn’t have a third blank to use as a replacement, I ran back to the study and took the tape for two weeks before July Fourth. As I was leaving the second time, I remembered to switch Baladine’s vanity recorder back on. I hurried down the hall again, through the girls’ playroom, past
acres of Barbies and stuffed animals, and down the stairs to the kitchen. I stopped briefly in Rosario’s room to thank the Virgin of Guadalupe.

  I’d been upstairs ninety minutes—nerves had made it seem even longer. I slipped outside and down the drive without anyone stopping me. Morrell was waiting for me at the bend in the road. His face was pinched with anxiety, but I felt lighter–hearted than I had in months.

  45 Fugitive

  Morrell arrived early the next morning with the papers and a couple of cappuccinos—Father Lou breakfasted on sweet tea and bacon sandwiches and didn’t keep coffee or fruit in the rectory. I’d already been up for a few hours when Morrell arrived. Game–day nerves, I suppose.

  Father Lou had been up for hours, too. He started Labor Day as he did every day, with mass. This morning he startled me considerably by asking me to serve, since none of the children in his acolytes group had appeared. When I told him I’d never even been baptized, he grunted and said he supposed some hairsplitter would consider that a barrier, but would I at least keep him company by reading the lesson.

  I stood in the Lady Chapel of the enormous church and read from the book of Job about how God desires humans to see the light. As Father Lou began the prayers for the mass, he prayed first for the souls of Lucian Frenada and Nicola Aguinaldo, for the working people of Chicago, for everyone who worked hard and had little to show for it. Along the way he surprised me by asking for light on my enterprise, to see whether it was good to let it prosper. I thought again of Miss Ruby, warning me that revenge didn’t make a good meal.

  At the end of the mass I stood in front of a wood statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, stubbornly arguing my case in my head. Even if it was revenge, didn’t I have a right to live and work in this town? I said as much to Father Lou while he fried bacon in the cavernous kitchen.

  He grunted again. “Not saying you don’t, my girl. Turning the other cheek isn’t the only advice Our Lord gives people. Just saying you need to remember you’re not Almighty God sitting in judgment on Robert Baladine. Not why I asked you to read the lesson, though—wasn’t trying to teach you a lesson.” He laughed heartily at his little pun. “I wanted some company. It’s a big cold church to celebrate mass in by myself.”

  Morrell’s arrival cut the theology discussion short. He dropped the papers in front of me with a coffee and a bag of Michigan peaches.

  “Triple Crown, Warshawski. All three Chicago dailies, not to mention the gorilla from New York.”

  I snatched the stack from him. The gorilla was on top and began with its usual rotund phrases.

  CONFUSION REIGNS AT CARNIFICE SECURITY

  Oak Brook, Ill.— The Illinois prairie in this upscale community west of Chicago has been replaced by smooth sod and cool white marble, but inside the Carnifice office tower, life is anything but placid on this Labor Day. Robert Baladine is emphatically contradicting an e–mail message received by Carnifice clients yesterday announcing his resignation as chairman and CEO of Carnifice Security, while his staff scurries to explain how a third party could have breached the security provider’s own defenses to post messages on Mr. Baladine’s e–mail server.

  These messages bear the unmistakable “fingerprint” of Mr. Baladine’s personal e–mail address. They say, in part, that impending publicity about alleged misconduct at the Coolis correctional facility that Carnifice runs is forcing Mr. Baladine to resign (see Page C23 for the complete text of the e–mail received by Ajax Insurance in Chicago). The misconduct is an alleged use of the Coolis correctional facility to manufacture T–shirts and jackets for the Global Entertainment company. This is in violation of Illinois law, which forbids sale of prison manufactures outside the state prison system. Congressman Blair Yerkes (R–Ill.) has called for a complete investigation of the prison to see whether there is any truth to the allegation. “I have known BB Baladine since we hunted together as boys, and I utterly repudiate the suggestion that he has lied.”

  In the meantime, more disturbing to Carnifice clients is the possibility that an outsider could penetrate Carnifice’s own computer. It means that confidential—often highly volatile—data entrusted to the security firm is at risk for dissemination across the Web. As Ajax Chairman Ralph Devereux said, “From our standpoint, we’re left with two equally unpleasant possibilities: either Robert Baladine is lying about his resignation, or a hacker has been able to bypass all of Carnifice’s security measures. Either way, the instability of the company’s head honcho leaves us wondering whether Carnifice is the right company to handle our most private matters.”

  Various papers and television stations also received e–mail from the Carnifice server, describing the manufacturing relationship between Carnifice and Global at the Coolis prison site. Because the source of the report could not be verified, it is not clear whether the information is accurate or whether it comes from a disgruntled Carnifice employee. Efforts to view the prison shop have been rebuffed by Coolis authorities, but state lawmakers are demanding an inquiry.

  Mr. Baladine would not return phone calls to this paper, but Global Entertainment spokeswoman Alexandra Fisher says Global is considering the possibility that a local private investigator with a grudge against Baladine may have perpetrated the vandalism. The investigator, V. I. Warshawski, spent a month at Coolis after Mr. Baladine had her arrested on kidnapping charges. Although Ms. Warshawski escaped with what physician Dr. Charlotte Herschel calls brain–threatening injuries, Ms. Fisher says no one actually knows the detective’s whereabouts. Finding the solo investigator is Carnifice Security’s first priority. (See Page B45 for coverage of some of Ms. Warshawski’s investigations into industrial espionage.)

  Father Lou was reading the report in the Sun–Times, which gave the story the most attention of any of the Chicago papers. The Herald–Star, as a Global paper, ran a one–paragraph story in the business section that sounded as though there’d been a brief snafu in the Carnifice e–mail server. The Star didn’t mention the Global T–shirt connection at Coolis. The Tribune ran a half column in the middle of Marshall Field’s big Labor Day advertising spread.

  “So now what?” Morrell asked when I’d finished reading. “Wait for the Carnifice clients to drop like flies and come running to Warshawski Investigative Services for help?”

  I made a face. “They’re busy doing damage control at Carnifice. And the CEO of Warshawski et cetera had better surface if she wants any clients. I think the next thing is a media show. For which we need secure space. That, I think, will get BB so furious that he’s likely to come for me in person. I want to put together a little tape of all my bits and pieces of pictures. Make some bullet–point slides—everyone feels they’ve gotten real information if you give it to them in bullet points. And I want a VCR so I can watch Baladine’s home videos. He was taping himself having sex with Alex Fisher yesterday. It struck me as funny that the guy keeps his old home–security tapes, so I took three.”

  Father Lou stared at me in disgust. “Man photographs himself having intercourse? Did the girl know?”

  “She tried to get the tape from him, but he wouldn’t let her.” I didn’t feel like explaining that I had it now. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it.

  “Got a VCR in the school you can use,” the priest said. “I’m still not sure whether you’re doing the right thing, not sure I should encourage you since you stole the tapes you want to look at, but the man Baladine seems to do people a variety of harm. Set it up for you, then I have to meet with members of the parish council. Got a bunch of kids coming, cleaning out the crypt before school starts tomorrow. Parish picnic this afternoon. Lots to get done.”

  I ran down to my room and picked up the tapes I’d taken from Baladine’s closet yesterday. The three of us walked through the church to a door that connected to the school. The dark vaulted space was full of life as a group of boys shouted to each other behind the altar: “Bet you it’s full of bones.” “Yeah, Carlos here is going to faint when he sees one of those arms coming
after him, ain’t you, man?”

  Father Lou interrupted them with a good–natured shout that they needed to be more afraid of him than of any bones and he’d be back in a minute to make sure they were clearing out the old hymnals. He undid the dead bolt and led us into another long unlit hallway. He walked quickly in the semidarkness. Morrell and I kept tripping on things like loose tiles as we tried to keep pace. Father Lou took us up a back staircase to the school library. There he reluctantly decided he needed light to see what he was doing and turned on one dim desk lamp.

  When he saw that Morrell and I knew how to set up the VCR, he went back downstairs to see how his hooligans were doing in the crypt. I started with the tape for the week that Frenada died.

  We got a series of disconnected frames from the voice–activated system of Rosario waking Utah and Madison, of Eleanor starting work with them in the pool and then turning off the camera. And then Frenada was poolside with Trant and Baladine. The little red date in the corner identified it as June 26, the night Frenada died. Trant said he understood Frenada was telling people that he, Trant, had stolen a T–shirt and he was tired of hearing about it. Baladine must have turned the camera off at that point because the next scene was the following day with Rosario in the nursery.

  I sat back in my chair. “No proof, but very suggestive,” I said to Morrell. “Let’s get some copies of this before I send it back to the Baladines.”

  He grunted agreement, although he pointed out there wasn’t enough there to get Baladine arrested, let alone convicted. I agreed and put in the first of the Nicola tapes to see if it might give us something more concrete.

  The tape was dated about six months before Nicola’s arrest for theft. We watched Nicola waking Utah and Madison, a sleepy Utah clinging to her nanny while Madison chatted vivaciously about the many things she was doing better in at school than anyone else. We saw Eleanor and BB kissing briefly as he left for the office on a “don’t know how late I’ll be tonight, sweetheart” line and Eleanor in the nursery adjuring Nicola not to baby Utah. “She’s almost three. It’s time you stopped carrying her everywhere.” When Nicola said brokenly that she didn’t understand, Eleanor told her not to play stupid and plunked Utah from Nicola’s arms onto the floor. Utah began to howl. As soon as Eleanor left the room, Nicola picked her up and began soothing her in a language I didn’t know, presumably Tagalog.