"I'm really so sorry, John," she said, and when he didn't answer, she went on. "How's Heather?"
"You tell me. She saw this guy kill her mother. She's just coming out of traumatic shock."
"That's horrible," she said, stating the obvious and feeling dumb because of it.
Karen was calling from Malavida's motel room in Tampa. Malavida had made her promise that she wouldn't tell Lockwood he was there. He was afraid Lockwood would run a team in and bust him.
"Did Heather get a good look at who did it?" Karen finally asked.
"Yeah. She said he was huge, fat, and bald. She said he was killing her mommy with a knife and that he didn't have any eyebrows. I'm not sure it's a good description. A lot of it may be mixed up with the shock."
"John, I'm in Tampa. I'm working with a friend of mine from the University of Miami. He's an ace computer cracker. We did a triangulation program down here, looking for the guy Malavida found on Pen-net. We think we picked up his cellphone location. My friend tells me it's accurate within a square mile or so…"
Lockwood straightened up and looked at the nurse who was preparing a tray of night medicine a few feet away. "You're doing what?"
"It's a long story, but we've got the location of his cellphone site pinned down to about a square mile. Unfortunately, it's in a huge swampland that's fed by a Tampa Bay river. It's gonna be hard to find him in there because it's marshy and pretty dense, but my friend says there's a way to narrow the location down further. It might go faster if we had a helicopter and some boats. I thought you could arrange that through Customs-"
"Let me get this straight. You're in Florida? You went to Tampa? You looked up an old friend from the University and you're working this headcase on your own?"
There was a long pause. "Not smart, I bet, huh?"
"It's way south of not smart, Karen."
"Well, John, it's done, and we got the fix without leaving our hotel rooms. So we weren't in much danger. If we narrow it down, I thought you'd want to be in on it," she said, knowing he wouldn't refuse.
After he hung up with Karen, he booked the 11:30 red-eye to Tampa. Then he went back into Heather's room. She was awake, looking at the door as he moved through it.
"Daddy," she said softly.
He gently sat on the bed and took her hand.
"I'm scared, Daddy. What if he comes?"
"I won't let that happen, honey."
"How do you know he won't?"
" 'Cause I'm gonna go find him and catch him and put him away where he won't be able to ever hurt anyone again."
"Daddy… I don't want him to hurt you," she said suddenly. "He won't hurt me. He can't… not ever."
"Why not?"
"Because I have your love to protect me." He leaned down and hugged her. Her face felt warm against his. He sat back and looked at her; he saw in her Claire's cobalt-blue eyes. Their legacy haunted him. "And then we'll go away and live happily ever after," he said, smiling. "Maybe on a farm. Just you and me, a few horses, some chickens and ducks…"
"And a hippopotamus." She was looking at the colorful painting on the wall.
The airplane took off on schedule, and he tried to sleep but his mind raced. He had not told Karen that he'd lost his badge, that he was now just John Lockwood, unemployed private citizen. But he was still one of the best pound-for-pound bullshitters on the planet, and, even without his badge, he would find a way to even out the terrain. He leaned back and tried to get some sleep as the jet engines hummed, but his eyes kept popping open. He felt strange, as if he'd lost something he couldn't fully calculate. It was tied to Claire's death, of course, but it was also more than that… It was as if everything was flat, with no depth or substance. It was as if he'd somehow lost a full dimension. He was afraid, unable to control his course… Like the purple hippo on Heather's wall, he felt like he was looking down with wide eyes, riding powerless under a brightly painted gas balloon.
Karen Dawson got to the airport early, had a Coke, and watched an old Roy Rogers movie on the TV over the bar in the passenger lounge.
It was 7:30 A. M. when Lockwood's plane landed and Karen met him coming off the American flight. They moved quickly out into the humid Florida morning. She led him across the street to her blue LeBaron and filled him in on how they'd triangulated on The Rat's cellphone signal, explaining the 800-megahertz band and all about null points. He listened and settled in next to her in the passenger seat while she put the car in motion.
"Okay, where to next?" he asked.
"My friend has a lot of stuff in a motel room. He says the next part of this operation is to get into that swamp and start scanning for the computer The Rat's using-"
"And how do we do that?" Lockwood said, looking at her.
"Well, my friend says that every radio, as well as every TV and computer console, acts like a transmitter as well as a receiver… He says electrical equipment in use always transmits radio frequency signals. He also thinks our killer is using top-of-the-line stuff-"
"Really?" Lockwood interrupted.
"My friend says that crackers are all equipment freaks; they need to have the latest stuff. A generation in computer technology is six months or less. If this guy's current, he'll have a TI or Toshiba Pentium 166-megahertz notebook with 128 megs of RAM, or some equivalent. Like I just told you, all electrically powered units transmit radio frequency signatures while they're on. He says there's a thing called TEMPEST;
it means Transient Electromagnetic Pulse Emanation Standard and it's the maximum amount of electromagnetic radiation the Federal government will allow high-security devices to emit.
"Even the best-shielded system still leaks. It's unlikely the killer has lined his computer and keyboard with lead foil to decrease its TEMPEST emissions, because my friend says nobody but spies and cold-war spooks ever did that."
"Who is this guy? What's your friend's name?"
Karen, who did not have a degree in bullshit, threw out the first name that jumped into her head. "Dale Evans," she said. Immediately her face turned red.
"Dale Evans? Like in Roy Rogers?"
"Yeah. In college we called him Trigger. Pretty funny what some parents will name their kids, huh?" She felt moronic, but Lockwood turned away, looking out the window.
He always thought that Florida was beautiful, even though it was flat as a table. He marveled at the white, puffy clouds that hovered over Tampa Bay, throwing dark shadows across the aqua-green water.
They arrived at the motel. Karen unlocked Malavida's room and they entered. Lockwood looked down at the electronic equipment scattered on the bed. Then the bathroom door opened and Malavida stepped into the room.
"How you doin', Zanzo?" the tall Mexican said.
"Well, whatta we got here?… Is this good ol' Mr. Trigger?" Lockwood said, his face going cold.
"That's him," Karen said, hoping the whole plan wasn't about to go ballistic.
"You're under arrest, Chacone. Turn around, put your hands on the wall."
Of course, Lockwood didn't have a gun, badge, or cuffs, but he went through the pat-down anyway. Then he spun Malavida around, shoved him against the wall, and glared at him.
"Are you through with this chickenshit performance?" Malavida said, his back to the wall.
"Karen, if you came down here with this guy, you're an accessoryafter-the-fact in a Class A felony."
"Actually he called me and invited me down."
"Hey, Lockwood, instead of fronting me off and getting your balls all puckered, why don't you calm down and listen for a minute?"
"I'm not gonna calm down. I'm gonna drag your ass right down to the Federal lockup."
"You and me got something in common."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"You made a mistake taking me to your wife's house to do that crack, and I made a mistake by being careless and not using a masking program. Between the two of us, she got dead."
"And you give a shit about that?"
"Yeah, I do. I never
helped someone get dead before. I can't stop thinking about it. But I know how to get this guy, Lockwood. I'm better than him and I can do it. I can find him… but you gotta help."
"I do, huh?" Lockwood glowered. "And then what?"
"I help you get this asshole. Once we get him, you close your eyes and count to a hundred. After that, you can do whatever you want. You can go get a drink and toast my escape, or you can load up a posse and come after me. I just want a running head start."
Lockwood stood looking at him for a long time. He could see in Malavida's young face both a resolve and a sadness that matched his own.
"You really think you can find him? He already burned us once."
"Hey, Lockwood, I'm the best there is. The best cracker-jack in the world. Nobody's ever been born was better, and that includes this scalpel-wielding, tooted-up dickhead. I made one careless mistake, but it won't happen again. I'll get him, but you gotta give me some slack and a little equipment."
There was a long silence while Lockwood considered it. He knew Malavida was probably the best chance he had.
"Okay, Mal… you got my help and the head start, if and when we find him."
"We need a helicopter and some airboats," the Chicano said, still leaning against the wall.
"That's gonna be tough."
"Call Customs. Tell 'em you need 'em."
"Wouldn't help. I handed back my badge… I was about to get suspended anyway."
"You mean now you're not even a cop?"
"Oh, I'm a cop. That doesn't ever go away. I just don't have any jurisdiction or authority. The good news is, I'm not stuck fighting a bunch of regulations anymore. From now on, far as I'm concerned, Miranda is just a lady who danced with fruit in her hat."
Chapter 23
THE PLAN
They spread the map out in the motel room, which suddenly seemed too small and too hot for the three of them. Lockwood was good at reading unspoken language between people, and he could see that there had been a shift in the dynamic between Karen and Malavida. She occasionally looked at the young Chicano with something other than clinical interest. She wrote down a lot of what he said and rushed to help him with small tasks. Malavida seemed to smile with his eyes when he talked to her.
Lockwood hated himself. It was just days after Claire's murder and he shouldn't give a damn about what happened between them, but he couldn't help it. He did. Not that he had a romantic interest in Karen Dawson… Maybe under different circumstances he could have, but under these, it was impossible. Nonetheless, he didn't want to see her with Malavida Chacone. This was made doubly difficult by the fact that he had to relinquish control of this part of the operation to a long-haired Chicano convict. Lockwood was lost in his cybernetic world. Malavida had written down all the information about the radio wave emanations he could dig out from the owner's manuals. He felt The Rat might have the latest and greatest TI and Toshiba Pentium notebooks, plus large-format monitors from Hitachi, Sony, or NEC. Malavida was packing his two radio receivers into a suitcase while Lockwood was studying a map of the Little Manatee River that he had picked up from the Tampa Tourist Bureau.
"This place is crisscrossed with shell roads. Some may have been washed out by summer rains, some might have been taken by high tides. The whole area is marshy and unstable," he said.
Karen moved over to look at the map.
"We've gotta split up," Malavida said. "Karen and I will take a boat. You take the car. Try to get in there close enough to receive his computer transmission. It should be detectable from a mile or so; then we'll see if we can walk each other in."
Lockwood noted that "Miss Dawson" had now become "Karen," but decided to wait until they were alone before saying anything to Malavida.
"We need walkie-talkies," Lockwood said, looking at Karen. "You'll have to go. My Customs credit cards are stopped. Find a radio store, get the Sony 1600s with extra battery packs and charging units."
Something told Karen not to leave them alone.
"We'll be okay." Malavida grinned. "If he gets bored, he can just pat me down again."
"I'll be right back," she finally said and reluctantly left the room. Lockwood waited till the sound of her footsteps disappeared; then he turned to Malavida, who was still packing the suitcase.
"Let's me and you get something straight…"
"What's that, Zanzo?" His back was to Lockwood.
"You wanna help. Okay, I'm gonna take you up on it 'cause, frankly, I'm outta options. You want a running head start when this is over… Okay, I hate it, but that's the price of the ticket. But you better stop giving Karen back rubs. She needs a massage, I'll find a tall Swedish guy."
Malavida stopped packing and Lockwood continued: "She's in over her head. She hasn't got a clue what she's signed on for. You an' me, we've spent time around sprung motherfuckers like The Rat, but this is just a field trip for her. He could kill her without raising his heartbeat. She needs all her senses focused on the game."
Malavida turned now, and Lockwood saw he was smiling. "Something I said was funny?"
"You fuckin' amaze me, John. You left your badge upside down in a bucket of shit, so let's you an' me get something straight. I don't have to listen to your bullshit. I'm a wanted man, but you're harboring a fugitive. You're also fucked up and operating illegally. The reason I'm doing this isn't so I can bump Karen Dawson. I'm doing it 'cause I wanna make up for getting your ex-wife killed. You, I could give less of a shit about. You got some limited law enforcement skills and they might come in handy, but dating advice you can stick up your ass. Back off or I'm shutting my end down, and without me, you won't get him."
They stood glowering at one another. The silence grew heavier in the room, but neither had anything else to say. Lockwood hadn't slept in more than twenty-four hours and his eyes were grainy. He moved to the window and looked out at the Florida interstate.
"How's your little girl?" Malavida asked, his tone softer. "She wants her mommy. So do I…"
"We'll get this guy. Let's just not forget what's going down between us. Things have changed."
Lockwood realized he was right. He looked at the young Chicano and believed he had come down here for the right reasons.
"Are you strapped?" Malavida broke through his thoughts.
"No, they took my gun in D. C. I need to pick something up. I've got a friend down here, Ray Gonzales. He's in Jackson Memorial Hospital with a leaky kidney, but I think he's got family in St. Pete. I'll make a call, see if I can line something up."
"Get one for me."
Lockwood smiled. "That's just what this caper needs… another unlicensed shooter."
Lockwood got in touch with Ray Gonzales in the renal ward at Jackson Memorial in Miami. Ray told him that his nephew would deliver something. Lockwood gave him a list of favorite handguns, starting with a nine-millimeter Beretta and working down to an S amp;W Chief with a two-inch barrel. It was the same piece Customs had issued to him, and although he'd never been able to hit anything with it, at least the short muzzle didn't poke him when he sat.
"How you feeling, Ray?" Lockwood asked his friend at the end of the call.
"I'm hoping I can get out of here in a month. Then I gotta take it easy for a while. I only got one kidney now, and it ain't looking so hot."
"That means you're gonna have to stop drinking all that cheap Cuban rum, amigo."
"I'd rather float face-down in the bay." Gonzales's voice grinned at him over the line.
Ray's nephew, Enrique, showed up in the motel parking lot two hours later. He turned out to be a sixteen-year-old hardcase with a bad complexion and a surly attitude. He handed Lockwood a box wrapped in brown paper.
"Ray, he say you some big-time coco-cop. You the one gonzoed all them meltdowns at Miami Airport, shoot up the place, go crazy, fucking cowboys an' Indians. Mi do works with cops, whatta fuckin' nut."
"Your uncle's diamond-hard. He's a man. You should try and be like him," Lockwood volunteered lamely.
"Y
ou think?" the boy said sullenly. "I think he's a buster." Then he moved off, bobbing his head slightly, his long black hair bouncing. He got into a primer-patched car with two other Cuban boys and they roared off, leaving a trail of blue exhaust on the asphalt.
Lockwood opened the box in the parking lot. The gun was a twenty-year-old army-issue.45 with a weak clip spring. There was half a box of ammo. Somebody had started cutting dumdum crosses in the soft lead noses of the slugs. "Great," he said to himself in disgust.
He climbed the stairs and reentered the motel room. Karen showed up twenty minutes later with the walkie-talkies. All they needed to do was rent an outboard tomorrow, get into the Little Manatee River, and wait. It was already Friday afternoon. It seemed hard for Lockwood to realize that all of this had happened in less than a week.
That night, Karen was sitting on the bed, looking at Malavida and Lockwood.
"I know you guys are sort of humoring me," she started, "and that the only reason I'm still here is because we have a severe lack of manpower."
Lockwood forced a tight smile; Malavida remained expressionless. She picked up her yellow pad, which now had pages of annotations and profiling information.
"I thought before we go get this guy, we should try to understand a little about him. I already told you I got Leslie Bowers out of the VICAP computer. Using her murder and Candice's and Claire's, I've got a beginning read on this guy, plus a couple of pretty good hunches… Wanna hear 'em?"
Both Lockwood and Malavida nodded.
"Okay. To begin with, aside from being big and ugly, I think The Rat could also be a multiple."
"Multiple personalities? Where'd that come from?" Lockwood asked.
"It's a little oblique, but follow me on this." They both waited. "We have two killings that fit one pattern, and one killing that fits a completely different pattern. All of them, we're reasonably sure, were done by one man. Candice Wilcox and Leslie Bowers were killed by a very sophisticated, very organized, highly intelligent perp. This guy used his computer to set the stage and change the time frame. He used trash bags; he used a blitz attack, taking the first two victims quickly and killing them instantly with one stroke from behind, using a narrow blade which we know, or suspect, is one of his scalpels."
Final Victim Page 17
