by Meg Gardiner
Could she enlist help from cryptography experts? The CIA and NSA had been called in to analyze the cryptograms in the Zodiac case.
And they’d failed. The only people who’d solved any of the Zodiac’s puzzles were a married couple who saw one in the newspaper and tried it on a whim. And even if the sheriff’s office got hold of the spooks, it would take a bureaucratic age to get help. That wasn’t going to happen on a holiday weekend.
But Deralynn wanted someone to see and understand her. For a second, Caitlin felt paralyzed.
She stood and went to the women’s room. She splashed water on her face. Her reflection was pale, eyes spooked beneath stringy hair. The corner of the mirror was cracked.
A sharp edge of the glass shone green. For an instant, an old craving stirred and bared its teeth. Cut.
Bring the pain. Take control.
She exhaled. That craving had sold her lies. Always. She turned her right palm up. The tattoo was there.
the whole sky
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she returned to her desk.
She reminded herself: Set your feelings aside and focus on the job. Work the evidence.
Calming down, forcing herself to concentrate, she started over: with the video.
She played it again. 40 blinks. Then 22. 22. 22. 22. A repeating pattern.
The first iteration, the 40 blinks, had to include a key.
She played the video once more, this time in slow motion. She copied down the initial sequence afresh. She had originally transcribed it as P-L-U-S-J. But with Deralynn’s tears, the number of blinks in that last letter was actually ambiguous. She checked the Morse code chart for other possibilities. She came up with P-L-U-S-1.
Was Deralynn telling her to take letters she was blinking and move one letter farther in the alphabet?
She tried it. U-Q-W-N-H-C-N-N. Garbage.
Come on, Caitlin thought. It was here. Deralynn didn’t miss this one. Then it fell across her shoulders like rain: Go one letter back.
Deralynn had thought of the word she wanted to convey, then blinked it out—plus one step forward in the alphabet for each letter in the word. To decipher the code, Caitlin needed to take the letters Deralynn had blinked and move one step in the other direction, toward the start of the alphabet.
S-O-U-L-F-A-L-L.
She tore through the duffel bag beneath her desk and grabbed her father’s journal.
At scene, words scratched in fence with a nail. “The soul falls headlong.”
That line from the Inferno echoed the message scrawled in chalk on the bridge that morning. When a soul betrays / it falls from flesh / and a demon takes its place.
Holding her breath, she checked FindtheProphet.com. Yes. There, on the message board, she found him. A registered member. Screen name: Soulfall.
The Prophet.
Caitlin raised her fists. Her eyes welled. “Deralynn, you did it. You did it, girl.”
Across the room, Shanklin frowned at Caitlin. Then her expression softened. She rose at the same time Caitlin did.
“We need Computer Forensics,” Caitlin said. “We’ve got him. We’ve got a lead.”
* * *
It took an hour, but Caitlin managed to get one of the site administrators for Find the Prophet to pick up a phone.
“We can’t violate our privacy policy,” the man said.
He sounded young and rushed. But then, the object of his obsessions had just reached through the computer screen and interrupted the site’s amateur enthusiasm with a meat cleaver.
“We can get a warrant,” Caitlin said. “But you can help us get the information we need more quickly.”
“Then get a warrant.” He sounded overly brave. There was a quaver in his voice.
“Deralynn was a friend of mine,” Caitlin said. “I was at the crime scene this morning.”
“Don’t try to scare me into doing your job for you.”
She heard the emotion beneath his words, and backed off.
“I’m not. Before Deralynn died, she left information that might help end this whole thing. She aimed us back to the message board. John—can I call you John?”
A pause. “Sure.”
“You have a mole.”
A longer pause. “Crap.”
“A dangerous mole. Who might already be drawing a target on people. Think about it. Deralynn had administrator privileges, and she gave me this information. She wanted us all to use it.”
There was an even longer pause. “Yeah. All right.”
“Thank you.” Caitlin signaled thumbs-up to Guthrie in his office. “The easiest thing is to give me a log-in and password to your site’s back end.”
He set her up with a temporary username and password. She thanked him again. “Don’t say a word to anyone, John. Don’t mention anything on the forum. We’re on this.”
Going to the site, she logged in. She silently traced Soulfall’s activity. It was sparse. He’d been a member for five years, but posted only a few times.
A lurker.
Her desk phone rang. Computer Forensics was calling, about tracking Soulfall’s digital footprint. It was Eugene Chao, who had also analyzed the Prophet’s early audiocassettes.
“Got him. The IP address he used to log in most recently.”
“Location?” she said. “Can you get that?”
“Yeah. Because it’s a corporate IP. Daedalus. Headquarters are in San Francisco. Give me a minute; let me see if I can get a little more granular.”
She stayed on the line.
Chao came back. “It’s a division of Daedalus, housed at their office in the Mission. That IP address belongs to a company called Zodiac Match.”
47
Caitlin stood up at her desk. “Sergeant Guthrie.” She put the call on speaker. “Say that again.”
“The log-in came from the corporate offices of a company called Zodiac Match,” Chao said. “It’s a division of Daedalus Inc., which in turn is a branch of Aquarius Capital Systems. It’s a multinational conglomerate.”
Guthrie approached. Caitlin said, “It came physically from that address. It couldn’t have been rerouted or masked or . . .”
“Soulfall submitted his comment to the message board from a device logged in to a network in the building that houses Zodiac Match.”
She and Guthrie exchanged a look. Guthrie said, “That sounds either sloppy or unbelievably convenient, given the guy we’re talking about.”
“Let me see what else I can find out. I’ll get back to you.”
“Go,” Caitlin said, and ended the call.
Guthrie stood hunched in thought. Caitlin said, “Is he still toying with us?”
Chao came back half an hour later. “Have a contact who works for Aquarius. That log-in at Zodiac Match was made from a cell phone that connected to the company’s Guest network.”
“Tell me it wasn’t a burner,” Caitlin said.
“It was. No calls before or since.”
“Goddammit.”
“Hold your horses. Zodiac Match has two networks. One for employees, and one, as the name suggests, for guests. That office in the Mission is their core programming center, and they are paranoid about network security,” he said.
“So the guest could have been anybody. Someone off the street.”
“No. All guests sign in at the desk. They’re logged in to the system. And the morning the comment was posted, no guests were signed in. Soulfall wasn’t a guest there. He tried to be slick, and slipped up. He’s an employee.”
She made a fist. “Names?”
“Got their entire corporate directory. I’ll send it. I’ve flagged a dozen people I consider most promising. Folks with technical know-how, who live in the Bay Area.”
“Beautiful.”
Chao listed the name
s he’d flagged. Caitlin scribbled them down. Five were women, whom she discounted. Seven men.
“More info on the men?” she said.
Chao gave her their ages, nationalities, and the length of time they’d worked for the company. Three were in their midtwenties. Three others in their thirties. Two of those—Minsoo Kim and Wei Jian—had come to the United States within the last year on H-1B visas.
“What about the last guy?” Caitlin said.
“Your man Titus. DOB puts him at forty-seven. Programmer. His employee number indicates he’s been with the company for a long time. A long, long time.”
Her hands were tingling. She saw it now: a forty-seven-year-old core software programmer who had access to every client’s dating profile. Phone numbers. Addresses. Passwords. Hell, people’s desires. He could choose targets, install RAT software on their computers and phones, and remotely scout houses and businesses before he attacked.
“Can you get his employment records?” she said. “Address, phone?”
“Already have them.”
“You’re a golden god.”
“Social engineering,” he said, without explanation. “This guy just returned to the Bay Area after working overseas. Been an expat for a dozen years. Brussels, Hong Kong, London. I’ll send you everything.”
It came through a few seconds later. Caitlin leaned forward eagerly, reading, and stopped.
“This is his last name?” she said. “I thought you said ‘Rome.’”
“No, Rhone. R-H-O-N-E. Like the river.”
A sick, prickly feeling spread across her. “Hang on.”
She found the sheriff’s office personnel directory. Scanned, and her eyes snagged on a name. An address.
Jesus God. “I’ll call you back.”
She looked around the war room. Shanklin caught her eye. She frowned at Caitlin a long moment. Caitlin walked toward the front of the station, where Guthrie was huddled in intense conversation with Lieutenant Kogara. Caitlin heard Shanklin following her.
She sped up. As she approached Guthrie, he gave her a look that said, Not now.
She walked past him. Looking over her shoulder, she urged Shanklin to hurry.
She approached the front desk. The clerk was bent over a doughnut and her phone.
“Paige. Can we talk to you for a minute?”
The girl looked up with eager, avid eyes.
“You live in the Berkeley Hills, right?” Caitlin said.
“Yeah, the house I inherited from my mom.”
“Alone?”
“No, my . . . why?”
“Your what?”
The happy enthusiasm became guarded. “Why do you want to know?”
“Who’s Titus Rhone?” Caitlin said.
“I don’t understand. He’s only there temporarily, until he gets his own place.”
Shanklin stepped closer. “What’s this about?”
Caitlin pointed at the girl’s name tag. “Paige?”
The clerk touched the tag. M. P. RHONE. “He’s my dad.”
* * *
“It’s temporary. I told you,” Paige said. “What’s the problem?”
In an interview room, Paige hunched over a Formica table, picking at her nails. Caitlin sat across from her. Shanklin leaned against the wall. Mama Badger, ready to lunge.
“What kind of vehicle does your dad drive?” Caitlin said.
“I don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions, but I feel kind of intimidated. This is like, microaggression.”
“Oh. What kind of vehicle?”
“A hybrid. Chevy Volt.”
Shanklin said, “Does he ever drive a pickup truck?”
Paige shook her head, but stopped, lips parted. Shanklin straightened.
“Dodge Ram?” Caitlin said.
Paige’s face cleared. “That was Tanner’s.”
“Who’s Tanner?”
“This is about the truck? Why didn’t you say so?” Her face brightened.
“Paige.”
“My ex-boyfriend. His Ram got stolen last month. Did you find it?”
Shanklin said, “What’s Tanner’s last name?”
“DeVries. It’s a white Ram, pre-owned but like new.”
“White?” Caitlin said. “Rims?”
“Oh, God, yes. Those chrome full-throttle warrior rims. He loves those things.”
Caitlin nodded. Guthrie was watching the video feed and would now be checking for a stolen Dodge Ram owned by Tanner DeVries.
“Where was it stolen?” she said.
“My street. Tanner went ballistic. Supposed to be a safe neighborhood. And he said the truck couldn’t be hot-wired. You need the key fob to start the engine. Is that true? That’s one of the things I need to learn if I’m going to apply to the academy.” She smiled. “That’s why I’m working here. Get a head start on that stuff.”
Caitlin nodded. “Good plan. Tanner got mad at you?” she said sympathetically.
“One reason he left. Like I made his stupid truck disappear.” Paige tossed her hair. “No big loss.”
Shanklin, in Caitlin’s peripheral vision, looked like she was using every ounce of restraint not to shake the girl. Caitlin heard it all in the interstices of Paige’s ramble. If her father was living with her, how hard would it be for him to steal the keys to the truck while Paige’s boyfriend was at the house?
Not much harder than getting the truck painted black.
“Did Tanner accuse your dad of losing the fob?” she said.
“Oh, yeah. Ranting and strutting around, pointing his finger. Dad just walked out of the room. That set Tanner off too.” She exhaled. “Good riddance.”
Caitlin folded her hands. “Are you and your dad close?”
“Course. Working on it. I hadn’t seen him, yeah, since I was little. But he asked, and he’s family, so he’s staying with me. For now. But we’re getting close. He understands me. He’s the one who said I should apply for this job. ‘You’d be an awesome cop.’ Besides, he gave me my real first name.” She tapped her name badge. M. P. RHONE. “Myrrha. Myrrha Paige. One of a kind. Because I’m one of a kind. It’s too weird to use, but . . .” She looked back and forth between Caitlin and Shanklin. “That’s something, right?”
“It sure is.” Caitlin stood up. “Hang here a sec. I’ll be right back. You want a Coke?”
“Please.”
She headed for the door. “Remember a necklace with a hummingbird pendant? You sold it on eBay, right?”
“That was years ago.” Paige frowned. “What did Tanner say? I had permission. I mean, Dad forgot it. He never asked for it.”
“Sure. Diet?”
Shanklin gave her the eye. Caitlin strolled out calmly. When she shut the door, she pulled out her phone and searched. Myrrha.
Greek mythology: Myrrha was the mother of Adonis. She was turned into a myrrh tree after lusting for her father, the king, and having intercourse with him.
“Damn.” New search. Myrrha + Inferno.
Canto XXX. Line 24.
I beheld two shadows pale and naked,
Who, biting, in the manner ran along
That a boar does, when from the sty turned loose.
She scrolled. The shades sank tusks into other shades’ necks, savagely tearing them apart.
That is the ancient ghost
Of the nefarious Myrrha, who became
Beyond all rightful love her father’s lover.
She came to sin with him after this manner,
By counterfeiting of another’s form
Caitlin stood chilled in the hall. “One of a kind. No kidding.”
Daughter of a vicious, legendary UNSUB. What a legacy.
Guthrie stepped out of the monitoring room. “The pendant.”
“
That was a shot in the dark. Lucky hit.” She shrugged, abashed but excited. “And Myrrha is a character from the Inferno. It’s him.”
Guthrie handed her an eight-by-ten photo, a driver’s license blowup.
The photo showed a man in his midforties. Slim, Caucasian, superficially unexceptional. But the very air in the hallway seemed to cool. It was his eyes. Hot under the lights, a heavy brown that let nothing past. Lips parted as though about to say something suggestive to the DMV worker. Conspiratorial. The near smile showed a crowded mouth of crooked teeth. Thinning hair, a few long strands combed straight back. He looked like a road-worn Matthew McConaughey. Chummy expression. With a complete sense of assurance and utter emptiness behind it.
Titus Rhone.
She looked at Guthrie. “That’s him.”
48
At two P.M. they assembled in the war room: the raid team, readying for the takedown of Titus Rhone. The atmosphere crackled. Guthrie briefed the team on Rhone. The Special Response Unit commander laid out the tactical plan.
“Target residence is a single-family dwelling in the Berkeley Hills.” The commander used a laser pointer to indicate Paige Rhone’s home on the satellite map projected on a whiteboard. “Our approach will be via Winderaker Road.”
Caitlin stood cracking her knuckles. Inside her, a turbine seemed to spin to life, ready to unload energy in an electric flash. Her SIG was holstered. She had two extra clips of ammunition in her left jeans pocket. A folding knife with a drop-point blade in her right. She tightened her ballistic vest.
Nearby, Shanklin looked focused. Martinez stood with his hands at his sides. His beach-bartender demeanor had blown away; he was pure fight. Guthrie looked like he had loaded every bit of information about the operation into his very cell structure. The SRU team stood at parade rest, their dark fatigues monolithic and intimidating.
The commander finished his briefing and turned the floor over to Guthrie.
“This is a suburban neighborhood. Family dwellings to three sides of the target. Sunny afternoon. Presume kids will be playing outside.” He clicked to close-up photos of the house. They’d been obtained from Paige’s phone, which she had handed over willingly.
