The Blue Nowhere: A Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

  Wyatt leapt from the car before Bishop had brought it to a complete stop in the CCU headquarters parking lot. He sprinted inside.

  “Damage assessment?” he asked. Both Miller and Patricia Nolan were at workstations but it was Nolan to whom he directed this question.

  She replied, “They’re still offline but one of the sysadmin’s assistants walked a disk of the log files over. I’m just going through it now.”

  Log files retain information on which users have been connected to a system, for how long, what they do online and if they jump to another system while they’re connected.

  Gillette took over and began keying furiously. He absently picked up his coffee cup from that morning, took a sip and shuddered at the cold, bitter liquid. He put the cup down and returned to the screen, pounding keys hard as he roamed through the ISLEnet log files.

  A moment later he was aware of Patricia Nolan sitting beside him. She put a fresh cup of coffee next to him. He glanced her way. “Thanks.”

  She offered a smile and he nodded back, holding her eye for a moment. Sitting this close Gillette noticed a tautness to her facial skin and he supposed she’d taken her makeover plan so seriously that she’d had some plastic surgery. He had the passing thought that if she used less of the thick makeup, bought some better clothes and stopped shoving her hair off her face every few minutes she’d be attractive. Not beautiful, or demure, but handsome.

  He turned back to the screen and continued to key. His fingers slammed down angrily. He kept thinking about Bob Shelton. How could somebody who knew enough about computers to own a Winchester server drive be so careless?

  Finally, he sat back and announced, “It’s not as bad as it could be. Phate was in ISLEnet but only for about forty seconds before Stephen suspended it.”

  Bishop asked, “Forty seconds. That’s not enough time to get anything useful to him, is it?”

  “No way,” the hacker said. “He might’ve looked at the main menus and gotten into a couple of files but to get to anything classified he’d need other passcodes and’d have to run a cracking program for those. That’d take him a half hour at best.”

  Bishop nodded. “At least we got one break.”

  In the outside world it was nearly 5:00 P.M., rainy again, and a hesitant rush hour was under way. But for a hacker there is no afternoon, there is no morning, no night. There is simply time you spend in the Machine World and time you do not.

  Phate was, for the moment, offline.

  Though he was, of course, still in front of his computer in his lovely façade of a house off El Monte in Los Altos. He was scrolling through page after page of data, all of which he’d downloaded from ISLEnet.

  The Computer Crimes Unit believed Phate had been inside ISLEnet for only forty-two seconds. What they didn’t know, however, was that as soon as he’d gotten inside the system one of Trapdoor’s clever demons had taken over the internal clock and rewritten all the connection and download logs. In reality Phate had spent a leisurely fifty-two minutes inside ISLEnet, downloading gigabytes of information.

  Some of this intelligence was mundane but—because CCU’s machine had root access—some was so classified that only a handful of law enforcers in the state and federal governments were allowed to see it: access numbers and passcodes to top-secret government computers; tactical assault codes; encrypted files about ongoing operations; surveillance procedures; rules of engagement; and classified information about the state police, the FBI, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the Secret Service and most other law enforcement agencies.

  Now, as soft rain streaked the windows of his house, Phate was scrolling through one of these classified folders—the state police human resource files. These contained information on every individual employed by the California State Police. There were many, many subfolders but at the moment Phate was interested only in the one he was looking through now. It was labeled Detective Division and it contained some very useful data.

  IV

  ACCESS

  The Internet is about as safe as a convenience store in East L.A. on Saturday night.

  —Jonathan Littman,

  The Fugitive Game

  CHAPTER 00011011 / TWENTY-SEVEN

  For the rest of the evening the Computer Crimes Unit team pored over the reports from the Bay View Motel, continuing to search for any leads to Phate and listening in anxious anticipation to the police-band scanners for reports of more killings.

  There’d been a report that a young girl had been kidnapped from a private school that morning by a man impersonating her uncle and then released. It was certainly Phate’s M.O. but when Huerto Ramirez and Tim Morgan checked out the school and interviewed the girl they came away with no leads. The hysterical student couldn’t even remember the color of the kidnapper’s car.

  Other officers had canvassed most of the guests at the Bay View Motel and surrounding areas and had found no witnesses who’d seen what kind of car or truck Phate had been driving.

  A clerk in a 7-Eleven in Fremont had sold two six-packs of Mountain Dew to someone fitting Phate’s description several hours ago. But the killer hadn’t said anything that would help in tracing him. No one inside or outside the convenience store got a look at his car either.

  The crime scene search of the motel room had revealed nothing useful in tracing Phate to a specific location.

  Wyatt Gillette had helped Stephen Miller, Linda Sanchez and Tony Mott perform the forensic analysis on the computer left in the room. The hacker reported that it was indeed a hot machine, loaded with just enough software for the break-in. There was nothing contained in it that gave any indication where Phate might be. The serial number of the Toshiba indicated that it had been part of a shipment to Computer World in Chicago six months ago. The purchaser had paid cash and had never filled out the warranty registration card or registered online. All of the computer disks Phate had left in the room were blank. Linda Sanchez, queen of the computer archaeologists, tested each one with the Restore8 program and found that none had ever contained any data.

  Sanchez continued to be preoccupied with her daughter and called her every few hours to see how she was doing. She clearly wanted to visit the poor girl and so Bishop sent her home. He dismissed the rest of the troops too and Miller and Mott—the blond cop in much better spirits now after his SWAT experience—left to get some dinner and sleep.

  Patricia Nolan, on the other hand, was in no hurry to return to her hotel. She sat next to Gillette and together they scrolled through ISLEnet files, trying to find out more about the Trapdoor demon. There was, however, no sign of it and Gillette reported that the bot had apparently killed itself.

  Once, Gillette leaned back wearily, cracked his knuckles and stretched. Bishop watched him spot a wad of pink phone-message slips. His face brightened and he picked them up eagerly. He was clearly disappointed that none were for him—probably upset that his ex-wife hadn’t called, as he’d asked her to do last night.

  Well, Frank Bishop knew that feelings about loved ones weren’t limited to upstanding citizens. He’d collared dozens of worthless killers who’d broken into tears when they were led away in cuffs—not at the thought of the hard years ahead of them in prison but because they’d be separated from their wives and children.

  Bishop noted that once again the hacker’s fingers had started typing—no, keying—in the air as he stared at the ceiling. Was he writing something to his wife right now? Or maybe he was asking his father—the engineer in the dusty sand fields of the Middle East—for some advice or support, or telling his brother that once he was released he’d like to spend some time with him.

  “Nothing,” Nolan muttered. “We’re not getting anywhere.”

  For a moment Bishop felt the same discouragement he saw in her face. But then he thought, Wait a minute . . . I’m getting distracted here. He realized that he too had been pulled deep under the hypnotic spell of the Blue Nowhere. It had skewed his thoughts. He now walked to the white-board
and stared at the notations about the evidence, the printouts and pictures.

  Do something with that . . .

  Bishop glanced at the printout of the terrible picture of Lara Gibson.

  Do something . . .

  The detective walked closer to the picture, studied it carefully.

  “Look at this,” he said to Shelton. The stocky, sullen cop joined him.

  “What about it?”

  “What do you see?”

  Shelton shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you see?”

  “I see clues,” Bishop responded. “The other things in the picture—what’s on the floor, the walls. . . . They can tell us something about where Phate killed her, I’ll bet.”

  Gillette scooted forward and stared at the gruesome photo.

  The picture showed the poor girl in the foreground. Bishop pointed out what else the shot revealed: The floor she lay on was greenish tile. There was a square galvanized-metal duct running from a beige air-conditioning or furnace unit. The wall was the backside of unpainted Sheetrock nailed to wooden studs. This was probably the furnace room in a partially finished basement. You could also see part of a white-painted door and what seemed to be a trash can next to it, brimming with refuse.

  Bishop said, “We’ll send the picture to the FBI. Let their techs look it over.”

  Shelton shook his head. “I don’t know, Frank. I think he’s too smart to piss where he eats. Way too traceable.” He nodded toward the picture. “He took her someplace else to kill her. That’s not where he lives.”

  But Nolan said, “I don’t agree. You’re right that he’s smart but he doesn’t see things the way we do.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Gillette seemed to understand exactly. “Phate doesn’t think about the Real World. He’d try to cover up any computer evidence but I think he’d tend to overlook physical clues.”

  Bishop nodded at the picture. “The basement looks pretty new—the furnace too. Or air conditioner, whatever it is. The feds might be able to figure out if there’s a particular builder who makes residential properties with those brands of materials. We could narrow down the building.”

  Shelton shrugged. “It’s a long shot. But what can it hurt?”

  Bishop called a friend of his in the FBI. He told him about the picture and what they needed. They conversed for a moment or two and the detective hung up.

  “He’s going to download an original of the picture himself and send it to the lab,” Bishop said. The detective then glanced down at a nearby desk and noticed a large envelope addressed to him. The routing slip indicated it had come from the California State Police Juvenile Division central files department and must have arrived when he was at the Bay View. He opened it and read through the contents. It was the juvenile court file on Gillette he’d requested when the hacker had escaped last night. He dropped it on the desk then glanced up at the dusty wall clock. It was 10:30. “I think we all need some rest,” he said.

  Shelton hadn’t mentioned his wife but Bishop sensed he was eager to return home to her. The brawny detective left with a nod to his partner. “See you in the morning, Frank.” He smiled at Nolan. Gillette received neither a word nor a gesture of farewell.

  Bishop said to Gillette, “I don’t feel like spending the night here again. I’m going home. And you’re coming with me.”

  Patricia Nolan’s head swiveled toward the hacker when she heard this. She said casually, “I’ve got plenty of room at my hotel. My company’s paying for a suite. You’re welcome to stay there if you want. Got a great minibar.”

  But the detective chuckled and said, “I’m running toward unemployment fast enough with this case. Think it’d be better if he came with me. Prisoner in custody, you know.”

  Nolan took the defeat well—Bishop supposed she was beginning to give up on Gillette as romantic material. She gathered up her purse, a pile of floppy disks and her laptop, and left.

  As Bishop and Gillette walked out the door the hacker asked, “You mind if we make a stop on the way?”

  “A stop?”

  “There’s something I want to pick up,” Gillette said. “Oh, and speaking of which—can I borrow a couple of dollars?”

  CHAPTER 00011100 / TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Here we are,” Bishop said.

  They pulled up in front of a ranch house, small but situated in a verdant yard that looked to be about a half acre, a huge lot for this part of Silicon Valley.

  Gillette asked what town this was and Bishop told him Mountain View. Then he added, “Of course, I can’t exactly see any mountains. The only view’s my next-door neighbor’s Dodge up on blocks and, on a clear day, that big hangar at Moffett Field.” He pointed north, across the lights of traffic streaming along Highway 101.

  They walked along a winding sidewalk, which was badly cracked and buckled. Bishop said, “Watch your step there. I’ve been meaning to get around to fixing that. You have the San Andreas fault to thank. Which is all of about three miles thataway. Say, wipe your feet if you don’t mind.”

  He unlocked the door and ushered the hacker inside.

  Frank Bishop’s wife, Jennie, was a petite woman in her late thirties. Her pug face wasn’t beautiful but was appealing in a wholesome way. While Bishop—with his sprayed hair, sideburns and short-sleeved white shirts—was a time traveler from the 1950s, his wife was very much an up-to-date housewife. Long hair in a French braid, jeans, a designer work shirt. She was trim and athletic-looking, though to Gillette, now out of prison and surrounded by tanned Californians, she seemed very pale.

  She didn’t appear the least put out—or even surprised—that her husband had brought a felon home to spend the night and Gillette supposed she’d received a phone call earlier about their houseguest.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “No,” Bishop said.

  But Gillette held up the paper bag containing what they’d stopped for on the way here from CCU. “I’m fine with these.”

  Jennie unabashedly took the bag from him, looked inside. She laughed. “You’re not having Pop-Tarts for dinner. You need real food.”

  “No, really—” With a smile on his face and sorrow in his heart Gillette watched the pastry disappear into the kitchen.

  So near, yet so far . . .

  Bishop unlaced his shoes, pulled them off and put on moccasin slippers. The hacker also took his shoes off and, in stocking feet, stepped into the living room, looking around.

  The place reminded Gillette of his own childhood homes. White wall-to-wall carpet in need of replacing. Furniture from JCPenney or Sears. An expensive TV and a cheap stereo. The chipped dining room table doubled tonight as a desk; this seemed to be bill-paying day. A dozen envelopes were carefully laid out to be mailed. Pacific Bell, Mervyn’s, MasterCard, Visa.

  Gillette looked over some of the many framed pictures on the mantelpiece. There were four or five dozen of them. More on the walls, tables and bookshelves. The couple’s wedding picture revealed a young Frank Bishop identical to today’s, sideburns and sprayed hair included (though the white shirt under the tuxedo jacket was held firmly in place by a cummerbund).

  Bishop saw Gillette studying them. “Jennie calls us World O’ Frames. We’ve got more pictures than any two families on our block combined.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Plenty more in the bedroom and bathroom too. That one you’re looking at—that’s my father and mother.”

  “Was he a cop? Wait, do you mind being called a cop?”

  “Do you mind being called a hacker?”

  Gillette shrugged. “Nope. It fits.”

  “Same with ‘cop.’ But, no, Dad owned a printing company in Oakland. Bishop and Sons. The ‘sons’ part isn’t exactly accurate since two of my sisters run it now, along with most of my brothers.”

  “‘Two of’?” Gillette said, lifting an eyebrow. “‘Most of’?”

  Bishop laughed. “I’m the eighth of nine. Five boys and four girls.”

  “That�
�s quite a family.”

  “I’ve got twenty-nine nieces and nephews,” the detective said proudly.

  Gillette looked at a picture of a lean man in a shirt as baggy as Bishop’s, standing in front of a one-story building, on the façade of which was a sign, BISHOP & SONS PRINTING AND TYPESETTING.

  “You didn’t want to be in the business?”

  “I like the idea of a company staying in the family.” He picked up the picture and gazed at it himself. “I think family’s the most important thing in the world. But, I tell you, I’d’ve been pretty bad at the printing business. Boring, you know. The thing about being a cop is that it’s . . . how do I say it? It’s like it’s infinite. There’s always something new, every day. As soon as you think you’ve figured out the criminal mind, bang, you find a whole new perspective.”

  There was motion nearby. They turned.

  “Look who we have here,” Bishop said.

  A boy of about eight was peeking into the living room from the corridor.

  “Come on in here, young man.”

  Wearing pajamas decorated with tiny dinosaurs, the boy walked into the living room, looking up at Gillette.

  “Say hi to Mr. Gillette, son. This’s Brandon.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Brandon,” Gillette said. “You’re up late.”

  “I like to say good night to my dad. If he doesn’t get home too late mom lets me stay up.”

  “Mr. Gillette writes software for computers.”

  “You write script?” the boy asked enthusiastically.

  “That’s right,” Gillette said, laughing at the way the programmer’s shorthand for software tripped easily off his tongue.

  The boy said, “We write programs at our computer lab in school. The one we did last week made a ball bounce around the screen.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Gillette offered, noting the boy’s round, eager eyes. His features were mostly his mother’s.

  “Naw,” Brandon said, “it was totally boring. We had to use QBasic. I’m gonna learn O-O-P.”