Kane

by Steve Gannon

  “Anything else you can think of that might get me canned? How’s about if I punch out Snead for you, too?”

  “If it comes up, I’ll say the disc was in my drawer.”

  “You’re asking a lot,” said Deluca, lowering his voice. “What do you want that information for, anyway?”

  “It’s better you don’t know. C’mon, Paul, will you help me or not?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do it,” Deluca sighed. “You’re gonna owe me big on this, paisano.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Then, before Deluca could change his mind, “Anybody down there miss me yet?”

  “If they do, I’ll start insulting the brass and raising hell at the briefings. No one will even realize you’re gone. Which reminds me. Arnie called. He says he can meet you for dinner if you’re free. That cute brunette he’s boffin’ must be busy tonight.”

  “Either that, or his can opener’s busted. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Oh, I did notice a couple of message slips on your desk. Gimme a sec.” A pause, then, “One’s from yesterday. A woman, no name.” Deluca read off a Brentwood phone number.

  I recognized it as Lauren’s, realizing she that must have tried to reach me at task force headquarters before calling the beach house. “What’s the other?”

  “A guy who says he has some information you requested. I took that one myself. Damn, I can barely read my own writing.”

  “You and everybody else. What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Dexter. Hank Dexter.”

  Later that evening I returned to Hank Dexter’s TV shop. The interior of the store had changed considerably since my last visit. Looking as if an army had marched through, it now displayed the ravages of a busy Christmas, including depleted equipment racks, empty merchandise cases, and the few salespeople present clearly suffering postholiday exhaustion.

  As before, I found my friend at the service counter in the rear. Glancing up from the innards of a dismantled television, Hank smiled as I made my way back. “Dan,” he said, setting down a pair of needle nosed pliers. “We missed you at the wedding.”

  I moved around the counter to shake his hand. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. I’ve been swamped.”

  “Tell me about it. With Christmas and the wedding, things have been hectic around here, too. I did finally manage to check on that garage-door opener question of yours, though.”

  “Breaking in if you don’t know the code and don’t have access to the original door opener control?”

  “Right. It turned out to be more complicated than I first thought. Simpler too, oddly enough,” Hank added, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

  “How so?”

  Hank thought a moment. “Okay, imagine you’re standing outside a garage that has an automatic door opener. You want to get in, but you don’t know the transmission frequency of the sending unit, or the coded sequence needed to activate the motor. You’ve actually got two problems: You need to know the code and the frequency.”

  “There can’t be that many frequencies.”

  “Wrong. The FCC has stringent rules concerning the use of unlicensed transmitters like door-opener remotes, but they allow use of the forty point sixty-six through forty point seventy megahertz range, and any frequency above seventy megahertz. As a practical matter, however, most door-opener manufactures stick to carrier frequencies between two-fifty and four hundred.”

  “And they all use different ones?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn. What about the coding part?”

  Hank shook his head. “I encountered problems there, too. Generating sequential digit pulses as I originally suggested won’t work. Nowadays all garage openers have built-in microprocessors, making possible an endless assortment of code combinations, compound bit streams, algorithm controlled signal frames, rolling codes, multiple recognition requirements-”

  “Whoa, Hank. You’re giving me more than I need. Cut to the chase.”

  “I just wanted you to understand the complexities,” the older man sniffed, sounding disappointed.

  “I do. You’re saying it can’t be done.”

  “Not taking a straight-on approach. Not in a reasonable period of time, anyway. But then something occurred to me that simplified things. Come back here. I have something to show you.”

  I accompanied my friend to a workbench in the back. After clearing a space, Hank placed a toaster-sized piece of electronic test equipment in the center. An array of buttons and a single knob covered the right side of the instrument’s face; a flat, rectangular screen the left. Hank pushed a button in the lower right-hand corner. A calibrated green grid appeared on the screen.

  “What’s that?” I asked, leaning over Hank’s shoulder. “An oscilloscope?”

  “Sort of. It’s called a spectrum analyzer. It analyzes electronic signals over a wide range of frequencies.” Hank slipped on his glasses, bent over the instrument, and made several adjustments. “There,” he said. “We’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “You’ll see. I got the idea from an article I was reading on how stolen cellular phones are reprogrammed with new ID codes snagged off the air. The principle here is the same.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “It’ll be easier if I show you. I have the frequency span on our analyzer set to bracket the most commonly used door-opener transmissions. Watch.” Hank opened a drawer and withdrew a garage remote-control unit. He pushed the button. Instantly, a spike popped up on the right side of the analyzer display. “That’s our door-opener signal,” he said, tapping the green trace on the screen.

  I watched as my friend twisted a knob, moving a small electronic screen marker to the tip of the spike. “Three hundred and thirty megahertz,” said Hank, reading a number off the display. “That’s the first part.”

  I stared at the screen, my interest growing. “What about the code?”

  “Easy. Once we know the frequency, we set the analyzer to it and zero-span the range. Anything coming in will now be displayed as a time-domain product of the envelope detector, in effect demodulating the signal.”

  “You want to dumb that down a bit?”

  “By zero-spanning the instrument, we can examine the components of one particular frequency,” Hank explained. Noticing the blank expression still on my face, he prompted, “The code, Dan.” He made another adjustment to the instrument, then pushed the opener button again. “There. See what I mean?”

  I leaned in. The spike on the monitor had been replaced by a series of blocky pulses. “That’s it? The opener code?”

  “Right. This particular code string is redundant-repeated twice in a one second period-with several bit reversals in the second frame. Tricky.”

  “So anybody with one of these analyzers could sit down the street, wait for some poor sucker to come home, and record his door-opener signal. How close would he have to be?”

  Hank glanced at the remote control. “Close. A hundred feet or so, although you could probably pick up the signal farther out if you used a directional antenna.”

  “As far away as a block or two?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then what? Push a button and rebroadcast the signal when you want to break in?”

  “This instrument isn’t a transmitter,” said Hank. “But knowing the frequency would simplify getting the correct replacement opener. The rest wouldn’t be that difficult.”

  My mind raced ahead. “So the guy has to get the frequency on the first go-around, then snag the code after that. And he has to be fairly close to do it.” I looked thoughtfully at the spectrum analyzer. “What are we talking for one of these? A couple hundred bucks?”

  Hank smiled. “Not even close. I borrowed this one from a friend. It sold new for around twelve thousand, and compared with some, that’s cheap. Depending on their capabilities, some of these instruments new can top a hundred grand.”

  I whistled softly, eyeing the analyzer with new respect. “So you don’t just pick
one up at your local Radio Shack.”

  “No. Not that many companies even make them. Hewlett-Packard, Tektronix, Agilent, a few others.”

  “So if you wanted one, where would you look?”

  “On something like this, you could go directly to the company. There’re a few test equipment rental places around, too. You might be able to lease a unit at one of those. And, of course, there’s eBay.”

  I thought a moment, trying to figure a way to limit the search parameters. “You said these things have different capabilities. Could you make up a list for me of the type or types of unit that someone would need to do what we’re talking about here? You know, like Goldilocks-just enough capability, but not too much.”

  “No problem. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Hank,” I said. “I have to take off, but you’ve been a huge help. Give my best to your son and the new missus.”

  “Sure. Don’t be a stranger.”

  I slipped around the counter, then turned. “I’ll stop by again when I get time. I have a wedding gift to drop off.”

  Hank smiled. “I’ll give Mitch the message.” Then, his smile fading, “I take it you’re still on the serial-killings case?”

  I hesitated a moment. “Yeah. I’m still on it.”

  Arnie stared across the table. “Excuse me, ol’ buddy, but it sounded like you just said you were stayin’ on the case.”

  “You heard right,” I said, glancing around the crowded interior of Regular John’s Pizza Parlor. From our booth in the back, I could take in most of the room. Clusters of tables with checkered tablecloths jammed the interior, with an order counter at the far end, video games against one wall, and hard-benched booths lining the rest. Every other available inch of wall and ceiling space displayed items of memorabilia ranging from pictures and posters to a dusty collection of snowshoes, surfboards, antique rifles, a racing scull, even a menagerie of stuffed animal heads.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  I took a swig of my Coke, gazing pensively at a huge moose head mounted above our booth. “I still don’t understand why you insist on coming to this hole,” I complained, sidestepping his question.

  Arnie shrugged. “Great pizza and cheap beer. Let’s get back to the question of your sanity, pal. You realize it’ll mean your badge if you’re caught.”

  “This thing’s personal now.”

  “I was afraid you were gonna say that. Damn, you’re already in deep enough without makin’ things worse. Have you seen the news lately?”

  I nodded. “Grim.”

  “Grim’s an understatement.” Arnie looked at me curiously. “How’d you get hooked up with Van Owen, anyway?”

  With a lurch of regret, my thoughts returned to the horror at Lauren’s condo. “I don’t know,” I said softly. “I wish to God I hadn’t.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “I visited her yesterday at the hospital. They still had her pretty sedated. The doctors say it’ll take time and a lot of plastic surgery, but she’ll make a full recovery. Fortunately, it appears the guy was waiting for me to show up before he really got down to business.

  “Why do you think he left her alive?” Arnie asked.

  I shrugged. “Who knows? The patrol officers I called in probably caught him off guard. After killing them, maybe he got spooked and bolted, leaving Lauren for dead. She had several chest wounds that barely missed major arteries.”

  “The papers say she has a daughter.”

  “Candice. She’s staying with her dad in Pasadena.”

  Apparently hearing something in my voice, Arnie sighed. “What happened wasn’t your fault, Dan.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “It wasn’t. You were trying to push the killer into making a mistake, and he did. He should have been caught at the Bakers’ house. And no one could have predicted he would lash out at Van Owen like that afterward. Besides, if it hadn’t been for you, right now the entire Baker family would be dead. Welcome to the real world, amigo. It’s one where you don’t control everything that happens. Now, let go of this thing with Van Owen and move on. Maybe I’m stepping out of line here, but you need to hear this. Kate’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Life doesn’t give you a lot of chances at happiness, and you’re blowin’ the best one you ever had.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended. Arnie drained his beer, then refilled his mug from a pitcher on the table. “Have you phoned Kate since last night?”

  I lowered my eyes. “Yeah, I called her. After what happened at Van Owen’s, I insisted that she and the kids go someplace safe. They’re all staying with Catheryn’s mother in Santa Barbara. I’d feel better if they were even farther away, but Kate’s not listening to me much these days.” I started to add something, then stopped.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, Arnie. On top of everything else, I’m afraid Kate blames me for putting our kids in jeopardy.”

  “She said that?”

  “No, but-”

  “I didn’t think so. That’s bullshit, Dan. I know Kate. She would never lay that kind of guilt on you, because it isn’t true. She knows you were just doing your job.”

  At that moment, a youngster at the counter called out a number over the loudspeaker. Arnie checked our order ticket. “That’s us,” he said, sliding from the booth. “You want a refill on your Coke?”

  I shook my head.

  “Suit yourself.” Arnie rose and crossed the sawdust strewn floor, returning with a steaming, sixteen-inch pizza. Setting the platter on a wire stand, he squeezed back into the booth and for the next ten minutes we ate in silence. After polishing off his fourth slice of pizza and third mug of beer, Arnie leaned back and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “Can I say one more thing?” he asked. “After that I promise to shut up.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I’m gonna give you a little more advice, whether you like it or not. Drop the task force investigation and get things straightened out with Kate. That’s what’s important.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” I replied miserably. “I want to make things right with her more than anything. But according to Lauren, this guy’s got me on his radar. And as long as he’s out there, Kate isn’t safe, and neither are my kids. And I can’t forget what he did to Lauren, either. Like I said, it’s personal now. Will you help me?”

  “Somehow I knew that was coming.” Arnie frowned, contemplating his half-empty beer mug. “I’m off tomorrow,” he said at last. “I have some vacation days accumulated at my new job, too. I don’t like it much, but yeah. I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Thanks. If there’s any fallout, I’ll take the heat.”

  “How comforting. Listen, I’m gonna say one more thing.”

  “I thought you were done giving advice.”

  “This is something you already know. Maybe you forgot, but it’s one of the first things you learned when you started doing police work.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When a case gets personal… things go wrong.”

  47

  I had been working in the squad room for over an hour the next morning when Lieutenant Long strode in. Arnie was sitting nearby at Deluca’s empty workstation, talking on the telephone. At Long’s raised eyebrow, Arnie nodded, then continued his phone conversation.

  Long paused at my desk, glancing at his watch. “Morning, Dan. You’re here early.”

  I looked up. “Lieutenant.”

  “Didn’t your ex-partner over there retire several years back?”

  “I believe he did, sir.”

  “So what’s he doing here?”

  “Arnie’s, uh, helping me chase down a few leads. Don’t worry, he’ll be gone before you know it.”

  “Leads on what?” Long asked, then quickly raised a hand. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

  “Nope.”

  “I thought not. If someone asks, I probably didn’t see Arnie here, ei
ther.”

  “No, sir. You didn’t.”

  “Don’t screw up, Kane. If Snead gets wind of-

  “He won’t.”

  “He’d better not.” Long hesitated. “About yesterday. Although I sincerely question some of your recent actions, I did everything I could.”

  “I know. And thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “If you get jammed up on the candlelight case again, I won’t be able to help.”

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. If things turn out like I hope, there won’t be a problem.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  I spotted Deluca entering the squad room. “I’ll worry about it later. Right now I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me…”

  Long gave me another questioning look. “Okay, Dan. But watch your step.” With that he turned and headed for his office, glaring crankily at Deluca as he passed.

  After stopping to talk briefly with Arnie, Deluca ambled over to my desk. “What’s with the el-tee?” he asked, setting down a cardboard box he’d been carrying.

  Ignoring his query about Lt. Long, I opened the box and began pawing through its contents. “You bring the stuff I wanted?”

  “There wasn’t much. A picture of Kate and the kids, some pens and pencils, a coffee mug-”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, this. Remember, you didn’t get it from me.” Deluca pulled a computer disc from his pocket and set it on the corner of my desk. “I copied each data category as a separate file. Health club members, hotline callers, employees at that lawyer’s office-”

  “Is there one of remote control purchasers?”

  “The garage door stuff? It’s there. Why do you want all this, anyway? Come up with a new angle?”

  “Maybe. It’s nothing Snead would go for, though, even if I were still working for him.”

  “Minor point,” said Deluca. “At least for you. Listen, I’ve gotta hustle to make the task force briefing. You’ll let me know if you come up with anything?”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  Steve Gannon

  Kane

  Hank Dexter called around eight AM with a fairly short list of spectrum analyzers that possessed the minimum capability to snag a garage door opener code-limiting the number of devices for which I’d have to search. Procuring a roster of recent analyzer purchasers from various distributors and sources like eBay proved tricky without a warrant, but I called in a few favors and for the most part got what I needed.