9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “Yeah. Sorry. Unavoidable.”

  “What is it, exactly?” she asked, still distancing herself from the gift.

  “Let’s see,” I said. “I think it’s what you computer goddesses call a data set. Maybe you want to take a peek? It doesn’t bite.”

  “Hmm.”

  Beth put the small notepad down on the wicker coffee table and padded off into the house. Moments later, she returned wearing a pair of white cotton gloves.

  “Okay,” Beth said, reacquiring the notebook. “Let’s see what you’ve got to say, little tablet.” She flipped back the ragged cover. “Car licenses?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Any of them from South Africa?” she asked, doubtfully.

  “Nope. But all of these cars have been seen in the vicinity of Rodney Holton’s farm. I think they’re chronological,” I said, reaching to demonstrate for Beth.

  She snatched the notebook from my grasp.

  “I think I can figure that out,” Beth said, feigning insult. “Where did you get this little gem anyway? It looks like it’s been run over a few times . . . in a pig pen . . . at a tire disposal facility . . . adjacent to an oil spill.”

  “Blastus,” I said.

  “Blastus?”

  “You know, where I got it isn’t really important. I believe the source to be reliable – at least as regards these license numbers.”

  Beth looked doubtful.

  “What I’m hoping,” I continued, “is that you can maybe cross check these babies with either your South Africa list or your black Corollas. Perhaps we can make us some luck.”

  “Cross check, indeed,” Beth said, nodding her approval. “Well done, Watson.”

  I cleared my throat in protest.

  “Watson? Really?”

  “You’ve got skills, Babe,” Beth said. “I’ll grant you that. But you’re a long way from jousting with the master.” She smiled, her teeth radiating a beautiful white.

  Who could argue with a smile like that?

  * * *

  While Beth shuffled Benny’s license plate numbers into her other databases, I decided to give Gunner a call . . . if for no other reason, because someone should be keeping an eye on him.

  “Gunderson,” he answered.

  “Hey Gunner,” I said cheerfully. “It’s Beck, just calling to check in.”

  “Uh huh,” he said. “I got caller ID, ya know. Marvelous twenty-first century investigative tool.”

  “So pleased you’re staying on technology’s cutting edge,” I said.

  “Right. So you’re all checked in,” Gunner said. “Are we done? Can I get back to work?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were still keeping tabs on Rodney Holton’s farm, and all things relating thereto,” I said, unable to resist a bit of lawyer talk.

  “Hmm,” Gunner said. “Let’s see. All things relating thereto . . . . I just got a call from a lawyer who fancies himself a private dick. Does that count?”

  “Present company is always excepted, Gunner.” He was making his usual lame attempt at humor. “Anything else?”

  “Hey. You know what? I do have something that might be up your meteor-chasing alley,” Gunner said. “The Sheriff’s clerk just forwarded me an email from his crackpot folder. Somebody’s got a hot tip that there’s a terror attack in progress at Rodney’s.”

  That tip was a lot more interesting to me than Gunner could have possibly imagined. But I wasn’t in a position to explain why.

  “Some folks just trip over the crucial info,” I said. “And I have to work so hard to dig for it. It’s just not fair.”

  “Right,” Gunner said. “Life’s a bitch. So do you want me to forward this hot tip your way? Or do we just let it sift through the cracks of law enforcement bureaucracy?”

  “Oh, by all means, send it along. You never know when I might be able to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”

  “Rodney didn’t have no pigs, Beck. Just Herefords. Pay attention.”

  “It’s a saying, Gunner. Silk purse? Sow’s ear?” It was hard to tell sometimes whether Gunner was being intentionally dense. I suspected now was one of those times.

  “Okay,” I said when he didn’t respond. “Just forward your hot terror tip to my usual email account. I’ll double check my notes about those Herefords.”

  “Right,” Gunner said. “It’s on the way as we speak. Now . . . can I get back to work?”

  “Sure thing. And please give my best to the missus.”

  The phone line went dead. I guess he was too busy to pass on well wishes.

  He was true to his word about the email, though. It arrived in my Inbox before I got there myself. I noticed that Gunner had copied the email to Agent Costa as well. I smiled. Gunner may not place much credence in this email terror tip, but he wasn’t going to be the last lawman to touch it, just in case. By copying Costa, he’d fulfilled his duty to report the communication to the FBI.

  If every government official – including, for instance, the President of the United States – had properly followed up on improbable intelligence in advance of 9/11, the attack on the Twin Towers might have been prevented. Gunner was being thorough. I had to admire that.

  I turned my attention to the body of the email.

  Wow! The tip was specific about both the location and the type of attack. It even mentioned FMD. Whoever sent this email was clearly connected to the cause of the outbreak. It might even be from the terrorist himself.

  Though Gunner had no information to corroborate this tip, Costa and I sure did. I decided to give the Agent a call.

  “Costa,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “A couple things,” I said.

  “Very well, then. Let’s hear them.”

  “First off, have you got anything more concrete on that black Corolla?”

  “No,” he said. “And it is looking less and less likely that the satellite gurus are going to come through for us on that front.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s number two. Check your email.”

  “What?”

  “Please check your email account right now, if you would be so kind,” I said.

  “Roger,” Costa said. “One moment.”

  I imagined Costa squirting tobacco juice into a spittoon as he punched up his email account.

  “Got it,” he said, momentarily. “I have about 300 messages in here. What do you want me to look at?”

  “Chief Deputy Gunderson sent you an email a few minutes ago. Pull that one up, if you would, and give it a read-through. It’s short.”

  I waited.

  “Well, sonofabitch!” Costa’s voice rang clearly in my earpiece.

  “That’s right along my line of thinking,” I said. “So will you have your guys follow up on this email, maybe find out where it came from, etcetera?”

  “The FBI has people who live to do exactly that. This email is going to make somebody’s day over in SIGINT. I shall ensure that this assignment gets top priority.” SIGINT stands for Signal Intelligence.

  “Excellent,” I said. “I’ll have my people take a stab at it, too.” He didn’t know that Beth was “my people.”

  “You have computer pros there in Red Wing?” Costa asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” I said. He couldn’t see the smile spreading across my face. My people are probably gonna kick your people’s asses.

  Now . . . to get this new info into my people’s hands.

  CHAPTER 29

  Suburban Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  Johnny Shin Cho didn’t eat much at dinner that evening. His stomach was unsettled. Probably something he ate, he reasoned. That taco he’d had for lunch had tasted a little funny.

  By early evening, Johnny had developed a phlegmy cough and a low fever and he decided to turn in early. His wife asked whether he was okay.

  “Some kind of bug,” he said. “A good night’s sleep and I’ll be golden in the morning.”

&
nbsp; * * *

  At 10:30 p.m., Johnny awoke to find his wife gently shaking his shoulder.

  “What is it?” he said. “What’s wrong?” He felt groggy and his words slurred.

  “The air conditioner system is broken at the casino,” she said, in a heavy Korean accent.

  Sun-Hi had been home schooled by her mother through eighth grade. Having moved directly from her father’s home to her husband’s, she had never seen the need to perfect her English.

  “They say you must come right away.”

  Johnny’s head was still swimming. He sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor, triggering a series of deep mucousy coughs, followed by a wheezing breath.

  “Are you okay to work, Shin?” his wife asked. “You don’t look so good. I tell casino you come tomorrow.”

  Johnny knew he couldn’t afford to lose business, and the casino always paid its bills promptly and in full. Never a complaint. He could work through this bug, whatever it was.

  “It is all right, Sun-Hi,” Johnny said in Korean as he headed for the shower. “I will shower and . . . .” Another coughing spell interrupted him.

  Sun-Hi moved to assist him, but he waved that he was okay and closed the bathroom door.

  When the coughing subsided once more, Johnny examined his face in the mirror. He looked like hell, but he could do anything for a couple hours. He would catch up on his sleep tomorrow. One of the contractors could cover for him then.

  CHAPTER 30

  Red Wing, Minnesota.

  When I located Beth, she had retreated from the front porch swelter to the air conditioned environment of the kitchen and a cool, granite workspace.

  A lot of folks know that Minnesota gets cold in the winter. Not everyone knows it can get over 100 degrees Fahrenheit in July and August. Today was a scorcher.

  “Hey, Beth. I’ve got a new and exciting opportunity for you,” I said.

  “Another one?” She smiled.

  “What? You aren’t finished with the first one yet?” I feigned shock. “What’ve you been doing all day?”

  Beth dismissed my folderol with a grin that got the message across.

  “Actually,” Beth said momentarily, “I am just about finished. I’ve identified your black Corolla and was about to check it against the South Africa data.”

  “You’ve got the Corolla already? Really?” I was genuinely impressed. Of course, I am frequently impressed by Beth’s talents. “Where is it? Who owns it?”

  “Which question shall I start with,” she said. “I think there were four in there.”

  “The owner,” I said, “. . . and address.”

  Beth punched a couple keys on the laptop and swept a finger across the touch screen.

  “The car is owned by an auto rental agency by the name of Quality United Rental located in Bloomington, Minnesota,” she read. “I’ve got their street address and phone number here if you want them.”

  “A car rental place, huh? I was hoping for a real live person.”

  Beth raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. Let me look harder.” She tapped a few more keys. “Aw shucks, still registered to the car place. You want me to try again?”

  “Um . . . no, thank you,” I said, making my best puppy face.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t get into the rental agency’s records to find out who rented the car on the day in question,” Beth continued.

  I wasn’t used to Beth experiencing failure when it came to computers and hacking.

  “I’m just wondering out loud here,” I said, “but why not?”

  “They don’t use a digital system,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. I can be truly clueless when it comes to computer . . . stuff.

  “It means,” Beth said, “that their rental records are on paper, not computer. You’ll have to drag Gunner or somebody up there with a warrant and search by hand. Do you think you can manage that without me?”

  She smiled.

  I smiled back.

  “I think we can handle it,” I said. “Thank you for the info, though.”

  “You’re welcome,” Beth said.

  “Oh. I almost forgot. I’ve got a new project I think you’re gonna like.”

  “What makes you think I’ll like it?” Beth asked.

  “Because, it’s competitive,” I said. “You get to show the entire FBI computer battalion that you can find the answer before they do.”

  Beth laughed.

  “I do like a challenge. Is it more urgent than crosschecking the Corolla with South Africa?”

  I was pretty sure it was.

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What are we waiting for? They’ve got a head start.”

  I explained to Beth about Gunner’s “terror tip” email and turned her loose. I stood by for a few minutes just watching her nimble fingers attacking the keyboard, her lovely eyes scanning the digital windows as they opened and closed . . . were minimized then enlarged once more.

  After a short time, Beth turned to me.

  “You do have someplace to be, right?”

  I’d been daydreaming and now yanked myself back to consciousness.

  “Yeah. Uh. Of course. Right.” I could be smooth sometimes. “I’ll just . . . uh . . . I’ll get on the Corolla . . . uh . . . thing. Carry on.” I smiled.

  Beth smiled back.

  As I left the kitchen, the computer keys were again clicking furiously. Probably screens flashing data all over the place, too. That’s my gal.

  CHAPTER 31

  It would be an undeniable joy for me to inform Agent Costa that my humble intelligence-gathering squad consisting of dissolute Vietnam vet and small town housewife had identified the very car his technology cadre, flush with resources such as satellite imagery and super computers, had not.

  My call went to Costa’s voicemail.

  Damn.

  “Agent Costa,” I began, after waiting for the beep. “I wish you had been available to take my call. I have important information to advance our investigation into the Ottawa County matter. It’s not something that can wait. So I’ll start without you. Call me when you get this message. Thanks.”

  Starting without Costa had seemed the logical thing to do. There was only one problem. Quality United Rental was not going to let me review their rental records without a warrant. I couldn’t include Gunner due to his lack of security clearance – and Bloomington was outside his jurisdiction anyway.

  Then I remembered that Costa had invited me into this case on the recommendation of my old colleague, Dan Trew. Dan had some serious suck in Washington these days and might be able to help.

  Dan had one of the longest official titles of anyone I had ever met – “Executive Assistant Director for National Security Branch/Associate Executive Assistant Director for National Security Branch, Counter-Terrorism Division.” I knew Dan from a case in which we had both been involved a few years back, when he was just a “Special Agent.” He wasn’t really an agent at all anymore, but I trusted him, and that meant everything.

  I punched up Dan’s direct number on my cell.

  He answered his telephone, “Executive Assistant Director Trew.”

  “Dan,” I said. “The skeletons are rattling in your closet again.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You really should give fair warning before you phone me, Beck. I’ve got a personal laser satellite now. Zaps any caller perceived by the system as a threat to international security. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t toast you.”

  Dan was only half kidding. I was pretty sure he didn’t have a defense satellite dedicated to his use and protection. On the other hand, if he did possess such a device, it probably would have fried me. I’m certain my computer records appear highly suspicious.

  “Nice to talk to you, too, Dan,” I said.

  “Look, Beck,” he said. “I’d love to chat, but I’ve got kind of an important
meeting in ten minutes. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we? What can I do for you?”

  Dan was all business. I supposed he had needed to make that adjustment when he switched from operative to bureaucrat.

  “I’ve got kind of an emergent situation, Dan. That guy Costa you gave my name to?”

  “Yeah. You mean he actually took my recommendation?”

  “Yes, he did,” I said. “And I’m into this investigation up to my failing follicles. Please understand, I don’t want to be a prick, but I’ve got an extremely time-sensitive situation and I can’t reach Costa to do some police work that actually requires the police.”

  “You must be a terror magnet, Beck. If I were a citizen of your town, I’d ride you out on a rail.”

  It was true that the municipality of Red Wing, and Ottawa County in general, had seen more than their fair share of terror activity since I’d moved back home. I couldn’t explain it . . . but I couldn’t very well ignore it either.

  “Then I guess I’m glad you don’t live in Red Wing,” I said. “But I still need your help.”

  “So you want me to ping him?” Dan asked. “Get his attention for you?”

  “Either that,” I said, “or point me toward someone else who’s got authority to procure an emergency search warrant in Bloomington, Minnesota . . . I think that’s Hennepin County.”

  “Obviously, this is going to be a whole lot easier if Costa can be your guy,” Dan said. “I’ll have my secretary get on it pronto. Costa’s a good man. He’ll come through for you once he knows your sitch.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

  “Well, like I said, Beck, I gotta go. Call me sometime when you don’t have work for me to do . . . just to catch up. Oh, and make it a secure line, okay?”

  “Roger that, Dan,” I said. “I’m grateful for your assistance as always. Carry on.”

  “I always do,” he said, and terminated the call.

  * * *

  Experience has taught me it’s frequently better to do something than nothing. I opted for a road trip to Bloomington, about an hour’s drive from Red Wing . . . and home to the offices of Quality United Rental.