Let's see--he'd been over there. . . .
Jay moved across the rooftop, the cold wind blowing against him as he headed for the vantage point where he'd had the stinky fog glitch.
Got some soap for you, you dirty little glitch.
SOAP was an acronym one of his college professors had been fond of using. The man had repeated it so often it was just about the only thing Jay could recall about him. Old Doc Soap. The word's letters stood for the steps taken while troubleshooting: Subjective, Objective, Assessment, Plan. Jay had found out later that his teacher had borrowed the method from the health profession, where it was used to assess a patient's state of mind, but it served equally well in the tricky business of finding soft- and hardware bugs.
Subjective. What had happened? He'd been standing here, and a few tendrils of fog had drifted past. He'd reached out to touch them, and he'd been able to feel them, which wasn't supposed to happen. Then he'd smelled something that made him think of a sewer. Bad feel, bad smell, not supposed to be there.
Okay, so much for the subjective. Objective: He'd done a full check of drivers after the VR run and everything had been up to par. He'd also just finished checking out his own code and knew for sure that the problem wasn't his fault. The properties of the fog object had not been set to stink, at least not in that particular way.
Assessment time. It wasn't the drivers, it wasn't the software, but there had definitely been a problem. So try a new reeker, which rolled him right into Plan.
Here we go.
A thin tendril of fog rolled past, and as he had before, Jay reached out to touch it. This time there was no sensation other than a slight coolness on his fingers. The fog smelled a little like the ocean. Perfect.
So it had been the reeker after all. Another problem solved.
He snapped out of VR and disconnected his gear, and then decided that as long as he was working on his system, he might as well load another little item he'd gotten in the mail recently. This one was a small package sent to him by Cyrus Blackwell, a sensory artist and one of the best.
Cyrus took real-world scenery and collected it into VR: odors, tastes, visuals, feelies--everything. While it was true that Jay worked hard to get every detail right for his VR scenes, it helped sometimes to have the legwork done for him. He'd had Blackwell do a custom set of scans on a series of bank vaults for a robbery scenario he'd been planning.
Jay took the data cubes out of their media protectors and jacked them into the computer terminal he was using. He put his VR rig on again and went to a blank workspace.
This was supposed to be an analog for his next firewall breach, a huge bank that he was going to "rob."
He called up the directory, and large red letters appeared in front of him. He scrolled them up until he saw what he wanted.
Interiors.
An info blurb explained that the vaults and bank interiors were taken from several large metropolitan areas in both the U.S. and Europe. He reached forward and pulled out the VR thumbnails, tiny models that were slightly translucent so he could see inside of them.
There was one with gorgeous neoclassic columns on the exterior, and high-vaulted ceilings within. Jay threw it on the blank space in front of him and activated it. The tiny model grew rapidly in size, translucent walls giving way to RW textures, and Jay enjoyed the perceptual shift that made it seem as though he was getting smaller.
Suddenly he was inside of the bank. He could hear an air conditioner running, and there was a clean but not overpowering scent to the place. The ceilings were high, like something from a movie set, and a long row of teller cages stretched from one side of the large room to the other.
Perfect.
Jay scrolled through the building, working his way to the vault. There was a set of stairs leading down to an underground chamber with a barred door in front of it.
No--I want something bigger.
Jay brought up a list of individual items and scanned for vault doors. He popped out several that looked promising before he found one that he liked. It was a huge circle, maybe a foot or two thick at the center, with huge gears that had to be thrown by a large wheel before it would operate. The door was shiny chrome steel, an ultramodern crimestopper that had just the look he wanted.
He grafted it onto the opening in the bank cellar and saved the file. He had the basic form now; he would work on some of the functional elements later.
Michaels decided to skip lunch and hit the gym instead. He'd been indulging in snacks a little more than he should have lately. He had found that he tended to eat when he got tense, and had decided that being unhappy wasn't as bad in his mind as being fat and unhappy.
As he changed into a pair of baggy cotton shorts and a T-shirt, he thought about his morning. It wasn't as if the lawsuit was the only thing on his plate, but every time Michaels saw another cart stacked high with papers go by, it reminded him that it was a pretty big chunk of it.
He hadn't gotten into federal law enforcement to spend his time playing games with lawyers. It was a waste of time and energy, and he was finding it increasingly frustrating.
Back in the early G-men days, the bad guys had taken their lumps when they'd been caught, gone off to prison, and done their time. It would never have occurred to them to sue the cops who'd caught them doing wrong. Definitely a better class of criminal in the old days; guys who knew what they were.
He shut the locker door, spun the combination lock, and grabbed his towel. Toni was coming in at noon. John Howard's boy had been watching Alex half-days, and that seemed to be working out okay. Guru was supposed to be back soon--her great-grandson had gotten worse, then better, then worse again, and as of this morning was still in the hospital. Apparently the doctors were worried about some kind of secondary infection, maybe a virus. The worry was that it was one of those things that mice carried.
As he padded out onto the workout mats, Michaels wondered for the hundredth time if maybe it wasn't time to get out of this business. He had gone about as far as he could, he figured--farther than he'd ever expected, to be honest. He had, on a couple of occasions, even briefed the President himself--pretty high circles, admittedly, but his chances of moving any higher in the federal system were very slim. The director of the FBI was a political appointee, as was the CIA's head. NSA usually had a working agent or military officer running the show, but you had to come up through that system to get a shot at it. Alex Michaels didn't have any clout to offer anybody for putting him in charge of a bigger agency. And in truth, he really didn't want the headaches that came with that kind of job; this one was bad enough.
Besides, Alex had never worried much about promotions. He hadn't taken this job in the first place because of what he himself could get out of it. He had taken it because Steve Day asked him, and because he felt he could make a difference.
These days, watching the carts of paper go by, feeling the pressure from Mitchell Ames, he felt that all he was doing was marking time.
He began stretching, working his legs, watching himself in the mirror. There was a handful of people around the place exercising instead of eating, though most of them looked to be pretty fit.
Did he even want to stay in Washington? Yes, this was an important job, even if it didn't always seem like it, and somebody had to do it. And, he had to admit, he was pretty good at the job, but there was so much about the work that he didn't like. The politics. The groveling for appropriations. Things like this lawsuit, which called into question almost everything he had done during his entire term as commander.
Who needed it? All it did was stress him. When he'd been alone, he could deal with it all right. He was remarried now, though, with a young son, and there were things in life that seemed a lot more important than lying awake at night worrying about a lawsuit without merit.
He shook his head. He still couldn't understand how this lawsuit could have ever gotten this far. How in the world could anybody feel sorry for a murderous thug who'd been shooting at his men?
How could that thug getting shot in return be worth a lawsuit, be worth all the cost and all the waste?
Probably some jury would give his widow ten million dollars. Where was the justice in that?
Alex could get other work. He knew that. He'd been offered good jobs, making more money and doing a lot less to earn it, in places where you could hear yourself think, too. Wouldn't it be nice to have a house in the country somewhere, trees, fresh air, a home for his son to grow up among normal people? Wouldn't it be great not to be at the mercy of congressional whim, to not have to sit in front of a committee while some bozo from Wide Patch, Ohio, who didn't have two IQ points to rub together, asked questions that a third grader should know the answers to?
Yeah, that sounded pretty good. Kind of like a dream.
Of course, he had to think about Toni, what she wanted. Was she ready to bail from the biz, go off to some rural spot, sit home and make cookies or spend her time at PTA meetings? She could work, too, of course, the net gave a lot of freedom in that way. She could probably even work at whatever company hired him, if she wanted. But he'd have to discuss it with her before he started gathering himself to jump, find out what she really felt like.
Toni had told him, during those times when things got really bad and he found himself complaining about work, that she would go wherever he wanted. All he had to do was point at a place and she'd go looking for a house. But that had been him just venting steam, and her saying what he needed to hear at that moment. Would she still feel that way if it was real?
He sat on the mat, stretched his legs out in front of him, and bent to grab his feet, working his hamstrings and calves. Maybe it was time to move on. He really needed to think about it.
33
Richmond, Virginia
Sitting in a decent motel just off I-95 on the north side of town, Junior stared at the audio-only throwaway cell phone and blew out a big sigh. Might as well get it over with.
He punched in the number, a one-time use that should connect to one of Ames's throwaway cells. Maybe he'd be lucky and Ames wouldn't answer--
"Where have you been?" Ames said, a hard edge in his voice.
"Busy," Junior shot back, instantly defensive. Yeah, okay, he should have called the man by now, and yeah, he had screwed it all up, but he did not like being talked to like he was some wet-behind-the-ears kid. Ames didn't know what had gone down. Junior had killed men with guns, straight up, face-to-face. He was a man to be reckoned with. He didn't have to take anything from any lawyer , even one he worked for.
"What happened?"
Junior took a deep breath, and went with his plan:
He lied.
"It's all done. It was a little trickier than I expected, which is why I couldn't call before, but I got rid of the old unit."
"Permanently?"
"Of course."
How would Ames know he wasn't telling the truth? And this gave him some time to think things through. Come up with a plan.
"Well, that's good."
"You need me to, uh, get a replacement model?"
"No, I don't think we'll be doing any more business in that particular arena. How far away are you?"
"Day or so."
"Head on back. Call when you get to town. We, uh, are relocating headquarters."
Junior frowned. Something must have spooked Ames if he'd dumped his safe office. Could it have anything to do with Joan?
Nah, he decided. It couldn't. She didn't know anything about who they worked for. Her only contact had been Junior. It must be something else.
Junior broke the connection, dropped onto the king-sized bed, and stared at the phone. Joan was out there, but she sure wasn't in Atlanta anymore, he'd bet his life on that. And even if she had stuck around, he couldn't. He needed to get back to his place, change out the barrel on his right-hand Ruger, and ditch the old one. It wasn't likely anybody was going to tie a dead Baltimore cop to one in Atlanta, but he wasn't going to take any chances. There were all kinds of guys in gray-bar hotels who had hung on to a favorite piece after they'd capped somebody with it.
No, he would go by his place and pull a new barrel out of the safe. He was running out of them. He'd have to get some new ones--but not for a while, not until enough time had passed that the feds wouldn't be checking that, too. It would be safer to buy a whole new gun and switch out the barrel with that. More expensive, and since he'd already had to replace one gun altogether, he was getting low on his preferred hardware. He only had a couple left, but when the alternative was maybe going to the gas chamber or a lie-down on the needle gurney, you didn't decide to go cheap all of a sudden.
He still didn't think Joan would be talking to the heat anytime soon. Oh, that would get her off on the prostitution and blackmail stuff, maybe even let her sell her story to the National Enquirer or something, but she had to know that as long as Junior was alive, she'd be in danger. And if she ratted him out, he had ways of getting to her, even from prison. She'd have to stay in hiding her whole life, and Joan wasn't that kind of girl. She liked to get out and party down. So he should be okay, even after what had happened in the bar. She'd still be trying to figure out a way to turn it into gold. Until she did--and figured out a way to contact him and cover herself while she did it--he ought to be okay on that score.
So, he was safe, for now. For a little while.
There wasn't anything he could do about it now, anyhow.
Net Force HQ Quantico, Virginia
Toni stared at the documents that had been scanned into the computer, copies of the police and FBI field-agent reports on the unsuccessful surveillance of the office building on Long Island. They couldn't afford to keep men on the place, but they had gotten the building manager to watch. The man who'd rented the place had never come back.
Must have gotten spooked, Toni figured.
While she was looking at the projected images above her desk, one of the little LEO NewsAlerts flashed and ran across the bottom of the holoproj. An Atlanta policeman had been murdered during a traffic stop. Shot twice in the face by a man who had escaped in what turned out to be a rental car. The suspect was still at large.
Toni shook her head. Life in the big city. She wondered if the dead policeman had any family. A wife, children who would never know their father? So awful. As well-trained as she was as a fighter, she knew it didn't make you bulletproof. Some loon with a gun could take it all away in an instant.
She remembered Steve Day. And the times when both she and Alex had come close to being killed. They had a child now. They shouldn't be putting themselves in that situation anymore.
Something tugged at her memory. Something about the dead cop . . .
She read over the story again, but the details were sparse. Witnesses had heard the shots, seen a man jump in a car and drive off, but there was no good description of him. It had been dark, it had all happened so fast. . . .
Toni was about to move on to other things on her agenda when she noticed a reference to the caliber of the gun used on the dead cop. It had been a .22 Long Rifle, and the investigators suspected it had come from a short-barreled handgun.
Hmm. Hadn't there been another cop shot recently with a .22 somewhere not that far from here?
Her voxax circuit was open. Toni said, "Search: Shootings-slash-twenty-two-caliber-slash-time-frame-slash-two-weeks."
As the searchbot's screen popped up, she realized she should have narrowed the parameters to include "police officers." Well, she'd see what came back, and narrow it if she needed to.
Apparently there had been more than two dozen such shootings in the country in the last fourteen days, including Arlo Wentworth, a United States Democratic congressman from California, and wasn't that another awful note? There had been three incidents on the east coast, and one of them was indeed what she'd remembered, a policeman in Baltimore. And here was an armed guard, in Dover. . . .
And somebody was also shot in a bar in Atlanta, same night as the cop down there had been.
/> Hmm.
Toni frowned. Surely if there had been any connection between the cops, the ballistics boys would have caught that.
Curious, Toni put in a call to the Net Force shooting range.
"Shooting range," came Gunny's voice.
"Sergeant, this is Toni Michaels."
"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"
"Answer a couple of questions."
"Shoot. So to speak."
"I was looking at CopNet's LEO bulletins and saw that there have been some police shootings on the east coast recently."
"Yes, ma'am. Baltimore and Atlanta."
"You know about them."
"Yes, ma'am. I keep track of LEOs who are getting shot, and with what. Professional interest."
"My question is, how unusual is this?"
"Cops getting shot, or getting shot with mouse guns?"
"Both, I guess."
"Not many get killed in the line of duty each year, but some do. And .22 is the most common caliber for civilian firearms. Probably followed by 12-gauge or .410 bore shotguns, deer rifles, .38 Specials, .25 autos, like that. A .22 isn't a very good man-stopper, though, even out of a rifle, and these were all handgun shootings."
"How do you know that?"
"MEs can usually tell by penetration. A twenty-two solid point out of a rifle is moving two, three hundred feet a second faster than one coming out of a short-barreled handgun. From a long barrel they sometimes punch right on through."
"So you are saying these shootings are not that rare?"
"No, ma'am, I'm not exactly saying that. These particular shootings? They aren't normal. The Baltimore cop, a security guard in Delaware, a congressman out in California, and the Atlanta motorcycle patrolman? They were all shot in the head."
"Ah. And that is unusual?"
"Yes, ma'am. If you were going to shoot somebody with a .22, a head shot would be the way to go, and more than one round. If I'm not mistaken, all of these guys were hit at least twice. My guess? Same guy did them all."
State Of War (2003) Page 26
