She returned to the house.
A pause, looking back. No one, no animals. Not a single Abominable Snowman or werewolf.
She stepped inside. And froze, gasping.
In front of her, ten feet away, a human silhouette was approaching, features indistinct because of the backlighting from the living room.
“Who—?”
The figure stopped. A laugh. “Jesus, Kel. You are so freaked. You look . . . gimme your phone. I want a picture.”
Her brother, Ricky, reached for her iPhone.
“Get out!” Kelley said, grimacing and twisting away from his outstretched hand. “Thought you had practice.”
“Needed my sweats. Hey, you hear about that girl in the trunk? She goes to Stevenson.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen her. Tammy Foster.”
“She hot?” The lanky sixteen-year-old, with a mop of brown hair that matched her own, headed for the refrigerator and grabbed a power drink.
“Ricky, you’re so gross.”
“Uh-huh. So? Is she?”
Oh, she hated brothers. “When you leave, lock the door.”
Ricky screwed his face into a huge frown. “Why? Who’d wanna molest you?”
“Lock it!”
“Like, okay.”
She shot him a dark look, which he missed completely.
Kelley continued to her room and sat down at the computer again. Yep, AnonGurl had posted an attack on Kelley for defending Tammy Foster.
Okay, bitch, you’re going down. I am gonna own you so bad.
Kelley Morgan began to type.
PROFESSOR JONATHAN BOLING was in his forties, Dance estimated. Not tall, a few inches over her height, with a frame that suggested either a tolerance for exercise or a disdain for junk food. Straight brownish hair similar to Dance’s, though she suspected that he didn’t sneak a box of Clairol into his shopping cart at Safeway every couple of weeks.
“Well,” he said, looking around the halls as she escorted him from the lobby to her office at the California Bureau of Investigation. “This isn’t quite what I pictured. Not like CSI.”
Did everybody in the universe watch that show?
Boling wore a digital Timex on one wrist and a braided bracelet on the other—perhaps symbolizing support for something or another. (Dance thought about her children, who would cover their wrists with so many colored bands she was never sure what the latest causes were.) In jeans and a black polo shirt, he was handsome in a subdued, National Public Radio kind of way. His brown eyes were steady, and he seemed fast with a smile.
Dance decided he could have any grad student he set his sights on.
She asked, “You ever been in a law enforcement office before?”
“Well, sure,” he said, clearing his throat and giving off odd kinesic signals. Then a smile. “But they dropped the charges. I mean, what else could they do when Jimmy Hoffa’s body never turned up?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, you poor grad students. Beware.
“I thought you consulted with police.”
“I’ve offered to, at the end of my lectures to law enforcement agencies and security companies. But nobody’s taken me up on it. Until now. You’re my maiden voyage. I’ll try not to disappoint.”
They arrived in her office and sat across from each other at her battered coffee table.
Boling said, “I’m happy to help however I can but I’m not sure exactly what I can do.” A bolt of sunlight fell across his loafers and he glanced down, noticed that one sock was black and one navy blue. He laughed without embarrassment. In another era Dance would have deduced that he was single; nowadays, with two busy working partners, fashion glitches like this were inadmissible evidence. He didn’t, however, wear a wedding ring.
“I have a hardware and software background but for serious technical advice, I’m afraid I’m over the legal age limit and I don’t speak Hindi.”
He told her that he’d gotten joint degrees in literature and engineering at Stanford, admittedly an odd combination, and after a bit of “bumming around the world” had ended up in Silicon Valley, doing systems design for some of the big computer companies.
“Exciting time,” he said. But, he added, eventually he’d been turned off by the greed. “It was like an oil rush. Everybody was asking how could they get rich by convincing people they had these needs that computers could fill. I thought maybe we should look at it the other way: find out what needs people actually had and then ask how computers could help them.” A cocked head. “As between their position and mine. I lost big-time. So I took some stock money, quit, bummed around again. I ended up in Santa Cruz, met somebody, decided to stay and tried teaching. Loved it. That was almost ten years ago. I’m still there.”
Dance told him that after a stint as a reporter she’d gone back to college—the same school where he taught. She studied communications and psychology. Their time had coincided, briefly, but they didn’t know anyone in common.
He taught several courses, including the Literature of Science Fiction, as well as a class called Computers and Society. And in the grad school Boling taught what he described as some boring technical courses. “Sort of math, sort of engineering.” He also consulted for corporations.
Dance interviewed people in many different professions. The majority radioed clear signals of stress when speaking of their jobs, which indicated either anxiety because of the demands of the work, or, more often, depression about it—as Boling had earlier when speaking about Silicon Valley. But his kinesic behavior now, when discussing his present career, was stress free.
He continued to downplay his technical skill, though, and Dance was disappointed. He seemed smart and more than willing to help—he’d driven down here on a moment’s notice—and she would have liked to use his services, but to get into Tammy Foster’s computer it sounded like they’d need more of a hands-on tech person. At least, she hoped, he could recommend someone.
Maryellen Kresbach came in with a tray of coffee and cookies. Attractive, she resembled a country-western singer, with her coiffed brown hair and red Kevlar fingernails. “The guard desk called. Somebody’s got a computer from Michael’s office.”
“Good. You can bring it up.”
Maryellen paused for a moment and Dance had an amusing idea that the woman was checking out Boling as romantic fodder. Her assistant had been waging a none-too-subtle campaign to find Dance a husband. When the woman eyed Boling’s naked left ring finger and lifted her brow at Dance, the agent flashed her an exasperated glance, which was duly noted and summarily ignored.
Boling called his thanks and, after pouring three sugars into his coffee, dug into the cookies and ate two. “Good. No, better than good.”
“She bakes them herself.”
“Really? People do that? They don’t all come out of a Keebler bag?”
Dance went for half a cookie and enjoyed a sip of coffee, though she was caffeinated enough from her earlier meeting with Michael O’Neil.
“Let me tell you what’s going on.” She explained to Boling about the attack on Tammy Foster. Then said, “And we have to get into her laptop.”
Boling nodded understandingly. “Ah, the one that went for a swim in the Pacific Ocean.”
“It’s toast . . .”
He corrected, “With the water, more likely it’s oatmeal—if we’re keeping to breakfast food metaphors.”
Just then a young MCSO deputy stepped into Dance’s office, carrying a large paper bag. Good-looking and eager, though more cute than handsome, he had bright blue eyes, and for a moment he seemed about to salute. “Agent Dance?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m David Reinhold. Crime Scene at the Sheriff’s Office.”
She nodded a greeting. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for bringing that over.”
“You bet. Anything I can do.”
He and Boling shook hands. Then the trim officer, in a perfectly pressed uniform, handed Dance the paper bag. “I didn’t put it in pl
astic. Wanted it to breathe. Get as much moisture out as we could.”
“Thanks,” Boling said.
“And I took the liberty of taking the battery out,” the young deputy said. He held up a sealed metal tube. “It’s a lithium-ion. I thought if water got inside there could be a fire risk.”
Boling nodded, clearly impressed. “Good thinking.”
Dance had no clue what he was talking about. Boling noticed her frown and explained that some lithium batteries, under certain circumstances, could burst into flames when exposed to water.
“You a geek?” Boling asked him.
The deputy replied, “Not really. Just stuff you pick up, you know.” He held out a receipt for Dance to sign and then pointed out the chain-of-custody card, attached to the bag itself. “If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.” He handed her a business card.
She thanked him, and the young man retreated.
Dance reached inside the bag and extracted Tammy’s laptop. It was pink.
“What a color,” Boling said, shaking his head. He turned it over and examined the back.
Dance asked him, “So, do you know somebody who could get it running and take a look at her files?”
“Sure. Me.”
“Oh, I thought you said you weren’t that much of a tech anymore.”
“That’s not tech, not by today’s standards.” He smiled again. “It’s like rotating your tires on a car. Only I need a couple of tools.”
“We don’t have a lab here. Nothing as sophisticated as you probably need.”
“Well, that depends. I see you collect shoes.” Her closet door was open and Boling must’ve glanced inside, where a dozen pairs sat, more or less ordered, on the floor—for those nights when she went out after work, without stopping at home. She gave a laugh.
Busted.
He continued, “How ’bout personal care appliances?”
“Personal care?”
“I need a hair dryer.”
She chuckled. “Sadly, all my beauty aids are at home.”
“Then we better go shopping.”
Chapter 8
JON BOLING NEEDED a bit more than a hair dryer, as it turned out. Though not much.
Their shopping spree had yielded a Conair, a set of miniature tools and a metal box called an enclosure—a three-by-five-inch rectangle from which sprouted a wire that ended in a USB plug.
These items now sat on Dance’s coffee table in her office at the CBI.
Boling surveyed Tammy Foster’s designer laptop. “I can take it apart? I’m not going to screw up any evidence, am I?”
“It’s been dusted for prints. All we found were Tammy’s. Go ahead and do what you want—she’s not a suspect. Besides, she lied to me, so she’s in no position to complain.”
“Pink,” he said again, as if this was a shocking breach of propriety.
He turned the machine over and, with a tiny Phillips-head screwdriver, had the panel off the back in a few minutes. He then extracted a small metal-and-plastic rectangle.
“The hard drive,” he explained. “By next year this’ll be considered huge. We’re going to flash memory in central processing units. No hard drives—no moving parts at all.” The subject seemed to excite him but he sensed a lecture was a digression inappropriate at the moment. Boling fell silent and examined the drive closely. He didn’t seem to wear contacts; Dance, who’d worn glasses since girlhood, had a mild attack of eye envy.
The professor then gently rattled the drive beside his ear. “Okay.” He set it on the table.
“Okay?”
He grinned, unpacked the hair dryer, plugged it in and wafted a stream of balmy heat over the drive. “Shouldn’t be long. I don’t think it’s wet but we can’t take the chance. Electricity and water equal uh-oh.”
With his free hand he sipped the coffee. He mused, “We professors’re very envious of the private sector, you know. ‘Private sector’—that’s Latin for ‘actually making money.’” He nodded at the cup. “Take Starbucks. . . . Coffee was a pretty good idea for a franchise. I keep looking for the next big one. But all I could think of were things like House O’ Pickles and Jerky World. Beverages’re the best, but all the good ones’re taken.”
“Maybe a milk bar,” Dance suggested. “You could call it Elsie’s.”
His eyes brightened. “Or how ’bout ‘Just An-Udder Place.’ ”
“That was really bad,” she said as they shared a brief laugh.
When he finished drying the hard drive he slipped it into the enclosure. He then plugged the USB connection into his own laptop, which was a somber gray, apparently the shade computers should be.
“I’m curious what you’re doing.” She was watching his sure fingers pound the keys. Many of the letters were worn off. He didn’t need to see them to type.
“The water would’ve shorted out the computer itself, but the hard drive should be okay inside. I’m going to turn it into a readable drive.” After a few minutes he looked up and smiled. “Nope, it’s good as new.”
Dance scooted her chair closer to his.
She glanced at the screen and saw that Windows Explorer was reading Tammy’s hard drive as “Local Disk (G).”
“It’ll have everything on it—her emails, the websites she’s browsed, her favorite places, records of her instant messages. Even deleted data. It’s not encrypted or password-protected—which, by the way, tells me that her parents are very uninvolved in her life. Kids whose folks keep a close eye on them learn to use all kinds of tricks for privacy. Which I, by the way, am pretty good at cracking.” He unplugged the disk from his computer and handed it and the cable to her. “It’s all yours. Just plug it in and read to your heart’s content.” He shrugged. “My first assignment for the police . . . short but sweet.”
With a good friend, Kathryn Dance owned and operated a website devoted to homemade and traditional music. The site was pretty sophisticated technically but Dance knew little of the hardware and software; her friend’s husband handled that side of the business. She now said to Boling, “You know, if you’re not too busy, any chance you could stay around for a little? Help me search it?”
Boling hesitated.
“Well, if you have plans . . .”
“How much time are we talking? I’ve got to be in Napa on Friday night. Family reunion sort of thing.”
Dance said, “Oh, nothing that long. A few hours. A day at the most.”
Eyes brightening again. “I’d love to. Puzzles are an important food group to me. . . . Now, what would I be looking for?”
“Any clues as to the identity of Tammy’s attacker.”
“Oh, Da Vinci Code.”
“Let’s hope it’s not as tricky and that whatever we find won’t get us excommunicated. . . . I’m interested in any communications that seem threatening. Disputes, fights, comments about stalkers. Would instant messages be there?”
“Fragments. We can probably reconstruct a lot of them.” Boling plugged the drive back into his computer and leaned forward.
“Then social networking sites,” Dance said. “Anything to do with roadside memorials or crosses.”
“Memorials?”
She explained, “We think he left a roadside cross to announce the attack.”
“That’s pretty sick.” The professor’s fingers snapped over the keys. As he typed, he asked, “Why do you think her computer’s the answer?”
Dance explained about the interview with Tammy Foster.
“You picked up all that just from her body language?”
“That’s right.”
She told him about the three ways humans communicate: First, through verbal content—what we say. “That’s the meaning of the words themselves. But content is not only the least reliable and most easily faked, it’s actually only a small portion of the way we send messages to each other. The second and third are much more important: verbal quality—how we say the words. That would be things like pitch of voice, how fast we talk, wheth
er we pause and use ‘uhm’ frequently. And then, third, kinesics—our body’s behavior. Gestures, glances, breathing, posture, mannerisms. The last two are what interviewers are most interested in, since they’re much more revealing than speech content.”
He was smiling. Dance lifted an eyebrow.
Boling explained, “You sound as excited about your work as—”
“You and your flash memory.”
A nod. “Yep. They’re amazing little guys . . . even the pink ones.”
Boling continued to type and scroll through page after page of the guts of Tammy’s computer, speaking softly. “Typical rambling of a teenage girl. Boys, clothes, makeup, parties, a little bit about school, movies and music . . . no threats.”
He scrolled quickly through various screens. “So far, negative on the emails, at least the ones for the past two weeks. I can go back and check the earlier ones if I need to. Now, Tammy’s in all the big social networking sites—Facebook, MySpace, OurWorld, Second Life.” Though Boling was offline, he could pull up and view recent pages Tammy had read. “Wait, wait. . . . Okay.” He was sitting forward, tense.
“What is it?”
“She was almost drowned?”
“That’s right.”
“A few weeks ago she and some of her friends started a discussion in OurWorld about what scared them the most. One of Tammy’s big fears was drowning.”
Dance’s mouth tightened. “Maybe he picked the means of death specifically for her.”
In a surprisingly vehement tone, Boling said, “We give away too much information about ourselves online. Way too much. You know the term ‘escribitionist’?”
“Nope.”
“A term for blogging about yourself.” A grimacing smile. “Tells it pretty well, doesn’t it? And then there’s ‘dooce.’”
“That’s new too.”
“A verb. As in ‘I’ve been dooced.’ It means getting fired because of what you posted on your blog—whether facts about yourself or your boss or job. A woman in Utah coined it. She posted some things about her employer and got laid off. ‘Dooce’ comes from a misspelling of ‘dude,’ by the way. Oh, and then there’s pre-doocing.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 6
