by J. A. Jance
To judge from the puzzled look on B.’s face, Ali wasn’t sure he was listening to her. “Did you say Bryan and Morgan?” he asked as though the words had just penetrated his consciousness. “Are you by any chance talking about Bryan Forester and Morgan Deming?”
Ali didn’t remember hearing Morgan’s maiden name, but clearly, B. Simpson had. “Yes,” Ali said. “Do you know them?”
“I knew them both,” B. replied after a slight pause. “It was a long time ago, when we were all still in school. I didn’t know they’d gotten married, but that’s just as well. As far as I’m concerned, they deserved each other.”
So you weren’t exactly friends, Ali thought. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Again B. didn’t answer right away. “Morgan Deming and Bryan Forester were part of the in crowd,” he said finally. “For all I know, you were, too, so maybe you don’t have any idea how it feels to be ‘out.’ The people who are ‘in’ go through school in a kind of Teflon-coated world. Nothing touches them. They get away with all kinds of outrageous stunts while teachers, parents, and coaches turn a blind eye. Bryan and his best pal, Billy, were the ringleaders of a particularly vicious little gang of thugs. I was still called Bart Simpson when I met them. Once The Simpsons showed up on TV, I turned into one of their favorite targets. Bryan and the other creeps made my life so miserable that as soon as I could, I took the only option available to me at the time. I quit school, went to Seattle, and never looked back. The day I left Sedona was the happiest day of my life. I couldn’t wait to get out of town.”
“You said Billy,” Ali pointed out. “Which one? Would that happen to be Billy Barnes?”
B. nodded grimly. “One and the same.”
“But you’re back here now,” Ali observed. “Are your folks still here?”
B. shook his head. “My dad died of a heart attack about ten years ago, and my mother went back to Michigan, where she came from originally. She still has family there. So what brought me back to Sedona? For one thing, it’s a beautiful place. I came back because I loved the red rocks, and I missed them. I loved the blue skies, and I missed those, too. I decided that I wasn’t going to let a bunch of school bullies keep me from living wherever I wanted. When I did come back, I did it with a whole pile of cash in my pocket and with the ability to be here on my own terms. By choice, I don’t have much to do with local yokels. I probably have more day-to-day dealings with your parents than with anyone else in town, and that’s pretty much how I like it.”
“What about Bryan Forester?” Ali asked.
“What about him?” B. said with a shrug. “I’m sorry to hear his wife is dead. That’s too bad, especially if they had kids. But just because I wouldn’t walk across the street to say hello to Bryan Forester doesn’t mean I wish him ill.”
Ali hadn’t anticipated that Bryan Forester and B. Simpson would have such a complicated history, but that was what happened in small towns. Inevitably, everyone knew everyone else, for good or ill. Ali would have liked to tell B. about Bryan Forester’s difficulties so she could enlist his help and advice on the two thumb drives. Realizing she had inadvertently poked a stick at a hornet’s nest, though, she quickly backed away from that idea. She’d have to deal with the thumb drives on her own.
“Unlike you,” she said, “I didn’t know Bryan Forester in high school. From what you said, it sounds like he was a complete jerk back then. But he’s not a jerk now—at least he doesn’t seem like one to me. And he doesn’t seem like a possible killer, either. As for Morgan? Maybe she never grew up. Apparently, she liked living on the wild side, otherwise she wouldn’t have been messing around in places like Singleatheart. But that’s why I went there, to try to find out more about it and see if her being involved in the website might have had something to do with her death.”
That comment seemed to get B. back to the problem at hand. “So you went to the site and logged on,” he said.
Ali nodded. “And paid money—a hundred bucks—to do it.”
“You paid with a credit card?”
Ali nodded again.
“That makes sense.” B nodded thoughtfully. “My guess is that someone who works at Singleatheart is capturing the information that comes in to the website and planting the Trojan horse on the computers of people who sign up. That gives him an unending source of information that he can subsequently use in identity theft scams. He may lift money out of an account here or there, or he may use pieces of real names to create what’s called a synthetic identity.”
“Synthetic identity?” Ali repeated. “How does that work?”
“The bad guy applies for a credit card under a fictitious name, or else he uses the real name and social security number along with a fake address. That generates a file name and address, as far as the various credit-reporting companies are concerned. Once enough action happens on that name, the guy ends up having a real credit report, which makes him real as far as financial transactions are concerned. It makes him good to go, even though he doesn’t exist. The synthetic identity can then be used to empty people’s bank accounts or run up thousands of dollars in fraudulent credit-card charges.”
Ali was stunned. “That’s all it takes?”
“That’s all,” B. said. “People like that are generally cowards. They don’t have guts enough to pick up a gun and go out robbing people face-to-face or holding up banks in person. They’d rather do their stealing second-and thirdhand, hiding behind various virtual camouflages. This is your basic white-collar crime. No blood or guts. That’s why the cops generally aren’t interested.”
Finished with his cable connections, B. punched a series of commands into one of the keyboards. The computer screens came to life with pictures of files floating first in one direction and then another.
“Okay,” he explained. “What I’m doing here is making a mirror image of your hard drive on this computer so you’ll have access to all your files. If you don’t want our bad guy seeing everything you’re doing, that one will need to stay off the Internet at all times. We’ll leave his Trojan intact on your old computer. I’m loading what I call my stalking horse into your online banking folder and into your e-mail folder as well. Use that one selectively, enough that it looks like business as usual. That way, if he tries to access any of your recent e-mail activity or your banking or credit-card information with his computer, we’ll be able to infect him. What goes around comes around.”
“In other words, we’re turning my computer into a mousetrap, and I’m the bait.”
“Exactly,” B. said.
“But won’t these extra programs slow down my computer—and his, too?” Ali asked. “Won’t he notice?”
“Have you noticed any difference?” B. asked.
“Not so far.”
“Right. With any luck, he may not notice right away, either. I’m hoping we’ll be able to hack in to his system long enough to get a fix on some of his other connections. Even if he wises up and deletes our program, I’ll have enough details that I’ll be able to track back to him through some of the other people he’s targeted. He’s most likely hiding behind multiple servers and layers of identities that are strung out all over the globe. This isn’t going to happen all at once. It’s going to take time to find him. Unfortunately, finding him will be just the beginning.”
Ali nodded. “Until we find compelling evidence of some illegal activity, there’s no sense in turning him over to the cops. Which means we have to wait until he rips me off before we can do anything about it.”
“Not entirely,” B. returned after a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“There are really two ways of doing this. The one you’ve just mentioned—using your computer as bait and waiting for him to do something illegal—is the long way around. First we have to catch him; then we have to bring the cops in on it in hopes that eventually, the justice system will dish out some kind of punishment.”
“But we both know that with all the jurisdictional c
onsiderations, that’s not likely to happen,” Ali said. “And even if he is convicted, punishment will be minimal. So what’s the other way, a shortcut of some kind?”
“You could call it that,” B. said. “It comes under the heading of an eye for an eye, and it bypasses the justice system completely.”
“You’re talking about some kind of vigilante action?”
B. nodded. “These bad-boy geeks think they’re so smart that no one will ever wise up to them, so instead of hitting him with my Trojan, I’ll nail him with my other secret weapon. Did you ever watch Voyager or Enterprise or any of those Trekkie series on TV?”
“I suppose so,” Ali answered. “Why?”
“Do you remember tractor beams, the things the bad guys used to grab something and drag it back to their mother ship?”
“I guess.”
“My pet worm works the same way. I deploy it by putting it on your computer, the one he’s targeted. It sits there until he tries logging on to your system. That carries it into his system, where it’s programmed to do two things—retrieve all his files and shoot them back to us while it’s trashing them on his end.”
“We end up with his files?” Ali asked. “Is that legal?”
“Would whatever we retrieved from there be admissible in a court of law?” B. asked. “Probably not. That’s what I meant when I said we’d be bypassing the justice system. But I guarantee you, this is some jerk who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else, and when we outwit him, he’s going to be annoyed as hell. It’ll drive him up a wall.”
“Driving him up a wall sounds about right,” Ali said. “What’s the turnaround time?”
“Once I install the worm program on your computer, all it takes is for him to try opening one of your infected files. As soon as he does, it’s kerblammo, and his computer system is toast. So it’s up to you. I’m happy to do it either way—fast or slow, through legal channels or not. And until we know we’ve nailed him—I’ll know as soon as the worm is deployed—then you should probably operate on an outside computer.”
Remembering her father’s gunslinger comment, Ali was glad to have B. and High Noon Enterprises on her side. It didn’t take long for her to make up her mind. “I’m all for instant gratification,” she told him.
B. grinned at her. “So am I,” he said.
Once the file transfers were completed, B. began disconnecting his cables and stowing his gear.
“You’ll let me know as soon as anything happens?” Ali asked.
“You bet,” he said. “Night or day.”
B. left a few minutes later. As he drove his Saab out of the driveway, Chris was waiting to enter.
“Who was driving that 9-7X?” Chris asked. “He’s got great taste in cars. Which reminds me, you and Dave don’t seem to be spending that much time together lately. Is this a new boyfriend, by any chance?”
“Hardly,” she answered. “His name’s Simpson—B. Simpson.”
“Oh, him,” Chris said. “I remember now. He’s that friend of Grandpa’s who’s the computer security guru. I didn’t know guys like him made house calls”
“He stopped by because he found a Trojan horse on my laptop.”
“Whoa!” Chris said. “If you’ll pardon the expression,” he added with a laugh. “But a Trojan horse? I’ve heard of them, but where did you pick one up?”
It wasn’t lost on Ali that there were certain similarities between having her computer infected with a virus and picking up an STD after an anonymous one-night stand. Not eager to admit to her son about having logged on to an Internet dating site, Ali shook her head. “I’m not sure.”
“Still, he stopped by to help you get rid of it?” Chris asked.
“Not exactly,” Ali said. “There may be some kind of identity theft scheme at work. He’s planting a couple of countermeasures on my computer, and he dropped off one of his spares for me to use as needed in the meantime.”
Before Chris could respond, Ali’s phone rang. It wasn’t late, but it was after nine. Thinking it might be bad news, Ali hurried to answer.
“Is this Ali Reynolds?” an unfamiliar woman asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Beverly Forester,” the woman answered. “Bryan’s mother.” Her trembling voice faltered.
“Is something wrong?” Ali asked. “Are you all right?”
“No. We’re not all right,” Beverly managed, pulling herself together. “We’re still at the Best Western. The cops were here a little while ago. They put my son in handcuffs, loaded him into the back of a patrol car, and drove away.”
Ali’s heart fell. If Dave had gone so far as to place Bryan under arrest, then the evidence he had collected from the back of the truck must have been damning.
“The girls didn’t see that,” Bev Forester continued. “But they’re dreadfully upset that their father isn’t here with them right now, and I don’t know what to do. Lindsey’s crying like her poor little heart’s broken. Lacy’s locked herself in the bathroom and won’t come out. They’ve been through so much the last few days, but I can’t do a thing with them, and right now I’m at my wits’ end!”
“I’m sure if you just talked to them—” Ali began.
“I already tried that,” Beverly returned. “So did Harold, Bryan’s father. He didn’t get anywhere, either. We were wondering if we could convince you to come see them.”
“I can’t see how that would help,” Ali objected. “I don’t even know them.”
“Oh,” Beverly said with a disappointed sigh. “Bryan speaks so highly of you, I thought maybe you knew his girls as well.”
“I don’t, but it’s possible I know someone who does,” Ali said. “I met their teacher at a function last night. Her name is Mindy Farber. Her roommate is my son’s fiancée. Mindy seemed to be concerned about the girls. Maybe she could help.”
“Do you have her number?”
“Let me call her and explain the situation,” Ali said.
Once off the phone with Beverly, Ali called Athena’s number. While Chris listened with considerable interest, Ali enlisted Mindy’s help and made arrangements to come get her.
“Thank you for picking me up,” Mindy said twenty minutes later as she buckled herself into the Cayenne’s passenger seat. “You didn’t have to. I know where the Best Western is. I could have driven there myself.”
The truth was, Ali wanted to go, too. Bryan Forester was part of her life; so were his girls. If there was anything she personally could do to help them, she would. As a consequence, on the drive there, Ali filled Mindy in with as much background information as she’d been able to piece together.
At the hotel, Ali drove around the building until she spotted Bryan’s Dodge Ram. A man smoking a pipe stood leaning against the front bumper. “Mr. Forester?” Ali asked as she stepped out of her car and into the parking lot.
He straightened. “Ms. Reynolds?” he asked. “Thank you for coming. Bev’s not very good at this kind of thing. Completely out of her league. I don’t know how much more she can take.”
“Where is she?”
“Bryan and the girls were staying in the next room over,” he said, pointing toward the adjoining door. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about that tonight. We can’t very well leave them there by themselves.”
As Ali walked through the low-lying cloud of pipe smoke, Mindy Farber was already knocking on the door. “Come in,” Bev Forester called.
As soon as Mindy opened the door, Ali saw a gray-haired woman sitting on the edge of a bed. A little girl lay on the far side of the bed, crying inconsolably. When the woman reached out to touch her, the girl shrank away. The woman stood up, then, wringing her hands, she hurried to meet Mindy.
“She’s been like this ever since her father left,” Bev Forester said. “What should I do?”
In answer, Mindy walked past her and took Bev’s place on the bed. “Lindsey,” she said softly. “It’s Miss Farber. Are you all right?”
W
ithout warning, Lindsey sat up and flung herself at Mindy and buried her tearstained face in her young teacher’s breast. “Did you hear?” she hiccuped through her sobs. “Our mother is dead. Somebody murdered her. I heard some people talking. They were saying that they think Daddy is the one who did it. I wasn’t supposed to, but I was peeking out the window when he left. They put handcuffs on him, put him in the back of a car, and drove away. Oh, Miss Farber, if Daddy’s in jail, what’s going to happen to us? Where will we live? Who will take care of us?”
“Maybe your grandparents—”
“They don’t like us,” Lindsey sobbed. “They don’t like Lacy.”
“That’s not true,” Bev interjected. “Of course we like Lacy, we just don’t understand—”
Just then the bathroom door swung silently open. Without so much as a glance in Bev Forester’s direction, Lacy emerged from the bathroom. She went straight to the bed and sat down next to her sister. With a dignity that belied her age, Lacy silently took one of Lindsey’s hands and held it tightly with both of hers while two fat tears tumbled down her own cheeks.
Ali knew Lacy to be a troubled child. Her willingness to emerge from the bathroom in hopes of comforting her grieving sister seemed like a display of raw courage.
Mindy Farber was already holding Lindsey. Ali worried that if Mindy tried to draw Lacy into the same hug, she’d once again withdraw. Mindy must have sensed the same thing. She continued to cradle Lindsey but made no effort to reach for Lacy.
“I don’t know the answers to any of those questions,” Mindy said softly to both girls. “But I do know this much: Wherever you are, I’m sure you’ll be together.”
Ali held her breath. The words were simple enough to say, but if, for some reason, Bryan’s folks were unable to care for the girls and Child Protective Services stepped into the picture, Ali knew that promise might not be easily kept. Where the girls would end up then was anybody’s guess.
While Mindy Farber dealt with the two girls, Ali took Bev by the arm and led her outside, where she sank into her husband’s arms and burst into tears herself. “What are we going to do?” she asked him. “The girls don’t know us, really. Lacy especially refuses to have anything to do with us. How are we going to manage, Harold? And what will become of Bryan?”
