Thom was looking for the paperwork that came with the unit. "Call Whitmore. Mister Whitmore. He arranged it."
"I did call. He didn't get back to me."
"Well, Lincoln, don't you think it might be best to let him handle it? Or do you really want me to look up 'partial escalator removal services' on Craigslist?"
"What's Craigslist?"
"We'll wait for the lawyer to contact the company. At least his people knew what they were doing. The floors aren't actually scratched at all. Surprise to me."
The doorbell rang and Rhyme was pleased to see that Juliette Archer had arrived. He noted that she was alone, no brother in tow. He suspected she'd insisted he drop her off on the sidewalk to negotiate the "intimidating" ramp on her own. No babying allowed.
He wondered what assignment to give her. There wasn't anything that got his heart racing. Academic research for a school of criminalistics in Munich, a position paper on mass spectrometry for publication here in a scientific journal he contributed to, a proposal about extracting trace evidence from smoke.
"Morning," she said, wheeling into the parlor. Smiling to Thom.
"Welcome back," the aide said.
Rhyme offered, "Do you speak German, by any chance?"
"No, afraid not."
"Ah, well. I'll find something else to occupy your time. I think there are a few projects that aren't too boring."
"Well, boring or not, I'm happy to work on anything you have. And forgive the dangling modifier there."
He gave a chuckle. True, she'd just said that whether or not she was boring, she'd be happy to work on any project. Grammar, punctuation and syntax could be formidable opponents.
"Breakfast, Juliette?" Thom asked.
"I've eaten already. Thanks."
"Lincoln? What's it going to be?"
Rhyme was wheeling closer to the escalator unit. "I don't think any one piece would weigh more than a hundred pounds. Anybody could take it apart. But I suppose we should wait for--" His voice braked to a stop.
Thom was asking something once again.
Rhyme didn't hear a word.
"Lincoln?... What... Well, that's a fierce gaze. I was only asking what you wanted for breakfast."
He ignored the aide and wheeled closer yet to the scaffolding and examined the deadly access panel and, below it, the switch and servo motor operating the latch.
"What is the number one rule in engineering?" he whispered.
"I have no idea. What do you want for breakfast?"
He continued, rhetorically, "The answer is efficiency. Designs should have no more components--"
Archer finished his sentence, more or less: "--than are necessary to perform the intended function."
"Exactly!"
Thom said, "Fine, fine. Now. Pancakes, bagel, yogurt? All of the above?"
"Goddamn it." Though directed at himself, not his aide.
"What is it, Lincoln?" Archer asked.
He'd made a mistake. And nothing infuriated Lincoln Rhyme more than that. He pivoted and sped his chair forward to the nearest computer, on which he summoned the close-up pictures that Mel Cooper had taken of the interior of the escalator. Yes, he was right.
How the hell had he missed it?
In fact, he hadn't missed the critical fact at all. He'd noted, but unforgivably had not focused on, the very words he'd thought to himself: The switch wire ended in a plug inserted into one of the outlets on the side of the servo unit inside...
One of the outlets.
He explained now to Archer: "Look at the servo motor operating the latch. Right side."
"Ah," she said, a hint of disgust in her voice, as well. "It has two outlets."
"Right."
"We saw that. We looked right at it." Archer was shaking her head.
Rhyme scowled. "We sure did."
There was no reason to have a second outlet in the motor unless something--another switch, presumably--was plugged into it.
Of course, this was true of the mock-up in front of them. What of the escalator actually involved in the accident? He posed this question to Archer.
She pointed out that Amelia Sachs had taken some pictures of that one, unofficially.
"Good." He called them up.
Thom tried again, "Lincoln? Breakfast."
"Later."
"Now."
"Anything. I don't care." He and Archer stared at the pictures. But they didn't answer the question; the angles were wrong and there was too much blood inside the pit where the tragedy had occurred to see clearly.
"I wonder--a second switch," Rhyme said in a soft voice.
Archer said, "Which malfunctioned. And, if we're lucky, it's made by a company other than Midwest Conveyance. A company with a lot of assets."
He continued, "Where would it be? The other switch? Anything in the documentation?"
Nothing, she reported, after scrolling through what she'd downloaded. "How can we find out?"
"Here's a thought. The mall in Brooklyn, where the accident happened? All the escalators would be the same, right?"
"I'd assume so."
"How's this? Whitmore hires a private eye--he must have a dozen he uses. The PI jams something into one of the escalator steps. Shuts it down." Rhyme nodded. He liked this idea. "They'll get a repair crew in right away. Whitmore's man could stay close and take pictures inside when they get it open."
Thom, who'd overheard, was frowning. "Seriously, Lincoln? You don't think that crosses some line?"
Rhyme scowled. "What I'm thinking about is Sandy Frommer and her son."
Juliette Archer said, "Before you do that, can I try something?"
He quite liked the idea of sabotage. But he said, "What do you suggest?"
"Hello?"
"Is this Attorney Holbrook?"
"Yes, who's this?" the voice resonated from the speaker of Rhyme's landline.
"My name is Juliette Archer. I work with the men you were Skyping with yesterday. Evers Whitmore. And Lincoln Rhyme."
A moment of silence as the man recalled. "Oh, the case. The lawyer and the consultant. About the personal injury suit. Greg Frommer."
"That's right."
"Yes, I think somebody mentioned your name. You're a consultant too?"
Rhyme watched her face, narrow, her blue eyes focused on the floor. She was concentrating, and hard.
"I am."
The man muttered cynically, "Well, we're still bankrupt. Nothing's changed. Like I said, you want to file a motion to lift the stay, go ahead. The trustee'll fight it, I doubt you'll win, but feel free."
"No, I'm calling about something else." Archer had the same edgy tone in her voice that Rhyme recalled from when he'd sent her away from his town house, after arriving for the first day of internship.
He wondered where she was going.
"And what's that?" Holbrook asked.
"You were courteous enough to suggest we might pursue other defendants, though none of those worked out."
The in-house counsel sounded wary as he said, "No, I didn't think that seemed likely. After all, Midwest Conveyance was the company that was responsible. I admitted that. And I'm sorry we aren't able to help your client, the widow."
"Didn't seem likely," she echoed. "Still, you never suggested the one company that might be a viable defendant."
Silence.
"You know whom I'm talking about, don't you?"
"What's your point, Ms. Archer?"
"That you didn't tell us about the second switch that opens the access panel."
"Second switch?" His tone suggested he was stalling.
"That's my question, Mr. Holbrook. Who makes it? How does it work? We need to know."
"I really can't help you, Ms. Archer. I should go."
"Did you know that Lincoln Rhyme, the other consultant on this case, has worked most frequently with the NYPD and--"
"We're not in that jurisdiction."
"And, I was going to say, with the FBI too."
"T
here are no state or federal crimes involved here. There are confidentiality agreements that preclude me from talking about companies we're in a contractual relationship with."
"You've just confirmed that there is a second switch that could open the access panel."
"I... Well. I'm terminating this conversation. I'm going to hang up now and--"
"--and after you do, I'm calling Sandy Frommer and suggesting she and her lawyer hold a press conference about Midwest's lack of cooperation in finding who really was responsible for her husband's death. I'll suggest they use the phrase 'cover-up.' I'm guessing that wouldn't play well in bankruptcy court, especially among creditors who'd love to get their hands on the personal assets of the executives of the company."
A sigh.
"Help us out here. She's a widow with a son. I believed you when you said you were sorry. Go the next step and tell us. Please. Who makes the second switch?"
"Do you have time for leisure reading, Ms. Archer?"
She was frowning. A glance at Rhyme. She said, "Occasionally."
Pages rustled, Rhyme could hear.
The lawyer said, "I myself am a big fan of Entertainment Weekly. And Fly Fishing Today. But I still find time for Industrial Systems Monthly. I enjoyed the March issue particularly. Pages forty and forty-one."
"What--"
"Goodbye, Ms. Archer. I will not pick up if you call back."
He disconnected.
"Good," Rhyme said. "From Boston Law?"
"Legal," she corrected. "But, no. I was vamping."
Rhyme was already online. He found a digital version of the magazine Holbrook had mentioned and scrolled to the pages cited. It was an advertisement for a product made by a company called CIR Microsystems. Much of the copy was technical, none of which he understood at first glance. Featured was a gray box with wires protruding. According to a caption, it was a DataWise5000.
"The hell is it?" Rhyme asked.
Archer shook her head and went online. A few seconds of Google and she had an answer. "Well. Listen to this. It's a smart controller."
"I believe I've heard the term. Tell me more."
She read for a few minutes then explained: "A lot of products have them built in. Conveyance systems--escalators, elevators--and cars, trains, industrial machinery, medical equipment, construction equipment. Hundreds of consumer appliances: stoves, heating systems, lighting in your house, security, door locks. You can send and receive data to and from machinery with your phone or tablet or computer, wherever you are. And control the products remotely."
"So maybe a maintenance worker sent a signal by mistake and the access panel opened? Or stray radio waves triggered it."
"It's possible. I'm on Wikipedia. And... oh. My."
"What?"
"I'm just reading about CIR Micro, the maker of the controller."
"And?"
"The head of the place, Vinay Parth Chaudhary, is being called the new Bill Gates." She looked over at Rhyme. "And the company's worth eight hundred billion. Let's call Evers Whitmore. I think we're back in the game."
CHAPTER 17
No help from CSU headquarters on the brand of varnish or cosmetics found at the earlier Unsub 40 scenes, or the type of sawdust. Nor had there been any more insights into trace or DNA on the White Castle napkins.
But at least the car service lead blossomed.
"Got it." Ron Pulaski held up a pad to Sachs, sitting across from him in their war room at One PP. The young officer read from his notes. "Driver, Eduardo. He remembers the unsub, picked him up across the street from the White Castle, had a bag full of burgers. Ate them while they drove. A dozen. Maybe more. He talked to himself some. And spoke in a weird monotone. Skinny, looked down all the time. Scary. And it was the day of the murder."
"The driver got a good look at him?"
"Not really. Just: lanky, skinny, tall. The green jacket and Atlanta baseball cap."
Sachs asked, "How could he not get a look at him?"
"Dirty glass. The partition, you know. Plexiglas."
He added that the driver had dropped their unsub in downtown Manhattan, about four blocks from the murder site.
"What time?"
"About six p.m."
Hours before the murder. What had he done during the intervening time? she wondered.
Pulaski added, "The driver stayed at the corner where he dropped him off--had some calls to make--and watched him for a minute. The unsub didn't go to any of the buildings at the intersection near where they stopped; he walked a block away to another one. The driver could have dropped him there, but maybe our boy didn't want to be seen going into a particular place." The young officer went online, she could see, and called up a map of the city.
He tapped a satellite image, overhead, of a building. "Here it is. This has to be it, from what he described."
The picture view revealed a small building, terra-cotta in color. "Small factory, offices, warehouse?"
"Doesn't seem residential."
Sachs said, "Let's go take a look."
They left One PP and headed downstairs to her car. In ten minutes they were cruising through congested downtown traffic, Sachs pumping the accelerator in low gears when she could, cutting in and out of the lanes as aggressively as ever.
Wondering, as she often did, what would they learn?
Sometimes leads provided a minor fact to help in the investigation.
Sometimes they were a waste of time.
And sometimes they took you straight to the perp's front door.
Mel Cooper was back in Rhyme's Central Park West parlor.
Sorry, Amelia, Rhyme thought. After the discovery of the potential new defendant, I need him more than you do. We'll argue later.
Evers Whitmore was present too.
The three men were staring into a dark portion of the room, where Juliette Archer sat in front of a computer, verbally commanding her computer to do her bidding.
"Up three lines. Right two words. Select. Cut..."
So very difficult to live life without shortcuts, Rhyme thought. Being disabled put you in a very nineteenth-century world. Everything took longer. He himself had tried eye recognition, voice recognition, a laser-emitting device attached to his ear that activated portions of the screen. He had returned to the old-fashioned way, using his hand on a joystick or touchpad. This was clumsy and slow but the technique approached normal, and Rhyme had finally mastered it. He saw that Archer needed to settle into an artificiality that was right for her.
In a few minutes she wheeled about and joined them. On the screen nearby were the fruits of her work but she began to report verbally on what she'd found, without glancing toward the notes glowing on the monitors.
"Okay. CIR Microsystems. Vinay Chaudhary's company. It's the number one manufacturer of smart controllers in the country. Revenues of two billion annually."
"My, that's helpful," the understated Whitmore said.
"The controller's basically a small computer with a Wi-Fi or Bluetooth connection or cellular one mounted in the machine or appliance it controls. It's really pretty simple. Say it's mounted in a stove. The controller is online with the stove manufacturer's cloud server. The homeowner has an app on his smartphone to communicate with the stove from anywhere in the world. He logs into the server and can send or receive signals to and from the controller--to shut the stove off or on. The manufacturer also is online with the stove separately, to collect data from the controller: usage information, diagnostics, maintenance scheduling, breakdowns--it can even be alerted to burned-out lights in the oven."
Cooper asked, "Any problem with the DataWise Five Thousand controller in the past? Activating when it shouldn't?"
"None that I could find but I was playing Google Roulette. Give me some time and I might find something more."
"So how did it open the panel?" Rhyme mused. "A stray signal ordered the controller to open the door, something in the mall itself. Or from the cloud? Or did the DataWise just short out and sen
d the open command itself?"
Archer looked up from the computer and said, "Have something here. Take a look at this. It's from a blog about two months ago. Social Engineering Second-ly. That's 'second' as in the unit of time, I think. Updated every second. As opposed to Monthly or Weekly. Doesn't quite work."
Rhyme said, "Sometimes you can be too clever for your own good."
He and the others read:
INDULGENCE = DEATH?
THE DANGERS OF THE INTERNET OF THINGS (IoT)
Will consumer indulgence be the death of us?
From self-foaming soap to portion-controlled, calorie-specific meals delivered to consumers' homes in time for dinner, manufacturers are increasingly marketing products geared to take over people's lives. The justification is that they are helping busy professionals and families save time--and in some instances money--and make their lives easier. In reality, many of these items are simply desperate attempts to fill the pockets of companies facing markets saturated with competing products or in which brand differentiation has all but vanished.
But there's a dark side to the convenience factor.
I'm speaking of what is called the Internet of Things, or IoT.
Thousands of appliances, tools, heating and air-conditioning systems, vehicles and industrial products sport internal computer controls that allow consumers to access them remotely. These have been around for some years in the form of home security systems, in which video cameras are, in effect, mini computers connected to your Wi-Fi or cellular service. When you're away, you log onto an Internet site--supposedly secure--and make sure no burglars are prowling through your living room or to keep an eye on the babysitter.
Now the proliferation of these "embedded devices" (that is, containing computer circuitry) is increasing exponentially.
They help us save money and make our lives so much more convenient.
Now you can turn your oven on from a remote location, turn your furnace up when you're on your way home, tell your door to unlock for an hour when the plumber's expected (and watch him at work on your security camera!), start your car remotely on below-zero days... How convenient! What could be wrong with that?
Who can argue with this?
Well, I can.
Let me tell you two dangers:
ONE: IS YOUR DATA SAFE?
The way most smart controller systems work is that the appliances in your house are online with cloud servers run by the manufacturers of those appliances. While they "assure" you your privacy is important, all of them collect data about their products' performance and your usage history, often without your knowledge. That information is routinely sold to data miners. Some effort is made to keep your identity anonymous but just consider: Last week a thirteen-year-old in Fresno got the names, addresses and credit card numbers of everyone who owned a General Heating furnace equipped with a smart controller. It took him six minutes to download that data.
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