by Ethan Cross
Emily shook her head. “I don’t think any of us want you to be the one to craft that message or make an ‘impression’ on anyone.”
“I don’t have to physically harm the person. I can establish the proper sense of urgency using only words.”
“We can talk about it in the morning when your brother’s here.”
Ackerman said, “We should deliver the message tonight, while the target is sleeping. I find it best to creep into the bedchambers of a victim. It helps to convey the seriousness of the conversation.”
Emily stood up. “Speaking of sleep. Sorry, Dracula, no creeping into any bedchambers tonight.”
She headed for the door, and he knew it was futile to argue at this point.
But then he noticed the little dog, curled into a furry ball, sleeping in one of the conference room chairs. He said, “You forgot your foul creature.”
Without turning back, she said, “He’s not my anything. He’s yours.” As she pushed into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind, she added, “He wants to sleep with his new daddy tonight.”
He called after her, “I’m no one’s daddy. I’m very careful about that for exactly this reason.”
The dog had raised its head and rolled its oversized eyeballs toward him with a look that was so “cute” it made Ackerman’s teeth hurt. Not because of the figurative sweetness, but due to the literal bad wiring in his brain. Whatever wires were crossed made the sight of adorable things fill him with some strange and undesirable form of pain.
Lips curled back in disgust at both the animal and the woman who had forced it upon him, Ackerman said, “Computer Man, before you go, can you give me the name of a possible target for the plan I had described. Someone who does business with King. Preferably a lot of business. But not someone who would have a great deal of security. I’d like to have the information ready to present to my brother in the morning.”
Stan smiled. “I’m way ahead of you.” A picture of another man popped up on the screen. “Guy’s name is Willoughby.”
“Like a small kangaroo?”
“No, that’s a wallaby. His name is Willoughby, like ‘Willow Bee.’ He’s been suspected of running guns from King down to the cartels, but the cops have never been able to make anything stick. He runs his own gun shop and firing range. It’s about forty minutes to the east of you, between Oakland and the Sibley Volcanic Regional Preserve. He has his business and residence at the same address.”
“And what is that address, Computer Man?”
Stan read it off while Ackerman wrote it down on a stray folder and then added, “By the way, you can just call me Stan. Although Computer Man does make me feel a little like a superhero.”
Ackerman said, “I haven’t been calling you that because I forgot your name. I just don’t like it.”
“Don’t like what?”
“Your name. It doesn’t properly roll of the tongue. Stan. May I call you Stanley instead?”
“Well, my name is actually just plain Stan. That’s what’s on my birth certificate. I’ve always liked my name. You know, Stan the Man.”
Ackerman said, “I still don’t like it. So it’s settled. I’ll just call you Computer Man, which honestly feels much better to me. And you can interpret it as a gesture of respect.”
Stan seemed confused. He said, “Uh, okay, I guess. By the way, Mr. Ackerman, your brother wanted me to remind you about the chip in your spine and that your location is constantly being monitored.”
“Thank you for relaying the message, Computer Man. Sweet dreams.” He closed the laptop without waiting for a response. Staring at the address—which Computer Man had so naively provided—Ackerman committed the street name and digits to memory.
44
Marcus battled against his natural urge to feel exhilarated by having exacted a small measure of revenge against his former friend. In truth, he felt alive and free, but he could never allow himself to feel pleasure at someone else’s pain. That was the darkness talking.
Maggie sat across from him in the back of Eddie’s limo, throwing daggers with her eyes. For a moment, he thought he could see visible fumes emanating from her body. She hadn’t spoken a word since they had left the club.
He said, “I probably could have handled that better.”
“Ya think?”
“Take it easy. Everything worked out fine.”
“You’re telling me to take it easy? That’s just beautiful. What the hell was he talking about anyway? Why would he say your dad was a dirty cop?”
“He was just trying to push my buttons.”
“Obviously, but that’s not the whole story. He mentioned ‘Junior’s family.’ Junior Who?”
Marcus cracked his neck and sighed. He wished the past could just stay in the past, but old skeletons had a way of bobbing to the surface.
He said, “Tommy Juliano, Jr.”
Her eyes went wide.
“Yes, that Juliano. I went to a birthday party once with Eddie at Tommy Jewels’s house. I got lost and saw something I shouldn’t have. Eventually, I broke down and told my dad about it. He told me he’d handle it from there.”
“So it’s very possible that your dad did plant some evidence.”
“Don’t you start too.”
She said, “I’m not judging. We’ve all been there. You still talk to your dad’s old partner a couple times a month. Give him a call and ask him.”
“What the hell is that going to prove?”
“It seems to me like you and Mr. Caruso have some unresolved issues and neither of you knows the full truth. I know you. Those unanswered questions will gnaw at you and interfere with this case. Call your dad’s old partner. It’s always better to know the truth.”
He considered that and was reminded of a Bible verse, John 8:32: “And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” But Marcus also knew that the journey to the truth was always a painful one.
45
Baxter admired Jenny’s driving skills as she whipped her 1982 “Fox Body” Mustang into a parking spot. The car was too boxy for his tastes and sported a headache-inducing shade of red for a paint job. The interior looked as if Jenny lived in the automobile. Gesturing to the building in front of them, he said, “I give you the location for this evening’s riveting investigation.”
As they exited the car, Jenny asked, “Does this have to do with that deal for Faraz, the pimp?”
“It does, actually. He wanted to hire me to find the missing sister of one of his ladies. The sister’s name is Corin Campbell.”
“And Corin lived here?”
“Up until two weeks ago, when she disappeared.”
Jenny pursed her lips. “Cool. Missing persons case. Are we thinking the boyfriend?”
“I peg him as clean. Just a gut feeling.”
Baxter walked out into the road and looked both directions. It wasn’t a heavily trafficked street, but there were still cars traveling by every few seconds. He wasn’t concerned about the vehicles. He needed to get a look up and down the road a ways, and the best place to do that was from the center lines.
“What witnesses have you talked to?”
He replied, “Only the boyfriend, Blake, and the sister. I’ve been holding off on going any deeper.”
“Why?”
“Baxter’s Rule #7084: never trust what is squishy and fragile over what you can see with your own eyes.”
He could hear the rattling of all her zippers as she hurried along behind him. “I have no idea what that means.”
“Never trust someone’s memory, or story, over some good camera footage.”
She grabbed him by the Hawaiian shirt and manhandled him over to the curb, saying, “Get out of the road, you jackass.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“I’m not concerned for you. I’m worried about the dent you might make in somebody’s hood.”
“I believe all cars are equipped with those new-fangled brakes I’ve been heari
ng so much about. You may have read about it on the Tweeter.”
“Cars have always had brakes. And it’s Twitter. What were you doing in the middle of the road?”
“Surely the very first car ever built didn’t possess brakes. An inventor who built the brakes first probably wouldn’t have created such a modern marvel.” Baxter pulled a joint from the breast pocket of his white-and-red Hawaiian shirt and added, “And I was deciding which direction someone may have driven off in Corin’s car. Earlier I found something that made me wonder if Corin had been taken from here. You actually just parked in her reserved spot. Security footage at the school shows her leaving there. The boyfriend doesn’t think she made it home, but I’m not convinced the investigating officers believed him.”
“You said he was clean?”
“I said that I believed him. I just think he may be wrong. But that’s the difference between me and the cops. They have procedures and due diligence. I just go with my gut. They have to thoroughly check out the boyfriend. But I think he’s clean, so I’m moving on.”
“Your gut ever wrong?”
“Of course, but sometimes you just need to sit back and let the Universe take the wheel.”
“So now your gut has the ability to communicate with ‘The Universe?’”
“We all have that kind of connection, Jenny. But most people don’t trust that the Universe has their best interests at heart.”
She raised her eyebrows. “So you just go with the flow and trust that some higher power has your back, so you’ll be good?”
“Well, yeah, in a way. I mean, it’s like solar eclipses.”
“You lost me.”
“The study of our sun is a natural and integral part of learning more about the universe and making new scientific discoveries. In their book ‘The Privileged Planet,’ astronomer Guillermo Gonzalez and philosopher Jay Richards argue that our place in the cosmos is designed for discovery. Eclipses make it possible to gain knowledge about the sun in ways that aren’t normally observable. That’s how they validated Einstein’s theory of relativity, which predicted that gravity bends light. The same with solar flares and coronal mass ejections. Scientists were only able to observe those phenomena during an eclipse.”
“So what? Eclipses are the Super Bowl for scientists. I knew that.”
Baxter smiled. “But did you know that, in order for an eclipse to occur, the moon has to be just the right size, orbiting a planet just the right distance from its host star. You see, the sun is four hundred times larger than the moon. In order for the two objects to appear roughly the same size in the sky, the sun has to be four hundred times further away from us. Which, just so happens, to be our approximate distance from the sun. Is that just coincidence or does somebody have our backs? I don’t expect that choirs of angels are going to protect me, but I think the concept of goodness is universal. And we should trust that the Universe wants good for us.”
“If God does exist, he’s indifferent.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say. Think of it like this. Everyone has some sense of what is fair and good. Every culture in history from remote South American villages to the Romans to modern Americans have a general sense of what is right and wrong. We have a measuring stick by which we judge what is good and what is evil. That inherent facet of humanity has to come from somewhere. I just take what’s thrown at me and let the Universe direct my path. Everything’s worked out so far.”
She shook her head. “What about a tribe of cannibals out in the jungle?”
“What about them?”
“Some of those tribes murder and devour any outsider they come across. They have a pretty radical view of good and evil.”
“I know. Whatever happened to their ancestors must have been pretty horrible for them to be so untrusting. But even under those circumstances, they have a measuring stick. It’s just one we don’t fully understand.”
“Fine, Mr. Universe, which direction does your gut signal say we should go?”
“Away from the city. So, toward the closest interstate or major thoroughfare. Cover the greatest ground in the least amount of time. North or south, in regard to their final destination, doesn’t really matter. We just need to think about where they would pass by for the first few blocks.” Baxter pointed up the street to the north. “My gut says there’s better camera potential in that direction.”
Jenny said, “Didn’t the cops check for that kind of thing?”
“I’m sure they did, but I’m looking for the things they didn’t see. For example, they would draw a circle on a map based on time and distance, then try to check everything they could without a court order. We’re just trying to walk in her shoes through space and time. If she was here and left, where did she go next? Plus, the cops would have checked during the daytime. We’re here at the same time she would have been taken.”
“I don’t think they have cameras that only come out at night.”
“You never know, my dear.”
They walked to the end of the block. Jenny was studying the buildings for cameras, but Baxter was only studying her. He said, “Four-way intersection, fair Jennifer. Which way now?”
“Keep going straight.”
“Why?”
Jenny said, “Because left and right turn off onto side roads. This one is the fastest way out of here. Putting the most distance between me and the scene of the crime in the fastest time.”
“You are strong in the ways of the Force, young Jennifer.”
“Shut up. I already knew that. What about that ATM machine?” she asked, pointing out the blue-and-gray box sitting across the street. “Or that gas station on the next block. Or there’s also a company called RJ Transportation Services up there that has a little truck depot. Any of those would have good camera angles.”
Baxter stopped walking and considered that. Something didn’t feel right. He held out his hand and said to Jenny, “Will you pray with me?”
“Excuse me.”
“Just take my hand. Humor me.”
She made a face but reluctantly placed her hand in his. Baxter said, “Lord, some dangerous cat who has lost his way has done crept in on your child, Corin Campbell. Help us get her back. Like Frampton said, ‘Show me the way.’ Amen.”
Jenny said, “Do you feel better there, Mr. Universe?”
Baxter lit the joint in his mouth, inhaled deeply, and held the smoke. He had never understood Bill Clinton’s response about never inhaling. All Clinton was admitting was that he was a poser who wasted his buddy’s weed. Sounded like kind of a dick move to Baxter. He held out the joint to Jenny. She took a hit and passed it back.
He said, “They didn’t go this way.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the police would have checked those cameras. And since we can assume they didn’t see Corin’s car on any of that footage, we can also assume she didn’t go this way. We need to find the cameras they didn’t check.”
Turning back toward Corin’s condo, Baxter walked to the first intersection and examined the other two paths. They were both small side streets, barely more than alleyways. Cars and reserved spots lined the western path. The eastern path was bordered by brick walls and held ample parking. The next street in that direction was a one-way road heading south.
He started walking to the east.
Jenny said, “I thought the abductor would want to put as much distance—”
“I’m just following my gut, darling.”
They reached the next intersection, and Baxter heard the whoosh of air brakes. A bus stop sat to their left. One of the city’s many electric trolleybuses was picking up a line of passengers. Two sets of electrical lines hung suspended above the street. A harness atop the bus connected to the wires and supplied the bus with a steady and environmentally friendly stream of power.
Baxter chuckled and rubbed his hands together like Sylvester the cat staring at Tweety Bird. “I just found the camera the cops didn’t check. Also, do yo
u think Tweety Bird has an account on the Tweeter?”
“It’s Twitter, you idiot. And try to stay focused. What camera? Do the bus stops have cameras?”
“Yeah, but the police would have checked that one. I’ll just have to show you.”
“I hate surprises.”
“But I feel the need to impress you with my genius.”
“I’m not impressed.”
“You haven’t even experienced the genius part yet.”
“I won’t be impressed. Just tell me.”
“Okay, but you’re ruining it … We don’t want the camera at the bus stop. We want the videos from the bus itself.”
“I didn’t know they had cameras on the buses.”
Baxter nodded. “Eight cameras, actually. All wide angle. Two inside the cabin of the bus and six along the exterior sides. The city saved enough in insurance premiums to more than pay for the whole camera system. The digital footage is stored on the actual bus as a failsafe but is also broadcast to a central data repository.”
“How is that you say the wrong name for Twitter, but you have the inside scoop on mass transit security?”
Baxter grinned. “Because my neighbor is possibly the next Unabomber.”
46
Ackerman could never sleep in a bed. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his childhood of nightmares and the subconscious trauma, or if his developing bones had merely become accustomed to a harder sleeping surface. He had also removed all the pictures from the walls of his temporary domicile. Emily and the others had acquiesced to his unusual requests and had allowed him to curl up in the corner of a room with no pictures.
While in Arizona, he had simply curled up somewhere on the floor beside Marcus and Maggie’s bed, but that had quickly made him feel like some sort of pet. He had demanded to have his own bed, even if he didn’t sleep in it.
His brother would be back in California within a few hours, and they would be heading to meet with the task force handling the abduction and hacking case. But even though this was merely a rest stop, not a full-on surrendering of the day, he couldn’t help but feel that man’s most precious commodity—time—was slipping away from them.
