by Jance, J. A.
Gloria paused for a moment, trying to get her head around the task at hand. This was a rush job, and the problem with rush jobs was that you couldn’t phone them in. Someone had to be on the scene to take charge—calling the shots and making the tough decisions if things went sideways. In this case the person in charge had to be none other than Gloria herself. Flying down would have made for a quick trip, but Gloria didn’t want to risk running into Hannah at the airport. Instead she would have to drive eight-plus hours to get there.
Gloria took a fast shower. Then, playing to her audience, she dressed in a pair of too-tight jeans topped by a low-cut tank top and a denim jacket. Once she had her clothing packed, she went downstairs to the converted wine cellar that served as Uncle Luis’s armory and safe-deposit box. The guy Luis had suggested she use for the job—Johnny “Tank” Rowland—might have been known to her, but he also qualified as outside talent—expensive outside talent. With that in mind, she picked up more than enough cash to cover the job. After stuffing that into a duffel along with her clothing, she went over to the gun shelves and picked out a pistol, a Ruger LCP, along with a small-of-back holster. Tank was more or less trustworthy, but one of his underlings might try to play cute with her. With all that cash along, Gloria wanted to be prepared.
By eight fifteen she was in the car and headed west toward Sacramento, thinking and mulling the problem as she went. When it came to wet work, Tank had a reputation, and he was also Luis’s first choice. Personally Gloria would have preferred to use the cousins from Bakersfield. They had carried out both the Kaitlyn Holmes hit and Alex Munsey’s without leaving behind a single trace of incriminating evidence at either scene. The problem was, the cousins weren’t right for this job. They routinely did extensive planning before carrying out a hit, and this one, of necessity, had to be done not only on the fly but also with very limited intelligence.
When it came to knowledge about what Hannah planned to do in L.A., Gloria had squat. Hannah intended to make an appearance at Alex Munsey’s funeral—that was it. Gloria knew the location for that, as well as the service’s start time and approximate end time. As for the old woman’s plans for before or after the service? Gloria had no idea. Where she was staying was a complete mystery, as were her transportation arrangements. Would Hannah show up at the funeral driving herself in a rental car? Maybe she’d opt for a limo service or perhaps even an Uber. Taking all those unknowns into consideration, Gloria’s participation was essential in carrying out the mission. She was the only one who would be able to identify the target and point the assailants in the right direction.
At nine Gloria phoned her answering service. Saying she’d been called out of town by a family emergency, she had them cancel her next three days’ worth of appointments. Only then did she place the call to Tank Rowland.
Tank and Uncle Luis had met and become friends years earlier, when they’d both been in juvie. When they were in their twenties, their paths had diverged. Uncle Luis had earned his “life without” sentence for murdering both his ex and her new boyfriend, while Tank, on the other hand, had reinvented himself and taken up what was ostensibly a respectable line of work, first in car sales and later as a car dealer of sorts.
He supposedly made his fortune dealing in high-end secondhand vehicles, using cash on the barrel to help financially strapped owners get out from under their overpriced sales contracts and leases. In fact, it was through just such a deal with Tank that Gloria Reece had ended up with the Range Rover she was currently driving. But Tank’s other line of work—his real moneymaker—was a full-service chop shop operating out of a scuzzy warehouse near the docks in San Pedro, where stolen vehicles could be stripped of their GPS locating devices and reduced to a collection of valuable spare parts within a matter of minutes.
“Why, Gloria, sweetheart,” Tank gushed when he heard who was on the phone. “How’s that new ride working out for you?”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m driving it and heading your way right now.”
“You in the market for another one?”
“Nope, but I need your help, though. I’m looking for a couple of day laborers to do some work for me tomorrow.”
“What kind of work?”
“Serious work—for Uncle Luis.”
“Speaking of him, how’s my good friend Louie doing these days?”
“About the same,” Gloria said. “Things don’t change much for him, but he keeps himself busy, and that’s what this is all about.”
“I see,” Tank said, “so maybe we should discuss this in person instead of by phone. Why don’t you stop by the house when you get to town? We can have a drink and a bite to eat, hash out the details, maybe have a little fun afterward.”
Gloria knew exactly what kind of fun he had in mind, and she was fine with that and was in fact dressed for that very contingency. When she’d gone to bed with him before, he’d given her a surprisingly large discount on her car purchase. In addition, staying with Tank in his upscale Malibu digs would be better for her than checking in to a hotel, where she’d end up leaving a paper trail and have to deal with avoiding countless security cameras. Tank’s uppity neighbors—people who would have been appalled had they known the details of his real background—would have security cameras, too, but they wouldn’t be capturing her face. Hers would be just another Range Rover in an area where Range Rovers were thick on the ground.
“Sounds like a deal,” she told him.
“What time will you get here?”
“I’ll pull off at the next rest area and put your address into the GPS,” she said. “Once I have an ETA, I’ll let you know.”
40
Cottonwood, Arizona, June 2017
When Stuart Ramey awakened, it was three o’clock in the afternoon. He could hear voices outside in the computer lab and was able to ascertain from listening that both Cami and B. were in the other room. His packed clothing was still there, loaded into boxes and ready for his stalled move, so after starting a pot of coffee he showered and changed into clean clothes. Fortunately, there was one remaining piece of leftover pizza in the box. He gobbled that down. Then, with coffee in hand, he ventured into the lab.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Good afternoon, sleepyhead.” Cami grinned at him. “It’s about time you climbed out of bed.”
“How are our newbies working out?”
B. answered without taking his fingers off his keyboard or his eyes off his monitor. “They’re great,” he said. “You guys did a terrific job with both the install and upload. Once you got rid of that one faulty blade, everything seems to be working well. As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are welcome to take off. With Ali out of town, I can stay here as long as necessary to finish fine-tuning the connections.”
“I can stay, too, if you’d like,” Stu offered.
“Not necessary,” B. replied. “I know for a fact that both you and Cami have put in way more hours this week than you should have. And what about your move? I thought you would be out of here and into the house in Sedona by now.”
“That was the plan,” Stu said, “but a few other things came up in the meantime.”
“Which you two took care of quite admirably,” B. told him. “But right now I want you to look out for you and get that move handled once and for all.”
“Okay, then,” Stu said, turning back the way he had come. “I guess I’ll go get started.”
“How much do you have left to do, and would you like some help?” Cami offered. “As you’ve already learned, I’m pretty good when it comes to hauling boxes around.”
“Not a whole lot,” Stu said. “Clothes and shaving kit. That’s about it, except for my computer collection, that is.”
Stu’s extensive computer collection was hardly a small matter. He had been collecting computers of all sizes, shapes, and pedigrees for years. Their boxes filled most of the studio’s generous closet space and were stacked floor to ceiling along the back wall of the
main room.
“What about food? Have you done any grocery shopping yet?”
“No,” Stu admitted. “Haven’t quite gotten around to buying groceries.”
“That’s about what I thought,” Cami said. “So we’ll do one load only of whatever will fit into your truck and my Prius. After that we’ll go grocery shopping so I can give you your first cooking lesson.”
“Appreciate the help,” Stu said grudgingly, “but I’m not so sure about that cooking lesson.”
After Stu decided to buy the house, Cami had done most of the strategic planning. Never having owned a house before, he’d been at a loss as to what he would need, what it would look like, or where it would go. Cami, with an instinctive eye for interior design, had sat him down in front of a free-shipping furniture Web site and walked him through the entire process, helping him select everything—indoor furniture, outdoor furniture, rugs, linens, pots and pans, silverware, and dishes. Because the house was being sold by B., they’d been able to have most everything delivered and put in place well before closing. When it came to sorting out Stu’s new kitchen, Cami had gone looking for equipment that would wean him away from his total dependence on carry-out dining. She was eager to help him start cooking for himself, and in order to do that he needed groceries.
While Cami went to retrieve a dolly, Stu returned to the apartment. As he did so, he realized he hadn’t heard anything from Frigg. That was unusual. Most mornings she provided him with a cheery wake-up call. Walking by his bedside table, he understood why. Both of his iPhones as well as his Bluetooth were lying right there. None of the pieces of equipment was on its respective charger, and they were all out of juice. No wonder Frigg was maintaining radio silence.
As soon as he put his Frigg iPhone on a charger, it started pinging with incoming messages. When he opened the CC2 laptop, he was greeted by a flashing red message, one of Frigg’s “howlers,” that filled the whole screen.
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?
Frigg had been carefully taught that human interaction needed to be conducted with a certain degree of civility. She usually began with a polite inquiry about his health or about how he’d slept. That was definitely missing here. Stu had gone AWOL on her, and obviously his AI was pissed.
Sorry about that. We had a network crash. By the time Cami and I finished up, I was so tired that I fell into bed without charging my devices. Why? What’s up?
Where is Ms. Reynolds right now?
Ali? She’s either in California or on her way there. She’s supposed to speak at a funeral tomorrow afternoon. Why?
Alex Munsey’s funeral, correct?
Yes, why? What’s going on?
In that case I believe we need to move Ms. Reynolds’s threat level from green to orange.
One of Frigg’s major responsibilities for her creator had been making and delivering threat assessments for Owen Hansen. These days, when people from High Noon were out on the road, and especially when B. was gallivanting around the globe, Stu fed all travel arrangements into Frigg. That way, in case of a crisis, whether a natural disaster or some kind of terrorist activity, Frigg could spot the problem early on and provide assistance in terms of making alternative arrangements. Stu didn’t remember giving Frigg the information about Ali’s heading for California, but he must have done so.
Cami swooped into the room just then, pushing the same dolly they’d been using all week long while moving crates of computers. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Stu shook his head and motioned for her to be quiet.
What are you getting at? Tell me. Switch the display over from CC2 to the wall monitor here in Cottonwood. Cami just showed up. Whatever you have, she’ll want to see it, too.
Good afternoon, Ms. Lee. I hope you’re having a pleasant day.
Cami rolled her eyes, but Frigg’s pointed politeness demanded the same in return. “Tell her thank you.”
She says thank you. Now, tell us!
You asked me to look into the Alex Munsey homicide. In doing so I located information about the memorial service, but I’ve found several things that are very concerning.
Like what? Walk us through it.
I found some questionable video footage.
Video footage from the homicide? My understanding is that it happened in the middle of nowhere, in an area with no video surveillance available.
Not footage of the homicide itself, but possibly related to the homicide. The footage has both audio and video components, although the sound quality is defective. We are in the process of remastering the sound. In the meantime I can send you what we have.
Okay, I’m turning on the CC2 speakers. Show us what you’ve got.
When the monitor came on, the video was some sort of interior shot with two people—a man and a woman—displayed on a split screen. Each of them held what appeared to be a black landline telephone receiver. The man in the left-hand screen was gray-haired and probably in his sixties. Since he was dressed in an orange jail-type jumpsuit, this was obviously a lockup facility of some kind. On the right was a reserved and properly attired woman wearing a dark blazer and a high-necked white blouse. At the base of her throat was an old-fashioned cameo brooch.
“What are we seeing here, and where are we?” Stu asked.
“Looks like a prison visitation room,” Cami supplied.
“That is correct, Ms. Lee,” Frigg said, “specifically the visitation room in Folsom State Prison. The individual on the left is Edward Gilchrist. The person on the right is his mother, Hannah Anderson Gilchrist.”
“Wait just a minute here,” Stu blurted out. “Don’t tell me that you’ve hacked into a prison’s interior surveillance system!”
“It was quite simple, really,” Frigg replied. “The state has dumbed down the password to make it easy for everyone to remember. Fido was able to unscramble it with very little difficulty. One moment while I fast-forward.”
As the images sped by, allowing glimpses of the same two people, Stu shook his head in frustration. When Frigg had come into his possession, he’d begun the process of isolating and removing some of her more questionable programs, her “pet programs,” as he had called them. Now, not only had she found a work-around for at least one of those forbidden programs, she had given it a petworthy name. Eventually Stu would need to dispose of Fido, too, but at this point, for good or ill, the damage was done. When Frigg hit the pause button and it was time for Stu to speak again, he made no effort to disguise his growing irritation.
“Look, Frigg,” he grumbled, “the murder I asked you to investigate happened sometime within the last two weeks, so why are you showing me surveillance footage—illicit surveillance footage, by the way—of someone who’s already in prison for some other crime and has been there for years? The time stamp here says we’re looking at images recorded in 2013.”
“When I researched material on the Alexandra Munsey homicide,” Frigg explained, “I found any number of references to an earlier homicide case, one that went to trial in 2012 and resulted in this individual, Edward Anthony Gilchrist, being sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. At your suggestion I have been making a systematic study of English language aphorisms. I believe the one that’s most applicable here is something about avian creatures with similar markings preferring to remain in close proximity to one another.”
“Yes, yes,” Stu said impatiently. “You mean, birds of a feather flock together?”
“Exactly,” Frigg said, “birds of a feather. I wanted to see if something similar might be occurring here—if one murder or murderer might be connected to another.”
“And what did you discover?”
“Please watch and listen,” Frigg replied as the video resumed. As she had said, the audio portion was difficult to make out, and watching the video portion was a frustrating process, not unlike trying to watch an online movie with the action being constantly interrupted by long periods of buffering. A few words would be spoken followed by
extended periods of silence. At first Stu thought that the recorder wasn’t functioning properly, but then he realized that there were some changes in facial expressions during the silences. Occasionally a stray hand gesture or two would appear at the bottom of the frame.
“What’s the point of all this?” Stu asked. “From the little I can hear, they seem to be discussing pretty ordinary day-to-day stuff. I’m surprised the prison system would bother keeping it.”
“They keep all of it,” Frigg said. “It’s stored in a library, with each prisoner’s file footage saved separately. But if you look closely, you’ll see that what they’re saying aloud isn’t all they’re saying.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re using sign language in those long silences when they’re not speaking aloud,” Cami interjected. “One of my classmates at UCLA was deaf, and they brought in a sign-language interpreter for all her classes.”
“That is correct, Ms. Lee,” Frigg replied. “I believe they’re communicating by way of a nonstandard form of sign language. I can read both BSL and ASL. What they’re using appears to be a shorthand version that requires the use of one hand rather than two, thus allowing each of them to hold the telephone receiver with one hand while continuing to sign with the other.”
“What about those the odd facial expressions?” Stu asked.
“Those appear to be part of the conversation as well. I have fed all the footage into the system, and my assets are currently attempting to locate the most common words.”
“In other words, Code Breaking 101,” Stu said. “Has anyone at the prison figured this out or noticed that something fishy was going on?”
“I don’t believe so,” Frigg replied. “I’ve checked through other files in addition to this one. When questionable footage is discovered, in either audio or video form, it is always flagged for future reference. So far there are no flags showing on any of the material I’ve found on Mr. Gilchrist.”
