Moving Target (36 page)

“He’s not the only one,” Ali said, looking across the room at Connor. He sat on the sofa, hugging the dog with what was close to a death grip. He looked so lost and alone that it broke her heart. “I’ve got to go,” she told B. Ending the call, she turned her full attention to the boy. She sat down next to him on the couch and joined him in patting the dog. He wasn’t comforted.

“I heard what you said,” he declared accusingly. “Jillian’s dead. How can that be? I liked her. I don’t understand how she can be dead. And what if the same thing happens to my mom and Thad? What if they’re dead, too? What will happen to me?”

With no acceptable responses to the distraught child’s barrage of unanswerable questions, Ali was relieved to hear a light tap on the door. At once, both dogs set off a clamor. Ali was struggling to hang on to her squirming pug and to help Connor contain his when Leland Brooks let himself into the house.

“There’s a crime scene out there,” she said. “How’d you manage to talk your way past all those cops?”

He grinned back at her. “Charm is good,” he said, “but being old helps. All I told them was that I needed to use the facilities. They let me right through.” Coming across the room, Leland stopped in front of Ali and patted her dog on top of the head. It quieted immediately, allowing Leland to turn to Connor and the second dog. “My name is Mr. Brooks,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m a friend of Ms. Reynolds here. Who are you?”

The boy gravely accepted the proffered handshake. “I’m Connor,” he
said. “I’m scared. Jillian is dead and my mom is gone and I don’t know if she’s ever coming back.”

“My,” Leland said. “This all sounds rather serious. We’ll have to see if there’s something to be done about it. Do you mind if I sit down here with you and your dog?”

Connor said nothing as Leland joined them on the long sofa. When there was yet another knock on the door, Ali handed her pug to Leland and went to answer. She found Detective Richard Hernandez standing on the porch.

“This isn’t my case,” he said quickly. “I heard the radio transmission and knew it was LeAnne’s house. I was afraid it was her. I’m glad it isn’t. What’s going on?”

“My mom is gone,” Connor answered first. “She says my friend Jillian is dead.” He nodded toward Ali as tears flooded his eyes. “I liked Jillian,” he added. “She used to bring me jawbreakers and sneak them to me sometimes when Mom wasn’t looking.”

“Wait,” Detective Hernandez said, looking from one face to another. “How do you know the victim’s name? The guys outside told me they hadn’t made an ID yet.”

“Her name is Jillian Sosa,” Ali explained. “She used to be Lance’s girlfriend. I didn’t know her name when I found the body, but I do now.”

“How?” Detective Hernandez asked.

“I still want to know what happened to Jillian,” Connor insisted, looking at Ali. “Why won’t you tell me?”

Before Ali could to respond to either question, Leland inserted himself into the conversation, asking Connor, “Did you say these dogs have been here with you all morning?”

Connor’s questioning eyes swiveled from Ali’s face to Leland’s. He nodded.

“Have they had anything to eat?” Leland asked.

Connor shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I’ll bet they’re hungry.” Leland rose from the couch and beckoned
for the boy to follow. “How about the two of us take those dogs of yours out to the kitchen and see if we can find them some food?” he suggested. “What are their names again?”

“Duke and Duchess,” Connor answered. “Duchess is the black one. Duke is brown. Grandma says he’s apricot.”

“I suppose, with a name like Duchess, she’s a girl dog, right?” Leland asked.

“Right,” Connor told him. Obligingly allowing himself to be diverted, Connor led Leland out of the room.

Ali turned to Detective Hernandez. “Here’s the short version of what happened. Connor woke up this morning and found everyone—his mother, his grandmother, and his brother—gone. He was left here alone.”

“Gone?” Detective Hernandez asked. “As in taken? Isn’t this where we started yesterday with what happened to LeAnne’s mother?”

“It sounds like it,” Ali agreed, “and it may be the same people. We’ve learned that the program Lance used for the ransom demand was bogus, and it came with some serious strings attached. The bad guys may have decided to try again in hopes of getting the real program.”

Another knock on the door announced the arrival of two plainclothes detectives.

“Look,” Ali said. “I’m going to be stuck here giving a statement. Call B. You still have his number?”

Hernandez nodded.

“He’ll be able to bring you up to speed.”

The two new arrivals looked first at Ali and then at Detective Hernandez. “Hey, Rich,” one of them said. “What are you doing here? You’re property; we’re homicide. Isn’t this supposed to be Mike’s and my case?”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood when the call went out,” Hernandez said. “Thought I’d stop by and lend a hand.”

“We’ve got it.”

Biting his lip, Detective Hernandez turned and was gone. The lead
detective introduced himself as Michael Hopper and his partner as Alvin Harris. They got straight to business. Ali gave them her information as succinctly as she could, losing patience as they went over and over the same ground. Hopper’s questions seemed to focus on the idea that LeAnne was the fleeing perpetrator of a homicide rather than the victim of some other crime. He rejected Ali’s assertion that no mother would willingly leave a six-year-old child at home alone. He also took exception to what he referred to disparagingly as Ali’s “tentative” identification of the victim. The more he asked, the less she wanted to tell him. As the interminable interview drew to an end, Detective Harris summoned a crime scene tech, who swabbed Ali’s hands to check for gunfire residue.

“You’ll make yourself available in case we have any more questions?” Detective Hopper asked when the technician left.

“Of course,” Ali said.

Hopper nodded to his partner. “All right, Alvin,” he said. “I’m thinking our next call should be to social services. Have them come by and pick up the kid.”

Ali remembered the stark dread that had flashed across Connor’s face at the idea of being hauled away by the cops. It was understandable: After Lance was arrested, he had disappeared from this little boy’s life for the better part of a year. The last thing Ali wanted to happen was for Connor to be exiled into some form of foster care.

“Look,” she said, “Connor’s older brother Lance is in Austin. We’ll be going there as soon as we finish here. If you leave him with me, I’ll see to it that he’s with family rather than being dumped with complete strangers.”

“Didn’t you already tell us that the brother is in a hospital?” Hopper replied. “And let’s not forget, Lance’s ex-girlfriend is the one who’s dead in the garage. This doesn’t sound like a good call to me.”

“By all means,” Ali agreed. “Let’s not forget that someone has been murdered. And let’s not forget that Phyllis Rogers, the grandmother who is missing again, was taken and held hostage for a number of hours yesterday. No wonder he’s scared.”

“Ms. Reynolds—” Hopper began, but Ali continued. “Until you’re able to determine if the rest of the boy’s family has been kidnapped, don’t you think we should at least regard Connor as a potential target? What happens if you put him into the system and he gets shipped off to some unsuspecting foster family? What are the chances that you’ll be endangering them as well? My fiancé’s company, High Noon, has engaged a former SEAL to provide beefed-up security for Lance. He would also be looking out for Connor.”

Obviously unconvinced, the two detectives exchanged glances. Hopper stood up. He went over to the swinging door that led into the kitchen, pushed it open, and peered into the other room. Looking over the detective’s shoulder, Ali caught a glimpse of the peaceful scene in the kitchen. Leland and Connor sat huddled over the kitchen table, intently focused on a game of checkers. Under Leland’s chair, the two pugs lay back to back, sleeping.

Hopper sighed and let the door swing shut.

“Please,” Ali said, pressing what she felt to be a slight advantage. “If you’d like me to, I’d be happy to discuss this matter with your captain.”

She knew she was skating on the edge of truth in any number of ways. Father McLaughlin was a retired SEAL, all right, but he had come into the picture the same way Sister Anselm had: through the efforts of Bishop Gillespie rather than through High Noon Enterprises. As for Connor’s big brother? Lance was in no position to assume custody of anyone. For one thing, for the next week and a half anyway, he was a minor. He was also still officially an inmate at the San Leandro Juvenile Detention Center. Ali knew that if she were forced to follow through on her threat to go to Hopper’s superiors, she would probably lose.

Much to her amazement, Detective Hopper caved. Maybe he didn’t like dealing with social services. Maybe filling out their forms would have been one piece of paper too many. Maybe he just wanted to finish up this day’s work at a decent enough hour to have Saturday dinner with his wife and kids.

“So we can state in our report that you’ll be transporting him . . . What’s his name again?”

“Connor.”

“You’ll be transporting Connor to Austin and handing him into the custody of a family member?”

“That’s correct. His brother Lance.”

“All right,” he said. “I guess we’re done here.”

Once the two detectives were out the door, Ali grabbed her phone and dialed B.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“The detectives just now left. What’s going on?”

“You remember that worm Lance was so proud of?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“It worked like a charm—even better than a charm. Stu has more broadband connection than anyone down here, so he’s processing the data that the worm sent to Lance’s cloud from four different computers. Data-dump analysis takes time. Stu’s still working on the first batch. That one has an IP address that leads back to the computer lab at San Leandro High School. The user ID is Zorro. I’ve rented another car. I’m on my way to San Leandro right now. I’m hoping to get there before the computer club meeting is over.”

“Why?”

“Because according to Stu, the stuff stored on that computer is dynamite. It’s full of all kinds of information about the Cabrillo cartel’s dealings with drug contacts and clients that stretch from Monterrey, Mexico, to Denver, Colorado. I want to talk to the new club adviser and find out who exactly uses that computer. My first guess is Jillian, but I need to be sure.”

“You’re saying she used Lance’s program to hack in to a drug cartel’s computer system?”

“Either Jillian did it or it was someone else. That’s what they were trying to do when the worm wiped out their computer capability.”

“B.,” Ali said, “this all sounds really dangerous.”

“It is dangerous. For everybody involved, High Noon included. These are very bad guys. Stu says that his preliminary analysis indicates there’s enough detail in the files to blow the inner workings of the cartel sky-high.”

“Maybe they should have hired some cyber security,” Ali said.

Her bit of gallows humor fell flat. B. didn’t respond.

“But why would a high school computer club mix it up with a Mexican drug cartel?” Ali asked.

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out by talking to the rest of the kids in the club.”

“They have no way of knowing Jillian is dead, do they?”

“They shouldn’t,” B. said. “As far as I know, the victim’s name has yet to be released.”

“Shouldn’t you call in someone to go with you?” Ali asked. “Detective Hernandez, maybe?”

“I already told him some of it,” B. replied, “but I’m worried about bringing law enforcement any deeper into all of this than they already are. For one thing, the information the worm captured constitutes an illegal wiretap. If that comes to light, High Noon will be in big trouble. What’s more, without warrants in place, none of what we have could be used in court, although if I were a crook who called myself El Cabrillo, I’d be looking for somebody with blood in my eye.”

“Which means,” Ali said, “that we have vital information about the bad guys, none of which we can use, but which has the potential of putting us in the middle of a shooting war?”

“That’s about it,” B. answered. “Lance’s GHOST poked a very sharp stick into a hive of killer bees, and they may be swarming after us.”

Ali thought about that. “Look,” she said finally, “why don’t I drop Leland and Connor off someplace so they can eat lunch? Then I’ll come meet you at the school. How far away are you?”

“According to the GPS, I’m about fifteen minutes out.”

“I’ll see you there.”

There was a slight hiccup in the phone. “Hold on,” B. said. “Stu’s on the other line. I’ll call you back.”

Ali stood in the kitchen doorway silently watching the checkers game. Moments later, her e-mail alert sounded. She had two messages, both containing a photo. One looked like Jillian Sosa in a senior photo. The other appeared to be a school photo of the same girl taken several years earlier. The caption under that one said: Serafina Miguel.

A minute or so later, B. called back. “You’ve seen the photos?”

“Either Serafina and Jillian are the same person, or they’re twins. What’s the story?”

“Stu’s looking into it. The second photo comes from the
Los Angeles Times
five years ago, when she graduated from UCLA with a master’s degree in computer science at age sixteen. That picture was part of a story celebrating the success of immigrants from Mexico.

“Five years ago?” Ali asked. “What’s she doing posing as a senior at San Leandro High School? How did she even get admitted?”

“Good question,” B. said. “Something else for Stu to work on when he has a free moment.”

“Think about this,” Ali said. “We’re about to enter a high school building where someone in the computer club has been gathering information on a drug cartel,” Ali said. “At least one member of that club has been shot to death. Is it a good idea to go there when the only weapon we have between us is a single Taser?”

“You could always bring along our secret weapon,” B. said.