Naked Justice (15 page)

She fluttered her eyelashes. “Am I not your faithful aide-de-camp? Am I not resourceful beyond measure?”

“Uh-huh,” Ben answered. “But seriously, how did you find her?”

“You know what they say.
Cherchez la femme
.”

“Christina!”

“She was listed in the phone book.”

Ben smiled. “Amazing.”

“Now this is odd,” Jones muttered from behind his computer.

Ben and Christina crossed the office to his desk. A steady ping, every second or so, was coming from the computer. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been doing some research online,” Jones explained. “Follow-ups on the city council, like you wanted. I sent out a lot of feelers on the Web and to some of the big databases and search engines on the Net.”

Ben leaned toward the computer screen. “Did you get a response?”

“Oh, yeah. According to my e-mail folder”—he clicked his mouse twice—“I received exactly four thousand eight hundred sixty-six responses.”

“You’re joking.”

“And they’re still coming in.”

Christina crowded between them. “I can’t believe there are that many computer hackers with titillating stories about city councilmen.”

“I don’t know what these messages are about. Look for yourself. They’re not addressed to me. They’re addressed to the Boss.”

Ben saw his name headlining a tall, staggered stack of cyber-envelopes:

BENJAMIN KINCAID, ESQ.

“To me? That doesn’t make any sense,” Ben whispered. “I don’t know any of these computer hackers.”

“You may not know them,” Jones replied. “But they sure know you.”

“Four thousand of them?”

“And counting. They’re still coming in.”

The computer suddenly erupted with a series of beeps and bells. Screens flashed. The stack of cyber-envelopes expanded to infinity. “What’s going on?”

Jones was frantically pushing keyboard buttons and clicking the mouse. “I don’t know. The computer seems to have lost its mind. It’s showing hundreds of messages coming in at once. No, make that thousands. The computer’s jamming up.”

“Get rid of them,” Ben said.

Jones continued banging the keyboard. “I can’t. That’s just it. Whoever is sending these messages is tying up the modem connection. I can’t get rid of them and I can’t get past them to do anything else. I can’t even exit.” He turned suddenly. “Boss, this is computer warfare.”

“Huh?”

“Sabotage. Someone doesn’t want me to be able to do my work. Correction: doesn’t want
you
to be able to do
your
work.”

“How could anyone send so many messages all at once?”

“Our friend must have a program or subroutine that generates them spontaneously. Spamming, we call it. This is pretty sophisticated stuff. Someone is trying to screw you up but good.”

Ben got an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Let’s look at one of them,” he suggested. “Can we do that?”

“I think so.” Jones clicked on the top envelope in the computer window. A short message was revealed:
SICK HEART.

“That’s it?”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“Let’s look at the next one.”

They looked at the next message, and the next and the next, but they were all the same:
SICK HEART.

“This is really weird,” Jones said.

“Second the motion,” Ben murmured.

“Look,” Christina said, “we need to know where these messages are coming from. Can you trace them?”

“That’s way beyond my capabilities,” Jones answered. “There aren’t many skid marks on the superhighway.”

“Well, can you tell who’s sending it?”

“I can get his online name and e-mail address, but almost no one uses their real name.” He punched a few buttons on the keyboard. “The sender has direct access to the Net. He’s not using CompuServe or Delphi or any third-party carrier.”

“Sick Heart?” Christina said aloud. “What does that mean?”

“It’s what Wallace Barrett said the other day in court,” Ben replied. “He said he was sick at heart about the killings.”

“Apparently someone else is, too,” Jones said. “Someone who isn’t too happy that you took Barrett’s case.”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Christina said. “It’s not like this is the first time Ben ever represented an unpopular defendant. Ben’s made a lot of enemies these past few years.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Ben said. “Now I feel much better.”

“Look, it’s probably just a prank. I mean, it’s not as if it threatened you.”

“No. Not yet.”

“I think the best thing is to just ignore it.”

“I can’t ignore it,” Jones said, throwing his hands into the air. “My keyboard is totally locked up.”

“Can’t you block messages from this source?”

“Not without access to the keyboard. I can’t do anything right now.”

“Then pull the plug.”

Jones looked horrified. “Boss! Do you know what you’re saying?”

“It’s not a living being, Jones. It’s a machine.”

“Says you.”

“I don’t think you have any choice. It’s no good to you like this.”

Jones sighed. “True. But unplugging it won’t make the interference go away. The messages will just stack up in my mailbox until they can be delivered.”

“We’ll get a new phone line put in and get a new e-mail address. Will that take care of the problem?”

Jones shrugged. “I guess. Till Sick Heart gets the new number, anyway.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t.”

“In the meantime, how will I get my work done?”

“I’ve still got my old college typewriter in my office.”

Jones looked aghast. “Are you joking? Me? A typewriter? As in typing paper? Return bars? Liquid Paper?”

“I don’t see that we have any alternative.”

“Well, this is just beyond the pale.”

Ben didn’t hear Jones’s dismayed protestations. He was still staring at the flickering computer screen.

Sick Heart. Sick Heart. Sick Heart.

M
IKE MORELLI RACED TO
finish his paperwork. He had reports to complete pertaining to the still-unsolved murder of the homeless man, plus he needed to get the Barrett murder report finished while it was still reasonably fresh on his mind. He knew that his report would be closely scrutinized by judges and reporters, and worst of all, by lawyers, and it would probably end up as Prosecution Exhibit One, so it had better be done right.

The city council had finally allocated funds for the purchase of computers for the Tulsa police department, and Mike now had one on his desk. He had never used one before and probably wouldn’t have started if Chief Blackwell hadn’t complained about the time Mike wasted battering out reports on typewriters. So Mike had agreed to give the computer a try. So far, his work was taking about four times as long to complete. Last night, he had inadvertently deleted an entire day’s work. Why didn’t they tell you up front that you had to save before you could turn off the computer? With a typewriter, when you were done, you were done.

Mike had resorted to reading the manual, the last refuge of the desperate. He found it far from illuminating; indeed, he began to wonder if it was perhaps written in some foreign language, Urdu maybe, and was not intended to be understood by outsiders.

Finally he slammed the manual shut. This was simply not going to work. He’d finish the reports in crayon if he had to.

A flutter of activity in the doorway caught his eye. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

Detective Prescott smiled a smarmy smile. “Just wanted to see how your report is coming along.”

“Get out of my face before—”

Jack Bullock strolled into the office a step behind Prescott. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Morelli.”

“Are you two traveling together now?”

“Does that bother you?”

“I would’ve thought you had better things to do at the moment.”

Not waiting for an invitation that would not have been forthcoming, Bullock flopped down into one of Mike’s chairs. “Doing what?”

“Well, for starters, taking care of the Barrett prosecution.”

“Ah, but that’s exactly why I’m here.” He steepled his fingers in front of his face and peered through them. “To make sure you don’t screw it up.”

“If you have a complaint about my work, take it to Chief Blackwell.”

“Oh, believe me, I already have. But even he can’t influence what you write in your report.”

An unhappy smile thinned Mike’s lips. “Is that why you’re here?”

“In part.”

“You’ll get a copy of my report at the same time as everyone else.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Mike felt the steam inside rising. He gritted his teeth. “In case you’ve forgotten, Mr. Prosecutor, I don’t work for you.”

“Cut the macho cop crap,” Prescott said, intervening between the two of them. “Bullock’s trying to help you.”

Mike fixed Prescott with his glare. “You put him up to this, didn’t you, Prescott? You’re trying to cover your ass.”

“We’re trying to cover everyone’s ass,” Bullock said, “because everyone’s ass is going to be on the line if this Barrett prosecution goes sour. Including yours.”

“Being a bit melodramatic, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. The eyes of the world are on us, Morelli. Did you realize this story is being tracked on CNN? Fact. Did you know Court TV has been granted gavel-to-gavel coverage rights? Fact. If we live to be a hundred, we’ll never see another case with this high a profile. So naturally, the city council is very concerned that everything goes right.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that the great city of Tulsa, and its government employees, not come off looking bad.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’ve got to get a conviction, you stupid son of a bitch,” Prescott interrupted. “Meaning we’ve got to lock this sorry bastard up and throw away the fucking key.”

Mike calmly placed a toothpick in his mouth. “That’s what I thought it meant.”

“So you can see where we might be concerned about your report,” Bullock continued. “We don’t want anything in it to impede the prosecution.”

“I am not going to lie in my report,” Mike said firmly.

“I’m not asking you to lie,” Bullock replied. “I am an officer of the court, after all. At the same time, there’s no reason to include unnecessary details that might impair our case.”

“Like the fact that Prescott totally screwed up the crime scene?”

Prescott’s fists clenched. “That’s not true, you—”

“It is true!” Mike snapped back. “You did the most half-assed job of controlling a crime scene I’ve seen in my entire career. You went in assuming you already had the culprit, so it didn’t matter whether you preserved the evidence. That was a stupid, stupid mistake.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Bullock raised his hands. “Everyone in this room knows that mistakes were made. Why on earth do we need to parade that fact before the media and the defense?”

“I am a member of this police force, Bullock. My job is putting bad guys behind bars. It’s what I do. What makes you think I would do anything that would hurt the prosecution?”

Bullock paused. “Detective Prescott saw Ben Kincaid coming out of your office earlier today.”

Mike glared at Prescott. “Are you spying on me now, you sorry excuse for a—”

“It was purely a coincidence, I’m sure,” Bullock cut in. “Just in the right place at the right time. But it does raise some disturbing questions. Why on earth would our investigating homicide detective be chatting with the lawyer for the defense?”

So that was it, Mike thought. Now this whole charade was starting to make sense to him. “He came to me because you’ve been so damn uncooperative.”

“I consider that part of my job.”

“Well, it isn’t. You’re legally obligated to provide all potentially exculpatory evidence to the defense. You’re required to identify your witnesses and exhibits in advance of trial. When you screw around and lie and hide the ball, you cheapen all of us.”

“Very stirring speech,” Bullock replied curtly. “But unfortunately, it only reinforces my suspicion that, for whatever perverse reason, you may be sympathizing with the defense.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Mike said defiantly. “I know the law and I follow it. That’s all there is to it.”

“I disagree. This raises some serious ethical issues. After all, he’s the lawyer for the defense, and you’re a lead witness for the prosecution.”

“Witness? When did I become a witness?”

“You’re the investigating officer at the scene, Lieutenant. I need you to explain to the jury”—he gave emphasis to each word—“that everything at the crime scene was done exactly as it should have been done.”

“Like hell!”

“Look, I’m aware that you and Kincaid have some history.”

“I believe you and he have a little history, too,” Mike snapped back.

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t it? Isn’t that part of the reason you’re so determined to win this case?”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Lieutenant. I’m trying to preserve the reputation of this city. I’m trying to make it a safe place to live, to raise children. These petty motivations you suggest have nothing to do with it.”

“I’ll just bet.”

Bullock rose slowly out of his chair. “Lieutenant Morelli, you may not work for me directly, but the police department is answerable to the district attorney’s office. I expect your full cooperation on this matter.”

“You’ll have it,” Mike answered. “To the full letter of the law.”

“I’ll have it, period.” Bullock replied. “Do you understand me?”

“I understand what you’re saying, yes.”

“If I come to believe for one moment that you are not giving me your complete cooperation, I will see that your employment with this city is terminated immediately.”

“You don’t have the power.”

“How much power do you think I need?” He leaned across the desk till he was practically nose to nose with Mike. “Chief Blackwell is already considering sacking you.”

“That’s not true.”

“The city council is considering the wisdom of your continued employment, too,” Prescott added. “They have some grave concerns about your conduct.”

“Thanks to you, no doubt, you weasel. I haven’t done anything improper—”