The Scarecrow (14 page)

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

Carver stood up and rolled the chair back into place at the empty workstation.

“I’m running a program in my office and just wanted to check something on Mercer and Gissal.”

McGinnis didn’t seem to care. He looked through the main window into the server room, the heart and soul of the business.

“How’s that going?” he asked.

“A few routing hiccups,” Carver reported. “But we’ll work it out and we’ll be up and running before the target date. I may
have to go back out there but it will be a quick trip.”

“Good. Where is everybody? You alone?”

“Stone and Early are in the back, building a tower. I’m watching things up here until my night shift comes in.”

McGinnis nodded approvingly. Building another tower meant more business.

“Anything else happening?”

“We have an issue in tower thirty-seven. I moved things off it until I can figure it out. It’s temporary.”

“We lose anything?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“Whose blade?”

“Belongs to a private nursing facility in Stockton, California. Not a big one.”

McGinnis nodded. It wasn’t a client he needed to worry about.

“What about last week’s intrusion?” he asked.

“Taken care of. The target was Guthrie, Jones. They’re in tobacco litigation with a firm called Biggs, Barlow and Cowdry.
In Raleigh-Durham. Somebody at Biggs—a low-ranking genius—thought Guthrie was holding back on discovery and tried to take
a look for himself.”

“And?”

“The FBI has opened a child porn investigation and the genius is the primary target. I don’t think he’ll be around to bother
us very much longer.”

McGinnis nodded his approval and smiled.

“That’s my scarecrow,” he said. “You’re the best.”

Carver didn’t need McGinnis to say it to know it. But he was the boss. And Carver owed the older man for giving him the chance
to create his own lab and data center. McGinnis had put him on the map. A month didn’t go by that Carver wasn’t wooed by a
competitor.

“Thanks.”

McGinnis moved back to the mantrap door.

“I’m going to the airport later. We’ve got somebody coming in from San Diego and they’ll take the tour tomorrow.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“Tonight? Probably Rosie’s for barbecue.”

“The usual. And then the Highlighter?”

“If I have to. You want to come out? You could impress these people, you know, help me out.”

“Only thing they’ll be impressed by will be the naked women. Not my scene.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a tough job but somebody’s gotta do it. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

McGinnis left the control room. His office was up on the surface in the front of the building. It was private and he stayed
there most of the time to greet prospective clients and probably to keep clear of Carver. Their conversations in the bunker
always seemed a bit strained. McGinnis seemed to know to keep those times to a minimum.

The bunker belonged to Carver. The business was set up with McGinnis and the administrative staff up top at the entry point.
The web hosting center with all the designers and operators was on the surface as well. The high-security colocation farm
was below surface in the so-called bunker. Few employees had subterranean access and Carver liked it that way.

Carver sat down again at the workstation and went back online. He pulled up Angela Cook’s photo once more and studied it for
a few minutes, then switched over to Google. It was now time to go to work on Jack McEvoy and to see if he had been smarter
than Angela Cook in protecting himself.

He put the name into the search engine and soon a new thrill blasted through him. Jack McEvoy had no blog or any profile on
Facebook or anywhere else that Carver could find. But his name scored numerous hits on Google. Carver had initially thought
the name was familiar and now he knew why. A dozen years earlier McEvoy had written the definitive book on the killer known
as the Poet, and Carver had read that book—repeatedly. Check that, McEvoy had done more than simply write the book about the
killer. He had been the journalist who had revealed the Poet to the world. He had gotten close enough to breathe in the Poet’s
last breath.

Jack McEvoy was a giant slayer.

Carver slowly nodded as he studied McEvoy’s book jacket photo on an old Amazon page.

“Well, Jack,” he said out loud. “I’m honored.”

A
ngela Cook’s dog did her in. The dog’s name was Arfy—according to a five-month-old entry in her blog. From there it took Carver
only two variations—for fitting it into the six-character password requirement—to come up with Arphie and to successfully
log onto her
LATimes.com
account.

There was always something oddly tantalizing about being inside another person’s computer. The mercurial addiction of invasion.
It gave him a deep tug in the guts. It was like he was inside another’s mind and body. He was them.

His first stop was her e-mail. He opened it up and found that she kept a clean board. There were only two unread messages
and a few others that had been read and saved. He saw none from Jack McEvoy. The new messages were a how-are-you-doing-out-there-in-L.A.
from a friend in Florida—he knew this because the server was Road Runner in Tampa Bay—and an internal
Times
message that appeared to be a terse back-and-forth with a supervisor or an editor.

From: Alan Prendergast <
[email protected]
>

Subject: Re: collision

Date: May 12, 2009 2:11 PM PDT

To:
[email protected]

Hold tight. A lot can happen in two weeks.

From: Angela Cook <
[email protected]
>

Subject: collision

Date: May 12, 2009 1:59 PM PDT

To:
[email protected]

You told me I WOULD write it!

It looked like Angela was upset. But Carver didn’t know enough about the situation to understand it, so he moved on, opening
up her old mail folder and getting lucky. She had not cleared her old mail list in several days. Carver scrolled through hundreds
of messages and saw several from her colleague and cowriter Jack McEvoy. Carver began with the earliest one and started working
his way forward to the most recent messages.

Soon he realized it was all innocuous, just basic communication between colleagues about stories and meetings in the cafeteria
for coffee. Nothing salacious. Carver guessed from what he read that Cook and McEvoy were strangers until quite recently.
There was a stiffness or formality to the e-mails. No shorthand or slang employed by either. It appeared that Jack didn’t
know Angela until she had been assigned to the crime beat and he was assigned to train her.

In the last message, sent just a few hours before, Jack had sent Angela an e-mail with a proposed summary for a story they
were working on together. Carver eagerly read it and felt his concerns about detection ease with every word.

From: Jack McEvoy <
[email protected]
>

Subject: collision slug

Date: May 12, 2009 2:23 PM PDT

To:
[email protected]

Angela, this is what I sent Prendo for the futures budget. Let me know if you want any changes.

Jack

COLLISION—On April 25th the body of Denise Babbit was found in the trunk of her own car in a beachside parking lot in Santa
Monica. She had been sexually assaulted and asphyxiated when a plastic bag was pulled over her head and secured with clothesline.
The exotic dancer with a history of drug problems died with her eyes wide open. It wasn’t long before police traced a lone
fingerprint left on her car’s rearview mirror to a 16-year-old drug dealer and gangbanger from a South L.A. housing project.
Alonzo Winslow, who grew up fast in the projects, not knowing his father and rarely seeing his mother, was arrested and charged
as a juvenile with the crime. He confessed his role to the police and now awaits efforts by the state to prosecute him as
an adult. We talk to the suspect and his family as well as those who knew the victim, and trace this fatal collision back
to its origins. 90 inches—McEvoy and Cook, w/art by Lester

Carver read it again. He felt the muscles in his neck start to relax. McEvoy and Cook didn’t know anything. Jack the giant
slayer was climbing the wrong bean stalk.

Just as he had planned it. Carver made a mental note to check back to read the story when it was published. He would be one
of only three people on the planet to know how wrong it was—including that poor soul Alonzo Winslow.

He killed the list and brought up Cook’s sent messages. There was just the overlap of the back-and-forth with McEvoy and the
missive to Prendergast. It was all pretty dry and useless to Carver.

He closed the e-mail and went to the browser. He scrolled down, seeing all the websites Cook had visited in recent days. He
saw
trunkmurder.com
as well as several visits to Google and the websites of other newspapers. He then saw a website that intrigued him. He opened
up
DanikasDungeon.com
and was treated to a visit to a Dutch bondage-and-domination site replete with photos of women controlling, taunting and
torturing men. Carver smiled. He doubted there was a journalistic reason for Cook’s visit. He believed he was getting a glimpse
of Angela Cook’s private interests. Her own dark journey.

Carver didn’t linger. He put the information aside, knowing it might be useful at a later time. He tried Prendergast next,
since it appeared his password was obvious. He went with Prendo and was in on his first attempt. People were so stupid and
obvious sometimes. He went to the mailbox, and there at the top of the list was a message from McEvoy that had been sent only
two minutes earlier.

“What are you up to, Jack?”

Carver opened the message.

From: Jack McEvoy <
[email protected]
>

Subject: collision

Date: May 12, 2009 4:33 PM PDT

To:
[email protected]

Cc:
[email protected]

Prendo, I was looking for you but you were at dinner. The story is changing. Alonzo
didn’t
confess to the killing and I don’t even think he did it. I’m heading to Vegas tonight to pursue things further tomorrow.
Will fill you in then. Angela can handle the beat. I’ve got dimes.

—Jack

Carver felt his gorge rise in his throat. His neck muscles tightened sharply and he pushed back from the table in case he
had to vomit. He pulled the trash can out from underneath so he could use it if necessary. His vision momentarily darkened
at the edges but then the darkness passed and he cleared.

He kicked the trash can back into place and leaned forward to study the message again.

McEvoy had made the connection to Las Vegas. Carver now knew that he had only himself to blame. He had repeated his modus
operandi too soon. He had left himself open and now Jack the giant slayer was on his trail. A critical mistake. McEvoy would
get to Las Vegas and with even minimal luck he would put things together.

Carver had to stop that. A critical mistake didn’t have to be a fatal mistake, he told himself. He closed his eyes and thought
for a long moment. It brought his confidence back. Some of it. He knew he was prepared for all eventualities. The beginning
tendrils of a plan were reaching to him and the first order of business was to delete the message on the screen in front of
him, and then go back into Angela Cook’s account and delete it from her mailbox as well. Prendergast and Cook would never
see it and, with any luck, they’d never know what Jack McEvoy knew.

Carver deleted the message but before signing off uploaded a spy-ware program that would allow him to track all of Prendergast’s
Internet activities in real time. He would know who Prendergast e-mailed, who contacted him and what websites he viewed. Carver
then returned to Cook’s account and quickly took the same actions.

McEvoy was next but Carver decided that could come later—after Jack got to Vegas and was operating out there alone. First
things first. He got up and put his hand on the reader next to the glass door to the server room. Once the scan was completed
and approved, the door unlocked and he slid it open. It was cold in the server room, always kept at a brisk sixty-two degrees.
His steps echoed on the raised metal flooring as he walked down the third row to the sixth tower. He unlocked the front of
the refrigerator-size server with a key, bent down and pulled two of the data blades out a quarter inch. He then closed and
relocked the door and headed back to his workstation.

Within a few seconds a screen alarm buzzed from the workstations. He typed in commands that would bring up the response protocol.
He then waited a few more seconds and reached over to the phone. He pushed the intercom button and typed in McGinnis’s extension.

“Hey, boss, you still there?”

“What is it, Wesley? I’m about to head out.”

“We’ve got a code three problem. You better come look.”

Code 3 meant drop everything and move.