Georgia was back in Chevy Chase the next morning before seven. A cold rain that had begun overnight drummed on the roof of the Toyota. But she’d slept well. Her hotel room turned out to be a delight: a king bed, flat-screen TV, audio system, whirlpool bath, and refrigerator stocked with everything she could imagine, all in a renovated but dignified older building.
She was prepared to stake out Remson’s home as long as it took, but he exited his house thirty minutes later, opened his garage door, and, a moment later, backed a white Volvo down the driveway. She followed at a discreet distance as he crisscrossed streets and ended up on Wisconsin Avenue heading northwest. Wisconsin eventually became Rockville Pike, and he kept driving past a huge shopping mall. Outside the dense urban area, rain mixed with ground-level fog, which made Georgia think of Chicago’s Forest Preserve on a cold, rainy day. Finally Remson pulled into a parking lot about the size of a football stadium. Behind it a five-story building with a neon sign said they’d arrived at DataMaster.
She waited for Remson to stop, then parked a few rows away. She noted video cameras attached to poles every few rows. She should have parked elsewhere. Too late. Using her umbrella to shield her face, she followed him into a businesslike lobby. It was still early, and she watched as he got on the elevator alone and punched a button. The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. It was too risky to follow him up, but she spotted a coffee shop in the lobby and went in to plan her next move. After ordering a latte, she headed to an area with a view of the elevators. She sat in a roomy upholstered chair beside a fake fireplace with soft lighting, which some coffee shops were now adopting so that their atmosphere oozed “cozy and comfortable” rather than the ultrasleek of Starbucks.
She sipped her drink and looked up DataMaster on her phone. Its website proclaimed it was a total Internet security firm that offered ironclad protection of corporate systems and provided a host of cybersecurity solutions and services. What services? And what solutions? Based on what had emerged about companies like Cambridge Analytica and the Israeli-owned Black Cube, companies like DataMaster might be offering much more.
From talking to Zach Dolan, Georgia had learned that some data-protection companies had one mission for some clients, but another for others. Companies that sold data-protection systems might also offer data-mining services and, in some cases, actual intel gathering for political and corporate clients. Was DataMaster one of those? Were they harvesting data while masquerading as a data-protection company? Was Willie Remson a geek who stole Facebook data? Is that why he hung out on Dena’s ResistanceUSA page? Maybe he’d maintained the flirtation with Dena only as long as it took him to get all the group members’ information, and then disappeared. The timing worked.
Or was Georgia just paranoid?
Judging from the fact that the entire building was leased to DataMaster, whatever the company was doing was working. She sipped her drink, glad for the umpteenth time she’d never joined Facebook. She and Sam had discussed it. Sam’s graphics business depended on a robust online presence—Sam called it “branding.” Her social media accounts, including her company’s Facebook page, showcased examples of her work. But Georgia didn’t want to be found. She was the “finder.”
The issue was how much information data miners had on the individuals they targeted. But finding out what company had what data was, according to Zach, “pissing in the wind.” This was a new industry, and there was no oversight. On the other hand, Sam argued that organizations like Facebook made Georgia’s work easier. As a hunter, Georgia profited by the accumulation of data in one place. Why complain?
Sam had a point. In the past, only law enforcement or the alphabet intelligence organizations had the resources to pry into people’s lives. Now the same information could end up in the hands of anyone who paid for it. Including Georgia. In fact, Zach complained that the price for data, especially on the dark web, had shot up ever since the EU enacted stricter privacy laws. Whether that was good or bad was a question Georgia ducked. She didn’t have the answer.
She caught up on emails while she waited. Nothing from Jackie, the woman who’d sold Jarvis the yurt, but she hadn’t expected much. She checked in with Jimmy, then Paul Kelly. Carl Baldwin was still AWOL.
“Anything on Kitty, Jarvis’s sister? Do we know if she’s back in town?”
Kelly hadn’t heard anything. Georgia called Betsy Start, the manager of Kitty’s building. She hadn’t seen or heard anything, and Kitty’s mail was piling up. But the store had called, and they would be picking up the yurt in a few days. She thanked Georgia for her help.
By the time she finished her calls, the lunch hour was approaching, but a steady rain persisted, and she hoped the lousy weather would keep people inside. A deli-style sandwich place stood next to the coffee shop, and by half past eleven, people were lined up out the door. Thirty minutes later, Willie Remson appeared alone. He went to the back of the line. While waiting, he took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. What guy carries a hankie these days? Georgia waited until he’d paid for his sandwich and a pop.
She intercepted him at the elevators. “Willie Remson?”
He spun around. “Yes?”
She wasn’t wearing her ball cap, and it took him a moment to recognize her. Surprise flooded across his face. “You!”
He tipped his head to the side. “Do you work—” He cut himself off as comprehension dawned. His eyes narrowed, and he looked around in every direction, as if he wanted to cut and run. “You’ve been following me.”
“My name is Georgia Davis and I’m an investigator for an attorney in Chicago. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”
“I—I don’t really have a minute. I’m on a deadline.”
She ignored him. “The coffee shop will work. There’s a private alcove in the back.”