Val took fewer than five steps into the WAVE Squad office the next morning when her partner grabbed her by the arm.
“Don’t even bother sitting down.” Grimes handed her a foam cup of steaming coffee. With cream, even. “We got a call from Sanjit at VeroniCare. Gotta head there, stat.”
“What’s up?” Val sipped the bitter brew. “It’s not even eight. They don’t even open for another hour. What could be so urgent?”
“They got another threat.” Grimes shoved a sheet of paper into Val’s free hand and headed toward the door. “Read it on the way. There’s a break-in involved, too.”
Riding down the elevator, Val scanned the page, a case report filed the night before. Or, rather, that morning, around 2:00 a.m. Sure enough, a breaking-and-entering report. Someone smashed the glass front door of the salon and stolen two laptops along with a few hundred dollars’ worth of creams and lotions. An update filed around 6:00 a.m. noted that someone attempted to hack their central network using the stolen laptops.
“The report looks pretty thorough,” Val said. “What else did Sanjit say?”
“Someone called in more threats,” Grimes said. The elevator doors opened and Shelby Clearwater greeted them with a wave. “I called in the expert,” Grimes added, waving back to her. “Shelby’s gonna try to track down the IP address of the hack.”
“If that’s even possible,” Shelby said once they’d clambered inside the police cruiser. She rode in back, Val in front with Grimes, who drove. “From what you described, and from what we learned last time about VeroniCare security, these guys used pretty advanced methods. They probably used a VPN to cover their trail.”
“Wait, don’t tell me.” Val recalled her first encounter with Shelby a few months before. “VPN: Virtual Private Network? How does that help?”
“Good memory,” Shelby said. “VPNs can mask the source and connecting path of two computers communicating with one another. People use them for various legal and sometimes illegal purposes. Stealing streaming services, for example. According to, ahem, a friend.” She surrendered a wicked grin.
“That doesn’t sound too promising,” Val said.
“It isn’t,” Shelby said. “I won’t know for sure until I talk to Sanjit.” Another smile, this one shy. Val turned forward in her seat and gave Grimes a knowing nudge. So Shelby was sweet on her young IT counterpart at VeroniCare. Good for her.
As advertised, the burglars had left a mess at VeroniCare. Repair crews had replaced the broken front door panel with plywood, but specks of glass glistened on the sidewalk and in the cracks along the baseboard of the foyer. The receptionist’s desk sported a new desktop computer, replacing her stolen laptop—Sanjit worked fast, Val noted with approval. The glass shelves along the walls, stocked with expensive skin care products the day before, sat empty.
The black-haired receptionist led them to the same conference room they’d met in before. They found Sanjit there, chatting in a low voice with his boss, Tasha Koval.
“Welcome back, Detectives.” Koval’s gruff voice exhibited more of a Slavic accent than in their previous meeting. Vell-kem. “We appreciate you coming so promptly. I instructed Sanjit to provide whatever access you need to assist your investigation.”
“Including your central server?” Shelby asked.
Grimes furrowed his brow and glared at Shelby in mild irritation, but said nothing.
Val caught Shelby’s questioning eye and tried to communicate with a glance: Let Grimes lead. Shelby wasn’t a sworn officer, much less a detective, and Grimes, Val had learned from experience, had little patience for people who swerved out of their lane. However, Val had no idea how to signal that with facial expressions.
Koval, though, simply nodded. “Of course. You must sign non-disclosures, of course.”
“Oh, come on,” Grimes said, his irritation showing. “We’re collecting evidence here. How can we help you if we can’t turn our information over to the courts?”
“No problem,” Shelby said, her voice calm. “I’m sure your contract allows for discreet disclosure of relevant data to court officials?”
“Of course,” Koval and Sanjit said in unison.
Grimes reddened. Val signaled to him with her hands: back off. NDAs were meaningless in a criminal investigation and Grimes knew better than to make a fuss. All that did was make them reluctant to share information and slow things down. Either he needed coffee worse than Val, or something else was bothering him. What, though?
Sanjit escorted Shelby out of the room, and Grimes relaxed. Val welcomed the change, but still found his response curious. Grimes had always seemed to like and trust Shelby. Maybe Shelby’s breach of protocol upset him more than Val realized.
“I wanted to show you these messages we received this morning.” Koval passed Grimes and Val a few printed pages: emails from an East European server—LifeAdvocates.hr—with usernames such as GodsServant, BabySaver, and MenFirst. Val made a note to ask Shelby which country “hr” designated—Hungary, she guessed.
“Sanjit believes the address is falsified or hacked—‘hijacked’ is the term he used,” Koval said. “We believe it’s connected to the break-in.”
The emails contained long diatribes about how VeroniCare hastened the End of Days through its “Satanic Practices.”
“What are they talking about?” Val asked, then recalled their prior conversation. “Is it because your health insurance includes family planning services?”
“It’s because they exclude men here,” Grimes said in a sour tone.
“Or,” Koval said, “Veronica’s well-known advocacy for feminist causes.”
“Those seem harmless enough,” Val said. “Why the anger?”
“Extremists consider anything outside their comfort zone dangerous,” Grimes said. “What sort of feminist causes?”
“Equal pay, equal access to health care and education, that sort of thing.” Koval averted her eyes.
Val and Grimes exchanged glances. “Does that include reproductive health?” Val asked.
Koval nodded. “All health care options.”
Abortion, too, then, Val noted. Perhaps there was a connection to the abortion clinic threats. “Did you provide these to Shelby also?”
Koval nodded. “There’s also this.” She passed her phone to Grimes. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to print this one.”
Grimes emitted a low whistle. “Maybe you should beef up your security detail. People, not just cameras. People with guns, I mean.” He passed the phone to Val.
Val pored through the message, loaded with typos and poor grammar, but also threats of what would come next if VeroniCare didn’t “change its FemiNazi ways” immediately. “WE WILL BURN YOU DOWN!” read the final chilling sentence.
Val returned the phone to Koval, and before she could ask a follow-up question, Grimes’s phone buzzed.
“Forensics boys are here,” Grimes said. “I asked them to return so I can supervise this time. Ms. Koval, I’d like Officer Dawes to interview all employees hired over the last twelve months. Please arrange for that to begin within the hour. And we need full contact information by noon for any former employees who left the company in the last year.”
“And any disgruntled or unhappy customers that you know of,” Val said. “We’d like to cast a wide net.”
Grimes nodded with approval at Val.
“Speaking of customers,” Koval said. “One of the stolen laptops was a secure system, with remote access passwords and software to our customer database. We’ve secured those systems now and changed the passwords, but there was a window of time where the hackers could have stolen contact information, including credit cards. We’ve alerted the credit bureaus, of course.”
“How long between the theft and the time you shut those down?” Grimes asked.
“Four hours,” Koval said.
“Long enough to create a helluva mess,” Grimes said.
Val nodded. With that data, the thieves could steal hundreds or thousands of identities, enough to wreak further havoc, fund their causes, and hide their crimes behind the personal information of others.
The WAVE Squad’s task of hunting down the hackers had just become infinitely more complicated.
Stafford lowered his rifle, stifling a yawn with the back of his barrel-steadying hand. He blamed the yawn on the morning sun, slicing between layers of feathery pink clouds with unseasonable heat, the humid air clouding his scope. Across the street sat the so-called “Women’s Health Center,” the second-largest of Clayton’s three baby-murdering wards. Despite its benign-sounding name, its high volume of daily slaughters made it a tempting target.
However, as a target, it suffered from key limitations. A fountain in front, water splashing on an obscene statue of two nude women in a euphoric embrace, obstructed his view. This perch—the only rooftop in the area with easy access and egress—meant facing east, which would not suffice for a morning attack. Maybe at high noon, or in the evening when the sun would be at his back. Yet those times carried other risks: fewer targets coming and going, and traffic-clogged streets slowing his getaway.
He pulled back the hood of his jacket and wiped his brow, just in time for the sun to slip behind a fluffy cloud, high overhead. A stratocumulus, if he recalled his Army training. Minimal risk of rain, but greater heat and humidity seemed likely. Sunny afternoons would be brutal on city black-tar roofs like this one.
Stafford replaced his hood and yawned again, this time a longer one that forced his eyes closed. Okay, perhaps he shouldn’t blame the sun. He’d gotten little sleep the night before, and even less thanks for his daring mission. He’d almost declined the job. Then when Nora provided the tip about the lax security at the salon, he couldn’t resist the opportunity. The chance to show the Leadership at IncelNation the full extent of his talents seemed too choice to pass up.
How little they valued his contribution! How infuriating! To see their puzzled expressions, to hear their haughty laughter, to feel their pity and contempt—it was too much. It almost made him turn his weapon on them.
Almost. But not quite. His mentor’s words came back to him just in time: “Play the long game. Is right now the moment to strike?”
No, it wasn’t. So he didn’t. He waited. Saw the glint in the Boss Man’s eye when he learned of the take. Not the cosmetics—they went straight into the trash. The computers, though! Loaded with passwords and client data they would use for multiple purposes. A backdoor into the vault of a wealthy, influential company—and one that worked for the Other Side. A significant, if not mortal blow.
Stafford owed it all to Nora, a beautiful and courageous soldier of the cause. Their mole, hiding in plain sight behind enemy lines. She contacted him. Chose him over all the others to execute this strike. Nora had the ear—and eye—of the Boss Man…and his lustful stares. Still, Stafford continued to believe she’d resisted the man’s overtures for more than a professional relationship.
Now Stafford knew why. Nora, the Stacy of all Stacys, liked him—Stafford. Trusted him. Respected him. She proved it by including him in this daring deed. He’d responded with swiftness and surgical precision. He couldn’t wait to see her face again, witness the pride there, the appreciation…the love.
Why not? A man could dream.
He smiled and lifted the rifle again, feeling its heft. His training officer in the military taught him the proper reverence for his weapon. Taught him to regard it not as an instrument of carnage, nor of himself as a sniper or killer. Rather, to think of himself as a skilled tradesman—a craftsman. His weapon and ammunition, the tools of his trade. His paintbrush. His art.
Stafford peered through the scope. The scene on the ground provided another reason to cross this clinic off the list. Protesters marched around, carrying signs with photos of murdered fetuses, chanting catchy rhymes about the goings-on inside of those brick walls. He admired them, but they created problems. The crowd obstructed his view of the women trying to enter or exit the building, getting close—too close.
He scanned the group of protesters. He struggled to distinguish some of them from the abortionists. Despite his excellent marksmanship, the protesters’ proximity to and interactions with his targets created unpredictability—sudden, jerky movements that might cause a miss, or, worse, hitting the wrong target.
They were also potential witnesses. While some would celebrate Stafford’s plan, others might squeal. Protesters were not people of action. They were soft. Complainers, not doers. When the shit hit the fan, they got squeamish and distanced themselves from the heroes who did the heavy lifting of this movement.
Besides, why didn’t anyone warn him about them being here? Sometimes the lack of communication in his organization infuriated him. This was a major weakness of the Boss Man. He was powerful, decisive, and forward-thinking, but too often he kept people in the dark about things they needed to know.
“Hey! What are you doing up here?”
Stafford froze for a moment. Footsteps behind him pounded closer, coming from the same direction as the voice. A male voice, older, gravelly. He guessed—hoped—that the man hadn’t seen his weapon from that angle. But the case lay open on the flat roof beside him. The man would spot that soon, if he hadn’t already, and spot the cutouts for the rifle stock, barrel, and spare ammo clip.
Better he see that than Stafford’s face, though.
He waited until the footsteps drew near, then shifted his body into a crouching position, one foot extended. He spun around, his boot heel crashing into the man’s knee, drawing howls of pain and surprise. A quick jab of the rifle to the chest knocked him flat on his back, gasping for breath. The butt end clipped his temple, and his eyes clouded into unconsciousness.
A maintenance man, judging by his outfit: gray shirt and overalls, corporate logo on his cap and breast pocket. Not unlike Stafford’s own khaki uniform of the delivery company he worked for.
“What’s going on up there?” Voices from among the protesters across the busy street filtered up to him.
“It looks like a fight!” someone else said.
“Should we call the cops?” asked a third.
Shit! He knelt beside his gun case and sped through the disassembly process: clip off, chamber cleared, scope detached, barrel unscrewed, all parts secured into their designated places. Case snapped shut. He hustled to the rooftop door, left ajar by the maintenance man, then thought of something. He returned to the unconscious man, stole his cap, unbuttoned and pulled his shirt off. Stripped off his own hoodie and donned the stolen cap and shirt. A little big, but lots of maintenance guys liked them loose. Or so he hoped. He needed to blend in for a few minutes.
Stafford hustled down a few flights of stairs, carrying his weapon and stuffing the hoodie inside the loose-fitting shirt. He spotted a mop and pail near a janitor’s closet and pushed it into the hallway, keeping his head down. Pushed the button for the freight elevator at the end of the hall, the same one he’d used to ride up. It pinged open in seconds, and he shuffled inside. Pushed the button for the parking lot. Breathed a sigh of relief.
Did the man get a good look at him? Would he recognize his face if it came to that? What about the people on the street?
No, he decided. They were too far away. The maintenance man couldn’t have seen his face, either, given how fast Stafford had reacted. The crack to his skull might erase any memory he would otherwise have.
Either way, this incident had burned the Women’s Health Center as an attack site. Planned Parenthood, with its awkward layout and limited shooting angles, was workable, but not ideal.
That left Safe Haven.
How perfect.
Before Val and Grimes had time to examine the crime scene at VeroniCare, her cell phone chimed with Gil’s ring tone—the chorus from the oldies tune, “My Guy.”
“What a pleasure this is!” Val said, ignoring Grimes’s eye roll. “Unfortunately, we’re up to our elbows in a crime scene, so I can’t really talk.”
“I wish I was just calling to chat, too,” Gil said, “but this is work-related. Whatever you’re doing will have to wait. We have reports of an armed man, possible sniper, across the street from the Women’s Health Center. I’m surprised Petroni hasn’t already called you in.”
As if on cue, Grimes’s phone chirped, and he grimaced before answering.
“We’ve sent a SWAT team, but the Chief wanted WAVE on this, too,” Gil went on. “All hands, I’m guessing.”
The expression of shock, then disgust, then alarm on Grimes’s face confirmed Gil’s guess.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Val said. “I’ll get my Kevlar on.” Grimes always insisted they keep their vests in the trunk of their cruiser. “I guess it pays to have an insider at Dispatch.”
“Aw, I bet you say that to all the guys,” Gil said with a chuckle. Then his tone grew serious. “Please, Val,” he said. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
Grimes hustled over after they both hung up. “Did your boyfriend relay the good news?”
Val nodded. “I guess we’ll have to trust the forensics team to take care of everything here. Let’s suit up.”
Val ducked into the ladies’ room and donned the Kevlar vest under the shirt of her uniform while Grimes did the same in the men’s. Grimes drove to the clinic, less than two miles away, and they stopped at the edge of police tape cordoning off the crime scene.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Val scanned the scene while Grimes parked. The clinic, a wide, two-story building of glass and white concrete, sat back about thirty feet on the lot. A tasteful statue sat in a running fountain, supplying the hot stone veranda with a cooling mist. It looked too peaceful to attract the type of violence reported at the scene.
“The shooter’s gone,” Damari Price said to them when they emerged from the car. “Knocked a guy unconscious, stole his uni. His name’s Goldman. He’s awake and getting loaded into that ambulance, if you want to speak to him.”
“You go ahead,” Grimes said. “See if you can get a description of the guy. I’ll talk to the witnesses here on the ground. Price, where’s O’Reilly?”
“Inside the clinic, talking to the medical director,” Price said. “She’s expecting you.”
Val headed toward the ambulance, where emergency medical technicians prepared to lift a fiftyish white man into the rear on a stretcher. A slow trickle of blood seeped from a bandage taped to the side of his head.
“Mr. Goldman, I’m Officer Valorie Dawes,” she said. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
Goldman stared at her with a vacant expression. “I guess,” he said, his speech slurred.
Concussion. He wouldn’t remember much. She focused on the key question. “Did you get a look at the man who did this to you?”
Goldman shook his head, a drop of saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth. “White guy,” he said. “Not real big. Kinda medium build…” His eyes closed and he closed his mouth to swallow. “Had a hat on…moved fast. That’s all.” His head drooped to one side.
“We’ve got to get him to the ER,” said one of the EMTs. “Finish up, Officer.”
“Did you see his weapon?” Val asked.
Goldman shook his head. “Some sort of rifle,” he said. “Assault-type. Like a military…” His speech slurred, his mouth sagged open, and his head sagged to one side, listless.
“All done,” the EMT said. “Get back to him in a few hours.” They lifted him into the ambulance and dashed off, siren blaring.
Val wandered over to where Price stood, interviewing a stocky, forty-something woman carrying a sign that read, “Stop Killing Babies! No Mo’ Roe!” Price waited until the woman looked away, then rolled his eyes for Val’s benefit. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, interrupting the woman mid-rant. “Officer Dawes, would you help me out? Got a few more potential witnesses here.”
“Potential, my ass!” the woman shouted. “I saw him! Big guy, too. Wearing a hoodie, like those gang members do. Kind of dark-skinned. No offense, Officer.”
“None taken,” Price said with another roll of his eyes. “Any other distinguishing characteristics?”
“He had a gun!” the woman said, lowering her volume a tad. “A big one, too. A sniper’s gun, if you ask me. I know my guns. I own three, myself.”
“What makes you say it’s a sniper’s gun?” Val asked her.
The woman turned and noticed Val for the first time. “Um…well, I thought I saw a scope on top,” she said. “And it had a long barrel, I think.”
Val jotted down the woman’s descriptions, noting the disparity between her description of the wannabe-shooter and Goldman’s. One of them was wrong, at least about the man. Val wondered if prejudice might have colored her perception of the perp, and if her knowledge of guns might be more reliable than her memory of the man holding it.
“I think it was Antifa,” the woman went on. “Or one of those other lefty radical groups.”
“Why do you think that?” Price asked.
“Who else would shoot at us?” the woman said. “They’re always attacking us. First, it’s shutting down prayer in schools. Next they tell us we can’t say ‘Merry Christmas.’ Now they attack us at our peaceful protests. What’s next? I tell you we’ve got to stop these terrorists—”
“Well, thank you,” Val said. “I’ll let Officer Price carry on while I interview these other—”
“You don’t believe me, do you?” the woman said, her voice rising again. “Typical. These people are tearing this country apart, and you just stand there, defending their ‘rights’ and letting them out of jail with slaps on the wrist…”
Val scooted away toward a clump of other protesters, still holding their signs and waving them at the crowd gathered outside the yellow crime scene tape. The woman kept yelling at Price, who did his best to keep calm. Val felt bad for him, but no sense both of them wasting their time with her.
“He was kind of short, I think. Hispanic, maybe,” one protester said to describe the gunman. “And he wore a baseball hat. Yankees or Mets, I think.”
“No way. He had long, blonde hair,” a fiftyish man said in a soft voice. “Average height, maybe.”
“Blonde, but kind of stocky,” said a third.
After that, Val gave up. Obviously, nobody’d had a clear view of the man.
Grimes and O’Reilly joined them outside a few minutes later. “The clinic said the protesters have been here every Thursday morning, like clockwork,” Shannon said. “They don’t feel they’re connected to the shooter.”
“He’s not a shooter yet,” Val said. “Technically.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Grimes said.
Price cleared his throat. “The protesters feel the guy was aiming at them, not the clinic folks or their patients,” he said.
“That’s plausible,” Grimes said. “If they’re here regularly, someone might take advantage of that and try to scare them off.”
“To be fair,” Price said, “these people also believe that the government is spying on them through cable TV.”
“Nobody’s right all the time,” Grimes said, laughing.
“We’ve had reports of threats against clinics, not against protesters,” Val pointed out. “I think we’re better off taking that angle.”
“Agreed,” O’Reilly said. “But we can’t rule anything out yet.”
“So, what’s our next step?” Val asked.
“Price and I will follow up with the janitor, Goldman,” O’Reilly said. “Hopefully he’ll recover enough to look at some mugshots. You two follow the motive track—see which group might have any connection to the shooter.”
That, to Val’s chagrin, meant leaving the scene and heading back to the office. Damned desk work! They returned to the cruiser, and, moments after Val opened the passenger door, a delivery truck sped by, far too close. It slowed when it reached the yellow crime scene tape, then, after a few seconds, it sped away.
“God damned rubberneckers,” Grimes groused when Val climbed in the car. “Guy needs to look where he’s going.”
“Wanna pull him over and read him the riot act?” Val said.
“Nah,” Grimes said. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Val glared at the truck’s tail lights ahead of them, turning at the next intersection. No doubt Grimes was right. But something about that jerk driving so close to them bugged her.
Ah, the perils of police work.