33

The alarm is set for 5:30 a.m. but I wake up with a start at 5:25 a.m. to Darren’s cell phone ringing. I let out a moan—not even three hours sleep. I force myself up, and the tiredness feels worse than any hangover. My head is heavy and foggy, my mouth dry and my eyes seem to only be able to open a crack. Darren’s muffled voice travels through the wall, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. It’s gotta be about the case. I throw a fleece on over my PJs before making my way into the corridor. I lean against the wall, not willing to invade his privacy by knocking on his door. Within less than a minute his bedroom door opens.

“Shit!” he says, jumping back. He laughs, an embarrassed chuckle.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.” I manage a small grin.

“I’m still half asleep. At least that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.”

“What’s up?” I nod at the cell phone he’s still holding in his hand.

“That was the night shift. The computer’s come back with a match on the sketch of Chester. Except his name’s not Chester, it’s Heath Jordan. He served time for robbery and now he works in San Francisco for…” he pauses, as if allowing room for a drum roll “…a computer company.”

I shake my head. “Chester, Chester, Chester.”

He leans against the nearest wall. “San Fran first?”

“Yup. Phoenix can wait. Although I better go online again as my alter ego before we fly out.”

I decide to jump in the shower while Darren rearranges our itinerary. Twenty minutes later I emerge from my room, hair wet, but otherwise ready to go. My dark circles needed an extra coat of base this morning and my body is already chomping at the bit for its first coffee. Darren must have sensed this, because not only is he ready, but the coffee is on, with the brewer halfway through its cycle.

“God, you’re a lifesaver,” I say, eyeing the coffee.

“I need my life saved this morning too.” He rubs his eyes.

He looks tired, and doesn’t have the advantage of being able to smother his face with makeup. He gets two cups from the press and does a fast switch so one catches the drips while he fills the other with coffee that’s already made its way to the jug.

“I don’t know if I can even eat this morning.” I place my hand on my stomach. “The lack of sleep has made me a little queasy.”

“We can grab something at the airport.”

“What time’s our flight?”

“Eight. That’ll give you some time online, at the station.”

“That’ll be fun. Trying to think like BlackWidow on three hours’ sleep.”

Darren chuckles. “Well, you can pretend you’ve been busy with Jonathan all night.” He puts just enough emphasis on the word busy to imply exactly what I would have been busy doing, had I really been Brooke.

“Gee, thanks. Although I can’t say I feel very sexy.”

“You always look sexy.” He turns away as he says it, and I’m relieved eye contact is avoided.

I try to think of something to say, some response, but nothing comes to me.

Darren turns back toward me and manages a smile. “If Heath Jordan is our guy, you might not need to be BlackWidow any longer.”

“True. But maybe I should take the club’s laptop to San Francisco, just in case.”

“If Gerard will let it out of his sight.” Darren takes a gulp of coffee.

“You’re right, Gerard does need that computer.” I sigh. “This is going to be a tricky one to prosecute.”

Darren nods. “I hadn’t wanted to bring it up again. Certainly not in front of Jonathan.”

“No, definitely not.” I take a sip of the hot coffee. “Even if we find all the members, what will we get them on? Surfing the Net? We need to tie them not only to that Web site but to the murders. Without physical evidence linking one or all of them to our victims, we’re screwed.”

“The news items were pretty incriminating. And we’ve got the chat-room conversations you’ve been copying and pasting into the Notepad.”

“Let’s hope it’s enough.”

Darren takes a sip of his coffee. “We’re running out of options.”

“Sure are. And my vision wasn’t exactly a breakthrough.” I told Darren about my vision last night, but it only confirmed what DialM looks like—something we already had through Jonathan and the video stream. “We can’t wait around until they kill again. And not when one of them has got Ling.” I stand up and try not to think about what Ling’s going through. “At least we’ve got Brooke on all those other murders, but if we wind up with an accessory charge for this Heath guy…”

“You’re going to puncture something.”

“What?”

“Your lip.”

I’ve been biting my bottom lip as usual, a habit I can’t seem to break. I release my lip and smooth my tongue over it. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I notice,” Darren mumbles before taking another sip of coffee. “Like I said, we’ve got the Web site and the chat room stuff. They’ve said incriminating things in there.”

Darren’s still looking at my lips, but I push my self-consciousness away. “Will it hold up in court? Talking about murder and actually doing it are two different things. That’s the angle the lawyers will take.”

In law enforcement, we have to be very aware of our actions and their repercussions for a possible conviction, but sometimes it’s hard to balance that with our ultimate duty—to protect. We could use the two remaining contestants as bait. See who gets voted off, and wait at the house. But what if, like Ling, they’re not taken to the house? God knows where Ling is being held captive. I take a gulp of coffee.

Gerard arrives at the station about five minutes after us and looks worse than Darren and I combined. He’s unshaven and his more casual choice of clothing this morning—jeans and a T-shirt—further accentuates his disheveled look. It also makes him look a lot younger. You’d certainly never guess he was a U.S. government employee.

“You look like hell,” Darren says.

“Jonathan and I finished up—” he looks at his watch “—all of two hours ago.”

“Working on the location?” I ask.

“I was, but Jonathan was investigating a few suspect chat rooms and newsgroups I frequent.”

I raise my eyebrows but figure his sentence must have come out wrong.

“I frequent them for professional purposes. It’s one of our department’s initiatives, to look out for potential child molesters, online kiddy porn and other illegal activity or violent offenders. Anyway, most of the people I’ve met online are into kids, that’s our biggest problem in cyberspace, but a few have dubious enough connections that I thought they may have heard something about this club. Brooke won’t tell us what chat room the president recruited her from, but there’s no harm in looking.”

“Good thinking, Gerard. Any luck?”

“Well, no, actually. I’m closer with the Web stuff, but Jonathan didn’t find anything in the chat rooms and newsgroups.” He sighs. “So, time to be BlackWidow?”

“Yup.”

Gerard starts the computer for me. He opens up aWeb browser window and logs into the site as BlackWidow. Two others are online, NeverCaught and AmericanPsycho. I wonder if that means they’re on the East Coast, where it’s a little bit later.

I voice this observation. “It’s 6:30 a.m. here, which makes it 9:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.”

Gerard sees where I’m going with it. “But they may log on before work. That’d cover most time zones.”

He’s right. “Can you get locations of where they’re logging on from?”

“Yes, that’s one of the things I’m working on. But whoever set this up knows what they’re doing. Each computer’s connection is being bounced around so many times, it’s going to take a while to trace it back to the source.”

I nod and bring my attention back to the site, back to BlackWidow.

BlackWidow: Morning. Anything interesting happening inside?

NeverCaught: Nope. ** it. Let’s just cut to the chase. Next elimination please!

BlackWidow: I’m enjoying Jonathan too much to give up this house. Let’s stick to the schedule.

AmericanPsycho: You two are still at it?

BlackWidow: You better believe it.

NeverCaught: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. What do you see in him?

AmericanPsycho: I’d have to agree with Never.

BlackWidow: I like his broody look. It’s sexy.

NeverCaught: I would have thought it would be a panicked look by now.

BlackWidow: That’s even sexier.

AmericanPsycho: I think it’s time to turn on the lights.

* * *

We watch the main video feed as the lights of the bunker come on, and the camera changes from night vision to normal vision.

“Interesting.”

“What?” Darren and I ask in unison.

“I assumed the lights would be on a timer. But he turned them on at the flick of a switch, literally. Which means he’s either in that control center near the bunker, or he’s got electronic control over them.”

“Is that possible? To control them remotely?”

“Sure. Heard of Roke Manor Research’s Domestic Internet Remote Controller?”

I laugh. “Nope.”

Gerard grins. “Sorry. All the doors, locks, lights and cameras could be controlled by SMS or via a customized Web page that displays the floor plan of the bunker, with controls to switch lights and other electrical devices on and off.”

“SMS?”

“Yep. He could simply send an SMS with a ‘lights on’command.”

“Jesus,” Darren says.

“I better concentrate on this again…” I look back at the screen and start typing to cover up any lag.

NeverCaught: You just want to see Susie.

AmericanPsycho: She is nice to look at.

BlackWidow: I’ll tell Jonathan the president’s got his eye on his little friend.

AmericanPsycho: Do. Jonathan needs to be put in his place.

DialM has entered the room.

DialM: Hi, all.

BlackWidow: Morning.

NeverCaught: Hi, M. How’s your little pet doing?

DialM: The crying’s finally stopped. She’s accepted her new role in life.

AmericanPsycho: You like to break em, huh?

DialM: Yes. She lasted longer than I thought she would. She seemed such a timid thing.

BlackWidow: Looks can be deceiving.

My fingers punch the last line into the keyboard as I try to control my anger.

“She’s still alive.” Darren places his hand on my tense shoulder.

“For the moment.” I shake my head. “I’ve got to get more info.”

“Be careful. We don’t want them suspicious.”

“If AmericanPsycho is Heath, he’ll be suspicious in a couple of hours anyway,” I say.

“With a system like this there’s a lot they can do in two hours, Anderson.” Gerard seems totally awake now. “They’ve installed fail-safes everywhere, the whole bunker could have one, too.”

“Like what?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Anything could be controlled by the Roke Manor software, even explosives.”

“Shit!” I shake my head. He’s right. It fits with the way the whole operation has been run so far. “Maximum carnage, destroy all evidence.”

Gerard nods.

My shoulders slump.

“The perfect cover-up,” Darren says.

I look back at the chat room and catch up on the last comment.

DialM: Yes, they can be. Not that I mind a challenge. I’d be upset if she accepted her fate within an hour.

BlackWidow: Jonathan’s accepted his part in this game.

AmericanPsycho: Really? I’m surprised, given his personality profile. Be careful with him.

BlackWidow: Don’t worry. I can’t play with him for much longer anyway. I’ve got to get back to work. Life as a ****** is flexible, but it’s still work.

* * *

I look up at the screen and notice the asterisks. “Shit, what’s that?”

“I noticed it before, with NeverCaught,” Gerard says.

“I thought he’d typed it instead of the f-bomb,” Darren says.

“So did I.” Gerard leans in. “What did you type?”

“Sales rep.”

“Someone’s set up a filter program. Another safeguard.”

“If that’s the case, Brooke wasn’t lying about not knowing anything about her fellow club members.” Darren rubs his eyes, still trying to wake up. “None of them do.”

Gerard nods. “The person behind this could have set up filters for a variety of words. Obviously it’s set up for cussing and occupations.”

I think about the operation. “Makes sense. Part of his control over the game. He knows who everyone is and what they do, but no one else does.”

“Shall we wake up Brooke and ask her about the censoring?” Darren asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know if she can add anything.” I pause. “Although she has had more time to think about the president’s betrayal. Maybe her lips will be looser.”

Darren nods. “We can question her before we leave.”

“You’re on.” I turn my attention back to the computer and read Psycho’s comment.

AmericanPsycho: Slack of you, BW. How many times do I have to tell you to watch what you say?

BlackWidow: I know, sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.

NeverCaught: You go, girl.

BlackWidow: I have to go. Some phone calls to make. If you don’t hear from me for a while you know what I’m doing! See you.

BlackWidow has left the room.

* * *

“I give up. If the system’s set up to protect their identity, I’ll never get anything out of them online.”

“Don’t worry. We’ve got Heath’s ass.” Darren grins, but I’m not sure if it’s genuine faith that the case is about to break, or optimism. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

I pace in one of the interview rooms, my mind swirling with evidence and chat-room lines, while Darren gets Brooke from the holding cell downstairs. Only a few minutes pass before he enters with Brooke, whose hands are cuffed behind her back. Her hair hangs limply around her face and she looks like she’s had about as much sleep as we have.

“Hi, Brooke.”

“You,” she says, stopping in her tracks.

“Didn’t realize I made such an impression.”

She glares at me and walks toward the seat.

I lean against the table. “I guess I should introduce myself. I’m a profiler with the FBI.”

She doesn’t respond.

“The president of your club’s done some job on you guys.”

Her eyes narrow. “He’ll pay.”

“I’m afraid you’re not in any position to make him pay.” I sit down opposite her and cross my legs. “But we are.”

Darren moves to the wall and leans against it. “Sure are.”

“Really,” she says sarcastically.

I nod slowly. “In fact, we’re about to arrest one of your fellow members.”

“Really?” The sarcastic tone has disappeared. “Who?”

“We know his name, but we’re not sure if he’s NeverCaught or AmericanPsycho.”

“You obviously got onto the site okay.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

She leans back in her chair. “I’ve given you enough help.”

“So you don’t want to help us find the man who set you up?”

She pauses. “Like I said, I’ve given you enough. Work the rest out yourselves, if you can.” She shakes her head.

“He planted that rose on Malcolm. He planted stuff on Brigitte, too. Doesn’t that piss you off?”

“Hell, yes. Why’d you think I gave you the damn laptop password?” She sighs. “Truth is, lady, I don’t have anything else for you.”

Darren steps forward. “I bet she’ll be more cooperative at trial time.”

She smiles. “Maybe I will—” she looks Darren up and down, the sexual predator taking over again “—Detective.”

But I think she’s bluffing. She doesn’t know anything more of value.

The plane touches down in San Francisco at 11:00 a.m., West Coast time. We catch a taxi from the airport directly to the San Francisco FBI field office.

I hold my Bureau ID out at the security desk. “Special Agent Anderson here to see Special Agent Dusk.”

After the security guard gets confirmation that Dusk’s expecting us, he lets us in. “Dusk is on the third floor,” he says.

We take the elevator up in silence. I’m preparing for the eventual confrontation with Heath Jordan, and I guess Darren is doing the same. When the doors open, a short man in his early forties is waiting for us.

“Anderson?”

“Yes.” I shake his hand. “And this is Detective Darren Carter from Tucson Homicide.”

Darren and Dusk also shake hands.

“Has it come through?” I ask.

Dusk fishes the all-important search warrant out of his inside pocket and jostles it in his hand like a victory dance. He passes it to me and I give it a quick once-over. It’s exactly what I’d requested. Jonathan’s sworn statement and positive ID of Heath Jordan has given us an unlimited search warrant for both Jordan’s office and his home, including all computer equipment.

“Is the rest of the team ready?” I ask Dusk.

“Uh huh. Me and my partner will go with you guys to the office, plus we’ve got two forensic investigators and our computer guy. I’ve organized four agents and four forensics people, including one computer expert just like you requested for the suspect’s home address.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Darren and I ride with Dusk and his partner, with forensics behind us. At Hillview Avenue we pull up right in front of SysTech, the company where Heath Jordan works. SysTech is in Palo Alto—more commonly known as Silicon Valley—about forty-five miles south of downtown San Francisco.

We’re carrying out the search warrants simultaneously, so we sit in the cars, waiting until the other team is in place too. Presumably Heath is in the office, given it’s Friday, but if he’s at home I don’t want some colleague calling him and tipping him off. This way we have the element of surprise no matter where he is.

After just under fifteen minutes, Dusk’s phone rings.

“Dusk…okay. One minute from now.” He hangs up. “They’re in position.”

I look at my watch and count down. With each second my heart beats faster, pumping adrenaline through my body. Gotta love that feeling: once again the hunter has become the prey. A buzz of righteousness joins my adrenaline surge.

We get out of the car and proceed up the stairs to the entrance.

I flash my ID at the security guard. “FBI. We’ve got a search warrant for Heath Jordan’s office and your computer network.” I hold the warrant up on the glass.

The security guard is flustered. I bet this has never happened to him before. “Um…um, let me just call the security manager.”

“Do what you like, but this piece of paper gives us access now.” I hop over the nearest barrier and the others do the same. “What floor’s he on?” I demand.

“Ummm…ahh…top floor, forty-five.”

I push the up button while Dusk arranges for an officer to stay with the security guard to make sure he doesn’t phone Heath. The elevator travels express for the first forty floors, and when the doors open at the fortieth floor I flash my ID and tell the person to wait for the next lift.

By the time we exit onto the forty-fifth floor, only about two minutes has elapsed. Hopefully, it will still be a surprise visit. I grab the nearest person and ask them where Jordan’s office is. They point me to the far corner office and we make our way to the other side of the building. As we move through the open-plan work area, people stare at us, some standing up to watch our progress. By the time we reach Heath’s office, at least half the floor is up and trying to work out what’s going on.

“Can I help you?” Jordan’s secretary asks as we pass her. We ignore her and I fling the door open.

The secretary’s behind us. “You can’t just barge in like this.”

I flash my ID at her without turning around.

Heath sits behind the desk, taking up more space in the room than his fancy chair. He stands up and his imposing frame makes me think about Jonathan’s description, “built like a brick house.” He looks more like a heavy-weight boxer or football player than a computer programmer.

“Mr. Jordan, I’m Special Agent Anderson with the FBI. We’ve got a warrant to search this office.” I hold up my ID and hand him the search warrant. “Please step away from your desk. Now.”

He backs away, reading the warrant. “I don’t understand. What’s this all about?”

I have to smile at his question. Why do they always pretend they’re innocent? It’s like bad guys belong to this club, the “deny everything” club. It’s astounding sometimes.

“What’s wrong…Chester?” I drag out the alias he’s been using in the game. To my surprise he doesn’t even flinch. Could he have covered his tracks so well that he’s not frightened of being caught? Even if he has, it doesn’t matter, because we’ve got Jonathan.

I hear the secretary on the phone, calling someone.

I get up close and personal with Heath, like I did with Brooke. I can’t imagine a man Heath’s size being intimidated by a five-footeight woman, but you never know. “Chester,” I repeat. “What made you choose that name?”

His dark brown, almost black eyes move from focusing over my shoulder to making eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I laugh and put my hands on my hips. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Sure I am. I’d like to know what the hell’s going on.” He raises his voice and looks once again over my shoulder at the agents and forensic investigators already sifting through his office.

“I didn’t mean curious about what we’re doing here.” I pause for effect. “I meant curious about how we found you.”

Still his face is impassive. It’s a good mask, but it’s also too impassive for a man wrongly accused. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

I look around his office. “Nice setup you’ve got here.” I gaze out the large window at San Francisco in the distance. Man, he must be high up in this company for a corner office with that view. “Nice view.”

“I like it.”

I smile. “Take a good look. You won’t be seeing a view like that for some time. Forever I’d say.”

“Am I under arrest?” Still no hint of concern in his voice.

He has the detached manner of a sociopath or, more likely, a psychopath. “So, are you AmericanPsycho or NeverCaught?” I know he’s not DialM.

“Agent Anderson, is it?” Heath smiles at me, like we’re having a normal, friendly conversation.

“Yes.”

“I really wish I knew what you were talking about. Then perhaps I could help you.”

I laugh again. “Carter, he’s all yours.” For the moment, the attempted murder of Jonathan is all we’ve got Heath on.

Darren takes out his handcuffs. “Heath Jordan, you’re under arrest for being an accessory to the attempted murder of Jonathan Cantor.” Darren continues reading him his rights.

When he’s finished, I say, “Did you hear that, Heath?” I pause for effect. “Attempted murder.” I spit “attempted”, so he knows Jonathan is still alive. “And soon we’ll have you for a lot more than that.”

“What’s going on here?”

I swing around. A man in his early to midthirties has entered the room. He’s six foot and I put him at around the two hundred pound mark, but all of that two hundred pounds looks like muscle, even through his designer suit. He has dark hair, cut fairly short but slightly longer and tousled on top, and captivating green eyes. I can tell from his tone of voice and demeanor that he’s a man who’s used to being listened to. Obviously that’s who the secretary was on the phone to.

“And you are?” I move closer to him. Behind him about ten staff members have come in for a closer look, although no one’s actually in the office.

He smiles, revealing perfectly straight and extra white teeth. “Justin Reid.” The smile goes and his tone becomes commanding once more. “The owner and CEO of this company. Who are you, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I take out my ID again. “Special Agent Anderson of the FBI.” I motion toward Heath. “This man is under arrest for accessory to an attempted murder.”

“What?” He’s obviously shocked and, for a few seconds, speech-less. “No, there must be some mistake.” The certainty returns.

“I’m afraid not. We have an eyewitness. And we have a warrant to search this office and take whatever we want as evidence, including all of his computing devices.”

Reid holds his hand out. “May I see the warrant, please?” He’s flustered, but still commanding in his request.

I grab the warrant from the desk where Heath had dropped it when Darren was cuffing him. “You a lawyer, Mr. Reid?”

“No. But I know my rights and those of my employees.” He reads the warrant. “Everything seems in order.”

“Of course.” I manage my most charming smile.

Reid moves over to Heath and puts his arm on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Heath, I know this is all a big mistake. I’ll organize a lawyer for you.”

Heath simply nods his response.

“That’s a generous offer, Mr. Reid,” I say.

He takes a deep breath. “Mr. Jordan has been with me for over ten years, Agent Anderson. It’s the least I can do for him. Particularly when I’m sure you’ve got the wrong man.”

Darren and Dusk’s partner lead Heath out of the office. They’ll take him back to the Bureau’s temporary lock-up area for questioning.

“Heath!” I call before he’s out the door. “Just thought I’d let you know, we’ve got another, much larger team at your apartment, too.”

Darren pulls on Heath’s arm and leads him away, past the onlookers. Talk about a walk of shame. Can’t get much worse than having to walk through your office cuffed.

Reid moves closer to me. “Agent Anderson, I’d like to offer my services to you and the Bureau. I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding but I’d like to do everything I can to help you during this investigation.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reid. We’ll need to question you and all staff that deal with Mr. Jordan. And while we’re gathering information, your staff will be locked out of their computers.”

He’s obviously unhappy about this, but nods.

“How about if I ask you a few questions while the rest of the team is searching?”

“Sure. Why don’t we go into my office?” He puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me effortlessly out the door. “Ms. Jamble, you can return to your desk now,” he says as he passes Heath’s secretary. Outside he addresses the rest of his staff. “I know you’re all concerned about Heath, but don’t worry, I’m sure this is simply a big misunderstanding. While I sort this out, please go back to your desks; however, you’ll be locked out of your computers while the FBI carries out their search. I’ll let you know the minute I know something.”

His request is actioned instantaneously. I study their faces as they disperse. If we’d traced Heath to this company, this computer with IT forensics alone, all the staff would be suspects—anybody could use his computer. But there’s no mistaking a positive visual ID.

Reid leads me to the other back-corner office, but this one is about twice the size of Heath’s. The office is completely glassed on all four walls, creating the illusion of even more space, but presumably diminishing Mr. Reid’s privacy too. Outside the office sits an older woman, around fifty. She has tightly curled brown hair, but despite her obvious maintenance, a hint of gray around her temples makes me suspect she might be a bottle brunette. She wears a tailored navy suit, and the collar of a pale-pink silk shirt drapes across the lapel. Like Reid’s suit, I get the feeling we’re talking Christian Dior rather than GAP. To my surprise, she doesn’t even look up as we approach. She’s either deaf or has trained out all of her curiosity.

“Carolyn.” Reid stops at her desk and I put the brakes on fast to keep myself from walking straight into him.

“Yes?” Now she looks up.

“Two coffees, I think.” He turns to me. “We have an espresso machine. How do you take your coffee?”

“I’ll have a latte, thank you. Strong.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Carolyn. The usual for me.”

“Yes, sir.” She stands up and weaves her way out from behind her desk, revealing a knee-length skirt and skinny legs.

Like Heath’s office, the floor-to-ceiling windows give a magnificent view of San Francisco.

Reid follows my gaze. “It’s not often we get such a clear day. Enjoy it while you can.”

I smile and manage to avert my eyes from the view to take in the rest of the office, which is tastefully and expensively decorated. To one side are two black leather couches, with stainless-steel trim and a matching stainless-steel and glass coffee table—obviously where Mr. Reid conducts his more relaxed meetings. Behind that is a modern, fully stocked bar, with three stools permanently attached to a steel plate that runs the length of the bar.

A large Japanese water feature is in the very center of the room, complete with perfectly smooth, shiny black and white pebbles. In the far corner is a life-size bronze sculpture of a naked woman. The only other art in the room is a beautiful painting directly behind Reid’s desk that’s suspended by wires from the ceiling. I can tell from where I’m standing that it’s an original, because I can see brush strokes in thick masses of paint. The painting seems to me, an uneducated art lover, to be somewhere in between impressionism and abstract art. I can make out that the subject is a man and a woman, but that’s all.

Reid’s still looking at me. “Do you like it?”

My eyes drift down from the painting to Reid. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiles. “An FBI agent who’s also an art lover.”

“I appreciate art, but I’m not very educated on the subject.”

“You don’t have to be educated to be drawn to a piece.”

“No, I guess not.”

Reid motions to a seat in front of his desk while he steps around to his chair. “Do you mind if I just finish this e-mail?” He sits down. “While it’s in my head.”

“Sorry, you’ll be locked out, too.”

Reid seems a little put out, but then smiles charmingly. He stands up again and motions toward a lounge area that forms part of his office—I guess he figures we may as well be comfortable.

“So, down to business.” He sits down. “This really must be some mistake, Agent Anderson.”

I sink into the comfortable leather chair. “I don’t think so.” I pause. “You know Heath Jordan has a criminal record.”

“Yes. A charge when he was much, much younger.”

I raise my eyebrows. “He served five years for armed robbery.”

“He was sixteen. He had it tough.”

“It’s not an excuse, Mr. Reid.”

“No. Certainly not. Call me Justin, please.”

“How long have you known Heath?”

He leans back. “I actually met him while he was serving time.”

He waits for myreaction, but I give him none. “Goon,” isall Isay.

“I’m involved in a number of not-for-profit organizations, including an outreach program for young black offenders. SysTech runs computer classes twice a week in conjunction with the Center on Juvenile and Criminal Justice.”

“A noble cause.”

“I like to give back to the community.”

He can certainly bloody afford to. I smile.

Reid looks up past me, and I turn around to see his PA entering the office. She places a tray on the corner of the table and unloads our coffees and a plate of biscuits.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No thanks, Carolyn.”

Reid motions to the cookies but I decline the offer.

“Come on, Agent Anderson. You’re a law-enforcement professional. Don’t tell me you’re one of these women who’s constantly dieting.” He manages to deliver the line with enough warmth that it’s genuinely funny rather than condescending.

“No, not at all. I just don’t want to spoil my lunch.” It’s a lie—it’s unlikely I’ll remember to stop for lunch. The truth is, while I’m not dieting as such, I always try to limit my sugar intake.

He eyes me suspiciously and takes a cookie. “I don’t indulge much myself, I must admit.”

The contrast in his personality strikes me as odd—from a commanding leader to this? At times, the way his eyes have lingered on me, it’s even crossed my mind that he’s hitting on me. And a man like Justin Reid would have no trouble getting a woman. With his looks and money, even if he’s a jerk or already married, he’d still get women. But there’s something about him that unsettles me—he’s too smooth.

While he finishes his mouthful, I take the opportunity to get us back on track. “So, Heath?”

He licks his lips. “Heath showed a great deal of promise. Occasionally we employ offenders from the program, and that’s what happened in Heath’s case.”

“Minimum wage?”

“Not at all.” He takes a sip of his coffee and if he’s offended by my suggestion he doesn’t show it. “From memory, Heath started working for us full-time at the age of twenty-three on a salary of around thirty thousand.”

I write down the details. “That is generous.”

“I find if you show people respect, they do things to earn it.”

“Really. You must see a nicer side of humanity than I do.”

“I’m sure I do, Agent Anderson. I don’t envy anyone working in law enforcement.”

“I love it actually.” I shrug off his comment.

He continues. “Heath went back to college part-time, and studied information technology, specializing in security. That’s my company’s area of expertise.”

“Really?”

“NetSecure is used by the FBI. Perhaps you’ve noticed it on your computer when you start it up.”

NetSecure…he really is loaded. “Yes, I have.” I move it along, trying to hide the fact that I’m impressed. “So what does Mr. Jordan do for you now?”

“He’s the head of R&D.”

“So he knows his way around computers.”

Reid chuckles. “You could say that.”

“This crime involves computers.”

“Hence the lockout.” It’s sinking in.

I nod.

“But I thought you were charging him with being an accessory to murder.”

“For the moment. But we believe he’s involved in a much broader online scheme.”

“Can you expand on that?”

“Not really, no.”

“But perhaps I can help.” He follows the offer up with one of his charming smiles and then takes a casual sip of his coffee.

“We’ve got the best computer-forensics people on the case.”

He smiles. “I’m sure.” His response is polite, but the undertone of disbelief is obvious. A man like him probably doesn’t think “the best” would work for law enforcement, earning $60,000 to $80,000 a year when they could be on $250,000 or more in the private sector. But job satisfaction’s not about money.

“Have you noticed anything different about Jordan in the past couple of months?” I ask. “Particularly the last five weeks?”

“That’s how long this has been going on then—five weeks?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”

“Sorry.” He takes a few gulps of his coffee. “Well, in answer to your question, no, I haven’t noticed any unusual behavior.”

“Has he taken any vacation days?”

“One or two, I think. You’d have to check with HR to be sure.”

I nod. “Does your company have a helicopter?”

“Of course. We have a private plane and several helicopters across our different offices.”

Silly me. Of course.

“Does Mr. Jordan ever fly the helicopter?”

“How did you know he could fly?”

I smile. “Our witness was flown via helicopter, by Mr. Jordan.”

“Oh.” He seems hesitant. “But that can’t be right. It must be someone else. Someone who perhaps looks like Heath.” Now he seems slightly upset.

“I take it you’re close?”

He doesn’t respond right away. “Yes. I’ve been his mentor, and friend, for years. When I met Heath I’d only just started this company, and was personally putting my time into the outreach program. Now I hire other people to take the classes but my dedication in terms of dollars is more than ten times greater than it was then. Heath is part of that. A good story about what a little positive intervention can do.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Reid, but I’m afraid your trust has been misplaced.”

He shakes his head. “I just…I can’t see it.”

It’s time to disclose more information to Reid—he needs to realize the seriousness of the situation. “I know this must be hard. I mean, serial killers are able to hide their activities even from a wife or partner. It’s common.”

“Serial killers? You’re not saying…”

“Heath is mixed up in something very big and very bad. If he hasn’t personally killed himself, he’s been actively involved in at least six homicides.”

Reid stands up and walks toward the window, sipping his coffee and staring absently at the view, trying to absorb this bombshell. But it looks to me like he’s in denial.