Ackerman had wanted to rouse the whole group of task force investigators and hold the briefing that night. He had certainly seen investigators called out of bed when they were tracking him. But Emily Morgan had spouted some nonsense about not being ready and respecting the families of the officers.
Ackerman finally said, “Fine. But you tell that FBI agent’s kid—”
Emily snapped, “Agent Fuller doesn’t have any children, but you wouldn’t know that because you’ve forgotten who it is we’re trying to save.”
“Nonsense.” The little dog yapped and scratched at his leg. “Don’t you start, you grubby little hobo. As I was saying, Dr. Morgan, since we can’t bother the task force with this tonight, what avenues of exploration and investigation do you propose for this evening?”
Yawning, she said, “Your brother will be coming back on the first flight. We’ll get some sleep and be fresh in the morning.”
“But I’m not tired.”
“Not everything revolves around you, Frank. You may not require sleep, but I do. You’re a big boy, and you can decide on your own when you want to rest. But I’m going to my room to lie down for a few hours.”
“This is preposterous. Computer Man? Are you in agreement with this?”
From the screen of Emily’s laptop, the tattooed tech genius said, “You don’t actually remember my name either, do you, Mr. Ackerman?”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course I remember your name.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s … Stan … Stan Macallan.”
The agoraphobe seemed almost touched that he had remembered. But it was merely out of professional and operational reasons that he knew the man’s name. He found it strange how such small gestures of respect could serve to brighten a person’s day.
He said, “Stan, you’re on my side, right? We must press on. Once more into the breach. And so on and so forth.”
“Well, I’m pretty wiped myself …”
Ackerman focused his laser-beam gaze on the computer screen’s camera lens.
Stan said, “But I suppose I could stay up for a few more minutes.”
Emily sighed and checked her watch, “We can work on the case here in the conference room for a few more minutes, but I might pass out on you.”
Ackerman wondered if this was what it felt like for a normal when his or her parents said they could stay up late. Such sensations were entirely foreign to him. His childhood was less slumber parties and sleeping bags and more acetylene torches and melting flesh.
He said, “Let’s discuss Mr. King. He’s a total recluse, possibly even agoraphobic. Only a few distant photographs of him on the balcony of his mansion are in existence. How are we going to gain access to him, with Eddie Caruso’s help or not?”
“We actually aren’t hoping to gain access to the man himself as much as his personal network,” Stan said.
“Can’t you just hack in from the outside?”
“No, it’s very secure. Like NSA level secure. The only way inside is to actually get into the building. If you can get a phone or hidden device within range of a computer with admin access, then I could hijack a Wi-Fi signal and—”
Ackerman said, “I get the idea. But the question remains, how do we arrange a meeting in the office of one of King’s high-ranking men?”
Emily stretched her arms and yawned, her movements almost feline. She said, “I think they want Eddie Caruso to help with that, but I’m sure Marcus has alternate plans as well.”
“I have some ideas of my own.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “There’s not enough coffee in the world to keep me awake through one of your ideas right now.”
“Sticks and stones, my dear. I was merely going to suggest that we send a one-way message.”
Stan said, “That sounds terrifying, especially coming from you, Mr. Ackerman. No offense.”
“None taken, obviously, but I’m simply proposing that we find someone who is believed to do a great deal of business with King’s organization. Then we make an impression on that individual and use them to send a message to King…a one-way message. King’s response would be showing up at a designated place or time or perhaps even as simple as adding us to his schedule at a certain time and we go to him. We show up. Chances are that we don’t actually meet with the boss, but if the message is sent correctly, he definitely feels inclined to at least charge a competent lieutenant with handling the matter.”
Emily shook her head. “I don’t think any of us want you to be the one to craft that message or make an ‘impression’ on anyone.”
“I don’t have to physically harm the person. I can establish the proper sense of urgency using only words.”
“We can talk about it in the morning when your brother’s here.”
Ackerman said, “We should deliver the message tonight, while the target is sleeping. I find it best to creep into the bedchambers of a victim. It helps to convey the seriousness of the conversation.”
Emily stood up. “Speaking of sleep. Sorry, Dracula, no creeping into any bedchambers tonight.”
She headed for the door, and he knew it was futile to argue at this point.
But then he noticed the little dog, curled into a furry ball, sleeping in one of the conference room chairs. He said, “You forgot your foul creature.”
Without turning back, she said, “He’s not my anything. He’s yours.” As she pushed into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind, she added, “He wants to sleep with his new daddy tonight.”
He called after her, “I’m no one’s daddy. I’m very careful about that for exactly this reason.”
The dog had raised its head and rolled its oversized eyeballs toward him with a look that was so “cute” it made Ackerman’s teeth hurt. Not because of the figurative sweetness, but due to the literal bad wiring in his brain. Whatever wires were crossed made the sight of adorable things fill him with some strange and undesirable form of pain.
Lips curled back in disgust at both the animal and the woman who had forced it upon him, Ackerman said, “Computer Man, before you go, can you give me the name of a possible target for the plan I had described. Someone who does business with King. Preferably a lot of business. But not someone who would have a great deal of security. I’d like to have the information ready to present to my brother in the morning.”
Stan smiled. “I’m way ahead of you.” A picture of another man popped up on the screen. “Guy’s name is Willoughby.”
“Like a small kangaroo?”
“No, that’s a wallaby. His name is Willoughby, like ‘Willow Bee.’ He’s been suspected of running guns from King down to the cartels, but the cops have never been able to make anything stick. He runs his own gun shop and firing range. It’s about forty minutes to the east of you, between Oakland and the Sibley Volcanic Regional Preserve. He has his business and residence at the same address.”
“And what is that address, Computer Man?”
Stan read it off while Ackerman wrote it down on a stray folder and then added, “By the way, you can just call me Stan. Although Computer Man does make me feel a little like a superhero.”
Ackerman said, “I haven’t been calling you that because I forgot your name. I just don’t like it.”
“Don’t like what?”
“Your name. It doesn’t properly roll of the tongue. Stan. May I call you Stanley instead?”
“Well, my name is actually just plain Stan. That’s what’s on my birth certificate. I’ve always liked my name. You know, Stan the Man.”
Ackerman said, “I still don’t like it. So it’s settled. I’ll just call you Computer Man, which honestly feels much better to me. And you can interpret it as a gesture of respect.”
Stan seemed confused. He said, “Uh, okay, I guess. By the way, Mr. Ackerman, your brother wanted me to remind you about the chip in your spine and that your location is constantly being monitored.”
“Thank you for relaying the message, Computer Man. Sweet dreams.” He closed the laptop without waiting for a response. Staring at the address—which Computer Man had so naively provided—Ackerman committed the street name and digits to memory.