Fallen Angels 04 - Rapture (56 page)

The roommate lifted one shoulder again, and looked utterly unconcerned with whatever mind-fuck Matthias was rocking.

It was lies, all of it—wasn’t it
.

“You know,” Matthias said roughly, “I’ve heard about the devil—that he—that
she
is a great liar.”

“It’s the only thing you can trust.”

“Guess I got that in common with her.”

“You do, but times change, don’t they.”

“How does Jim Heron fit into this?”

Adrian exhaled like he was ancient. “Worry about yourself, Matthias. That’s the only advice I can give you—just do the right thing, even if it hurts.”

Matthias focused on that cloudy eye—which had been his own just twelve hours ago. “Speaking from firsthand experience?”

“Not at all. Now, shouldn’t we be running from the CPD?”

Abruptly, he thought about the night with Mels. Shit had ended
so very badly, but the night … and everything that had had to do with her … had helped him find his soul. Without that, and without her, he would have just left Caldwell—and his past—behind.

“Thank you,” Matthias murmured. “I owe you.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Clearly, he was knocking on a door that was locked, dead-bolted, chained, and barred. Fine. He knew how that was—gratitude could be harder to bear than pain.

At least he knew what to do. There was just one more thing. …

“Is Jim like you,” he demanded.

The guy looked like he was so done with the talking, he was ready to scream, but tough shit.

“Tell me,” Matthias barked. “I gotta have some kind of solid in this.”

Adrian rubbed his jaw. “You can talk to Jim about that—when this is over, ’kay? Right now, my job is to keep you alive so that you can do the right thing when it comes along. I can’t tell you how important this is. Just do the right damn thing for once in your miserable existence.”

“Roger that,” Matthias said, turning away and taking off once more.

Several blocks over from the Marriott, in the
CCJ
newsroom, Mels sat in her musical chair, rocking back and forth to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.” Her e-mail account was up on her computer monitor, and periodically the auto send/receive coughed another couple of entries into her in-box. The screensaver came on at regular intervals, too, and each time the rainbow-colored bubbles appeared, she’d reach out, fuss the mouse, and keep things alive.

The only call she’d made since she’d come in had been to Tony’s contact down in the CSI lab. She’d told him that she’d called Detective de la Cruz and made a statement about everything.

She’d been hoping the phone would ring at any minute with an update on the situation, but de la Cruz and his team were no doubt busy down at the hotel, searching an empty room.

Matthias was long gone—

“Psst.”

Shaking herself, she glanced across the aisle. Tony was leaning
forward in his seat with a Ding Dong in his palm, offering the little wheel of chemical, chocolaty glory like it was a diamond. “You look like you could use this.”

“Thanks.” She forced a smile—and thought, What the hell. Maybe a load of sugar and preservatives would wake her up out of this stupor. “Not myself today.”

“I can tell. You’ve been sitting there staring at that screen for the last hour.”

“Lot of e-mail to read.”

“Then why haven’t you been reading it?”

Popping the seal on the Hostess bomb and biting into the thing, the outer shell flaked and sent bits and pieces into her lap. Before they melted and fused at the molecular level with the fabric of her slacks, she picked them off and flicked them into the wastepaper basket.

Man, Ding Dongs tasted delicious.

Better munching through chemistry.

“Hey, listen, Tony … I know we’ve never really talked career stuff, but do you have an endgame with this paper? I mean, is this the place where you see yourself staying for the rest of your working life?”

Her buddy shrugged. “I don’t think a lot about that shit. I just work on my articles, do my digging—I’m chill with the future. If this is all I have? I’m good.” He grabbed a Ho Ho for himself and stripped off its wrapper. “But I’ve been waiting for you to pull out.”

“From Caldwell? Really?”

“Yup.” He took a bite. “You’ve never settled in. Made the contacts. Kept them going.”

He was right, of course. And maybe that was why she hadn’t really accomplished as much as she’d wanted to in the last couple of years. Yes, Dick was a prick and a confirmed member of the old boy club, but it was possible she’d been hiding behind that as an excuse for phoning things in.

“I think I want to go back to New York City.” Actually, take out the “think,” she realized with a jolt. “It’s time.”

Her mother was okay; Mels was the one who needed direction. And she had a feeling that would be “south.”

“You’re a damn good reporter.” Tony took another bite. “And you’re under-utilized here—I think Dick knows it.”

“He and I have never gotten along.”

“That’s true of him and women, generally.” Tony crushed the wrapper and tossed it. “So, what are you going to do? You got any in’s down in Manhattan?”

Opening up her drawer, she took out a card she’d stuffed in there the day she’d moved to the desk. It read, P
ETER
W. N
EWCASTLE
, F
EATURES
E
DITOR
—and had the iconic
New York Times
masthead right under his title.

Back in the day, she’d met Peter in and around Manhattan, and he was still at the
Times
. She’d seen his name just last Sunday.

“Yeah, I think I do,” she murmured. “Hey, speaking of leaving, I have something I’d like to give you.”

“Lunch, I hope?”

She laughed a little. “Tragically, no.”

Kicking herself out of neutral, she opened up her e-file on all the research she’d done on those missing person cases. Staring at the words she’d typed, the tables she’d made, the references she’d listed, she couldn’t help thinking that all this was what she’d been doing before the storm had rolled through her life.

Memories of Matthias rose like spikes breaking through skin, the pain making her short of breath.

Closing her eyes briefly, she told herself to get a grip.

“It’s coming over e-mail,” she said gruffly.

Tony snagged a Twinkie and swiveled in the direction of his computer screen.

A moment later, she heard him mutter under his breath and then he turned back around to her. “This is … incredible. Absolutely incredible—I’ve never seen … How long have you been gathering all this? And what’s your angle? Who are your—wait, you aren’t turning this over to me exclusively, are you?”

Mels smiled sadly and nodded. “Think of it as my going away present. You’ve been so generous with me ever since I started. And maybe you can get further with it than I could.” She glanced at his screen, seeing all of the work she’d done. “I’ve been stalled out, but I have a feeling that it’s going to be in good hands with you. If anyone can crack the truth behind those disappearances, it’s you.”

As Tony’s eyes went even wider, she knew she’d done the right thing—for herself, for him … and most important, for all those missing boys out there, those souls that had somehow, inexplicably, disappeared into the Caldwell night.

Tony was going to find the answer. Somehow.

As Matthias strode down a carpeted hallway in the ground floor, employees-only part of the hotel, he walked with his head up and his arms swinging casually at his sides. Passing by open doors, he read the little plaques next to each one, and checked out various administrative, human resources, and accounting personnel, all of whom were working hard, talking on their phones, typing on their computers.

Busy, busy. Which was perfect if you were looking to infiltrate somewhere where you didn’t belong. The key was walking with purpose, like an appointment was waiting for you, and making eye contact in a casual, bored manner. That combination, even more than a suit and tie, was critical: You didn’t want to give any of the worker bees an excuse or opportunity to get off their asses and get in the way.

Thank God Adrian had agreed to hang in the lobby. Someone like him, with those piercings, was a billboard for Duck Out of Water in this situation.

As Matthias went along, he knew that sooner or later he was going to find what he was looking for: a vacant computer that was networked into the Marriott’s big database. And what do you know, bingo presented itself three doors down in the form of an empty office with a full desk setup: The little plaque detailing who belonged in there had been slid out of its holder, and there were no personal effects on the desk, no coat hanging in the corner—no window, either. Better solution than he’d expected.

Slipping inside and closing the door, he thought it would have helped if he’d had access to the resources of XOps—nothing like a badge with your picture and an IT title on it to smooth over any inquiries. As it was, all he had was a loaded gun with a silencer.

Sitting in the cushiony leather office chair, part of him was very clear that everyone was expendable, that if anybody walked in while he was working, he was going to shoot them and drag the body under the desk.

But God, he prayed it didn’t come to that for more reasons than one.

Bending down, he hit the switch on the CPU and cut the boot-up off before the inevitable password-protected sign-in screen flashed. Going in under the operating system’s radar, he took control, scrambled the IP address, and jumped onto the World Wide Web.

The XOps computer system was a monolith set up by the best experts he’d been able to recruit, whether they’d been MIT graduates, fifteen-year-old arrogant little shits, or multinational hackers—and each and every one of those big brains had been silenced by means of leverage … or the cold embrace of the earth.

After all, the builders of your castle knew your secret escapes—and
he’d especially not wanted anyone in the organization to be aware of the hidden path he now took into the network.

Eventually, someone would probably discover he’d snuck in and out using a ghost admin account, but it would be weeks, months—maybe not ever—

He was in.

A quick check of the clock in the corner of the screen told him he had no more than sixty seconds before he ran the risk of being identified as a concurrent user.

He needed less than thirty.

Putting his hand in his pocket, he took out the SanDisk he’d bought on the way here from the gift shop. Punching the thing into the USB port in the front of the machine, he initiated a data download that was nuclear in its scope, but relatively self-contained in terms of bytes.

Not a lot of operatives, after all, and their missions were short and to the point.

And talk about intel—the files were the lynchpin of his self-protective exit strategy: he’d set up this comprehensive information cache, along with its auto-updating function, the moment the XOps computer systems had been put into service. It was just as important as the weapons and the cash he’d hidden in New York. And London. And Tangier. And Dubai. And Melbourne.