Moving Target (25 page)

The room fell silent for a long moment. Lance was the one who finally spoke. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Mr. Jackson didn’t commit suicide. As soon as I found out he was dead, I asked to speak to the detectives and told them so. They insisted that he had died of a drug overdose, even though I tried to tell them that he would never do such a thing. They claimed he was despondent because the school district thought he was behind my stunt of taking down the server and that the school superintendent was looking for a way to fire him. I tried to tell the cops how bogus that was—that I’d done the server gig all on my own—but no one was interested in what I had to say. They wouldn’t listen to me then, and they won’t listen to me now. Besides, you saw the note. That’s what it really means. If I even try going to the police, they’ll hurt Connor.”

“What’s all this about?” Sister Anselm asked. “That dark Web thing? That ghost or spook or whatever it is you invented?”

Lance gave her a searching look. “Developed,” he corrected after a pause. “But how do you know about that? Have I been talking in my sleep?”

“A friend of yours from school was talking about it,” Sister Anselm said. “Andrew seemed to think whatever you created is going to be the next great thing.”

“I wish I’d never even heard of the dark Web or GHOST,” Lance Tucker said. “Now leave me alone, please. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. And get rid of those flowers, too. I can’t stand to look at them.”

Without another word, Sister Anselm removed the bouquet from the room and dumped it in the trash. Then she returned to her chair in the room and listened as Lance’s breathing gradually steadied. Once he was sleeping again, she was left to struggle with her conscience. When Bishop Gillespie had asked her to take this case, he had told her up front that B. Simpson feared Lance’s life might still be in danger. Now she knew that to be true. The danger was real, especially with Lowell Dunn dead and the remains of the note threatening Lance’s younger brother in her pocket.

Sister Anselm’s problem was with Lance’s adamant refusal to involve the police. His belief that there was a law enforcement element sounded like the ravings of an overly active imagination, but what if he was right? She was sure B. Simpson and his associates were fully prepared to work with Lance on whatever difficulties he was facing, but without Lance’s cooperation and assent, Sister Anselm couldn’t go to High Noon any more than she could go to the police. Her vow of patient confidentiality forbade it. There was no wiggle room. Her primary obligation was her patient’s welfare. What was she to do, she wondered, if it turned out that Lance’s welfare and his wishes were in direct conflict?

At other times, when faced with some serious dilemma, Sister Anselm had always been able to look to Bishop Gillespie for counsel and advice. This time she felt unable to do so. Instead, she plucked her rosary beads out of her pocket. It was Sister Anselm’s firm belief that any time you didn’t know which way to turn was a good time to turn to prayer, and before another hour passed, she had her answer.

Much later, when the first nurse came into the room to check Lance’s vitals, Sister Anselm left them alone to go to the restroom. On
the way, she stopped short at the trash container where she had tossed the discarded flowers. Even as she was digging the bouquet out of the can, she was telling herself she was nothing but a paranoid old woman, but she did it anyway. Once she had retrieved the flowers, vase and all, she took them into the restroom and locked the door behind her.

She placed the flowers on the counter and studied them. They didn’t look inherently evil, and despite having been tossed in the trash, the red roses and spidery white mums were in surprisingly good shape. One flower at a time, Sister Anselm removed the blooms from the water-soaked spongelike brick that took up most of the space in the vase. That was where she found it. A tiny microphone in a green plastic waterproof envelope had been tucked in among the stems.

Even though it was exactly what she had been looking for, Sister Anselm was shocked by her discovery. Had Lance not insisted that the flowers be removed from his room, the bug would have allowed the eavesdroppers to be privy to every word said in Lance’s presence.

What should she do about it? Put it down on the floor and crush it under her heel? No, she decided, the noise from that might indicate to someone listening that the bug’s presence had been discovered. She examined the tiny flute-shaped plastic container that had held the bug in place in the bouquet. The plastic container indicated there had been a need to protect the device from moisture. With that in mind, Sister Anselm plugged the sink and filled it with hot water. Then she dropped the mike into the water and gave it a good long soak. Once it was dry, just to be on the safe side and in case it was working, she didn’t put it in her pocket. Instead, she took it downstairs to her locker and dropped it into the purse she left stored there during the day. She hadn’t been able to see, much less read, any identifying numbers on the device, but she suspected they were there, and she hoped they would lead back to whoever was behind this.

Feeling quite pleased with herself, Sister Anselm squared her shoulders and returned to her patient. It was almost time to put the rest of her plan into action.

W
hen Ali woke up the next morning, her whole body hurt. The seat belt had left a web of bruises. Out in the sitting room, Leland had ordered a breakfast tray with coffee, orange juice, and toast. He was trying valiantly to be his usual chipper self, but his haggard look as he passed her a cup of coffee told a different tale. “I’d say neither one of us got a good night’s sleep.”

Ali nodded. “B. thinks he’s figured out why I was run off the road. While I was resting in that stolen Volvo, the guy who was supposedly helping me cloned my phone. For the time being, any communications on my electronic devices have to be considered compromised. I wanted to tell Marjorie Elkins about what happened yesterday and thank her for her help, but under the circumstances, I don’t dare send her an e-mail. I prefer to go see her in person.”

“If you don’t mind,” Leland said, “I’d like to accompany you on that trip. Regardless of how the results come out, I owe Detective Elkins a debt of gratitude.”

An hour later, they took a cab from the hotel to the police station, where Leland had far better luck with the receptionist than Ali had had earlier. In the squad room, Ali led Leland to Marjorie’s corner desk. “Well, well,” she said, looking up with a smile as they approached. “I
hear you had an adventurous night last night. I heard all about it at this morning’s briefing. I appreciated that you made no mention of your visit to Banshee Group.”

“Yes,” Ali said. “A sin of omission, I’m afraid. I told them I was seeing a friend in Oxford and let it go at that.”

“Except for the stolen car, it would be easy to consider the incident nothing other than an ordinary traffic accident,” Marjorie said. “What do you think?”

“That it wasn’t an accident,” Ali said.

“Deliberate then,” Marjorie said, “but to what purpose.”

“Our assumption is that the accident was staged in order to gain access to my phone.”

“Your phone?”

Ali nodded. “We think the guy in the stolen car, the one who supposedly stopped to help me, took advantage of the situation to clone my phone.”

“Why would that be? Do you believe this alleged attack had something to do with Mr. Brooks’s situation, or was it due to something else?”

There was a certain wariness in Marjorie’s tone that told Ali they weren’t on as good terms as they had been the night before.

“Something else,” Ali said. “Something going on in the States.”

“Since it’s apparently spilled over into my jurisdiction, would you care to tell me what that is?” Marjorie asked. “I was just doing an Internet search on you, Ms. Reynolds, something I probably should have done before I went out on a limb and gave you that sample. You appear to live in interesting times. Both of you do.”

Marjorie shoved several computer-generated printouts across the desk. The last one dealt with the shoot-out in northern Arizona, the one in which Leland had saved Ali’s life. “So I’m asking,” Marjorie continued, “since my neck may be on the line here, what the hell are you up to, and what’s on your phone?”

“There’s a kid in Texas,” Ali said. “His name is Lance Tucker. He
was in the process of developing some amazing new software when he pulled a stunt that got him in trouble with the law. He got sent to jail. Two weeks ago, somebody tried to kill him.”

“What’s your connection to all this?”

“My boyfriend’s—” Ali stopped and corrected herself. “My fiancé’s company is interested in protecting the kid from further harm and maybe, eventually, hiring him in order to have access to Lance’s innovative software.”

“And the company in question would be High Noon Enterprises?” Marjorie asked. “The cyber security firm footing the bill for Mr. Brooks’s DNA testing?”

Ali nodded. “We think the people behind last night’s incident, a start-up cyber security company, are also looking to gain access to Mr. Tucker’s software.”

“I need the name of that rival company,” Marjorie said.

Ali paused before she answered, but only for a moment. “UTI,” she said. “That stands for United Tracking Incorporated.”

Marjorie stared at her computer for a moment, then typed something into it. She waited as if for a search engine’s response. When it came, she sighed, picked up another piece of paper, and passed it over to Ali. “Here,” she said, “Meet Edward Fullerton.”

Staring back at Ali was a mug shot. She recognized the image at once. “That’s the guy from the Volvo!” she exclaimed.

Marjorie nodded. “I thought as much,” she said.

“But this is a mug shot,” Ali said. “Who is he? Is he already locked up somewhere?”

“That’s an old mug shot,” Marjorie countered. “And no, he’s not currently locked up anywhere so far as I know.”

“How did you get this?”

“I called Kate,” Marjorie answered. “She had her building’s security people go through their film from yesterday. Right around noon, they spotted an unidentified man tinkering with what appears to be the back bumper of your Land Rover. He arrived and left the Science Park’s car
park, driving—you guessed it—the stolen Volvo. I had the security guy send me the clip. I extracted a photo of the man’s face, processed it through several levels of image enhancement, ran the resulting picture through our facial recognition software, and there you have him, Mr. Fullerton himself, a guy who, over the past twenty years, has accumulated a history of maybe a dozen car thefts. He also has a younger brother named Jonathan, who aspires to follow in Edward’s footsteps.” Marjorie passed along another sheet of paper. The photo on it was a close likeness to the first, although the man in this photo appeared somewhat younger.

“Meet Edward’s most likely accomplice,” Marjorie said.

“What are you going to do about this?” Ali asked.

“I can’t very well do anything, now can I?” Marjorie Elkins sounded more than slightly provoked. “For one thing, it’s not my case. If I bring up any of this with my superiors, questions will be asked, not only about my connections to Kate and to Banshee Group, but to you. In other words, all I’m doing at the moment is giving you the two names. I suspect that high-powered fiancé of yours will find a way to make the necessary connections without my having to lift a finger.” There was a pause during which Marjorie Elkins gave Ali an appraising look. “What did Kate say about your sample?” she asked.

“That even though it was old and degraded, she thought it might work. She’s put one of her best people on it. Thank you.”

“Good,” Marjorie said. “You’re welcome, but I need you for a favor as well.”

“What’s that?”

“If you happen to find out anything more about Mr. Brooks’s father’s murder, leave me out of it, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ali said. “We’ll be only too glad to.”

Minutes later, Marjorie ushered them out to the lobby and left them there. The determined manner in which she walked away made it clear that she was washing her hands of the entire situation.

“Being put out on the street like that was unexpected,” Leland murmured. “I never had a chance to thank her properly.”

“Just as well,” Ali said. “The less we have to do with her, the better off she’ll be. Let’s go back to the hotel and send what she gave us to B.”

Out on the street, it took a while to flag down a cab. It was raining, a steady drip, which meant that the temperature had warmed up considerably from the day before.

In the Highcliff’s business center, Ali used the hotel fax machine to send B. and Stuart copies of the mug shots as well as the accompanying information. Using Leland’s e-mail account, they passed along everything Marjorie Elkins had given them.

Out of habit, Ali had slipped her phone in her jacket pocket. When it rang a few moments later, it startled her. Seeing that it was B. on the line, she answered somewhat warily.

“Good morning,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

So this is how it will be, Ali thought. On the phone, we’ll stick to the weather and our health.