“You were a bully in school, weren’t you?”
She ignored him. “I know what you want to do, Chris,” she said, alarming him until she went on, “and the recovery you want
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will come, with time. You’re young, you’re impatient, but you have to give yourself a break. You’re not invincible.”
“I know.”
“Enough said then. I’ll leave you alone for now. I’ll be in to check on you later.”
“I can hardly wait,” he said, though the fi re had gone out of him and his voice sounded weak, even to his ears.
She closed the blinds to cut out the little bit of light that was coming in and shut the door behind her. The room was dim and quiet, and despite his best efforts to avoid the inevitable, he was asleep in minutes.
Tuesday, 3:10 pm, Western Avenue, Los Angeles
David eased the car to a stop in front of the gray stucco building on Western. The rain had stopped; oily puddles caught the sullen light overhead. A rusted metal screen guarded the door from direct view of the street. There was no sign marking the site, only a hand-written placard that read “God Bless Us.”
Stepping around a discarded diaper he pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The interior was dim, which was probably for the best.
Someone had tried to conceal the faded and peeling paint on the walls with slabs of whitewashed boards that had been covered with hand-written biblical quotes and crude colored drawings of fl owers and crosses.
Past the door a large room opened up. Several sofas and chairs in various states of disintegration lay scattered about; many were occupied. By men, David noted. He didn’t see any women. Of the half a dozen men in the room, only one paid any attention to him. The yeasty scent of baking bread did a poor job of masking the odor of unwashed bodies. He felt eyes watching him. Probably already had him made as a cop. Without trying to let on he was looking, David scanned the room.
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There, that one. Hot dark eyes looked out of the folds of a hoodie that might once have been pale blue but was now black with grime. There was something vaguely familiar about the face; probably a junkie he had rousted. The area was full of them.
He thought of throwing a few questions at him, see if it shook something loose. The guy was obviously spooked—
“
Aquí, lo que le hace quiere?
” A portly Latino man in gray overalls bustled in from a back room. He had the broad, fl at face of his Aztecan ancestors. His eyes were wary. “
¿Le puedo ayudar yo?
”
“
¿Habla usted inglés?
” David asked, knowing he’d fl ounder if he tried to carry on in Spanish. He discreetly handed over his badge while explaining the purpose of his visit. “
Busco a un hombre.
”
The man handed the badge back. “Why?”
“I was told he was here.”
The man smiled, showing broad nicotine-stained teeth. “I must ask who then.”
“His name is Yousef Baruq.” David had kept the article he’d printed off the Internet. He handed it over now. “This reporter came here to interview him.”
The man studied the article. “I remember him.” He handed the paper back. “I thought having him write about us might help our cause.”
“It didn’t?”
The man signaled David to follow him. He took David into a tiny cluttered offi ce next door to the kitchen. Here the odors of yeast and cooked cabbage dominated.
“Julian Delgado,” the man said, extending his hand. “Will you sit?”
Julian sat behind his “desk,” a steel table with a plastic tablecloth thrown over it.
The tiny room was full of potted plants. David brushed aside the fronds of a spider plant and sat in the only other chair in the room, a lawn chair that sagged under his weight.
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Julian frowned at something, then jumped up and grabbed a water spritzer off his desk. He sprayed the plants over David’s head. A faint mist settled over David. He brushed it off with the back of his hand.
“That man wrote about Yousef like he was a monster. We got threats for weeks afterward. Even bomb threats.” He shook his head and squirted a stream of water at a luxuriant potted fern. “All people saw was that he was Iranian and they assumed he masterminded those horrible attacks himself! When they learned he had AIDS some of them rejoiced, as though God had taken time out of punishing sodomites to take care of Yousef personally.”
“Do you know where Yousef is now?”
Julian’s frown deepened. “I am sorry, Yousef is dead.”
David wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.
“When did he die?”
Julian stared over David’s right shoulder. “It would have been over a year ago. In fact I seem to recall it was right after Easter, so that would have been early spring.” He tilted his head. “April.”
“Do you remember what day?”
“I would need to look at my records...”
David waited. Julian climbed to his feet and crossed to a battered fi ling cabinet. He rooted through a jumble of folders until he found what he was looking for. He carried a blue folder over and opened it on the desk and slipped on a pair of reading glasses.
After a moment of reading he took the glasses off and met David’s gaze. “As I said, April. April twenty-second.” He shook his head in sorrow. “That was a hard day. Yousef did not deserve what befell him. I refuse to believe God is so harsh in visiting judgment on those who have done nothing.”
“Did you ever meet Mr. Baruq’s son, Adnan? He may have gone by Adam.”
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“Adnan?” Julian cocked his head sideways, like an inquisitive bird. “Was that his name? I recall him now. Quiet boy. He picked his father up here once. I thought he was taking him to a doctor.”
“Did he?”
“When Yousef came back that night he was unusually quiet.
I thought maybe the news from his doctor wasn’t good. I’d been expecting as much—it was obvious the disease was getting the upper hand at that point.”
“But something else was going on?”
“If it was, he would never tell me, but yes, I am sure it was something else.”
“What about Yousef ’s wife?”
“He never mentioned her. I got the impression he was alone.”
The guy was more astute than he knew. “Did you ever see Adnan after his father was dead?” David couldn’t imagine why Adnan would come back to this place, but then nothing about this case made a whole lot of sense.
Julian was nodding. “I’ve seen him a few times. He did come by about a week after the funeral. He brought me a check for fi ve thousand dollars—said he wanted to thank us for what we had done for his father.”
“Something about that bother you?”
“If he had that kind of money, what was his father doing here?”
Tuesday, 2:50 pm, USC County General, State Street, Los Angeles
Chris pulled the jeans up over his bare legs. The denim felt cool against his shrinking skin. The pricey Diesel jeans that had only been a few weeks old were now ripped up one side almost
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to his knee. Dust from the shattered bricks felt rough against his hands when he tried to brush it off.
His new Blackberry was fully charged; he pulled it out and clipped it to his jeans. His wallet went into his pocket along with the few pain pills he had kept hidden from Finder.
The corridor was empty. He eased the Exit door open, sure the screech of its hinges could be heard all through the hospital.
His shoes squeaked on the cement stairs as he descended to ground level.
A slap of cold wet air helped revive him when he stepped outside. He shivered and rubbed the thin material covering his arms, wishing he’d thought to wear his jacket when he’d visited David that day.
He pulled out the Blackberry. After some quick confi guring he dialed in to his provider. He ignored the rush of email that populated his inbox. Instead he opened a new email, put in Sandman’s address and laboriously typed:
I know who you are.
Then he went out to the front entrance and hailed a cab to take him to Ste. Anne’s to pick up his car.
Chris parked the Escape at the bottom of his neighbor’s drive.
It was unlikely David would be home for hours but he wanted to approach their place carefully.
The house looked empty and there was no Chevy in the driveway.
He let himself into the house, disabling the alarm. Sergeant was pathetically happy to see him. He spent a few minutes he didn’t have quieting the dog’s excitement. He let the dog out into the backyard.
Then he made his way to his home offi ce. He was pleased to see the police had returned his computer. It only took him a minute to hook everything back up and boot it. While he waited he checked the Blackberry for any replies to his bait. Nothing yet.
It would take more than a single taunt to get Sandman to show his hand.
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Chris pulled up Notepad and began typing code, pausing only to consider exactly what he wanted the web bug he was creating to do. He checked his wording carefully, making sure his syntax was correct. He wouldn’t have time to test the thing, would have to trust to his skills.
And hope Sandman would let ego and over-confi dence affect his judgment and he would take the bait.
He got up at one point to break out the coffee pot and grind up some Indonesian coffee, double strength. Even with the extra jolt of caffeine, exhaustion dragged at him and he had to take frequent breaks to throw cold water on his heated face; once holding his entire head under the icy tap until he shivered with the chill. He let Sergeant back in. The dog seemed to sense something was up and followed him everywhere. He ignored the animal.
Most of the things he wanted the code to do were simple: set a cookie on the computer where it was opened, trap the IP
address and computer name, and any user IDs associated with the computer. But he also wanted it to dig deeper and fi nd other cookies that had been downloaded and were still active. This would not only tell him what sites Sandman visited but would reveal whatever name he used to log into them. Maybe he would let slip his real name. Even if he didn’t, Chris would have a pattern of usage that would tell him something. Whether it would be useful or not remained to be seen.
Finally it was ready and he constructed the next part of the trap. The email that would get Sandman’s attention after the little teaser he had sent earlier.
Chris knew enough from being around David to know that most criminals had huge egos. The Sandman had already proven his weakness with his need to let everyone know what he was doing. Now it was time to play on that weakness.
I know who you are. Soon the cops will know too. You were careless to
go back to get my Blackberry. I guess it just proves even the sharpest minds
can be stupid at times.
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Nobody liked being called stupid, but Chris suspected the Sandman would be outraged by the insult. Outrage, he hoped, would lead to mistakes.
Once the email was sent he constructed the rest of his trap.
He set up an online packet sniffer to watch incoming traffi c and made sure the results of both the web bug and the sniffer were saved to logs that were emailed directly to an address he could download from anywhere.
Now he could only wait.
But not here. He’d already pushed the limits of his luck by staying here as long as he had.
David rarely visited his offi ce, but Chris still took pains to put it back in the same shape it was when he arrived. He pulled his laptop case out and slid his wallet and Blackberry into the side pockets. He also grabbed a spare jacket out of his offi ce closet, hoping David wouldn’t notice. He might see one of his regular jackets missing, but probably didn’t know what he had in here.
He wished he could have grabbed the Dolce leather, but David would know that was gone for sure.
David was going to fi nd out soon enough he had skipped when he tried to visit the hospital later.
The phone rang and Chris read the call display. It was the hospital.
He gave them enough time to leave their message then he wiped it. If David caught up with him, he’d only insist Chris go back in the hospital without regard to his own personal safety.
David fi gured he could handle any threat Sandman dished out.
Standing up, he nearly fell back in the chair as a wave of pain and dizziness washed over him. He fi shed around in his pocket for the morphine he had saved and dry swallowed one. He didn’t dare take any more, despite the sharp pain that dug into his chest.
He had to stay alert.
Beside him Sergeant whined and followed him.
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In the laundry room he found a recently washed pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt and changed. The ruined clothes went into the garbage.
Tuesday, 6:25 pm, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando
Road, Los Angeles
Martinez was at his desk when David arrived. He looked up from his keyboard. “You’ll never guess who owned the bike.”
“Nancy Scott,” David said. He peered over Martinez’s shoulder. “Not exactly the motorcycle type.”
“According to DMV she registered it last year.”
“When last year?”
Martinez glanced at his notes. “May. Why, that mean something?”
“Adnan’s father died last April. AIDS.”
His partner’s eyebrow shot up. Before he could comment David went on.
“Yousef told the reporter he got AIDS while he was at Guantanamo. Where, I might add, he was never formally charged with anything.”
“Pretty powerful motive for revenge. But what did any of that have to do with his mother?”
“She’d stand to profi t more than the son from a wrongful death suit.”
Martinez nodded. “Any sign either of them fi led?”
“Not that I can fi nd,” David said. “But what if it wasn’t money he was after?” He parked himself on the edge of Martinez’s desk.
“What happened to Yousef could incite a lot of anti-American support in the Muslim community. What if somebody got their hooks into Adnan? Promised him revenge on his father and all he’d have to do is use his computer skills to help them out.