Authors: Michael Connelly
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad…
If you give this man a ride…
Finally, Mizzou entered the camera frame and started securing the cardboard box to the small cargo rack behind the seat. He
was smoking a cigarette and Carver saw it was almost burned down to the filter. This explained the delay. Mizzou had taken
the time to go to the bench at the back of the plant and maybe visit with his fellow smokers.
Finally the box was secured on the motorcycle. Mizzou flicked away the butt of his cigarette and put on his helmet. He straddled
the bike, started the engine and rode out through the open front gate.
Carver tracked him out the whole way and then turned the camera toward the Public Storage center down the street. He saw that
McEvoy and Walling had seen the box and taken the bait. McEvoy was pulling out to follow.
W
e had found a shaded spot next to the front wall of a Public Storage center and had just settled in for what might be a long,
hot and fruitless wait, when we got lucky. A motor-cyclist pulled out of the Western Data entrance and headed west on McKellips
Road. It was impossible to tell who was on the bike because the rider wore a full-mask helmet, but Rachel and I both recognized
the cardboard box that was lashed to a rear rack with bungee cords.
“Follow the box,” Rachel said.
I restarted the car and quickly pulled onto McKellips. Following a motorcycle in a tin can rental car wasn’t my idea of a
good plan but there was no alternative. I pinned the accelerator and quickly pulled within a hundred yards of the box.
“Don’t get too close!” Rachel said excitedly.
“I’m not. I’m just trying to catch up.”
She leaned forward nervously and put her hands on the dashboard.
“This is not good. Following a motorcycle with four cars trading off the lead is difficult; this is going to be a nightmare
with just us.”
It was true. Motorcycles were able to slip through traffic with ease. Most riders seemed to have a general disdain for the
concept of marked lanes of travel.
“You want me to pull over and you drive?”
“No, just do the best you can.”
I managed to stay with the box for the next ten minutes through stop-and-go traffic and then we got lucky. The motorcycle
cut into a freeway entrance and got up on the 202 heading toward Phoenix. I had no problem keeping pace here. The motorcycle
stayed a steady ten miles over the speed limit and I hummed along two lanes over and a hundred yards back. For fifteen minutes
we followed him in clear traffic as he transitioned onto I-10 and then North I-17 through the heart of Phoenix.
Rachel began to breathe easier and even leaned back in her seat. She thought we had disguised our tail well enough that she
told me to pull up in our lane so she could get a better look at the man on the motorcycle.
“That’s Mizzou,” she said. “I can tell by his clothes.”
I glanced over but couldn’t tell. I had not committed to memory the details of what I had seen in the bunker. Rachel had and
that was one of the things that made her so good at what she did.
“If you say so. What do you think he’s doing, anyway?”
I started falling back again to avoid being spotted by Mizzou.
“Taking Freddy his box.”
“I know that. But I mean, why now?”
“Maybe it’s his lunch break or maybe he’s finished work for the day. Could be a lot of reasons.”
Something about that explanation bothered me but I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. The motorcycle started gliding
across four lanes of interstate in front of me and heading toward the next exit. I made the same maneuvers and fell in behind
him on the exit with a car between us. We caught the light on green and headed west on Thomas Road. Pretty soon we were in
a warehouse district where small businesses and art galleries were trying to stake a claim in an area that looked like it
had been deserted by manufacturers long ago.
Mizzou stopped in front of a one-story brick building and dismounted. I pulled to the curb a half block away. There was little
traffic and few cars were parked in the area. We stood out like, well, cops on an obvious surveillance. But Mizzou never checked
his surroundings for a tail. He took off his helmet, confirming Rachel’s identification, and put it over the headlight. He
then unhooked the bungee cords and took the box off the bike rack. He carried it toward a large sliding door at the side of
the building.
Hanging on a chain was a round free weight like the kind used on barbells. Mizzou grabbed it and pounded it on the door, making
a banging sound I could hear a half block away with the windows up. He waited and we waited but nobody came and opened the
door. Mizzou pounded again and got the same negative result. He then walked over to a large window that was so dirty there
was no need for blinds on the inside. He used his hand to rub away some of the grime and looked in. I couldn’t tell whether
he saw anyone or not. He went back to the door and pounded one more time. Then for the hell of it he grabbed the door handle
and tried to slide it open. To his surprise and ours, the door easily moved on its rollers. It was unlocked.
Mizzou hesitated and for the first time looked around. His eyes didn’t hold on my car. They quickly returned to the open door.
It looked like he called out, and then after a few seconds he went in and slid the door closed behind him.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think we need to get in there,” Rachel said. “Freddy’s obviously not there, and who knows if Mizzou is going to lock that
place up or decide to take something of value to the investigation. It’s an uncontrolled situation and we should be in there.”
I dropped the car into gear and drove the remaining half block to the building. Rachel was out and moving toward the sliding
door before I had it back in park. I jumped out and followed.
Rachel pulled the door open just enough for us to slip in. It was dark inside and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust.
When they finally did, I saw Rachel was twenty feet in front of me, walking toward the middle of the warehouse. The place
was wide open with steel roof supports going up every twenty feet. Drywall partitions had been erected to divide it into living,
working and exercise space. I saw the barbell rack and bench the door knocker had come from. There was also a basketball rim
and at least a half court of space in which to play. Farther down was a dresser and an unmade bed. Against one of the partitions
was a refrigerator and a table with a microwave, but there was no sink or stove or anything else resembling a kitchen. I saw
the box Mizzou had carried on the table next to the microwave but I saw no sign of Mizzou.
I caught up to Rachel as we passed a partition and I saw a workstation set up against the wall. There were three screens on
shelves above a desk and a PC underneath it. The keyboard, however, was missing. The shelves were crowded with code books,
software boxes and other electronic equipment. But still no sign of Mizzou.
“Where’d he go?” I whispered.
Rachel raised her hand to silence me and walked toward the workstation. She seemed to study the spot where the keyboard should
have been.
“He took the keyboard,” she whispered. “He knows what we can—”
She stopped at the sound of a toilet flushing. It came from the far corner of the warehouse and was followed by the sound
of another door being slid open. Rachel reached up to one of the shelves and grabbed a cable tie used for bunching computer
wires, then grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me around a wall to the sleeping area. We stood, backs against the wall, and
waited for Mizzou to pass. I could hear his approaching steps on the concrete floor. Rachel moved past me to the edge of the
partition. Just at the moment Mizzou passed the edge, she sprang forward, grabbing him by the wrist and neck and spinning
him onto the bed before he knew what was happening. She planted him face-first and hard on the mattress and in one fluid move
jumped on his back.
“Don’t move!” she yelled.
“Wait! What is—”
“Stop struggling! I said, don’t move!”
She yanked his hands behind his back and used the cable tie to quickly bind them.
“What is this? What did I do?”
“What are you doing here?”
He tried to look up but Rachel smashed his face back into the mattress.
“I said, what are you doing here?”
“I came to drop off Freddy’s shit and just decided to use the can.”
“Breaking and entering is a felony.”
“I didn’t break in. And I didn’t steal shit. Freddy never minds it. You can ask him.”
“Where is Freddy?”
“I don’t know. Who are you, anyway?”
“Never mind who I am. Who is Freddy?”
“What? He lives here.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Freddy Stone. I work with him. I mean, I used—Hey, you! You’re that lady that was on the tour today. What are
you doing, man?”
Rachel climbed backward off of him, since hiding her identity no longer mattered. Mizzou turned around on the bed and propped
himself up. Wide-eyed, he looked from Rachel to me and back to Rachel.
“Where is Freddy?” Rachel demanded.
“I don’t know,” Mizzou said. “Nobody’s seen him.”
“Since when?”
“When do you think? Since he quit. What is going on here? First the FBI and now you two. Who are you, anyway?”
“Don’t worry about it. Where would Freddy go?”
“I don’t know. How would I know?”
Mizzou suddenly stood up as if he were simply going to walk out and ride away with his hands bound behind his back. Rachel
roughly slammed him back onto the bed.
“You can’t do this! I don’t even think you’re cops. I want a lawyer.”
Rachel took a threatening step closer to the bed. She spoke in a low, calm voice.
“If we’re not cops, what makes you think we would get you a lawyer?”
Mizzou’s eyes became scared then as he realized he had stumbled into something he might not be able to stumble out of.
“Look,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Just let me go.”
I was still leaning against the partition wall, trying to act like it was just another day at the office and that sometimes
people ended up as collateral damage when things were getting done.
“Where can I find Freddy?” Rachel asked.
“I told you!” Mizzou yelped. “I don’t know. I would tell you if I knew but I don’t know!”
“Is Freddy a hacker?”
She gestured toward the wall. The workstation was on the other side.
“More like a troller. He likes fucking with people, doin’ pranks and shit.”
“What about you? Did you do some of that with him? Don’t lie.”
“One time. But I didn’t like it, messing people up for no good reason.”
“What’s your name?”
“Matthew Mardsen.”
“Okay, Matthew Mardsen, what about Declan McGinnis?”
“What about him?”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I heard he e-mailed that he was home sick.”
“Do you believe that?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Did anybody talk to him?”
“I don’t know. That kind of stuff is above my pay grade.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s all I know!”
“Then, stand up.”
“What?”
“Stand up and turn around.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I said, stand up and turn around. Never mind what I’m going to do.”
He reluctantly did what he was told. If he could have turned his head a hundred eighty degrees to keep his eyes on Rachel,
he would have. As it was, he must have been close to one twenty.
“I told you everything I know,” he offered desperately.
Rachel came up close behind him and spoke directly into his ear.
“If I find out differently, I’m going to come back for you,” she said. Holding him by the cable tie she pulled him around
the wall into the workstation. She took a pair of scissors off the shelf and cut the binding from his wrists.
“Get out of here and don’t tell anybody what happened,” she said. “If you do, we’ll know.”
“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
“Go!”
He almost slipped on the polished concrete when he turned to head toward the door. It was a long walk and his pride deserted
him when he was ten feet from freedom. He ran those final steps, slid the door open and slammed it home behind him. Within
five seconds we heard the motorcycle kick to life.
“I liked that move, throwing him down on the bed like that,” I said. “I think I’ve seen that before.”
Rachel offered a very thin smile in return and then got down to business.
“I don’t know if he’s going to go running to the cops or not, but let’s not take too much more time here.”
“Let’s get the hell out now.”
“No, not yet. Look around, see what you can find out about this guy. Ten minutes and then we’re out of here. Don’t leave your
fingerprints.”
“Great. How do I do that?”
“You’re a newspaper reporter. You have your trusty pen?”
“Sure.”
“Use that. Ten minutes.”
But we didn’t need ten minutes. It quickly became clear that the place had been stripped of anything remotely personal about
Freddy Stone. Using my pen to open cabinets and drawers, I found them empty or containing only generic kitchen tools and food
packages. The refrigerator was almost empty. The freezer contained a couple of frozen pizzas and an empty ice tray. I checked
in and under the dresser. Empty. I looked under the bed and between the mattress and box spring. There was nothing. Even the
trash cans were empty.
“Let’s go,” Rachel said.
I looked up from checking under the bed and saw she was already to the door. Under her arm she was carrying the box that Mizzou
had just dropped off. I remembered seeing the flash drives in there. Maybe the drives would hold information we needed. I
hurried after her, but when I went through the open door, she was not at the car. I turned and caught a glimpse of her rounding
the corner of the building and entering the alley.