“Trunk murder dot com,” McGinnis answered. “I just checked and it’s part of a larger bundle. An account out of Seattle.”
Carver nodded and kept a calm demeanor. He had a plan for this. He was better than them because he always had a plan.
He pointed to the screen on McGinnis’s desk.
“Can we take a look at it or would that comp—”
“We would prefer not to at this point,” Bantam said. “We think it could tip off the target. It is not a developed site. There’s nothing to see. But it’s a capture site, we believe.”
“And we don’t want to be captured,” Carver said.
“Exactly.”
“May I see the warrant?”
“Sure.”
The document had been returned to Bantam while Carver was coming up from the bunker. The agent took it out again and handed it to Carver, who unfolded it and scanned it, hoping he was not giving anything away with his face. He checked himself to make sure he wasn’t humming.
The search warrant was notable for what information it did not contain rather than for what it did. The bureau had a very cooperative federal judge in their corner, that seemed for sure. In very general terms the warrant described an investigation of an unknown subject using the Internet and crossing state lines to conduct a criminal conspiracy involving data theft and fraud. The word murder was nowhere in the warrant. The warrant sought complete access to the website and all information and records relating to its origin, operation and financing.
Carver knew the bureau would be unhappily surprised by what they got. He nodded as he scanned it.
“Well, we can get you all of this,” he said. “What is the account in Seattle?”
“See Jane Run,” Chavez said.
Carver turned to look at her, as if noticing her for the first time. She picked up on his vibe.
“Mr. McGinnis just asked me to check it,” she explained. “That’s the name of the company.”
Well, he thought, at least she was good for something besides giving tours of the plant while the boss was away. He turned to the agents, making sure his back was to her and physically cutting her out of the discussion.
“Okay, we’ll get this done,” he said.
“How long are we talking about?” Bantam asked.
“Why don’t you go to our wonderful cafeteria and get yourselves a cup of coffee. I’ll be back with you before it’s cool enough to drink.”
McGinnis chuckled.
“He means that we don’t have a cafeteria. We have machines that overheat the coffee.”
“Well,” Bantam said, “we appreciate the offer but we need to witness the execution of the warrant.”
Carver nodded.
“Then stick with me and we’ll go get the information you need. But there is still going to be an issue.”
“What issue?” Bantam asked.
“You want all information pertaining to this website but you don’t want to involve D and H. That’s not going to work. I can vouch for Danny O’Connor. He’s not a terrorist. I think we need to bring him in if we want to be thorough and get you everything you need.”
Bantam nodded and took the suggestion under advisement.
“Let’s move one step at a time. We’ll bring Mr. O’Connor in when we need to.”
Carver was silent as he acted like he was expecting more, then he nodded.
“Suit yourself, Agent Bantam.”
“Thank you.”
“Should we head down to the bunker, then?”
“Absolutely.”
The two agents stood up, as did Chavez.
“Good luck, gentlemen,” McGinnis offered. “I hope you catch the bad guys. We’re willing to help in any way we can.”
“Thank you, sir,” Agent Richmond said.
As they left administration, Carver noticed that Chavez was tagging along behind the agents. Carver was holding the door but when it was her turn to go through, he cut her off.
“We’ll take it from here, thank you,” he said.
He stepped through the doorway in front of her and pulled the door closed behind him.
EIGHT: Home Sweet Home
On Saturday morning I was in my room at the Kyoto reading Larry Bernard’s front-page story about the release of Alonzo Winslow from juvenile custody when one of the detectives from Hollywood Division called me. Her name was Bynum. She told me my house had been cleared as a crime scene and returned to my custody.
“I can just go back?”
“That’s right. You can go home now.”
“Does that mean the investigation is complete? I mean, pending the arrest of the guy, of course.”
“No, we still have a few loose ends we’re trying to figure out.”
“Loose ends?”
“I can’t discuss the case with you.”
“Well, can I ask you about Angela?”
“What about her?”
“I was wondering if she had been… you know, tortured or anything.”
There was a pause while the detective decided how much to tell me.
“I’m sorry but the answer is yes. There was evidence of rape with a foreign object and the same pattern of slow suffocation as in the other cases. Multiple ligature marks on the neck. He repeatedly choked her out and revived her. Whether this was a means of getting her to talk about the story you two were working on, or just his way of getting off, is unclear at this time. I guess we will have to ask the man himself when we get him.”
I was silent as I thought about the horror Angela had faced.
“Anything else, Jack? It’s Saturday. I’m hoping to salvage half a day off with my daughter.”
“Uh, no, sorry.”
“Well, you can go home now. Have a nice day.”
Bynum hung up and I sat there, thinking. Calling it “home” seemed wrong. I wasn’t sure I wanted the house back, because I wasn’t sure it was home any longer. My sleep—what little there was of it—had been invaded the last two nights by images of Angela Cook’s face in the darkness under the bed and the muffled coughing sound so expertly implanted in my mind by her killer. Only in my dream, everything was underwater. Her wrists were not bound and she reached up to me as she sank. Her last cry for help came out in a bubble and when it broke with the sound the Unsub had made, I came awake.
To now live and try to sleep in the same place seemed impossible to me. I spread the curtains and looked out the single window of my small room. I had a view of the civic center. The beautiful and ageless City Hall rose in front of me. Next to it was the criminal courts building, as ugly as the prison most of its customers were headed to. The sidewalks and green lawns were empty. It was Saturday and nobody came downtown on the weekend. I pulled the curtains closed.
I decided I would keep the room as long as the paper was paying. I would go to the house but only to get fresh clothes and other things I needed. In the afternoon I would call a Realtor and see about getting rid of the place. If I could. For Sale: Nicely kept and restored Hollywood bungalow where serial killer struck. Bring all offers.
My cell phone rang, jarring me out of the reverie. My real cell phone. I had finally gotten it turned back on with full function the day before. The caller ID said private number and I had learned not to let those go unanswered.