Rick Mofina - Into the Dark

A person of interest.

Everything on that front had played out beautifully in his favor.

Bowen had carefully planned the burglary of Claire’s office building for some time. He’d bought old sneakers, bulky sweatpants and an oversize navy hoodie at a flea market in Chicago. He’d strapped cushions to his body to alter his build and appearance in any security camera footage. He wore gloves, broke in and tore up the place.

He’d intended for the burglary to deflect suspicion to an abusive ex-spouse of any of Claire’s patients once he launched Project Amber.

And it worked.

Enter Eric Larch.

Bowen never knew or met him, but Larch played the part of moron so well. The attack Larch had unleashed on Amber and Claire in the parking lot was an unexpected gift. As long as Tanner and his people were looking for the idiot, Bowen had no big police worries.

Julie Glidden.

Now she was his concern.

What had she found out about Alberta so far? What had she told Claire? He could not-would not-permit Julie to get in his way. He went to his laptop, clicked to his hidden folder and his video collection and images of women. Looking at one stunning image after another, his breathing picked up as adrenaline pumped through his veins, stirring him to arousal. He’d taken such loving care with the process and was on the cusp of a masterpiece. He would not allow that meddling bitch to get in his way.

What are we going to do about her, Robert?

I’m going to take action .

On the earlier call with Claire, Julie had said she wanted to talk again with Claire face-to-face, tonight or tomorrow.

This was his chance, his only chance. He had to roll the dice.

Bowen had an arsenal of resources he could use.

He navigated farther into his drives and reached for his cell phone. About a year ago, at a restaurant during a layover in Gander, Newfoundland, he had befriended a Russian pilot, Dmitri Morozov.

Dmitri claimed he had been a pilot for Russia’s Federal Security Service and that he was also an expert in counterintelligence and high-tech surveillance. Bowen had met him again in New York, where Dmitri sold him black market state-of-the-art software. Bowen figured he might be able to use it at some point.

It was known as spyware and it gave him the ability to use his computer to record all emails, instant messages, track all downloaded files and every keystroke of any targeted computer he secretly installed it in. The user never knew the spyware was there. With the software, Bowen could also intercept, delete or respond to any emails by posing as the targeted user.

Bowen had similar software for cell phones. It involved advanced technology and allowed him to clone a target phone. He could secretly monitor, or hijack all activity on the target phone using his phone or laptop. He could intercept texts, voice messages and calls without the user knowing. Months ago, Bowen had installed the software in the phone and computers Claire used, but he’d never employed it.

He’d never really had reason to.

Until now.

He activated the technology on his devices. Now he could secretly monitor and intercept Claire’s communication without her ever knowing.

As for Julie Glidden….

Give her to me, Robert.

Bowen entertained the thought.

Shivers of pleasure ran up and down his spine.

Pincher Creek, Alberta, Canada

Driving south from Calgary along the rolling foothills at the eastern base of the Rockies, the mountains looked close enough to touch.

It was a breathtaking part of the world, Milt Thorsen thought, guiding his Ford pickup from Highway 2 to a western stretch of the Crowsnest Highway before leaving it for the road to Pincher Creek.

He was hopeful his drive to see a retired cop, a friend of a friend, would fill in a lot of blanks on this case for Julie Glidden.

Learning that Leon Richard Elliott had changed his name to Robert John Bowen was a big break. Thorsen had moved on it fast since it surfaced yesterday. But unlike TV, the movies or detective novels, real investigations seldom went smoothly.

Glancing to the passenger seat, at his worn leather briefcase with the broken strap that held his laptop and hard-copy folders on Elliott/Bowen, Thorsen assessed what he’d confirmed.

In 2008 Elliott had married Cynthia Marie Cote in Calgary in a small ceremony. So far, he was unable to locate Cynthia. A search of driver’s records across Canada had yielded nothing. A search through Alberta Court of Queen’s Bench archives revealed no divorce records.

A check of death records with Alberta Vital Statistics showed nothing.

He’d been unable to locate any relatives for Cynthia or Leon, but was reaching out for help from an expert genealogist he often worked with.

In 2008, the couple purchased a house in the southeast Calgary suburb of Lake Sundance, which was sold in 2010. Using property and tax records, Thorsen did some door-knocking but he could not find anyone who recalled Leon and Cynthia. The house had been resold twice and the current owners knew nothing of the couple.

Other aspects of Leon Elliott’s life remained a mystery.

Thorsen had not yet located a birth record. Nothing surfaced in Canadian military records, nothing in business and corporate affiliations, no lawsuits, judgments, liens or bankruptcies. A credit check showed no outstanding debt. And there was nothing in the way of criminal records.

As for employment, Thorsen was able to confirm that at the time Elliott was living in Calgary, he was a pilot with First Canadian Western, a national airline. Cynthia was a flight attendant with the same airline. But the company ceased operations in 2011. Getting further records or information on Elliott from a defunct airline was going to take more time.

Again, as with Bowen, a disturbing picture was forming.

There’s not a lot of data. It’s as if this guy was covering his tracks .

Fortunately, not long after Thorsen had put out a call for help to his network of confidential sources, he got a response. Ted Sedaynko, a former Mountie with Major Crimes South out of Calgary, called.

“Go see Keith Brophy, down in Pincher. He’s a retired member, lives like a hermit. A bit of a character. Keith will only talk face-to-face, but he’s got something for you on your guy. I’ll call him and set it up for you.”

Now this is intriguing, Milt thought. Why would the Royal Canadian Mounted Police be familiar with Leon Richard Elliott?

Thorsen set out on the two-and-a-half-hour drive over two hours ago.

He searched the foothills flowing by his window and consulted his GPS as he rolled up to a dead and twisted tree, the landmark for Brophy’s property just northwest of Pincher Creek.

Brophy had a log home on three acres tucked in a rugged foothills valley that had a small waterfall. A forest nearby ascended the mountains. A man, who must be Brophy, was out front chopping wood when he greeted Thorsen.

He had thick white hair and a barrel chest that stretched his T-shirt. He patted his whiskered face and moist brow with a towel, then invited Thorsen inside.

“Don’t like to waste time, seeing how you drove all this way,” Brophy said. “Ted Sedaynko told me to give you a hand on this business with Leon Elliott. I got everything set up there. Coffee?”

He pointed to the kitchen table where he had some files and a shoe box filled with worn notebooks, which made Thorsen smile. Old cops, he thought, we’re all the same. Brophy had been with the RCMP posted in British Columbia. He was a major crimes investigator.

“Sure. Thanks, Keith. Black is fine.”

After pouring two cups, Brophy joined Thorsen at the table.