Michael Prescott: Last Breath

“Oh, jeez.” Just when she began to think he was not a total creep, he proved her wrong.

“Seriously,” Tanner persisted with a smile. “The female of the species holds no mysteries for me.”

“What species would that be, exactly? Goats?”

“Now you’re hitting below the belt.”

“Not me. I need a bigger target.”

“Ouch. You think I’m messing with you, but I’m not. I know all about you. I know things about you that you don’t know yourself.”

“Okay, impress me. Tell me something you know and I don’t.”

“Well, for one thing, your ex-hubby is waiting for you in the lobby.” He seemed to enjoy her expression of surprise. “Oh, yeah. He’s out there.”

“You’re playing me.”

“Scout’s honor. I’ll even describe him for you. He’s about my height, I’d guess five-ten, five-eleven. But scrawnier than me. Early thirties. Blond hair, blue eyes. Currently wearing a lawyer suit. Smiles a lot. Has a certain rakish charm.”

“Since when do you use words like rakish?”

“I read books.”

“Larry Flynt’s publications do not qualify as books.”

“You underestimate me. You really do. So is it your ex or not?”

“It’s him,” she conceded. “How’d you know?”

“Heard somebody mention he was here. I sneaked a peek.”

“What for?”

“Curiosity. I wanted to see what he’s got that I don’t.”

“That’s easy. A working brain.”

Tanner took no offense. “My brain is functional. I just don’t show it off. You have to get to know me. Which would be easy enough. Just let me take you out to dinner some night.”

“Seventeen,” C.J. said.

“What?”

“That’s the number of times you’ve asked me out since I transferred here.”

“At least you’re keeping count. I take that as a positive sign. Besides, you know what they say. Seventeenth time’s the charm.”

“It’s not going to happen, Tanner.”

“Just tell me why not.”

“We’re not compatible. We’re oil and water. We don’t mix.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. We’re Scotch and soda. We mix great. Give me a shot. You’ll see what I mean.”

She was almost tempted to say yes, if only to get him off her back. And well, maybe for other reasons too. He really wasn’t a bad guy.

But she knew she couldn’t date him. It was too soon-or too late-or something. “I’ve got to get going,” she said. “Better see what Adam wants.”

“I can guess.” Tanner took off the shades, and she saw his gray eyes narrowed in thought. “He wants you, Killer-I mean C.J. You dumped him, and he hasn’t gotten over it.”

“How do you know he didn’t dump me?”

“No way.” The glasses went back on, masking his eyes. “He wouldn’t be that dumb. No one would.”

She thought she might blush, which would be a disaster, so she rallied her reserves of cynicism. “Thanks for the compliment. But you’re still not getting to first base.”

“What’ve you really got against me, C.J.? I’m not as much of an asshole as I appear.”

“I know that,” she said softly.

“Do you?”

“Sure.” She found a smile and beamed it into the black lenses of his sunglasses. “Nobody could be that much of an asshole. See you, Tanner.”

She turned away, certain that the conversation was over, but Tanner surprised her.

“I have a first name,” he said. “Better use it, unless you want me to go back to calling you Killer.”

She looked at him. “See you… Rick. That better?”

“Sounded just fine.

Rawls knew he should resist the temptation to visit the site again. He had more pressing priorities. Anyway, he and Brand were nearly done for the day. The sun had long since set, and when he peered through a gap in the drapes, he saw a crescent moon, low over the horizon, gleaming on sooty piles of unmelted snow. Baltimore in January. He shook his head and tried not to think about the chill wind gusting outside, or about the Web site that was unlocked with Bluebeard’s key.

But he couldn’t help himself. His right hand, of its own accord, moved his mouse across the customized mouse pad displaying a family photo-himself, his wife Felicia, their son Philip-and guided the mouse pointer to the Internet browser icon on his screen.

He logged onto the mystery site and returned to the page containing the video stream. He had hoped that by now the bedroom would be occupied; at least he would have a better idea of what was going on. But the room remained empty.

Still sunny too. The sunlight had a slightly orange quality that suggested late afternoon. He checked his wristwatch: 6:47. Must be two or three hours earlier in the location he was observing. If the woman worked from nine to five, it might be an hour or longer before she showed up.

Move along, folks, an inner voice chided. Nothing more to see here.

Even so, he lingered at the site, his hand moving the mouse idly, letting the pointer breeze around the screen.

In a corner of the screen the arrow icon changed to a pointing finger.

Hidden link. He had stumbled on it by accident. The hypertext string had been rendered in white, making it invisible against the white background of the page.

Rawls clicked the link, and a page opened in a new window, headlined VOTE TALLY.

Below the headline were columns of figures alongside three names.

MISS NOVEMBER 76

MISS DECEMBER 54

MISS JANUARY 109

At the bottom of the page were the words Cast your ballot for the best babe of the bunch!

“Three women,” Rawls said quietly.

Brand looked up. “What’s that?”

Rawls drummed his fingers on his desk. “The Bluebeard site. There have been three women under observation. The one whose bedroom is now on display is only the latest.”

Brand got up and came around to look at his partner’s computer. “She’s Miss January, I take it.”

“Must be.”

“The most popular of them all. I’ll bet she’s a looker. She home yet?”

“No.”

“Shoot.” Brand was disappointed. “So what do you make of this?”

“I’m not sure.” Rawls studied the screen. “Judging by the number of votes tallied, I’d say the site’s password has been restricted to a couple of hundred people. The site manager probably gives out the password via e-mail after trolling for the right kind of visitors in chat rooms or newsgroups.”

“If they’ve spied on three women over a period of three months, how do you think they managed it? Peephole in the wall?”

“Could be. Or a boyfriend hides a surveillance camera inside a gift that the victim keeps in the bedroom. Or it could even be some Back Orifice type of program or some other Trojan horse on her PC.”

Back Orifice was a program capable of taking over a computer’s microphone and video camera and using them to spy on the unsuspecting user. Standard antivirus programs would detect it, but there was always the possibility of a new, undetectable variant.

“Let’s take another look at that video,” Brand said, no doubt hoping Miss January had arrived.

Rawls pressed the Back button on his browser. The bedroom was still empty, the sun on the walls still bright.

“You think the feed is real time?” Brand asked, probably thinking about the sunlight also.

“I’m betting it is. If it was a loop or a highlight reel, why show this part? An empty room?”

“Good point.” Brand sighed. “Whatever’s going on, it’s something ugly. Too bad we can’t chase it.”

“Why can’t we?”

“Hell, Noah, you know why. We got nothing here. We got a woman who may or may not be under clandestine surveillance. The only way we can know is to track her down and ask her, and how are we going to do that? I take it you already ran a route trace.”