Michael Prescott - Last Breath

It was fully dark by the time they reached his secret spot. Adam remembered the moment when the Lexus turned onto the unlighted asphalt road that seemed to lead nowhere-and then Eastman flicked on his high beams to illuminate a construction-site sign.

“Midvale Office Park?” Adam asked. “This is where you wanted to take me?”

“That’s right, kid.” Eastman often called him kid. Adam hated it. “And you know why?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Because it’s mine.”

From his coat pocket Eastman produced a ring of keys-not his regular keys, but the kind of heavy chain a night watchman would carry. He unlocked the gate, pushing it open, then returned to the Lexus and drove into the complex, past shells of three-story buildings, lightless, bare of trees or other foliage. The artist’s rendering on the sign over the gate showed a Tudor architectural motif, but the facades had not been put up, leaving only featureless wood-frame walls with dark, glassless windows.

“Mine,” he said again. “Well, partly mine anyway. I’ve got this client. Tommy Binswanger-I’ve mentioned him.”

“Sure.”

“Tommy’s a broker. Handles commercial real estate. He tipped me off about this place. Prime investment opportunity. The original developers hit a financial snag, had to shut down construction, declare bankruptcy, unload all their assets. Tommy put together a group of investors, and we snatched this place for a song. To ante up my share, I had to burn through my portfolio, take out a second mortgage, pay IRA penalties for early withdrawal. The wife didn’t like it, let me tell you. Well, fuck her. She never approves of anything I do. This deal’s gonna make me rich.”

You already are rich, Adam thought. But he merely said, “Wow.”

“Wow is right. The developers were so desperate for ready cash, they were in no position to bargain. Tommy estimates this facility will be worth a minimum of twenty million when completed. We paid a fraction of that.”

“Has construction resumed?” Adam asked, looking at the dark avenues gliding past, the empty windows, the excavations and dead ends.

“Not till next year. March is the tentative start date. We need to work out a few details first. Legal matters, tax issues, all that crap. Tommy’s handling it.” He waved his hand vaguely.

It was clear to Adam that Eastman had no idea what the details were or how long they might take to work out He had put his faith in the infallible Tommy. Adam hoped his trust was misplaced. It would be amusing to see Roger humbled by financial ruin. He could imagine the fat blowhard crying over his martini-he still drank those-and cursing Tommy Binswanger and the injustice of the world.

“Looks like you lucked into something big,” Adam said. “Wish I’d known about it.”

Eastman laughed. “You? On your salary, you couldn’t get on board a deal like this, kid.”

Kid again. “Guess you’re right.”

“But I’ll tell you what. When we have our grand opening, you’re invited.”

Eastman completed his tour of the office park. He drove through the gate, then got out and padlocked it again.

“Gotta protect my investment,” he said as he drove away. “Not that there’s any risk of vandalism. Got no neighbors except a few horse ranches a mile away or more. Anyway, the place is sealed up tight. Ten-foot perimeter fence topped with razor wire. Nobody can get in.”

“Or out,” Adam muttered, thinking of the complex for the first time not as an office park but as a huge steel cage.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Say, Roger, I’m developing a thirst. What do you say we stop off for adult beverages on our way home?”

“The wife’ll kill me. I’m late enough as it is.” Eastman shrugged. “What the hell. I feel like celebrating. Every time I visit that place, I see dollar signs, kid.”

Adam didn’t even mind being called kid now. He laughed along with Eastman, laughed at his locker-room jokes and his anecdotes about golf and the firm and “the wife,” who evidently had no actual name. He laughed when they shared a table at a tavern on Melrose, and he laughed when after several drinks Eastman fumbled with his coat.

“Let me help you with that, Rog,” Adam offered, still laughing as his fingers slipped into the coat pocket and closed over the ring of keys.

He found the key ring now, in his pants pocket, and fingered it for reassurance. As long as the place was locked up, C.J. was trapped. He could hunt her down. She couldn’t fight him.

Or could she? Already she’d proven more dangerous than he had expected. He’d thought it would be so easy. He’d rehearsed her death for days. He’d killed her a thousand times in his thoughts.

And always his mantra played in counterpoint to the stream of images, the mantra he recited now, through gritted teeth.

“Nobody fucks with me. Nobody makes me their bitch. Nobody-”

Another stab of pain in his knee. Damn. He wouldn’t be able to walk much farther.

To track her down, he would have to use his car.

Gader had made good on his threat to call an attorney. Around 1:30 A.M., a grim, bearded, bespectacled young man arrived at the house and ordered Rawls and Brand to leave. His client did not wish to extend further cooperation to the federal authorities until they returned with a search warrant.

“It could be an arrest warrant,” Rawls said, getting in a parting shot. Gader paled, but the attorney was unmoved.

So now, at twenty minutes before two in the morning, Rawls and Brand were speeding back to the FBI field office. Rawls was at the wheel of the sedan. Brand in the passenger seat with his notebook computer on his lap. He had pulled up a copy of the tip-off e-mail message, which he had stored on a floppy disk.

Agent Rawlz,

Something phunny going on. Do you like to watch? Say you’re Bluebeard. You have to find the key.

“Any ideas?” Rawls asked as they pulled onto 1-695.

“Maybe. I don’t see any clues to who he is. But there may be a clue to who he isn’t.”

“Translation?”

“This hackerspeak he uses-it seems kind of phony, like it’s a persona he’s putting on.”

“He isn’t a real hacker?”

“Well, he found a way inside Gader’s server. Got Bluebeard’s user name and password. He must have some skills. But it’s not who he is, if you get my drift. It’s not what he’s all about.”

“You’re saying he probably isn’t a teenage kid hanging out in chat rooms, bragging about his latest hack.”

“Right. He just wants to be seen that way.”

“How does that help us?”

“I wonder.” Rawls lapsed into silence as the car sped through the frigid night.

It was Brand’s comment about coincidence that had turned their attention to the anonymous e-mail message. If a visitor to the Web site had figured out what was going on, why wait until the day of the next abduction before alerting the authorities? It was almost as if the e-mail was part of a game someone was playing. But who? The killer himself? Or somebody close to him?

No way to know. But Rawls and Brand were now convinced that the tipster must not be allowed to remain anonymous.

Rawls thought about what Brand had said. The informer wasn’t a true hacker. He was only masquerading as one. Yet he’d known enough to send the e-mail through a remailing service that scrubbed off all routing information and made a trace impossible. And he’d known enough to bypass the field office’s email address in favor of Rawls’s personal account His personal account.

“We’ve been going at this backward,” Rawls said.

“How so?”

“It’s not the message that matters. It’s how he got it to me.”