Michael Prescott - Last Breath

“Sure, but we can’t trace-”

“We don’t have to. He obtained my e-mail address. Now, how would he do that? How would you do it?”

Brand considered the problem. “First I’d have to get your name. It’s not listed on the field office’s Web site, so I’d probably have to look in archived newspaper stories. The Baltimore Sun ran a story on the Myers case a few months ago. You were mentioned.”

Rawls nodded. “And identified as part of the computer crime squad.”

“He could have found that article in a database search. Okay, so he’s got the name of an agent in Baltimore who knows computers. Now he needs the e-mail account to go with it. So he searches e-mail directories-”

“Right. That’s how he got to me. And that’s how we’ll get to him.”

“Will we?”

“Those directories keep logs of searches and hits. We can find out who’s searched for my name-”

“And with any luck, the search will be linked to the searcher’s IP address. But maybe he thought of that. He might have used a public terminal or routed his search request through an anonymizer.”

“I don’t think so. If he’s just playacting as a hacker, he won’t know all the ins and outs. He’ll think he’s more anonymous on the Web than he really is.”

“Worth a shot, anyway.” Brand was already hooking his data-capable cell phone to the laptop to get online.

By the time the sedan pulled into the parking lot of the field office. Brand had searched for his partner’s name on the half-dozen largest e-mail directories. Only two listed a Noah Rawls.

In the office, Rawls got on the phone to the first directory’s technical assistance number, identifying himself as a federal agent, while Brand used his own phone line to contact the other service.

Strictly speaking, a warrant was required to force the system operator to relinquish private information to law enforcement agents. But the directory services were mainstream, commercial operations, and unlike remailers and anonymizers, they were not eager to force a confrontation with the FBI. The sysop at the first service checked his logs immediately, no questions asked.

“Sorry, sir,” he reported. “I see zero hits on the name Noah Rawls during the past three weeks. We don’t keep records longer than that.”

“Thanks anyway.” Rawls hung up, wondering if they’d reached another dead end.

Then he saw Brand scribbling on his desk blotter, and he knew they had something from the second service.

“The FBI appreciates your cooperation,” Brand said into the phone, then cradled the handset. “One hit, ten days ago. We got the IP address.”

“Trace it.”

“Will do.” Brand searched a CD-ROM containing millions of known Internet Protocol addresses. He reported that it was a dynamic IP address assigned by a major Internet service provider.

Most providers maintained huge blocks of IP addresses and assigned a new address to the user whenever he dialed in. The addresses were doled out at random, and the same user would have a different address every time he established a new connection.

Even so, the specific user could be traced, if the date and time of the connection were known.

“We’ve got the date stamp and the time stamp on the e-mail directory search,” Brand said in response to Rawls’s unvoiced question. “If the ISP will open up their logs, we’re golden.”

Brand phoned the provider and got through to the sysop. Rawls waited, wondering if they would encounter resistance. The big providers were sensitive to protecting customer privacy. Sometimes they demanded a warrant.

Then Brand covered the phone’s mouthpiece and said, “They’re cooperating.”

“Hallelujah,” Rawls breathed, and for a moment he was back inside the hot, overcrowded church in East St. Louis where his mother had dragged him every Sunday, wearing his only suit, a threadbare hand-me-down from his cousin Theo.

Praise be to God, the congregation would announce. Hallelujah, oh, hallelujah!

He asked himself if God was watching over him now-and over C.J. Osborn.

C.J. found Adam’s black BMW a few yards from the parking garage, near a pile of lumber blocking the entry ramp. For the first time that night, she actually felt lucky-because the door on the driver’s side had been left open. It hung ajar, inviting her inside.

A trap? More likely, Adam had been in too much of a hurry to close the door. That meant the antitheft system had never been activated.

If the key was in the ignition, she might start to believe in miracles. She slipped inside and checked.

No key. Well, she could get the car started anyway. She’d picked up a long steel screw from the roadside while doubling back to the garage. It would make an adequate prying tool. She set to work digging the screw into the ignition cylinder, trying to find purchase on the slippery metal ring.

The thought occurred to her that Adam would kill her if he knew she was scratching up his car.

Ha ha, very funny.

He really was embarrassingly proud of this set of wheels, his first tangible proof of success. She remembered how he’d dropped by her house, shortly after signing on with Brigham amp; Garner, just to say hello, of course. And he’d been driving his shiny new Beemer-the 325 coupe, he’d informed her-184 horsepower, audio console upgrade, sand leather interior. She had wondered why he still wanted to impress her, why it mattered to him.

She still hadn’t pried loose the cylinder. If she had a knife or a screwdriver Wait.

Footsteps on asphalt.

Adam was coming.

No time to get the car started. She had to take cover, hope he didn’t notice the scratch marks on the steering column.

She slipped out of the car, easing the door shut without making a sound, and scrambled behind the pile of lumber. Huddled there, breathing hard, as Adam came into view.

He was limping badly now. She’d struck him pretty hard with the plank. The muscles of his leg must have stiffened up. She hoped it hurt like hell.

He stopped by the black coupe and opened the door, sliding in. The dome light illuminated the car’s interior. She could see him clearly. His face was drawn and pale, his pretense of composure long gone.

Was he leaving? No chance. He couldn’t run away now-unless he meant to run all the way to Mexico.

Go, Adam, she urged voicelessly. You can cross the border before I find a way out of here.

She didn’t even care if he was caught. She just wanted him gone, out of her life forever.

The BMW’s engine turned over with a dull grumble.

Adam started to close the driver’s door, then hesitated, looking down at something in the car.

The scratches she’d made? No, his gaze seemed fixed on the seat. Adam ran a hand over the seat cushion, then raised his hand to the glow of the dome light.

There was something dark on his fingers.

She looked down at her own hand, invisible in the shadows, and remembered smashing the vial of tattoo ink. Her hand had been stained a bloody maroon hue. Though she’d wiped off the worst of the spill, her fingers and palm remained dark with ink.

She’d left a handprint on the BMW’s seat-a print that would show up plainly against the sand leather.

Glare.

The coupe’s headlights came on, then the high beams, flooding the whole area with light.

She scrunched down lower, hoping the lumber would hide her from the halogen beams.

The car began to turn in a slow semicircle, high beams sweeping over the lumber pile.

The fans of light swept past the spot where she lay prone in the weeds… stopped… then swung back.

She was pinned in the glare.

He’d seen her.

The car’s motor revved.

Run.