Daniel Suarez - Daemon

Sebeck handed the paper back to Chris but kept looking at Laura. “I won’t be able to pick up Chris from practice today. I’ve got the FBI here, the national media, and God knows what else.”

“We’ll manage.”

Chris lowered the paper. “The Feds are interrogating the insurance guys. You think they did it?”

“I’m not the one questioning them, Chris.” Sebeck stood. “From here on out, I’ll be lucky to be in the loop at all.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go.”

Sebeck headed down the hall to the den. Once there, he dropped into the desk chair and hit the power switch on the computer. While the computer booted, he moved a gaming joystick off to the side and tossed two soda cans into the trash. He called to the kitchen, “Chris, I won’t keep asking you to clean up in here when you’re done!” No answer.

The computer desktop came up. Sebeck launched his e-mail program, then clicked the GET MAIL button. He waited as 132 messages downloaded. Goddamned spam. When it finished, the message subject lines ranged from “Barely Legal Teens” to ”Nigerian Exile Needs Help” to ”Lolitas Take Horse Cock.”

He searched his inbox for the FBI message. It was near the top and had the subject line “Case #93233—CyberStorm/Pavlos” from boernerh@fbi.gov. Sebeck double-clicked on it.

Strangely, as the e-mail opened, the screen went black. Then the words ”Testing Audio” faded in. The hard drive strained. Sebeck stared in confusion. What did he do? In a moment, the words faded out and were replaced by a grainy video image of a man. It was hard to tell his age or precise appearance due to the poor video quality. It was amateurish—poorly lit and off-center.

The man looked thin and pale—a condition emphasized by his standing against a featureless white background. He was completely bald and wore what looked to be a medical gown.

What the hell was this, some sort of FBI lab report?

It took Sebeck a moment to realize that the video was already playing. The man swayed unsteadily—his pixels adjusting like colored tiles. Then he looked directly into the camera and nodded as if in greeting.

“Detective Sebeck. I was Matthew Sobol. Chief technology officer of CyberStorm Entertainment. I am dead.”

Sebeck leaned forward—his eyes fixed on the monitor.

“I see you’ve been assigned to the Josef Pavlos and Chopra Singh murder cases. Let me save you some time; I killed both men. Soon you’ll know why. But you have a problem: Because I’m dead, you can’t arrest me. More importantly: You can’t stop me.”

Sebeck stared in stunned silence.

Sobol continued. “Since you have no choice but to try and stop me, I want to take this moment to wish you luck, Sergeant—because you’re going to need it.”

The image disappeared, revealing the e-mail inbox again.

Sebeck didn’t move for several moments. When he finally did, it was to forward the message to his sheriff’s e-mail address.

“Mr. Ross, help us understand this: You have no permanent address, and yet you’ve got nearly three hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets. Am I to believe you live with your parents?”

Jon Ross rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate on the question—the same question they’d asked twenty different ways. The one they kept coming back to.

The taller FBI agent leaned in close. “Mr. Ross?”

“I’m a contract nomad. Ancient people followed caribou. I follow software contracts.”

The shorter agent stood next to a mirrored window and flipped through his notes. “You’ve been at Alcyone Insurance for what, two months now? Is that a long time for you?”

“Not particularly. Three or four is typical.”

“Your clients give us various physical addresses for your business. Kind of strange for a one-man corporation, isn’t it?”

Ross ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You contacted my clients ? Are you trying to destroy my business?”

“Why are you concealing information from your clients?”

“I maintain contact addresses legally through resident agents in several states. This is legal commerce. Why are you guys doing this to me? I was trying to help Hadi.”

“That doesn’t explain why you have a phony personal address.”

Ross sighed. “I had the fake address because society requires everyone to have a permanent home address.”

“Then why don’t you have one?”

“Because I don’t need one.”

Both agents were pacing again. The shorter one was the first to speak. “Single. No property. Do you pay all your taxes, Mr. Ross?”

“I’m a Delaware service corporation. I pay myself a reasonable salary, max out my 401(k), and take the remainder as corporate profits—minus travel and business expenses. And the corporation leases my car.” He hesitated. “Look, I didn’t do anything wrong. I was trying to help my client.”

The phone in the center of the table rang. The shorter agent grabbed it without saying a word. He listened. After a few moments he nodded slightly and looked at Ross with some surprise. “Understood.” A pause. “Yes.”

He hung up. “It looks like you’re off the hook, Mr. Ross.”

Neal Decker and three other FBI agents sat in the darkened training room of the Ventura County Sheriff’s headquarters intently watching a screen projection of Sobol’s MPEG video. Sebeck, Mantz, Burkow, and Ventura County’s assistant chief, Stan Eichhorn, watched alongside them. Aaron Larson ran the video off a laptop hooked to the department’s digital projector.

Sobol’s grainy image glowed on-screen. “…I want to take this moment to wish you luck, Sergeant—because you’re going to need it.”

The image froze, and Sobol’s audience whistled and broke out into raucous discussion. Larson brought up the lights, revealing Agent Decker staring intently at the blank screen. He finally came around and stepped to the front of the room.

“Gentlemen, this changes things.” Decker looked to Agent Straub. “When does the computer forensics team get in, Tom?”

“They’re already en route from Oxnard Airport.”

“Get them over to CyberStorm as soon as they arrive. Where are the Alcyone Insurance computers?”

“Put on a plane to D.C. last night.”

“Good. Hopefully they’ll get something off the drives. In the meantime, have the forensics team comb through the CyberStorm network. I want it sniffed for booby traps, and then we need to shift our focus to Matthew Sobol.” He pointed to the projector. “Get forensics a copy of this video file.”

Larson perked up. “I burned copies onto CD. I can make more if you need them.”

Decker held up his hands. “That brings up an important point. I want absolute secrecy concerning this case.” He looked to the local police. “That means no talking to friends and relatives, and absolutely no talking to the media. We need to control what information gets out there.”

Sebeck pointed at the screen. “Has anyone heard of this Sobol guy?”

Decker didn’t say anything. He just fished through folders on a nearby tabletop and then slid a folder over to Sebeck. It was labeled MATTHEW ANDREW SOBOL.

“What, you already knew about him?”

“Died Thursday. We thought he might be another victim, but he died of brain cancer. He’s been ill for years. He was a company founder. Had access to everything. It all fits. Except for the motive.”

Straub picked up from there. They were like an old married couple. “His assistant said Sobol suffered from dementia. He was paranoid and secretive. It got worse as his illness progressed. He finally had to stop working last year.”