Killer Ambition

72

“I’d ask what got me the pleasure and honor of this call, but I can probably guess,” Graden said, a smile in his voice. “What do you need, Rachel?”

“Advice from a nerd.”

“Fire away.”

I told him what Cliff said about Ian Powers’s laptop. “But he needs at least a month to figure it out. Said going through every possibility takes time, and I guess it’s not his only case-”

“That sounds about right. And you’ve got, what? A couple of weeks?”

“I wish. Now that my case is in shreds, Terry’ll want to get it to the jury as fast as possible.” I told him about the DNA debacle. “My guess is we don’t even have a week before I start rebuttal.”

“Less than a week? That’s…” Graden fell silent for so long I started to wonder if he’d hung up. “I was about to say that’s impossible, and it might be. But the idea I just had…well, the problem is, you won’t want to put this person on the stand. So if something does come of this, I don’t know how you’ll get it into evidence.”

“I’ll drive off that bridge when I come to it. I really can’t be picky about anything at this point.”

“Okay. I’ll get right back to you. Hang tight.”

“I have a choice?”

I sent Declan home. No reason why we all had to sit in Doomsville.

“But you’ll let me know if you need anything, right? I’ll just be sitting around-” Declan said.

“Hopefully getting drunk-”

“But first I’ll be working on getting bios for these mystery defense witnesses.”

Terry had finally given us her witness list just before we left court. As predicted, it was mostly defense experts who’d grind our DNA into even finer dust and trash most of the other physical evidence too. I recognized one of their names: Owen Poplar, a print “expert”-aka whore for hire-who surfaced whenever the price was right to show why prints didn’t match and how they could be planted.

But there were a few names that had no title or description. Naturally, Terry hadn’t taken any written statements, so we had no idea who they were or what they’d have to say. I planned to demand that the judge impose sanctions for this typical defense shell game first thing in the morning.

“Thanks, Declan. Let me know if you come up with anything. But don’t feel obligated to stay sober on my account.”

After Declan left, I went to work on my cross-examination for the experts. But regardless of the problems or issues they raised, the bottom line for my cross would be the same: You can’t say it isn’t Ian’s hair, Ian’s blood, or Ian’s fingerprints, can you? The only weak spot was that the defense didn’t have to prove it wasn’t Ian’s hair, blood, or prints. They only had to raise a reasonable doubt. And I’d already done that for them.

Bailey came back, which provided a welcome distraction from my morbid ruminations. I told her what Cliff had said, and that I’d put Graden on it.

“Great idea.” She sat down and put her feet up on one of the storage boxes under the table where I kept old cases. “I checked out the mystery witnesses on the database. Nothing on them in California. I’ve got someone checking the national sources.”

My cell phone played the first bars of “I Shot the Sheriff”-the new ringtone I’d given to Graden just for giggles. Who says I don’t spend my time wisely?

“Can you and Bailey get over here with that laptop in the next half hour?”

“Gee, I don’t know, we were going to go get mani-pedis.” I rolled my eyes. “We’ll be there in ten.”

I called Cliff, and twenty minutes later we were in Graden’s office, laptop in hand.

Graden was looking particularly sharp today, and I found myself momentarily distracted as I enjoyed the view.

“I assume you meant it when you said you were desperate,” he said with a questioning look.

“Trust me,” Bailey said. “She meant it.”

I nodded.

“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I had a huge white-collar case a few years ago that involved a highly sophisticated computer hacking scheme. This group came from the Russian Business Network-ever hear of them?”

Bailey and I shook our heads.

“It started as an Internet provider that promised absolute security for any-and I mean any-business that paid their hosting fees: arms dealers, kiddie porn, didn’t matter, they’d never give up client information unless there was a court order. Since they shielded the location of the IP addresses-I could explain how-”

“No, please don’t bother-”

“They made it impossible to figure out what court had jurisdiction, which meant that their security really was impenetrable. The case I had involved a cybergang made up of former members of RBN. They were all Russians-most of the serious hackers are-and they hacked into Citicorp and stole millions-”

“How’d you break the case?” Bailey asked.

“Got lucky. I found and bit off the head of the hydra-a super-hacker named M. Parkova. They don’t come any smarter or more conscience-free. The feds decided they’d rather cut a deal and find out how those hackers did it than go for the max, so Parkova got a sweet deal-”

The sound of raised voices just outside his office made him stop and go to his door. He looked out and I heard another voice ask if he wanted to be interrupted. “Yeah, thanks, Scottie.” Graden stood aside. “Ms. Knight, Detective Keller…M. Parkova.”

And in walked the master hacker. She was five feet tall if she stood up straight, and effortlessly pretty, though the “dare me” glitter in the eyes behind those dark-framed glasses and the severely pulled-back hair made “pretty” seem too frivolous a word for her. I held out my hand and she gave it one firm, quick shake, then sat down, pushed her glasses up her nose with one finger, and said in a thick Russian accent, “Who’s going to pay me for this?”

“The DA’s office,” I said firmly, though I had no authorization. I’d just have to make it true. Hell, I’d pay her out of my own pocket if I had to. Assuming I could. I had no idea what evil-genius hackers were charging these days.

She gave me a short nod, the most important item now checked off. “I’m best in world, but your lieutenant says you have few days. No one else would try. So I make no promises. And you pay whether I’m successful or not. You understand?”

“Yes.”

She pointed to the laptop. “This is it, yes?”

I nodded and handed it to her.

Graden said, “You’re going to have to work here in the station. We can’t let this laptop out of our custody-”

“I do most work at night. Many times, I work all night, but-”

Her nose wrinkled as she looked around her with disdain, then she reluctantly said, “It’s not a problem.”

I guessed police stations weren’t her cuppa.

“And I’ll need you to document every step you take,” I said.

She sighed. “That will slow me down.”

“Dictate it into a micro recorder while you’re working,” Graden said.

Parkova made a face. “Fine. What I’m looking for?”

“All activity on the day of the kidnapping.” I gave her the date. The less she knew about the case, the less she could be accused of fabricating evidence. “I especially need to know about any activity between this laptop and Russell Antonovich’s laptop or phone.”

“Then I need this Russell’s machine.”

“Will his smart phone do?”

“It gets e-mail? Yes.”

Bailey said, “I’ll get it to you.” She’d taken it from Russell the first time we went to the house, and she’d held on to it.

“Do it tonight.” She turned back to Graden. “Take me to workroom.”

Graden went to the door and called to one of the officers to give our newly hired expert a room. The officer gestured for her to follow him, and M. Parkova marched out, laptop under her arm.

“Did she do any time?” Bailey asked.

Graden nodded. “Three years in Terminal Island.”

A federal prison in San Pedro. I’d just recruited the ex-con head of an international cybergang. Go team.