Nightcrawlers

17

Waiting for Runyon, I couldn’t sit still. Up and down, shuffle papers, make yet another call to Tamara’s cell number, make yet another call to her apartment, hunt through her desk and paper files again, pace around all three offices, stare out the front windows at the narrow expanse of South Park. Enforced inactivity in this kind of situation is the worst kind. I needed to be doing something, and there was nothing to do yet. Dead time, wasted time, Where was she, what happened to her? repeating over and over like song lyrics you can’t get out of your head.

When the telephone went off I was all over it like a bear on a honeypot, but it had nothing to do with Tamara. And that was almost as much a relief as a disappointment. Too often the worst news comes by phone.

“I decided there’s no reason you shouldn’t know what was in the envelope,” Cybil’s voice said without preamble.

“Yes?”

“It’s the manuscript of an unpublished novel Dancer wrote a long time ago,” she said. “It’s about a group of New Yorkers, mostly writers and artists, and what happens in their home-front lives and relationships on a single day-June 6, 1944. The idea being that it’s a kind of D-Day for them as well. He called it Remember D-Day. Not a very good title, but then it’s not a very good novel. An interesting idea poorly developed.”

“Where does amazing grace fit in? Or does it?”

“One of the female leads is named Grace Cutter. Known as Amazing Grace to the male narrator.”

“Patterned after you?”

“Obviously, yes. And the narrator, Donovan-Russ himself, of course. There’s an ongoing and rather steamy affair between the two, graphically described. I wasn’t surprised and I don’t suppose you are, either.”

“No. You think that’s why he wanted you to have the manuscript?”

“A tribute to me and what might have been. So he said in a long, rambling cover letter.”

“You going to let anybody else read the manuscript?”

“No. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. Destroy it, most likely-it’s worthless as fiction or nostalgia or memento.”

“Your choice. What else did he put in the letter?”

“Nothing to concern anyone but me,” Cybil said. “I’ve shared and discussed this matter as much as I’m going to. Russ Dancer is dead, the past is dead, from now on suppose we just let it stay that way.”

“… Okay with me.”

“And with Kerry. It’s settled then.”

She didn’t have anything more to say, which saved me the trouble of having to prod her off the line. I put the receiver down, stood, went away from my desk a couple of paces, came back and sat down and picked the receiver up again and called Bates and Carpenter. Kerry was out of her office; her secretary went to find her. I got up and took a couple of turns around the desk until I heard her voice.

“Did Cybil call you? About Dancer’s manuscript?”

“Couple of minutes ago. Kerry-”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m relieved. I kept imagining all sorts of nasty things he might’ve given her-that’s why I was so bothered. You know how weird Dancer could be-”

“Kerry, listen, I don’t want to talk about that right now. That’s not why I called. There’s a problem here and I’m not going to be able to pick up Emily. Can you do it, or make arrangements with the Simpsons?”

She caught the tension in my voice. “I can do it. What problem?”

“It’s Tamara. She’s gone missing.”

“Missing? For heaven’s sake, what-?”

“No idea yet. She hasn’t come in or called in, she’s not home, her cell phone’s out of service, and nobody’s talked to her since last night. May or may not have something to do with a surveillance she’s been on in San Leandro the past couple of nights.”

“Have you called the police yet?”

“Not yet. Too soon. Jake Runyon and I are on it.”

“You don’t think she-?”

“Trying not to think anything yet. I don’t know when I’ll be home. I’ll call if I’m going to be late.”

“Or if there’s any word.”

“Soon as I can.”

“Find her, you and Jake,” she said. “Find her safe.”

Less than a minute after Runyon switched on Tamara’s computer, he said, “Yeah, I was afraid of that. I can’t get in. She never gave you any idea of the password?”

“No. That kind of information is wasted on me.”

“Write it down anywhere that you know of?”

“I’ve been through her desk a couple of times. I didn’t see anything that looked like a password.”

“She’s too security conscious to leave something like that in her desk,” Runyon said. “Probably didn’t write it down at all. A person her age doesn’t worry about forgetting things like that.”

“Or about something unexpected happening to them.”

“Yeah.”

He looked through her desk anyway, didn’t find anything, and then we brainstormed a couple of dozen possible words, phrases, dates that she might’ve used for a password. None of them worked.

“Dammit,” I said, “we could sit here all night and not come up with the right one. The only lead we’ve got, and it’s a dead end.”

“Not necessarily. There’re other ways to get into a secured computer.”

“What ways?”

“Codebreaker program, for one. Runs every possible combination of letters and numbers until it hits on the right one. But that can take a long time. A better, faster way is to link up another computer and wipe her hard drive.”

“You’re losing me, Jake.”

“Computer forensics,” Runyon said. “Wiping the hard drive lets you access all the stored files. Also retrieve deleted material-what we need if Tamara dumped the research she told you about.”

“How long does that take?”

“Not long for the wipe job. Rest of it depends on how many files and deletions need sorting through to get what you’re after. Probably no more than a couple of hours.”

“Can you do that kind of thing?”

“Christ, no. Takes an expert.”

“Where do we find one?”

“Some of the bigger investigative agencies have computer forensics departments now. Caldwell was just putting one together in Seattle when I left them.”

“McCone Investigations,” I said. “They handle computer-related cases. And Sharon’s nephew, Mick, is an expert hacker.”

“He’ll know how to do a wipe job then.”

I called over there, got Ted Smalley, McCone Investigations’ office manager, on the line. “Sharon’s up at Touchstone with Hy,” he said when I asked for her. Touchstone was a getaway home McCone and her signifcant other, Hy Ripinsky, owned-in Mendocino County, a couple of hundred miles from the city. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

I said, “I hope so, Ted,” and explained the situation.

“Of course we’ll do whatever we can to help,” he said in his crisp way. “Mick has done that kind of work before. In fact, he’s so good at it Sharon is thinking of establishing a computer forensics department and putting him in charge.”

“Is Mick in?”

“No, but I think I can reach him. Let me make a call or two and I’ll get back to you.”

He called back in six minutes. “I just spoke to Mick,” he said. “He’s eager to help, but he’s caught up on a case in San Jose. The earliest he can be back in the city is seven-thirty.”

“Seven-thirty. Okay. I’d rather not wait around here that long, so how about I drop off a key to our office?”

“I have a better suggestion. Why not bring Tamara’s computer here? I can have it hooked up and ready when Mick arrives. It’ll save time.”

“Done. Thanks, Ted. I’ll bring it right over.”

Runyon and I unhooked Tamara’s Mac G-4, and a good thing he was there because I might’ve fouled up the job on my own: it was a big machine with a lot of wires and connections that didn’t mean anything to me. Together we carried it downstairs and around the corner and down to the garage where the agency rented space.

“You going back to San Leandro after you drop it off?” he asked.

“Yeah. See what I can find out from the people on Willard Street. You mind hanging around here until five-thirty or so, just in case?”

“No problem. If you need me later tonight, I’ll be available.”

“Right. Where’ll you be? Home?”

“No. Out keeping busy. My cell’ll be on wherever I am.”

McCone Investigations was not far away, in Pier 24-1/2 next to the SFFD fireboat station on the Embarcadero. There were several businesses inhabiting the cavernous interior; Sharon’s was the largest. She’d expanded her operations considerably in the past few years, adding office space and employees-five now, with more in the offing-and her agency now occupied the entire north side of the upper level. I drove onto the pier floor, where there was tenant parking and at the moment no empty spaces, double-parked, and lugged the computer upstairs to Ted’s office.

He was a slender, compact man in his forties, with a neatly trimmed goatee and a recent predilection for gaudy Hawaiian shirts. A small smile widened his mouth when he saw the machine. “A G-4. I’m trying to talk Sharon into buying me one. They’re among the best on the market.”

“Mick won’t have any trouble with it?”

“I’m sure not. Exactly what is it he’s to look for?”

“Anything pertaining to a male of mixed race-half black, half white. There may or may not be a San Leandro or other East Bay connection. And/or a connection to a split-fee case we’re working for the Ballard Agency in Portland-the reason Tamara was in San Leandro the last couple of nights. The subject’s name is George DeBrissac.”

Ted wrote all of that down. “Anything else?”

“Not that I know of right now,” I said. “Will Mick be able to tell recent from older stuff?”

“Yes. Everything on the hard drive is dated.”

“Should be from yesterday. Either a new file, or she might’ve printed out her research and then deleted it.”

“Mick can find it either way. And I’ll have him check all her entries and searches for the past week or so, just in case.”

“How long do you think it’ll take him?”

“When it comes to computers, he’s even more efficient than I am. I’d say no more than an hour at the most. He’ll call you as soon as he has anything to report. Do you have a cell number?”

I did now, thanks to Kerry; her Christmas present had been a cell phone. I read it off to him. “I really appreciate this, Ted.”

“Friends as well as business associates-you’d do the same for us. And I like Tamara, I hate the thought of anything happening to her. Not that anything has or will. I’m sure she’s all right.”

He wasn’t sure, any more than I was. Just trying to be upbeat, reassuring. But the truth was in his eyes, in the grave set of his features. No one who deals with crime and criminals on a daily basis can fool anybody else in the business on a thing like this.