Unsolved Read online

  He nods again.

  “And you figured—what—you could use our relationship against me?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Record our conversations? Memorize my incriminating statements?”

  “It wasn’t like—I didn’t do that.”

  “No? Then what was it like, Books? What did you do?”

  “You were already a target,” Books tells her. “Moriarty presented it to me that way. I thought if I could be a part of it, I could at least make sure that things were done fairly. Make sure you weren’t railroaded.”

  She raises her chin, but her eyes narrow. “So you were protecting me.”

  “In a sense, yes, absolutely.”

  “I should be thanking you, then. Thanking you for working undercover to spy on me while I shared a bed with you, while I wore your engagement ring on my finger.”

  “Well, that’s not an obstacle anymore, is it?” says Books. “You took care of that problem.”

  “Did I take care of that, or did you? You’re the one who made me make a choice—a choice that a man would never have to make.”

  “Well, this man made it.” Books jams his thumb into his chest harder than he intended. “I would drop everything for you. I’d walk away from anything if it meant I’d have you. Can you say the same thing?”

  Emmy looks away, tears welling in her eyes.

  “You think I don’t miss the Bureau every single day?” Books goes on. “But I scaled down my life, my eighteen-hour days, so I could have more of a life to share with you. Not you, though—no compromise on your part. No, sir. Never.” He waves his arms and bangs his knuckles against the metal shelving behind him. “Damn it,” he mumbles, rubbing his hand.

  When he looks back at Emmy, she has fixed her stare on him again. “Why am I here, Books? To relitigate this?”

  Maybe. Maybe also because I was looking for any excuse to lay eyes on you again. Hell, maybe a small part of me was hoping that you’d reconsidered, that you were going to tell me that you were leaving the job with the Bureau and would fly off with me to some island or something.

  Who am I kidding? Every single part of me was hoping that.

  Instead, Books says, “No. Emmy, I just spoke with Moriarty. I think we’ve been looking at this leak the wrong way. The things that have been leaked have been tactical, right? Things like where we expect David to go next, the profile we’ve drawn up. The leaked information helps Citizen David, doesn’t it?”

  She nods her head. “That sounds right.”

  “I don’t think this person is just a leaker. I think he, or she, is an accomplice.”

  Emmy’s expression tells him that she hadn’t considered the possibility. “You think he’s working with David?”

  “I do. And no matter how much you may admire David from afar, I know you’d never actually help him blow things up.”

  She lets out a mock laugh. “Thank you for that. So I’m crossed off the list?”

  “I’m being serious, Em. Yes, you’re off my list. But that means someone in the Bureau is Citizen David’s accomplice. And maybe you can help me find out who.”

  She closes her eyes, shakes her head. “Well, the list of people is fairly long. Carlton and his agents from National Security, Sloan from CID—”

  “Cobbs from Science and Tech, and Mayfield. And their agents. I have the list.”

  “And the analysts are me, Bonita Sexton, and Eric Pullman.”

  “And don’t forget Elizabeth Ashland and Dwight Ross.”

  “And you’re going to do—what?” she asks.

  Books shrugs. “We assume Citizen David is a man with resources, right? To understand bombing techniques and move about the country and escape detection all the while, he’d have to know a lot and have a lot. He’s wealthy.”

  Emmy nods. “Follow the money,” she says.

  “Follow the money. Whoever’s helping him isn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart. He’s getting paid.”

  “And communicating with him by leaking to Shaindy Eckstein.”

  “Sure. What better way to hide what you’re doing than by leaking information through a reporter who’d go to prison before she disclosed the source? Our rogue agent never has to make direct contact with David. The reporter is the perfect intermediary.”

  “Makes sense,” Emmy allows. “Well, then, follow the money. I don’t see Rabbit or Pully buying Cartier diamonds or Lamborghinis or dining at the finest restaurants.”

  “Me neither.”

  “The rest of the people, I couldn’t form an opinion. I don’t know them well enough.”

  “But they know you,” says Books.

  Emmy looks at him.

  “There are hundreds of reporters in this town alone,” he says. “Whoever this is didn’t pick Shaindy Eckstein out of a hat.”

  Emmy nods. “They picked her because she’s a close friend of mine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “They’re setting me up.”

  Books nods. “I’ll keep working on this and keep you updated,” he says. “But in the meantime, you might want to grow some eyes in the back of your head. Someone has it in for you.”

  58

  MY CONVERSATION with Books ends with my nodding in agreement and saying a quiet thanks for his information. Instinctively, I take a step forward as I say goodbye, being in the habit of giving him a kiss and an embrace of some kind, but then I realize that we don’t do that sort of thing anymore. We are exes now.

  I see the same start-and-stop movements from him, as if we’re in a game of Mother, May I. A long, silent pause follows.

  I wonder if his stomach’s in knots, if his chest feels like it’s on fire, if he hurts so bad that it defies words. If he wants to kiss me right now as much as I want to kiss him.

  “Emmy,” he says. “No matter what, we’ll always—”

  “I’ll see you soon.” With that, I rush out, unable to bear hearing him call me friend, understanding why people shouldn’t stay in touch with their exes. And yet there I was with the “I’ll see you soon,” holding the promise of another encounter, unable to decisively cut the cord myself.

  I walk past Petty, who is shelving books like an employee. From what I know of him, he’s a sweet man who was chewed up and spit out in the war, left with a brain that operates like a flickering light bulb. The light seems to be on right now, as he gauges my mood, focuses on a paperback novel, and mumbles a “Good to see ya, Emmy,” keeping it detached and unemotional.

  There is a mist in the air and in my eyes as I leave the store. I text Eric that I’ll be there in twenty, which might be optimistic with traffic and an oncoming storm.

  When I reach the stoop of my apartment building, I find myself glancing around. I jump when a car door opens on a parked car down the street, but it’s only Eric Pullman getting out.

  “Sorry if I kept you waiting,” I say as he approaches.

  “No problem, I was just texting back and forth with this supermodel who has a thing for me. I’d rather not say her name.”

  Pully always makes me smile. Pully is like a kid in big-boy clothes, with that unkempt hair, the long neck and goofy expression, his self-deprecating comments and ill-fitting clothes. You’d almost forget that between those ears that protrude from his head like antennae is a mind that can sort out complex mathematical problems and breezily navigate computer code. He sees computers the way Beethoven saw pianos.

  But his joke aside, it would be nice for him to have a girlfriend. Or at least get laid every now and then.

  I punch in the code, and we enter my building and take the elevator up. I’m too drained for stairs. I feel a sense of dread as I approach my apartment, knowing that Darwin—Bonita’s nickname has stuck—has walked this hallway, has entered my apartment, has rooted around in my things. Pully isn’t exactly bodyguard material, but still, I am profoundly relieved to have someone with me.

  I unlock the door and turn off the alarm. Pully leans into the alarm pad and
declares, “This wouldn’t be hard to bypass.”

  Well, that’s what Darwin must have done. When my alarm is armed or disarmed—whenever its status changes—an e-mail is sent to me. Darwin somehow managed to enter my apartment without the alarm so much as blinking.

  I make some decaf coffee and let Pully do his thing in my office. I sit in the living room, feeling like a stranger in my own apartment. This was my refuge, where I lived and where I worked. It was my comfort zone. Now it’s been invaded.

  Nice week I’ve had—I’ve lost the man I love and the sanctity of my home. I’m alternating between heartbreak and fear.

  Thirty minutes later, Pully walks in and sits down next to me. “Well, you’ve definitely been hacked,” he says. “I can’t tell who or when, but definitely a hack job. Your desktop and your laptop. He cloned them and downloaded everything.” He keeps his voice down, as if he thinks he might be overheard.

  “So he has everything I’ve done on my computers, and he can see everything I do?”

  “In real time. Yeah. You do a Google search for single white female seeking Ukrainian-midget porn star and he’ll see it. You click on a link for sex-starved thirty-somethings and he’ll know you clicked on it and he’ll see what you see.”

  “So if I’m searching for his latest victim, he’ll know it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will he see what I type on a word-processing document?”

  “Sure. Everything, girl. If you type I secretly yearn for Pully and his sexual charisma, he’ll be reading right along.”

  So he’s basically taken away my personal computers. They’ve become useless.

  I push back my hair and look up at the ceiling. Then a spark of an idea, and I turn to him. “Can you trace it back to him? Is there some signal he’s sending that we could trace—”

  “No, no, sorry.” He waves his hand, fanning out the flames. “He’s fully encrypted.”

  “Are you sure? Isn’t it even worth a shot?”

  “Emmy, if we tried, he’d know we were trying. It wouldn’t work, and you’d show your hand.” He pats my knee in a friendly, nonsuggestive way. “You need a new computer, Miss E. One he hasn’t compromised.”

  But even if I start using another computer going forward, Darwin knows I’m hunting him. He knows everything I know about him. “Thanks, Pully,” I say as he starts to go. I suppress the urge to ask him to stay, but I dread being here alone. “And, hey—Ukrainian-midget porn stars?”

  “Don’t be judgmental. They’re people too.” He points at the door. “We’ll need to update your home security too.”

  But…I feel like I’m missing something somehow. The hacking of my computers, however creepy and however much it has set us back…maybe it can provide some kind of opportunity too.

  “Hey, Pully,” I say as he reaches for the doorknob. “Hold on a sec. I have an idea.”

  59

  EVEN SEVERAL days after Chicago, he is still glowing from the triumph.

  He’s not given to self-congratulation, but he must admit, it was a work of art—the toppled building, the fiery, smoky graveyard. And he took out more of those worthless drains on society in one weekend than he could have in one year under his old method.

  All thanks to Citizen David providing him the perfect cover.

  And the next one’s going to be even bigger and better.

  The café has few customers as darkness falls, as closing time nears. He sits protected against a wall, his laptop screen visible only to him, looking for all the world like a harmless army vet in a wheelchair enjoying a cup of coffee and a scone while he catches up with the latest news.

  He should be spending time on his next project—projects, plural—but he can’t help pulling up news accounts of Chicago. Profiles of some of the dead homeless people. Citizen David, publicly denying involvement on social media. The FBI, tight-lipped but seemingly with no leads. And nary a mention of yet another homeless man, dead not from the bomb but from natural causes a few blocks away, a man known as Mayday.

  He opens his clone laptop to monitor Emmy’s nightly work. It’s only just past nine, and Emmy typically works until the wee hours of the morning, but what she’s already begun tonight catches his attention. It’s a Word document entitled “Personal Notes—CD,” her personal observations on Citizen David, that she created months ago and updates regularly.

  She’s been quiet since the bombing. He’s been dying to know her reaction, but she hasn’t updated this document, and he admits to himself that a small sliver of worry had begun to creep into his thoughts.

  But she’s back at it tonight, and he reads as she types:

  The use of the Garfield the Cat watch as the timer in the Chicago explosion points to only one suspect—Citizen David. That detail has never been made public. Only David would know.

  Exactly. Precisely how he planned it. He exhales with a mix of pride and relief.

  Oh, how he enjoys playing with them, batting these FBI idiots back and forth with his massive paws, sprinkling a few false clues here, some red herrings there, watching them chase their tails. Is he really so much smarter than everyone else?

  Yes. But it’s more than that. It’s his discipline that sets him apart, his planning and execution. Most people are lazy.

  Emmy Dockery isn’t, which is why she’s presented such a challenge. He admits he was beginning to worry about her, but look how easy she was to fool!

  As he basks in the glow of his success, words fly past him on the screen. He blinks out of his moment and focuses on them.

  That’s what he wants me to think, anyway. I know it’s not true.

  Citizen David is too expert at explosives to use that much blast by accident. And he never would have risked the very people he champions—the poor, the mentally ill, the homeless—by bombing a payday-loan store right beneath a homeless shelter.

  As if he’s been shoved in the chest, he draws back, catching his breath. It—it didn’t work? That can’t be. Everything he did was perfect—

  “Are you finished, sir?”

  His head snaps toward the barista in the long green apron and hat, who jumps back at his reaction. “What?” he snarls at him.

  “Sir, are you finished with your—”

  “Does it look like I’m finished? Why are restaurants always in such a goddamn hurry to take your plate?”

  “Hey, easy, guy, it’s all good, no worries.” The boy raises his hands in surrender.

  He watches the kid retreat, scolding himself for the outburst. You always, always stay in character. You don’t let the anger show. Not in public. Not while you’re playing the role.

  Besides, he consoles himself, taking a breath, what Emmy’s saying is just a theory. The FBI can’t know anything for certain. Yes, he decides, it’s just a theory she’s kicking around. Emmy hasn’t been able to get anyone in the FBI to listen to her ideas about me so far. Why should now be any different?

  His attention returns to the screen of his clone, which is mirroring every word Emmy writes:

  Everything changed when I found Mayday.

  He gasps, grips the sides of the laptop like he’s about to shake it. His eyes dart about the room, panic overtaking him, everything upside down, spinning out of control—

  He reads it and rereads it, confirming that he’s really seeing those words, that his eyes aren’t fooling him, that this isn’t some momentary nightmare. His thoughts zigzag and his eyes bore into the words until the letters start to move and dance about, growing and shrinking, mocking him, laughing at him—

  I f o u n d M a y d a y

  I f o u n d M a y d a y

  “Sir, are you okay? Sir? Sir.”

  He looks up at the man addressing him, older than the first one, probably the store manager in his white shirt and green hat and name tag. The man takes a step back. “Is something wrong, sir?”

  He closes the laptop gently and drops it into his bag, suddenly aware of his trembling hands, the heat on his face.

&nbs
p; “I’ll leave,” he whispers. “I’ll leave right now.”

  60

  Everything…changed…when I…found…Mayday.

  I finish typing and scoot back my chair, assessing the words.

  Pully, sitting next to me, chews on his lower lip and stares at the computer screen with the expression of a fascinated child. I’ve always wondered if he was cut out for the FBI. He’s a computer genius, no doubt, and we’ve put his skills to tremendous use. But this job requires a strong stomach, even for the analysts who stay behind their desks. Financial crimes are one thing. But the brutal stuff—human traffickers, sex offenders, murderers who cross state lines and trigger our jurisdiction—is not for Pully.

  I told him—actually, Rabbit told him, but I agreed—that he couldn’t be part of our hunt for Darwin, and yet here I am, involving him. But only because of his skill with computers; I needed him to see if Darwin had hacked into my laptop and desktop. Rabbit is good with computer-tech stuff, but Pully is a magician.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” I say, instantly dating myself to this millennial.

  “What? Oh.” He shrugs. “Well, mentioning Mayday will definitely get his attention. But you’re tipping him off. You’re telling him that we’re onto him.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to make him think he’s getting away with it? To let him feel warm and comfortable while we close in on him?”

  He has a point there. If my only goal were catching Darwin, then the last thing I should do is tell him that we know he was responsible for the Chicago bombing. But catching him isn’t my only goal.

  I close the document on my computer, satisfied. “Eric, before I wrote this, what do you think Darwin was doing?”

  Pully shrugs. “Planning his next crime.”

  “Right. Blowing up another building with a bunch of innocent people. Why not? His first bombing worked to perfection. Why not keep going? His confidence is at an all-time high.”

  Pully nods toward the computer. “So this was your way of shattering his confidence.”