woman, and I’m hoping we’ll get a name for her. If the label still exists, we might even get a last known address. I want you to contact all the major recording companies, then call stores that sell rare records.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s not yet nine, but I can start with the East Coast.”
“Get to it.”
Raja went to his desk. Judy picked up the phone and dialed police headquarters. “Lieutenant Maddox, please.” A moment later he came on the line. She said: “Bo, it’s me.”
“Hi, Judy.”
“Cast your mind back to the late sixties, when you knew what music was hip.”
“I’d have to go further. Early sixties, late fifties, that’s my era.”
“Too bad. I think the Hammer of Eden woman made a record with a band called Raining Fresh Daisies.”
“My favorite groups were called things like Frankie Rock and the Rockabillies. I never liked acts with flowers in their names. Sorry, Jude, I never heard of your outfit.”
“Well, it was worth a try.”
“Listen, I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about your guy, Ricky Granger — he’s the man behind the woman, right?”
“That’s what we think.”
“You know, he’s so careful, he’s such a planner, he must be dying to know what you’re up to.”
“Makes sense.”
“I think the FBI has probably talked to him already.”
“You do?” That was hopeful, if Bo was right. There was a type of perpetrator who insinuated himself into the investigation, approaching the police as a witness or a kindly neighbor offering coffee, then tried to befriend officers and chat to them about the progress of the case. “But Granger also seems ultracareful.”
“There’s probably a war going on inside him, between caution and curiosity. But look at his behavior — he’s daring as all hell. My guess is, curiosity will win out.”
Judy nodded into the phone. Bo’s intuitions were worth listening to: they came from thirty years of police experience. “I’m going to review every interview in the case.”
“Look for something off-the-wall. This guy never does the normal thing. He’ll be a psychic offering to divine where the next earthquake will come, or like that. He’s imaginative.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“What do you want for supper?”
“I probably won’t be home.”
“Don’t overdo it.”
“Bo, I have three days to catch these people. If I fail, hundreds of people could die! I’m not thinking about supper.”
“If you get tired, you’ll miss the crucial clue. Take breaks, eat lunch, get the sleep you need.”
“Like you always did, huh?”
He laughed. “Good luck.”
“Bye.” She hung up, frowning. She would have to go over every interview Marvin’s team had done with the Green California Campaign people, plus all the notes from the raid on Los Alamos and anything else in the file. It should all be on the office computer network. She touched her keyboard and called up the directory. As she scanned the material, she realized there was far too much for her to review personally. They had interviewed every householder in Silver River Valley, more than a hundred people. When she got her extra personnel, she would put a small team on it. She made a note.
What else? She had to arrange stakeouts on likely earthquake sites. Michael had said he could make a list. She was glad to have a reason to call him. She dialed his number.
He sounded pleased to hear from her. “I’m looking forward to our date tonight.”
“Does that mean you can’t make it tonight?” He sounded crestfallen.
She certainly could not contemplate dinner and a movie. “I’d like to see you, but I won’t have much time. Could we meet for a drink, maybe?”
“Sure.”
“I’m really sorry, but the case is developing fast. I called you about that list you promised, of likely earthquake sites. Did you make it?”
“No. You got anxious about the information getting out to the public and causing a panic, and that made me think the exercise might be dangerous.”
“Now I need to know.”
“Okay, I’ll look at the data.”
“Could you bring the list with you tonight?”
“Sure. Morton’s at six?”
“See you there.”
“Listen …”
“Still here.”
“I’m really glad you’re back on the case. I’m sorry we can’t have dinner together, but I feel safer knowing you’re after the bad guys. I mean it.”
“Thanks.” As she hung up, she hoped she merited his confidence.
By midafternoon the emergency operations center was up and running.
The officers’ club looked like a Spanish villa. Inside, it was a gloomy imitation of a country club, with cheap paneling, bad murals, and ugly light fixtures. The smell of the skunk had not gone away.
The cavernous ballroom had been fitted out as a command post. In one corner was the head shed, a top table with seats for the heads of the principal agencies involved in managing the crisis, including the San Francisco police, firefighters and medical people, the mayor’s office of emergency services, and a representative of the governor. The experts from headquarters, who were even now flying from Washington to San Francisco in an FBI jet, would sit here.
Around the room, groups of tables were set up for the different teams that would work on the case: intelligence and investigation, the core of the effort; negotiation and SWAT teams that would be called in if hostages were taken; an administration and technical support team that would grow if the crisis escalated; a legal team to expedite search warrants, arrest warrants, or wiretaps; and an evidence response team, which would enter any crime scene after the event and collect evidence.
Laptop computers on each table were linked in a local network. The FBI had long used a paper-based information control system called Rapid Start, but now it had developed a computerized version, using Microsoft Access software. But paper had not disappeared. Around two sides of the room, notice boards covered the walls: lead status boards, event boards, subject boards, demand boards, and hostage boards. Key data and clues would be written up here so that everyone could see them at a glance. Right now the subject board had one name — Richard Granger — and two pictures. The lead status board had a picture of a seismic vibrator.
The room was big enough for a couple of hundred people, but so far there were only about forty. They were mostly grouped around the intelligence and investigation table, speaking into phones, tapping keyboards, and reading files on screen. Judy had divided them into teams, each with a leader who monitored the others, so that she could keep track of progress by talking to three people.
There was an air of subdued urgency. Everyone was calm, but they were concentrating hard and working intensely. No one stopped for coffee or schmoozed over the photocopier or went outside for a cigarette. Later, if the situation developed into a full-blown crisis, the atmosphere would change, Judy knew: people would be yelling into phones, the expletive quotient would multiply, tempers would fray, and it would be her job to keep the lid on the cauldron.
Remembering Bo’s tip, she pulled up a chair next to Carl Theobald, a bright young agent in a fashionable dark blue shirt. He was the leader of the team reviewing Marvin Hayes’s files. “Anything?” she said.
