“Those guys are all hardbodies, for sure,” Shire said, eliciting a scowl from David Davis. “Army, navy, marines, or air force?”
“We don’t know,” Roy said. “Maybe he was never in the service. Could have been with a state or local police department. Could have been a Bureau agent, as far as we know, or DEA or ATF.”
“The way this works,” Shire said impatiently, “is, I need to put in telltales that limit the field.”
A hundred million of the prints in the Bureau’s system were in criminal-history files, which left ninety million that covered federal employees, military personnel, intelligence services, state and local law-enforcement officers, and registered aliens. If they knew that their mystery man was, say, an ex-marine, they wouldn’t have to search most of those ninety million files.
Roy opened the envelope that Melissa Wicklun had given him a short while ago, in Photo Analysis. He took out one of the computer-projected portraits of the man they were hunting. On the back of it was the data that the photo-analysis software had deduced from the rain-veiled profile of the man at the bungalow the previous night.
“Male, Caucasian, twenty-eight to thirty-two,” Roy said.
Nella Shire typed swiftly. A list appeared on the screen.
“Five feet eleven inches tall,” Roy continued. “One hundred and sixty-five pounds, give or take five. Brown hair, brown eyes.”
He turned the photo over to stare at the full-face portrait, and David Davis bent down to look as well. “Severe facial scarring,” Roy said. “Right side. Beginning at the ear, terminating near the chin.”
“Was that sustained on duty?” David wondered.
“Probably. So a conditional telltale might be an honorable early discharge or even a service disability.”
“Whether he was discharged or disabled,” Davis said excitedly, “you can bet he was required to undergo psychological counseling. A scar like this — it’s a terrible blow to self-esteem. Terrible.”
Nella Shire swiveled in her chair, snatched the portrait out of Roy’s hand, and looked at it. “I don’t know…I think it makes him look sexy. Dangerous and sexy.”
Ignoring her, Davis said, “The government’s very concerned about self-esteem these days. A lack of self- esteem is the root of crime and social unrest. You can’t hold up a bank or mug an old lady unless you first think you’re nothing but a lowlife thief.”
“Yeah?” Nella Shire said, returning the portrait to Roy. “Well, I’ve known a thousand jerks who thought they were God’s best work.”
Davis said firmly, “Make psychological counseling a telltale.”
She added that item to her list. “Anything else?”
“That’s all,” Roy said. “How long is this going to take?”
Shire read through the list on the screen. “Hard to say. No more than eight or ten hours. Maybe less. Maybe a lot less. Could be, in an hour or two, I’ll have his name, address, phone number, and be able to tell you which side of his pants he hangs on.”
David Davis, still clutching a fistful of crumpled musclemen and worried about his management record, appeared offended by her remark.
Roy was merely intrigued. “Really? Maybe only an hour or two?”
“Why would I be jerking your chain?” she asked impatiently.
“Then I’ll hang around. We need this guy real bad.”
“He’s almost yours,” Nella Shire promised as she set to work.
At three o’clock they had a late lunch on the back porch while the long shadows of eucalyptuses crept up the canyon in the yellowing light of the westering sun. Sitting in a rocking chair, Spencer ate a ham-and-cheese sandwich and drank a bottle of beer. After polishing off a bowl of Purina, Rocky used his grin, his best sad-eyed look, his most pathetic whine, his wagging tail, and a master thespian’s store of tricks to cadge bits of the sandwich.
“Laurence Olivier had nothing on you,” Spencer told him.
When the sandwich was gone, Rocky padded down the porch steps and started across the backyard toward the nearest cluster of wild brush, characteristically seeking privacy for his toilet.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Spencer said, and the dog stopped to look at him. “You’ll come back with your coat full of burrs, and it’ll take me an hour to comb them all out. I don’t have time for that.”
He got up from the rocking chair, turned his back to the dog, and stared at the cabin wall while he finished the last of the beer.
When Rocky returned, they went inside, leaving the tree shadows to grow unwatched.
While the dog napped on the sofa, Spencer sat at the computer and began his search for Valerie Keene. From that bungalow in Santa Monica, she could have gone anywhere in the world, and he would have been as well advised to start looking in far Borneo as in nearby Ventura. Therefore, he could only go backward, into the past.
He had a single clue: Vegas.
Her familiarity with Vegas and her facility with cards might mean that she had lived there and earned her living as a dealer.
By his usual route, Spencer hacked into the main LAPD computer. From there he springboarded into an interstate police data-sharing network, which he had often used before, and bounced across borders into the computer of the Clark County Sheriff’s Department in Nevada, which had jurisdiction over the city of Las Vegas.
On the sofa, the snoring dog pumped his legs, chasing rabbits in his sleep. In Rocky’s case, the rabbits were probably chasing him.
After exploring the sheriff’s computer for a while and finding his way into — among other things — the department’s personnel records, Spencer finally discovered a file labeled NEV CODES. He was pretty sure he knew what it was, and he wanted in.
NEV CODES was specially protected. To use it, he required an access number. Incredibly, in many police agencies, that would be either an officer’s badge number or, in the case of office workers, an employee ID number — all obtainable from personnel records, which were not well guarded. He had already collected a few badge numbers in case he needed them. Now he used one, and NEV CODES opened to him.
It was a list of numerical codes with which he could access the computer-stored data of any government agency in the state of Nevada. In a wink he followed the cyberspace highway from Las Vegas to the Nevada Gaming Commission in Carson City, the capital.
The commission licensed all casinos in the state and enforced the laws and regulations that governed them. Anyone who wished to invest — or serve as an executive — in the gaming industry was required to submit to a background investigation and to be proved free of ties to known criminals. In the 1970s, a strengthened commission squeezed out most of the mobsters and Mafia front men who had founded Nevada’s biggest industry, in favor of companies like Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and Hilton Hotels.
It was logical to suppose that other casino employees below management level — from pit bosses to cocktail waitresses — underwent similar although less exhaustive background checks and were issued ID cards. Spencer explored menus and directories, and in another twenty minutes, he found the records that he needed.
The data related to casino-employee work permits was divided into three primary files: Expired, Current, Pending. Because Valerie had been working at The Red Door in Santa Monica for two months, Spencer accessed the Expired list first.
In his rambles through cyberspace, he had seen few files so extensively cross-referenced as this one — and those others had been related to grave national defense matters. The system allowed him to search for a subject in the Expired category by means of twenty-two indices ranging from eye color to most recent place of employment.
He typed VALERIE ANN KEENE.
In a few seconds the system replied: UNKNOWN.
He shifted to the file labeled Current and typed in her name.
UNKNOWN.
