She let the card close.
Baldwin led her back to the living room and pressed play on the stereo. Music streamed from the speakers.
After a moment, she said, “The Platters?”
“Yep. There’s more. Writing on the disc. He burned it himself, it’s not an original recording.”
“Let’s see it.”
Baldwin ejected the CD midwail and handed it to Taylor.
“It’s gibberish to me. I don’t see any rhyme or reason to it.”
At first glance, she had to agree. There were just a bunch of numbers and letters, none that spelled out anything obvious.
“White board,” she said, heading up the stairs to her office. She erased everything that was on the board, then wrote down the numbers and letters at the top, enjoying the strange scent of the erasable marker and its small, squeaking scratches as she wrote. She loved her white board.
When she was finished, she stood back and looked at the string.
148NAD77HCBOTM4482901QRE
“What about a VIN?” Taylor asked.
“Nope. Vehicle Identification Numbers are only seventeen digits. That’s twenty-four.”
“You remember when we used to get actual airline tickets? There was always that huge long string at the bottom that didn’t make sense, but it was really the codes for the airports, and the equipments, dates and seat numbers. Maybe that’s it.”
“Good idea.”
They started playing with combinations of letters, breaking them into groups, writing them backward, but nothing was apparent. No call signs for airports, no dates, nothing that made logical sense.
Baldwin was getting frustrated, his hair was standing on end. Taylor smoothed it down, then wiped away all their conjecture, leaving them with the original numbers and letters at the top of the board.
“Let’s look at this a different way. He’s sending us a message. What do we think is happening, right now?”
“He’s playing a game.”
“Right. And we know that he has probably recruited people to play with him. There have been three recent copycat crimes that we know of.” She stared at the board, mind whirling.
“Break it into threes?” She transcribed the numbers on the board.
148NAD77 HCBOTM4 482901QRE
“Still means nothing.”
She had the first glimmers of an idea. “Let me see the disc again,” Taylor said.
Baldwin handed it to her. She looked closely at the placement of the letters, then wrote a new pattern on the board.
148NAD77HCBOTM4482 901QRE
“It looks like there’s a space between the first string of letters and numbers and the end. If we break that off, then separate them into three sections…”
She scribbled on the board, then stood back and looked.
148NAD 77HCB OTM4482 901QRE
“License plate numbers?” she said, and heard Baldwin suck in his breath. He tapped the computer on her desk to life, fingers flying over the keys as he accessed a database through his FBI identification.
“Damn, you’re good. That’s got to be it. Let me call Kevin, have him put some elbow grease into this.” He smiled at her, his face radiant, and she knew she was forgiven her transgression.
Would he feel the same way if he knew she’d killed a man on purpose?
She shoved that thought away.
She took the CD and put it into her laptop, stepped out of the room so she wouldn’t interrupt Baldwin. Went into their guest room, sat on the bed, and hit Play. The song spilled out of the computer, and she listened carefully to the lyrics. They gave her the creeps. Such a simple song, perverted for a psycho’s purpose.
The song finished, and there was silence, deafening quiet. She started to press the eject button, then heard something. Leaning closer, she turned the speakers up as far as they could go. There was rustling, like a plastic bag being wadded up, then a cough. She strained to hear more, but there was nothing. Then a deep voice spoke.
“Don’t be late, Taylor. We’ll be waiting.”
The CD spun to a stop.
She froze for a moment. We’ll be waiting. We who? Ewan Copeland and Ruth Anderson? Ewan and his copycat monsters?
Her mind flashed back to the white board, to the last set of numbers, the ones that had given her the idea to break them apart from the rest anyway.
901QRE
We’ll be waiting.
It hit her like a landslide, and she yelled for Baldwin. She heard him excuse himself from the phone and rush to the room immediately.
“What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”
“The last numbers. I was wrong. They aren’t a license plate.”
“What are they?”
“I don’t know what the E is, but 901QR has to be 901 Quaker Run.”
The significance dawned on him. “Oh, my God.”
“That’s Sam’s address. Baldwin, he’s got Sam.”
Thirty-Six
To: bostonboy@ncr. bb. com, 44caliber @ncr. ss. com, crypto@ncr. zk. com
From: troy14@ncr. tr. com Subject: Game Over
Gentlemen,
My deepest apologies to share this untimely news, but your covers are blown.
Accelerate the schedule and rendezvous at your predesignated final assignment.
Time to come to Papa. And hurry. The Pretender
Thirty-Seven
T aylor had never felt the level of panic that was cruising through her system. Despite that, she stayed outwardly calm. She picked up the phone and speed-dialed her best friend’s cell number.
It went directly to voice mail, a sign that the phone had been turned off. Taylor ended the call, then dialed Sam’s house. Simon Loughley, Sam’s husband, answered the phone. Taylor could hear the twins crying in the background. She tried to sound as normal as possible.
“Hi, Simon. Sam around?”
“Hey, Taylor. Good to hear from you. No, she has the overnight shift this week, probably up to her elbows in entrails right about now. She has a doctor’s appointment this morning, too. She’s not supposed to be home until around ten or so. Hey, are you and Baldwin coming to Thanksgiving? No, let me rephrase. Please tell me you and Baldwin are coming to Thanksgiving. Sam can’t drink, and you know how she gets when she’s pregnant on national holidays.”
Taylor fought the rising nausea. It’s okay. She’s okay. She’s at work. Nothing can happen to her while she’s at Forensic Medical.
“We’d love to, Simon. We’re planning to be there. I’ve got to run, I need to track her down. I’ll-I’ll tell her I
