Dom’s cell phone rang. Wolverine. He snapped it open. “Please tell me you have good news.” He pressed the speaker button. “Venice’s on the line, too.”
“The news is neither good nor bad,” Irene said. “The chief of police down there is an acquaintance of mine. He sent a unit to the Crystal Palace. They spoke with the security team on the main floor, and they said they knew nothing of a shooting.”
“Did they check the place out?” Dom asked.
“They didn’t feel it was necessary,” Irene said. “Under the circumstances, with the extremely limited information we have to offer, I can’t say as I blame them.”
“Are they at least going to keep the police cars on the property for a while?” Venice asked.
“I can’t imagine that they would,” Irene replied. “Venice, I need you to catch me up with the details.”
It only took a couple of minutes.
When the explanation was finished, Irene said, “I don’t suppose you recorded this conversation, did you?”
Venice’s face turned into a giant O. “Oh, my God,” she said. She pushed her chair across the mat to her credenza, where the push of a button produced a postage stamp-size memory card. “I did record it.” She placed the card in her computer and clicked a few buttons. The whole horrible scene played out all over again, from the initial contact through the shooting and finally the ominous voice at the end.
Halfway through, Dom felt himself turning pale and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. When it was over, he understood Venice’s feeling of helplessness.
Silence hung in the air until Irene broke it with, “I’m sorry, guys, but that really doesn’t sound good for Gail.”
“There’s always hope,” Dom said. He looked to Venice, but didn’t get the support he was hoping for.
“If you say so, Father,” Irene said. “Matters of faith are much more your bailiwick than mine. I want to know whose voice that is at the end. Venice, can you send me a digital copy of that? I’ll try to get it voice printed and see what we can find.”
Dom shared a smile with Venice as she clicked send on the file she had already been copying. She was already a step ahead. “On its way,” she said.
“I want to pull out that shouting on the recording, too,” Irene said. “Maybe we can isolate something in the noise that will be helpful to us.”
“I really appreciate this, Wolverine,” Dom said. “I know you’ve got a lot going on. It means a lot-”
“You people mean a lot to me too, Father,” she interrupted. “I’ll be back to you if I get anything useful out of any of this.”
With that, the line went dead.
“I can’t put my finger on why,” Venice said as she turned her attention back to her computer. “But I really don’t like that woman.”
“She’s pulled Dig’s backside out of a lot of fires,” Dom said.
“She’s set a few of them first,” Venice replied.
Jonathan and Irene had a history that even Dom didn’t fully understand, but he knew that there was at least as much angst between them as there was trust.
Dom scowled as he watched Venice become lost in whatever she was typing into her machine. “What are you doing?” he asked. “You look like you’ve discovered something important.”
Venice shook her head, but she didn’t move her eyes from the screen. “I should’ve thought about the shouting,” she said. “Pisses me off that Irene got to that one first. I even have the same software they do.”
Dom smiled. “I’m guessing that if you were Catholic, I’d have heard a confession after you got your hands on it?”
“That’s why it’s good to be Baptist, Father. Everything we do is a sin. We don’t draw hard lines on things like borrowing without permission.”
Dom laughed at the euphemism. He imagined that Saint Peter would have his hands full when the Security Solutions team finally passed on and had to be sorted out. Was stealing still a sin when the stolen materials were put to good use-even if it meant breaking the law? He imagined that God was growing weary of them all.
His attention was drawn to a series of horizontal lines that had appeared on Venice’s computer screen. The lines fattened and thinned on the screen, not unlike the lines painted by oscilloscopes and electrocardiograms.
“Noise is the accumulation of many sounds,” Venice explained. “Even in the noisiest party, you can pick out the words of the person you want to hear, right? You might have to concentrate and watch their mouth for visual cues, but you’ll still be able to get the gist of what they’re saying. To do that, though, you make yourself oblivious to the rest of the noise in the room.”
She paused in her explanation, clearly seeking an indication of understanding. “I’m with you,” Dom said.
“Good. If you were to listen to a recording of that same party, it would be difficult if not impossible to consistently pick out any one voice because the recorder is a piece of electronic equipment that gives equal value to every sound-from the individual voices to the hum of the air-conditioning. That all becomes noise.”
Venice liked to show off a little when she was about to slam-dunk a computer. Dom settled in for the rest.
“For years, governments and individuals have been trying to figure out a way to eavesdrop that would allow the listener to weight the importance of different sources of sound. The FBI took the lead for domestic listening, and the National Security Agency got the nod for international eavesdropping. Obviously, the NSA program is more sophisticated, if only because they’ve got more PhDs per square inch than anywhere else on the planet.”
“And you got your hands on the NSA version,” Dom said, connecting the dots.
Venice gave a demure smile. “Well, it’s not the very latest,” she said. “But it’s better than what the FBI can use.”
“Pesky warrants and such?” Dom asked.
“Exactly. The Constitution really gets in the way of prying into people’s business.”
Dom got the irony.
“Okay, here,” Venice said, pointing. “The program has analyzed the digital recording-it has to be digital for it to work-and separated out what it believes are separate sources of sound. Once separated, it breaks it into separate channels and then scrubs it. The scrubbing process takes a lot of the character out of the voices, but the words should be understandable.”
She tapped the lines on the screen. “This one is obviously the sound of the gunshots,” she said. “You can tell from the peaks in the noise.”
Dom nodded because he knew it was the best thing. In reality, they all looked the same to him.
“I think this one is Gail,” she said. She typed something on her keyboard, clicked her mouse twice, and the lines on the screen turned into sounds from her speakers.
Tristan hated guns. It wasn’t a political thing, although when he turned eighteen and got to cast a vote that counted, he was going to do his best to outlaw the damn things throughout the world. They were ugly and heavy, and they stank. Literally, they smelled bad, an odd combination of oil and must.
The Big Guy-honestly, speaking of stupid names, that one reset the bar-seemed less than happy to be giving Tristan his firearms class. He’d handed Tristan one of the weird-looking Mexican rifles, along with one of the box things that hung from the underside to hold the bullets, but without any actual bullets. Fifteen or twenty feet away, Scorpion seemed thoroughly engaged in a telephone conversation.
“Okay, kid, listen up,” Big Guy said. Then he caught himself. “Sorry. I meant to say Tristan. T-R-I-S-T-A-N.” He smiled, Tristan’s first indication that the man had a non-abusive side to his sense of humor. They’d stopped in the middle of the jungle and pulled the Pathfinder into a thicket of foliage that camouflaged it, though not to the point of invisibility. They’d already refilled the gas tank, and now, as far as he could tell, they were killing time.
Big Guy continued, “The first and most important lesson about firearms is this-the little round hole in the front points only at the enemy. Never at your own face, never at your feet, never at your friend, and, by God, never at me. Any questions so far?”
Big Guy held one of the bigger guns-an M16, Tristan thought, but that was only because he’d seen the movie
Big Guy held up the bullet holder thing. “This is the magazine,” he said. “If we get into a shootout, your survival
