The Darker Side

She nods. She's gone even paler. Her eyes sparkle with her hatred, naked and pure.

'Say it, child,' he tells her.

She shakes once, another one of those chair-leg-rattling shivers. 'I killed my sister and let everyone think she'd killed herself.' She spits the words out, bitter, venomous.

'And did you garner sympathy for this?'

'Yes.'

'Did you tell people about your own cutting?'

'Yes.'

'And the last thing, Willow. Did you tell them your sister led you down that path? Did you let them think she was the one who made you do it?'

'Yesssss.' It comes out in a moan. Her eyes are fluttering. Her facial expression morphs from hate to despair and through all the permutations in between. He waits. I get the sense he's well satisfied, and I feel a little bit of my own hatred rise.

'Thank you, Willow. Remember: God is love.'

Fade to black.

I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath. I exhale and lean back in my chair.

So that was Kirby's friend, I think.

I wonder if this really is the secret Kirby seems to think she knows. A knock on the door interrupts. James pokes his head in.

'We have a lead.'

27

'WE HAD WARRANTS DRAWN UP TO SEE IF WE COULD ATTACH

an IP number to the uploads of the video clips,' James says. 'We wanted to find out if he was stupid enough to lead us to his Internet connection. Given the sophistication of this perp, it seemed unlikely, but he put up a lot of material, so it was worth a try.'

'And? You're saying he left a trail?'

'Most connections operate on the basis of a dynamic IP number. The Internet provider assigns a new IP to the user machine every time they connect, or every day. Some people prefer what they call a static IP--a number that never changes. The number associated with these uploads is static.'

'Which means it couldn't belong to anyone else but that particular bill-paying user.'

'Correct.'

I pace, thinking about this.

'Seems really really strange. It doesn't make sense he'd be so smart about everything else and so stupid about this. Is it possible this isn't our guy?'

'Very. If the owner of this IP uses a wireless router, and he didn't password protect it, then someone could conceivably park a car in front of his home with a laptop and hijack his connection for the uploads.'

'Is it really that common for home wireless networks to be insecure?'

'Yes. A lot of people buy a router and just plug it in and go. They never bother to secure the connection, mostly because they don't understand it themselves.'

'Show me the guy.'

He taps a key on his keyboard and points to the screen. A picture of a California driver's license is displayed.

'Harrison Bester,' I read. 'Age forty-one, black hair, blue eyes. Normal enough looking. Do we know anything about him yet?'

'We do now,' Alan says, walking in the door, waving a manila folder.

He plops down in his chair and reads aloud.

'Harrison was a systems engineer who parlayed a pretty good severance package into purchasing a franchised shipping store. He doesn't make big money, but he's definitely middle class. Lives in Thousand Oaks. He's married, wife's name is Tracy. They have two kids, both daughters, aged seventeen and fifteen.'

'Which, again, sounds all wrong,' Callie observes. 'Harrison and Tracy were sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g at a fairly young age to have a seventeen-year-old. That doesn't fit with our boy's timeline. He's the dedicated sort. No time to be a family man.'

'I agree,' James says.

'Me too,' I reply. I think for a moment and come to a decision.

'Callie, I want you to take a laptop and your car and park in front of the Bester house. See if Bester has a wireless connection and if he isn't up on his security. In the meantime, I'll coordinate with AD Jones and get this guy put under twenty-four-hour surveillance.'

'Safe than sorry?' Alan asks.

I shrug. 'I don't think Bester is the Preacher either, but thinking and knowing are two different things. Even if he isn't, that doesn't mean they don't know each other. Maybe they're in cahoots. Or maybe they're just longtime drinking buddies and Harrison has no idea his friend is a serial killer. There's always the possibility--slim, but possible--that the Preacher will decide to come back and steal some more wireless time. It's our best lead, for now.'

'Cahoots,' Alan snorts, teasing me.

'I'll go and see about Mr. Bester,' Callie says, grabbing her laptop bag and heading toward the door.

'Call me with what you find,' I yell after her.

'Only if you promise you won't keep me from going home afterward for a quickie with my husband-to-be,' she calls back, and then she's out the door.

'I looked into the support group Rosemary attended,' Alan says.

'And?'

I guess he hears the hopefulness in my voice, because he shakes his head in the negative. 'She went pretty regularly to a Narcotics Anonymous in the Valley. I spoke to the director there. It's a high turnover meeting, with people from every spectrum. There's no roll call and no application or screening. Long as you talk, you're welcome.'

'Perfect hiding place.'

'Yeah. Anyway, he sympathized, but he wasn't willing to give me information on anyone. Par for the course.' He shrugs, frustrated.

'Guy's smart. I'll bet he was there.'

'And I'll bet you could question every one of them and no one would remember anyone who stuck out. Just like the passengers on the plane.'

AD JONES ASKED ME TO brief him in person rather than on the phone. I knock on his office door.

'Come in,' he barks.

He's seated behind his desk as I enter. He looks beat. His tie is loosened and his cuffs are rolled up. I plop down in one of the leather chairs. He cocks his head, appraising me.

'You look terrible,' he says.

'Likewise, sir. And thanks.'

The ends of his mouth curl up in the barest hint of a smile.

'Yeah. It's been a hell of a day. It's been all Preacher all the time up here. The media is going nuts, which means the Director is going nuts. I've had to field calls from the police commissioners of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Vegas, Carson City, Phoenix, Salt Lake City . . . you get the idea. I've managed to get them all to agree to total cooperation. No turf wars.'

'How'd you pull off that miracle?'

He rubs his forehead. 'They have families screaming for answers or blood or both, along with plenty of media coverage. Commissioners have to play politics, and they need answers quick. They recognize the best chance of that is for all of us to just get along.'

'Thank you, sir. It will help.'

'Your turn to help me. Where are we at on this?'