Play To Kill

    'I am not here to interfere with your work. My role here is primarily to liaise between you, Washington, and other law enforcement agencies, to keep you briefed on new developments, and to make suggestions as to the direction of your work as I see fit. I am also required to stay with these files at all times' - he patted his briefcase - 'and when I leave for the day, I will take them with me. There is sensitive, classified information about Cyber Crimes' procedures that under no circumstances are you to copy to your hard drives.'

    'We work strange hours, Agent Smith,' Grace said. 'Sometimes around the clock.'

    'I'm prepared to be on duty twenty-four hours a day, if necessary. I will be as unobtrusive as possible, but I will be present.'

    Annie smiled at him sweetly. 'How computer savvy are you?'

    'Fairly.'

    'Well, then you know that any one of us could copy these files right under your nose.'

    He nodded. 'I know that. I'm asking you not to. Those files contain detailed records of the tracking formulas we've developed over the last several months…'

    'Did any of them work?' Grace asked.

    'Uh… no…'

    'Then why on earth would we want to download them?'

    A muscle in Smith's jaw tightened. 'For one thing, to give you a template of things that have already been tried so you don't waste time. More importantly, having this information on another computer system just increases the odds of a breach.'

    'No one hacks into our stuff,' Harley grumbled.

    'That may be, but if we limit the computers this information is on, any breach will be easier to trace.'

    Annie gave him the kind of sweet smile you gave to the mentally deficient. 'So, the criminals you tapped at the seminar to do your dirty work for you aren't getting a look- see at this stuff?'

    Smith's spine straightened imperceptibly. Apparently the Feds didn't mind encouraging law-breaking when it suited their purpose; they just didn't like to hear it spoken aloud.

    'Oh, come on. Let's cut to the chase here. You've got posts of real live murders the FBI can't track, at least not legally, because the servers are registered in countries where U.S. access is denied. So what do you do? You call in a bunch of salivating hackers and tell them that if they try to access these foreign server accounts they will be in violation of international law. Good grief. Talk about dragging a slab of bacon in front of a bunch of wild dogs.'

    'I can assure you that was not the Bureau's intention.'

    Yeah, right. And these eyelashes are real. The point is, we don't give a gnat's ass about your text files. Don't even have to look them over. But if you want us to write software that differentiates real murders from staged ones, we need to download the videos of those bodies in the five cities.'

    'I am not authorized to give you permission to do that.'

    Harley moved the mass of his body a step closer to Smith. To his credit, the smaller man held his ground. We're going to download the videos. Are you going to fink us out?'

    It took Smith a minute to remember what jink meant. He had to go back several decades. 'I do not believe you will do that.'

    'I just told you we're going to do that.'

    Yes you did. But in my opinion, that was bravado. I do not think it was sincere; therefore I will not report it.'

    Annie tucked her hands into her hips and tapped a toe on the marble floor. Agent Smith watched the toe moving up and down, mesmerized. 'I can't decide if your instructions are to handle us just like those other poor fools at the seminar, or if you might actually be a good guy.'

    'I have never been accused of being a good guy.'

    'Uh-huh. You want some chili before we get to work, darlin'?'

    'No, thank you very much for the offer.'

    'How about a beer?' Harley raised his own bottle.

    'FBI agents do not drink alchololic beverages on duty, sir.'

    Yeah, yeah, and FBI agents are always on duty, right?'

    'Precisely.'

    'Well, I guess that makes my goals pretty clear here. Before you leave I'm going to see you totally snockered with three belly dancers sitting on your chest and a really great Cuban cigar stuck between your teeth. Let's get up to the office.'

    For the first time in his career, John Smith was conflicted. When you boiled it all down, this whole assignment required that he consort with the kind of criminals he'd spent his life trying to convict. Who knows how many laws these people had broken. Besides, they looked weird. And they all carried concealed weapons. On the other hand, they were totally up-front about who they were and what they did, which was more than he could say for the Bureau, and they helped law enforcement across the country free of charge. Hell, they were starting to look better than most of the agents coming up the ladder from some Shangri-la place where an Ivy League education counted for more than ground law enforcement and a cop's brain.

What the hell do you think you're going to get from the Feds?

    That had been his dad, a D.C. beat cop for thirty years, totally psyched on instinct and puzzle-solving, totally down on a bunch of suits who thought academia trumped people skills.

You got the Feds, who think those of us in the trenches are pretty much part of the trash they're trying to sweep under the rug, and then you got the cops, who know the people on the streets and do the hard work separating the bad guys from the good guys. And here you are, choosing the high road that doesn't know shit about what's real.

    His dad hadn't come to his graduation; hadn't even sent a card when he'd made agent, but he'd read his future in a bottle of Pabst when John had come home for his uncle's funeral.

They'll eat you up for your first ten years, use you up for the next ten, then turn their back when you start to show gray. I'm telling you, Son, and I sure wish you would listen…

    'Agent Smith?'

    He came back from his reverie instantly. They were all sitting at a round table in the third-floor office, and now the skinny guy was shoving a mug of coffee under his nose.

    'Well. Thank you very much. Do you happen to have any sugar?'

    Roadrunner took a step backward. 'Are you kidding me? That's Jamaican Blue. Taste it first.'

    Agent Smith had no idea what Jamaican Blue was, but he complied, set his mug on the table, and looked down into the brew. 'My goodness.' He felt Harley's massive hand clap him on the shoulder.

    'Okay, Agent Smith. You've got a palate. You just went up a couple of notches. Now, we pulled something interesting off the Web this morning.'

    'Another murder scene?'

    'Maybe. You show us yours, we'll show you ours. So what have you got for us?'

    Smith started emptying his briefcase. 'These are the video films of the five murders. Cleveland, Seattle, Austin, Chicago, and Los Angeles.' He dug deeper into the leather case and pulled out a bound folder of untold pages. 'This is a detailed record of our Cyber Crimes Division's failed attempts to trace the posts involving those murders. And these are the fringe sites we'd like you to monitor.' He slapped down a folder stuffed with printed pages.

    Annie pulled the folder toward her and started shuffling through them. 'My God. There must be hundreds of them.'

    Smith nodded. 'We narrowed it down as much as we could. The fringe sites we've listed are limited to those dedicated exclusively to murder scenarios. Some of them are distinctly amateurish and clearly staged events; others are questionable. We need a program that spots the real crimes instantly so we can get law enforcement on the ground right away, before critical evidence and possible witnesses are lost. Now tell me what you pulled off the Internet this morning.'

    Roadrunner showed him a couple of print frames from the site. Smith looked at them without expression. The Feds were good at that. 'Did you get anything from this? Did you try a trace?'

    'No joy,' Harley said. We already passed it on to Agent Shafer so he can put your people on it, but they're