Daemon d-1 Page 5

“Of course. Forget the fact that I was the one who advised Hadi to shut that system down. Hardly something I’d do if I was the one running the exploit.”

  “You might, if you realized it had been discovered. It seems convenient that due to your involvement, the hard drives were erased.”

  Ross was poker-faced. “The rootkit destroyed the machine when I tried to shut it down. In any event, FBI forensics can reconstruct data from a wiped drive.”

  Vasquez hung up the phone. “They want us in the main data center.”

  *

  As they moved down the hallway, Sarkar kept groaning softly and shaking his head. Ross didn’t take the bait. Sarkar finally muttered, “Jon, I had no choice but to tell them.”

  “Hadi, I’ve been in this business long enough to know better.” Ross knew that no good deed goes unpunished, and though he hadn’t technically done anything wrong, helping Sarkar out with his little problem could result in the loss of his contract with Alcyone. Or worse, he thought, eyeing their FBI escort.

  “They were asking questions about what we did. This is the FBI, not human resources. They talked to us separately, and I knew that Maynard would mention you. Jon, what was I supposed to do? I do not wish to get deported.”

  Ross grimaced. “I should have known better than to get involved, Hadi.”

  “I am not a Muslim. I am a Hindu. You will tell them, won’t you?”

  Ross didn’t respond.

  Sarkar looked genuinely pained. “I am sorry, Jon.”

  “Ted Wynnik probably called the Feds in to force Accounting’s hand and have my contract canceled. He doesn’t like having people down here who don’t answer to him.”

  “Ted didn’t call the FBI, Jon.”

  “Then who did? You?”

  “No one did.”

  Ross stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

  “They came here on their own. Because of what the Icarus-Seven server did.”

  Ross looked back to the FBI agents. Straub motioned for him to keep moving.

  Just what have I gotten involved in here? Ross wondered.

  *

  There were a lot of people in the data center. It was almost acceptably warm as a result. Sarkar’s boss, Ted Wynnik, leaned against a counter, glowering beneath thick eyebrows as he listened to two techs Ross hadn’t seen before. This was probably the A-team-the daytime shift. They looked at Ross with the special contempt reserved for young consultants.

  Half a dozen uniformed Woodland Hills police officers were in here along with more FBI agents. They were talking with a network admin-a pear-shaped guy with bad skin. He was probably Maynard. Pear-shaped pointed at various server racks enthusiastically. At least someone was enjoying this.

  What happened?

  As soon as Ross entered the room, everyone stopped talking and turned to face him. The sudden silence was almost embarrassing because Ross knew he had none of the answers they were looking for. He decided to ask the obvious question. “Anybody want to tell me what’s going on?”

  All eyes turned to someone behind Ross, so he spun on his heel to face a trim man in a crisp suit. The guy looked like a fifty-year-old varsity quarterback. A leader of men.

  “Mr. Ross. I’m Special Agent Neal Decker, L.A. Division. Do you know why we’re here?”

  “Because of last night?”

  Decker sized him up. It unnerved Ross that no one was talking.

  But Decker was in no hurry. He finally placed his hand on a disconnected rack server sitting on the nearby counter. “They tell me this computer killed two men earlier today.”

  The shock took a while to work through Ross. He had expected some sort of child pornography ring or a credit card scam. “Killed? How?”

  “I was hoping you could help us explain that.”

  “Why on earth would you think that?”

  Decker smiled good-naturedly. “A lot of people are suspects right now. But once we get the people in here to help us interpret the evidence, we’ll know more. In the meantime, we’d like to take you gentlemen in for questioning.” His gaze spanned the room to include all the men who were present during the incident.

  A wave of dread washed over Ross. “We’re not under arrest?”

  “No. I’m asking you to voluntarily come in for questioning.”

  Ross wondered what would happen if he said no. Of course, he couldn’t say no. What about a lawyer? “I must tell you, I’m just completely floored by this.”

  “I’m certain you are.”

  This guy was disconcertingly calm. He gave the impression that he knew more than he was letting on. Goddamnit.

  Just then a man appeared at the glass data center door. He was the linebacker to match Decker as quarterback. His casual confidence seemed to indicate he wasn’t FBI-the agents here were all keyed up in Decker’s presence. No, this guy was an outsider to them. The man rapped on the glass, and a Woodland Hills patrolman opened the door for him. The newcomer showed a badge and was let inside.

  “I’m looking for an Agent Decker.”

  Decker and the FBI agents turned and moved forward, hands extended. “Detective Sebeck. We spoke on the phone.” They shook hands. Decker turned to some of his crew. “Agent Knowles, Agent Straub, Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck, Ventura County Major Crimes Unit. Detective Sebeck was heading the murder investigation up in Thousand Oaks.” Handshakes all around.

  Then everyone turned back to Ross.

  Sebeck pointed at him. “Who’s this?”

  Decker leaned against the counter. “This is Jon Ross, one of Alcyone’s independent computer consultants. He designs their corporate data systems. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ross?”

  “Certain systems, yes. Not this one.”

  “Is he a suspect or a witness?”

  Ross thought it was a good question.

  Decker was calm as ever. “That depends.” He looked to Ross. “Tell me, Mr. Ross, why is it that no one at your home address has ever heard of you?”

  Damn it to hell…

  Chapter 6:// Exile

  “Ms. Anderson?” The security guard stepped from the guard shack and ducked to look into the Jaguar XK8.

  Anji Anderson looked down her nose at him from behind the wheel, lowering her Vuitton sunglasses. “Yesss. Open the gate.”

  “Ma’am, if you could drive off to the right here, I believe Mr. Langley wants to have a word with you.”

  “I think you should open the gate.”

  “Ma’am, Mr. Langley-”

  “Mr. Langley-whoever that is-can call my office if he wants to speak with me.” She dug through her glove compartment and produced a drive-on studio pass. “Now, open the gate.”

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to pull off to the right, there.”

  “Why? Do you know who I am?”

  He gave her an incredulous look. He obviously knew who she was.

  “And why do you keep calling me ‘Ma’am’? What is this, the Ponderosa? My name is Anji Anderson-although later you’ll be calling me ‘That Bitch Who Got Me Fired.’”

  “Ma’am, there’s no call for cussing.”

  “Cussing? Okay, Clem, I won’t cuss no more, as long as you open the fucking gate.”

  His look hardened. He leaned down closer. “Look, if you don’t pull off to the right, you’ll wish you had. Now park over there.” He pointed.

  She just laughed. “Ahhh, I guess there’s only so much shit you’ll take for eight bucks an hour, eh?”

  “Pull over to the right.”

  A car behind her honked.

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Pull over to the right!”

  Another guard approached the car.

  “Oh, you called for backup. You need protection from a helpless woman, Clem?”

  The second guard eased the first away from the car and then turned to her. “Ms. Anderson, using your superior social position to belittle a powerless employee does not speak well of you.”

  She stared
at him.

  “The fact is that we’ve been instructed by your superiors to prevent you from entering. If you want to know why, I suggest you pull over to the right.”

  She nodded slowly and put the car in gear. “Okay. I will.” She yanked the steering wheel to the right and accelerated madly into the walk-on lot.

  Anderson was burning with anger after walking in high heels from the far corner of the parking lot. She was going to raise hell about this with Walter Kahn. She was talent.She shouldn’t have to put up with facilities crap.

  When she finally reached the guard shed again, the second guard pointed to a pedestrian gate where two people waited for her, one a trim woman in a tailored suit, the other another security guard. Anderson slowed down and then stopped. She stood there not liking what she was suddenly thinking.

  The woman motioned for her to approach.

  Anderson took a deep breath and walked up to them as composedly as she could manage. “What’s this all about?”

  The woman extended her hand from between the bars. It was like visiting hours at the state pen. Anderson extended her own hand for a cold handshake. “Ms. Anderson, I’m Josephine Curto from Human Resources. There’s been a change in your contract status at the network.”

  “My agent is negotiating a contract renewal. It doesn’t lapse for another five weeks.”

  “Yes. I see. Those negotiations are over. The network decided not to renew your contract. Please understand this decision came down from corporate. I’m just delivering the news. We thought your agent would have told you.”

  Anderson felt the tears welling up, but sucked in a breath and forced them back down again. She looked away and pressed her forefinger and thumb against the bridge of her nose-then looked back sharply at Curto. ” Thisis how you decide to tell me I’m fired? I’m standing here like some kind of vagrant in the street. What am I, a threat? What am I going to do, shoot up the place?”

  Curto was unperturbed as she attached papers to a clipboard. “That’s not the concern. You are known to studio personnel and have access to a live television broadcast. I’m sure you can appreciate that the network doesn’t want you getting on the air at this difficult time.”

  “Difficult time?” Anderson tried in vain to form her thoughts into words several times. The tears threatened again. She finally blurted out, lamely, “I have fans. You’ve seen my fan mail? There are men and women in Marin and Oakland and Walnut Creek-people who’ve asked to marry me. What are you going to tell them about my sudden disappearance?”

  “I have no idea how to respond to that question.”

  “You should let me do a final broadcast.”

  “Lifestyles reporters don’t get farewell broadcasts, Ms. Anderson.”

  “What about Jim McEwen? They had a big send-off when he retired.”

  “Jim was the anchor. He worked at the studio for thirty-two years. You’ve been here six.”

  “This is no way to treat talent.”

  “That’s hardly at issue here.”

  Anderson realized Curto was smart for being on the other side of the bars. She took another deep breath and tried to center herself. “Can’t I at least go in to say goodbye to Jamie and Doug and the others?”

  “Oh, see, now why are we having this conversation? It’s not productive,” Curto said. She pushed a clipboard and pen through the bars. “Can you please sign these?”

  Anderson just stared at her indignantly. “I’m not signing anything.”

  “You want your personal effects, right?”

  “My personal effects? You mean you people emptied out my office?”

  “Anji, what do you think is going on here? This is a large corporation with global responsibilities. Emptying out your office wasn’t a vengeful act. It was a work order. Just sign the documents, and let’s get this over with. This is not fun for you or me.”

  Anderson grabbed the clipboard and pen. She slapped it against the bars right in front of Curto’s face and started reading the COBRA and 401(k) documents. She felt like a public spectacle. A loser standing outside the gates where everyone could see her. The grips and cameramen stared as they drove in through the nearby gate. She started tearing up in humiliation. Someone was punishing her. But who?

  She finally just signed all the papers without reading them and shoved the clipboard back through the bars.

  “We’ll deliver your personal effects to your home.”

  Anderson hurried away, rushing for the distant refuge of her car.

  “Ms. Anderson. My pen.”

  Anderson had been starting pitcher on Wisconsin State’s girls’ softball team. She stopped, turned, and hurled the pen at the corporate ice bitch with all her strength. The woman took it right in the torso. Had it been a Mont Blanc, she would have been sucking for air. But it was just a Bic, and the woman shrank back.

  “There’s no call for that!”

  Anderson stormed away, her mind running in fast-forward to all the bad things that were sure to follow. Someone had dynamited a bridge on her road to success. She hadn’t prepared for this at all. Fucking terrorists.

  She mentally ticked off a list of her friends. They were all in the business or attached to the business. Who could find her a soft landing at another station? If not in San Francisco, then where? Not Madison, Wisconsin, again, please, dear God.

  Then it hit her that Melanie hadn’t warned her. That bitch had let her be publicly humiliated. Anderson pulled her cell phone out of her handbag and speed-dialed her agent. It rang three times and went to voice mail.

  “You’ve reached the office of Melanie Smalls. Ms. Smalls is not available at the moment. To reach her assistant, Jason Karcher, press 3349.”

  Anderson punched in the numbers.

  “Ms. Smalls’s office. Can I help you?”

  “Jason, it’s Anji Anderson. Put me through to Melanie.”

  “Hi, Ms. Anderson. Melanie’s on another line. Do you want to hold?”

  “Look, I’m standing out here in front of KTLZ, and they’ve locked me out of the studio. Get Melanie on the damned phone.”

  “Okay. Hang on.”

  Anderson reached her car and clicked the remote. She got inside and cleaned up her mascara in the rearview mirror while Barry Manilow tortured her on hold because it looked like she had emphatically not “made it.” The anger built inside her with each passing verse.

  Finally Melanie clicked on. “Anji, what’s going on?”

  “I’ve just been fired at the studio front gate-publicly humiliated. Josephine Curto tells me that you knew my contract wasn’t being picked up.”

  “Who the hell’s Josephine Curto?”

  “Some toady from Human Resources.”

  “Anji, we’re still in negotiations with the network, and I wasn’t told that any decision had been made. The ball was still in Kahn’s court.”

  “Josephine just told me that my agent knew about this, Melanie. I just signed papers!”

  “Well, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, and what do you mean you just signed papers? Why would you sign papers?” Melanie’s voice became muted. “Jase, check the fax machine.”

  Anderson started crying again. She hit the dashboard-angry with herself for being so emotional. “Damnit, Melanie. Why didn’t I see this coming? Who the hell did the network get to replace me?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. We’ll see if we can get you something on the E! Channel or-”

  “No! Stop. I’ve been trying for six years to get on a serious news desk. I can’t afford to do any more fluff pieces. I’m a journalist, not a damned fashion model.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m still here. Anji, you don’t have the right pedigree for it. You haven’t been a journalist, honey. Not really. And you weren’t talking serious journalism when we got you onto the San Francisco affiliate.”

  “I’m realizing-”

  “You’re realizing you’re pas
t thirty and fluff reporting is for twenty-four-year-old news models.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s a problem.”

  “No, it’s a challenge.”

  “Anji, what you’re talking about is starting back at square one and reinventing yourself. No, actually you’re starting at square negative one because you’re already known as a fashion and lifestyles reporter-meaning you have all the journalistic heft of a British tabloid. It’s going to be a stretch, and at my age, I don’t stretch.”

  Anderson searched for words. This was unraveling fast.

  “Honey, you’re too old to intern as a serious journalist. Unless you’re a proven hard news reporter at thirty, you’re not going to be a hard news reporter.”

  Anderson bit her lip gently. Performed in front of the right man, that used to solve a lot of problems. She realized that Christiane Amanpour probably didn’t bite her lip.

  “Unfortunately, major networks are consolidating news production in Atlanta, and laying off in most markets. I could try to get you a spot on a cosmetics infomercial casting in L.A.”

  Tears flowed down Anderson’s cheeks.

  Chapter 7:// Daemon

  Yahoo.com/news

  E-Murder @Video Game Company-Thousand Oaks, California: A booby trap sprung via the Internet claimed the life of a CyberStorm Entertainment employee Thursday. An off-site death earlier in the day is also under investigation as a related homicide. Programmer Chopra Singh — project lead on the bestselling MMORPG game The Gate was electrocuted in company offices. Lead detective Peter Sebeck of the Ventura County Sheriff’s Major Crimes Unit confirmed the killings were carried out via the Internet.

  Sebeck was already staring at the ceiling when his alarm clock sounded. He switched it off by touch and kept staring at the ceiling. He’d gotten in late last night. Even so, he hadn’t slept. He kept turning the case over in his mind. That’s what he’d taken to calling it: The Case.

  The FBI had taken over. They were forming a temporary task force with local law enforcement, but the Feds were in charge. Agents were photocopying files and interrogating suspects when Sebeck left at two A.M. Decker was some sort of workaholic.

  Sebeck explored his sense of loss. The Caseno longer belonged to him. Why did it bother him so much? He was afraid he knew the answer: he felt truly alive only when something horrible was happening. That was the dirty secret behind every promotion he had ever received.