The Steel Kiss by Jeffery Deaver
TWO: IS YOUR LIFE SAFE?
More troubling is the potential for injury and death when a smart system malfunctions. Because all functions of smart appliances are managed by the controller, not just data collection, it's possible in theory for a water heater, for instance, to receive a signal to turn the heat up to 200 degrees, WHILE YOU'RE IN THE SHOWER! Or, in the event of fire in your house, the controller could lock your doors and trap you inside your dwelling and refuse to send a signal to the fire department reporting the blaze. Or it might even contact the authorities and report a false alarm, leaving you and your family to die a hideous death.
Representatives for the manufacturers say no. There are safeguards built in. Network keys, encryption, passcodes.
But Your Blogger recently purchased one of these controllers. The DataWise5000 by CIR Microsystems, one of the most common, found in everything from water heaters to elevators to microwaves. It was possible, by bombarding the device with ambient radio waves, to cause it to malfunction. Had the unit been installed in a car, a medical instrument, a piece of dangerous industrial machinery, a stove, the results of that malfunction could have been disastrous.
Ask yourself, is convenience worth the price of your and your children's lives?
"Bingo," Archer said, smiling.
More sedately Whitmore mused, "We could argue that the controller is defective because it wasn't shielded from ambient signals."
Rhyme said, "Who posted that? We should talk to him."
The blog gave little personal information and no address.
Rhyme said, "Rodney."
"Who?" Archer asked.
"You'll see," Rhyme said. A glance at Cooper, who smiled knowingly and said, "I'll get the volume." And turned down the control on the speakerphone.
Despite the reduced decibels, when the phone was answered a moment later, relentless rock music pounded into the parlor.
"A bit more," Rhyme called to Cooper, who complied.
A voice from the other end of the line, "'Lo?"
Archer frowned in curiosity.
"Rodney! Can we lose the music?"
"Sure. Hi, Lincoln." The chugga-chugga bass diminished to a whisper. It was not, however, lost.
Rodney Szarnek was a senior detective with the NYPD's elite Computer Crimes Unit. He was impressively brilliant at collaring perps and helping other investigators with the computer side of a case, though irritatingly in love with the worst music on earth.
Rhyme explained that the detective was on speaker, then told him about the case. The smart controller in an escalator might have malfunctioned, resulting in a gruesome death. "But it's not a case, Rodney."
"How's that?"
"It's civil. Mel Cooper's here but only on vacation."
"And I'm confused."
"I'm not working with the department, Rodney," Rhyme said patiently.
"No."
"Yes."
"If you've quit, why have you not quit? I ask only because we're having this conversation."
"I resigned from criminal practice. I'm consulting on a civil case."
A pause. "Oh. Well. In that case I can't really help you. You understand, Wish I could."
"No, I know that. All I need is for you to tell us how to find the physical address of somebody who's written a blog about these controllers. We want to talk to him, maybe hire him as an expert witness. Pretend we're at a cocktail party, you and me."
"Well, finding somebody online? That's easy enough. A WhoIs search. W-H-O-I-S. Run the .com or .net name through that. Of course, he might be using a privacy service as the domain registrant. That's so pissed-off ex-wives or pissed-off ex-husbands can't find out where the registrant lives."
Rhyme looked to Cooper, who typed at the keyboard in front of his monitor. He nodded at the results. Rhyme read them. "It says Privacy Plus, New Zealand."
"Yep, that's a service to mask the physical address. And New Zealand? No court order. You're screwed."
Rhyme said calmly, "But we can't afford to be screwed, Rodney. Let's think harder."
Szarnek cleared his throat. "Well, speaking theoretically, you catch that word? The-o-ret-i-cally? To get past a privacy service, one might go online and download and install--on a flash drive, of course, to be burned later--a program like, let's just say, HiddenSurf. Then one would run that and then do a search of Russian websites for a program called, let's just say, Ogrableniye. Means 'robbery' in Russian. Don't we love our Slavic friends' subtlety? Ogrableniye is a hacker code. Completely illegal. Terrible. I don't approve one bit. Because it allows people to hack into a, say, a privacy service even in, oh, say, New Zealand, and look up the physical address of someone whose IP--internet--address you know."
"We'd better hang up now, Rodney."
"I'm in favor of that. Although how can we hang up if you and I haven't even been talking?"
Music rose to lofty decibels and they disconnected.
Rhyme said, "Did somebody write all that down, know what to do? We've got to--"
Archer looked up from her computer screen and said, "Bad news, good news."
"What?"
"I followed his instructions. The bad news is you've already started to get Russian porn spam. But the good news: I've got the blogger's address."
CHAPTER 18
Too many people in this city," Ron Pulaski said. Then seemed to regret the comment since the perp they were now seeking was in his own demented way addressing the population situation.
The young officer's complaint really was that there were too many people crossing streets against lights and that those lights were not in his and Amelia Sachs's favor.
She, however, wasn't that concerned about either limitation. True, transit was slow but they were making steady progress from One PP to the intersection where the gypsy cab had dropped Unsub 40 the night he'd murdered Todd Williams with his inelegant but effective tool. Sachs was engaging in what she called the touchless nudge--easing the car close to those blocking the way with an air of sufficient distraction to make the pedestrian feel deliciously imperiled and, accordingly, scoot out of the way.
Finally they escaped from the downtown area known in the 1800s as Five Points, the most dangerous few square miles in the United States (now far more pristine, though, some said cynically, populated by as many criminals as back in the day; the neighborhood embraced City Hall).
In ten minutes, they spotted the gypsy cab on the Lower East Side, parts of which were growing into hipster and artist enclaves. Not here. Dilapidated commercial buildings ruled, and a number of vacant lots.
In the phone conversation, arranging this meeting, the driver had said, "You'll see me, white Ford. Dripping wet. Just clean her." The accent had been a mystery.
Sachs nosed the Torino into a space, avoiding mounds of trash banked at the curb, and they climbed out. The short, swarthy driver, in jeans and a blue Real Madrid soccer shirt, exited his cab and joined them.
"I'm Detective Sachs. This is Officer Pulaski."
"Hi, hi." He shook their hands enthusiastically. Some people are nervous meeting the police, some are critical of authority, and some--a few--act like they're in the presence of rock stars.
Eduardo was going to give White Castle's Charlotte a run for the money.
"So, I happy to help. Happy."
"Good. Appreciate it. Tell me about this man."
"He very tall and very skinny. Weird, don't you know?"
"Any--"
"Distinguishing characteristics?" he blurted.
"Yes."
"No, no, couldn't see much. Hat on. Braves. The team, don't you know?"
"Yes, we know." Pulaski was looking around, taking in the empty street. Warehouses, small offices. Nothing residential or retail. He turned back to his notebook, in which he was transcribing whatever the man had to say.
"Sunglasses, he wore too."
"Hair color?"
"Lighter, I think. But, the hat. You know."
"And his clothes?"
&n
"Bag?"
"Plastic. Like he bought something and they put it in bag. He look in bag a couple times, I driving him."
Charlotte had said the same.
"Any logo on the bag?"
"Logo?"
"Store name, picture? Smiley face."
"Emoji! No."
"How big was the bag?" Sachs asked.
"Not big. Strawberries."
"He had strawberries?" Pulaski wondered.
"No, no. I mean about size of package of strawberries. Just thinking that. Or blueberries, or salad dressing or a large can of tomatoes. That big," Eduardo said, beaming. "Exactly."
"Any idea what was in it?"
"No. Hear something metal. Click, a click. Oh, and those burgers! A dozen White Castles! A dozen!"
"Did he make any phone calls?"
"No. But he kind of talk to himself. I told you that on phone. I could not hear good. First, I say, 'What that, sir?' Thinking he talking to me. But he said, 'Nothing.' I meaning, he said something. 'Nothing' was what he said. Don't you know? And then he quiet after that. Just look out window. Wouldn't look at me. So couldn't really see scars. You always like scars. Police. Distinguishing things. But didn't see any."
Pulaski asked, "Did he have an accent?"
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"American," Eduardo answered. He wasn't being ironic.
"So, you stopped here. This intersection?"
"Yes, yes. I thought you want to see where exactly."
"We do. He paid with cash?"
"Yes, yes, that's all we take, don't you know?"
"I don't suppose there's any chance you still have the money he paid you with?"
"For fingerprints!"
"That's right."
"No." The driver shook his head broadly.
"You waited here and saw him go into one of those buildings." Pulaski was looking up from the notebook.
"I did, yes. I will tell you." He pointed up the street. "You can just see it, that one. Beige." He wrung two syllables out of the color.
It was the one they'd found on the satellite map. From here they could make out only a sliver of the five-story building; the front was on an adjoining street. It was surrounded by a vacant lot on one side and a half-demolished building on the other.
Eduardo continued, "I remember because I am thinking maybe whoever he was going to see was not home, or not there, and this neighborhood? No cruising medallions so he want to go back to Queens and I could make a second fare. But I saw him go through back door. That's when I left, don't you know?"
"We appreciate your help."
"He a killer?" Eduardo grinned happily.
"He's wanted in connection with a homicide, yes. If you see him again, if he comes by your office in Queens, call nine one one and give them my name." She dealt out another of her cards. "Don't do anything yourself, try to stop him."
"No, I call you, Officer Detective."
After he left, she and Pulaski started toward the building he'd pointed out. They got no more than a half block when she stopped fast.
"What is it, Amelia?" Pulaski whispered.
She was squinting. "What street is that? That the building faces?"
"I don't know." He pulled out his Samsung and loaded a map. "Ridge." The young officer frowned. "Why's that familiar?... Hell."
Sachs nodded. "Yep. It's where Todd Williams worked." She'd learned where the victim's office was and retraced his steps from the murder site back to here, canvassing for clues. She'd also tried to interview others in the ramshackle building but of the few people who had offices in the structure--only three or four, the rest of the space being empty--no one had seen anything helpful to the investigation.
"They knew each other. The unsub and Williams. Well, this changes everything."
It wasn't a robbery or random killing at all.
Sachs mused, "The unsub got here four hours before the murder. Did they stay in the building? If so, doing what? Or did they go somewhere else?"
And other questions: Did Unsub 40 come to this area often? Did he live near here?
She looked around the street. The occupied buildings included a few tenements and what seemed to be warehouses and wholesalers. The canvass probably wouldn't take too long. She'd assemble a team from the local precinct.
Sachs spotted a homeless man, lean and pale, foraging through a trash bin.
Approaching, Sachs said, "Hi. Can I ask you a question?"
"Just did." His dark face wrinkled.
"I'm sorry?"
He returned to digging through the bin. "Just did ask me a question."
She laughed. "You live near here?"
"Simon Says." He found a half sandwich and put it into his shopping bag. "Okay. I'm being fun. Shelter up the street. Or under the bridge. Depending." The hands and neck and calves, which were uncovered by the greasy clothing, were quite muscular.
"Did you seen anybody tall and real thin go into that building a few weeks ago? Or any other time?"
"No." He moved on to another bin.
Sachs and Pulaski trailed. "You sure?" Pulaski asked. "Want another look?"
"No. Simon Says."
Sachs waited.
The man said, "You asked if I saw him going into the building. Nup. Didn't. You didn't ask if I'd seen him period. Which I have. Simon Says."
"Okay, where have you seen him?"
"Now you're cooking with gas. Standing right Jiminy there." He pointed: the far intersection, the direction they were going. "Skinny guy, but eating like a... do sailors eat? No, they swear. Chimneys smoke. He was eating something, munchin' it down. Was gonna hit him up for something. But felt off. Kind of talking to himself. Not that I don't. Ha! Also, eating that way, thought he seemed greedy. Chomp, chomp, chomp. I wouldn't get anything."
"When was this?"
"A while ago."
"How long? A week, a few days?"
"Simon Says."
Sachs tried, "What do you mean by a while ago?"
"Ten, fifteen."
"Days?"
"Minutes. He was just there."
Jesus.
Sachs unbuttoned her jacket and glanced up the street. Pulaski too grew vigilant, looking in the directions she was not.
"He go in any particular way?" she asked.
And don't fucking Simon Says me.
"No, just standing there. I went on looking for stuff, and that was it. Didn't see him again. Could be here, could be there, could be anywhere."
Pulaski was pressing the transmit button on the Motorola mike pinned to his shoulder. He called in a request for backup and, before she could remind him to do so, he said, "Silent roll-up. Suspect may be unaware of our presence. K."
"K," came the staticky response.
Sachs got the homeless man's name, which wasn't Simon, and the shelter he sometimes stayed in. She thanked him and told him it was best to leave. She was tempted to hand him a twenty but if it came down to testifying in court about the presence of the unsub, a defense lawyer would ask if he'd been paid anything by the police.
"You better get back to the shelter. Safer."
"Yes, ma'am. Yes, sir, Officer, sir."
He started away.
Ron Pulaski said, "Oh, hey, look."
The man slowly pivoted. Pulaski was pointing at something in the street a few feet away from them. It was a twenty-dollar bill.
"You drop that?" Pulaski asked.
"Me. Ha."
"If we take it, we have to report it. Pain in the ass."
"Bullshit."
Sachs, playing along. "True. Rules."
Pulaski said, "You go ahead and take it. Finders keepers. Simon says."
"Think I will. There's a reason you get half sandwiches in the trash. Nobody throws out a good sandwich." He scooped up the money with his long, sinewy fingers and pocketed it.
Sachs nodded to Pulaski, acknowledging the goo
The man wandered off, muttering to himself.
"How long, you think?" she asked.
"Before backup? Eight, nine minutes."
"He can't've gotten very far. Let's check the ground for footprints. See if we can find which way he went, size thirteens."
They began to walk a lazy grid in search of tread marks. The search was, of course, slowed by the fact that each officer looked up from time to time, searching for a threat.
Just because Unsub 40 had not shot anyone yet didn't mean he wasn't willing and able to try.
CHAPTER 19
Thom had dropped Evers Whitmore and Lincoln Rhyme off in front of the building that housed the blogger's office, whose address Juliette Archer had tracked down, and drove off to park the accessible van in a lot a few blocks away.
The lawyer once again pressed the button on the intercom. Social Engineering Second-ly. It was on the top floor.
Still no answer.
"We can keep looking," Whitmore said. "There have to be other people who've researched the DataWise."
But Rhyme wanted the man who'd written the piece that Archer had found. He wanted to know exactly what kind of ambient radio waves had caused it to activate.
Expert witness...
A perfect one.
Whitmore gazed around the deserted streets. "We can leave a note, I suppose."
"No," Rhyme said. "He'll never contact us. We know where he works now. Let's come back later. We can--"
"What was that?" Whitmore said quickly.
Rhyme too had heard the scrape of sole on the cobblestones. Around the corner, it seemed.
Whitmore, of course, was not given to displays of emotion but Rhyme could tell from the lawyer's uncharacteristically darting eyes that he was concerned.
Rhyme was too.
The footsteps seemed furtive.
The lawyer said, "I've never done criminal work, but I've been shot at twice pursuant to civil suits. The perpetrators missed both times and might have been trying only to scare me. But it was still an unpleasant experience."
Rhyme had been shot at, as well, and could concur.