“I’ve asked Roarke to consult,” she added, “for the business angle, the ins and outs of a merger on this scale. And the ups and downs of it. Straight terrorism, Commander, there’d be a statement by now. Some group would take credit. A vendetta against one or more of the individuals in the meeting? It’s too broad and complicated for that.”
“So a strike at one or both of the companies,” he concluded, “or the merger itself.”
“Unless something comes out that leads me otherwise, that’s the direction I’m going. Pearson’s wife, son, and daughter are beneficiaries. I’ll need to interview them.”
“Understood and expected.”
“Could you tell me, Commander, if Pearson spoke to you about the merger?”
“I haven’t seen him since the holidays, though I know Anna and Roz have gotten together a few times since. We rarely talked business, Lieutenant, his or mine. I do know his children. Anna knows them better than I do, but my impression is they’re both bright and dedicated to Quantum. I can help clear the way for the interviews. Tomorrow morning, at their family home?”
“That would be fine, sir.”
“I’ll set it up. Keep me informed, Lieutenant. I won’t get in your way.”
“You’ll have a report from Baxter and Trueheart directly after our briefing. I’ll send you a report of my consult with Roarke as soon as possible.”
He nodded. “Good hunting. Dismissed.”
And he turned back to study his city through the glass.
She opted to swing by EDD before heading to her office and, calculating, headed to the lab first. She passed a few e-geeks in their eye-watering colors and patterns as they bopped their way to and from, but avoided Geek Central as she veered off to the lab.
There she spotted Feeney, his silver-threaded ginger hair sproinging out in every direction. He’d discarded what she assumed was a shit-brown jacket to go with his shit-brown pants and wore the sleeves of his wrinkled beige shirt rolled up.
At a station to his left, McNab stood with his long tail of blond hair streaming down a shirt the color you might get if you electrocuted an orange. His skinny hips ticktocked in carnival-striped baggies. On the other side, Callendar perched on a stool in her red baggies and pink polka-dot shirt. Her purple hair bounced as she shook her shoulders and rolled her head side to side.
Eve rubbed her eyes, then risked them and went through the glass door.
Despite the hips ticktocking, the shoulders shaking, and Feeney’s cop-shoes tapping, no music played. Just in their heads, Eve thought. What the hell did they hear in there?
Feeney spotted her, held a finger in the air to hold her off as he used his other hand to swipe and dance over a screen.
He grunted, turned to her.
“Got anything?”
“Got all kinds.” He gave his droopy, basset-hound eyes a quick rub. “Not much that’s going to help right now. Callendar, hit it.”
“Okay, so it’s like I said on scene. I’ve broken down the security—and it’s mega good. But they sanded off the layers bit by bit. Spent like maybe twenty hours since December wearing it down—that’s just on-site time. Who does that on a residence? Even a nice one?”
“Somebody who wants in bad enough.”
“Yeah, that. A lot of work, a lot of time. On the comms inside, they switched them so the residence got incoming, but nobody could do outgoing.”
“In case one of the captured got to a ’link. Smart. Keep the incoming,” Eve continued, “so they could monitor, deal with anything over the time period that might bring somebody around if unanswered.”
“You got that. They did get a couple. One tag from the wife’s mom on Saturday—and they texted back how she and the kid were going to the vids and shopping and blah-blah because the husband was locked into work all day. Husband got two tags—work related. They answered one from his admin—probably because it sounded like he’d just keep tagging. Texted him to—”
“‘Chill,’” Eve finished. “They were locked on. The admin gave me that.”
“That’s it. What they did with the second, and to the system—smart, too—is programmed an auto response on how he was switched off until Monday morning. And Sunday night, they texted the contact on the wife’s ’link for the principal at the school saying the kid was sick, so she was keeping her home Monday and sticking with her.”
“So nobody from the school would wonder or tag or go by on Monday when they didn’t show up. The domestic doesn’t come in on weekends, on Mondays, so they’re clear. But they had to know the schedule to make it work. They watched the house enough to know the routines. What about the house comps?”
“That’s on McNab.”
“Yo,” he said, scooting his bony butt onto a stool and swiveling it around. “The wife’s e’s have a lot of school stuff, administrative like, and correspondence with other administrators, teachers, some parents. Some way bitchy parents, just fyi. She handled them smooth, it strikes me. Stuff for her kid. More correspondence—her family, some pals. Nothing hinky. She kept the household accounts—and nothing out of line there, either. His, work stuff. Most of the work over the last couple months is the flashy deal for the merger. Slogans, digital ads, screen ads, and one’s like a mini-vid. Pretty frosty. Work correspondence, calendars—work and personal. He did a lot of notes to self in his memo book. Lots of photos on his and hers. Mostly family, vacations, holidays. She does some social media, but he didn’t.
“The kid?” McNab shrugged. “Schoolwork, a few games. Parental controls. Her tablet’s full of books. Must be a big reader, and she leans toward science and science fiction. Social media blocked. Any texting had to go through the parental account. I’m still going down layers, but nothing’s under any so far. SNNTS. Situation Normal Nothing to See.”
“I want anything on the merger—the ads, the mail, notes, all of it, copied to my units. Home and office.”
“Can do.”
“Feeney?”
“I started with Rogan’s office e’s. Same as McNab on them. Merger data is priority. Nothing out of line, no correspondence that doesn’t check out, no tags out or in office that doesn’t jibe. Did you see his office memo book?”
“Yeah.”
“So you know he planned a party for his team, buying flowers for the wife, taking her and the kid on a long weekend. The guy didn’t leave work on Friday planning to blow himself up on Monday.”
“No. I just said exactly that to Whitney.”
“If anybody tried hacking in to access data, it doesn’t show. Moved to his admin’s next. I gotta say, the kid needs a life, and he oughta make a move on this Kimmi he’s got the hots for.”
“Really?”
“Comes over,” Feeney said with a shrug. “But he spends most of his time at work or thinking about work. Few personal e-mails—a few friends, his mom—in which he usually mentions this Kimmi, but mostly work-oriented. Not a single damn game. No photos. A lot of reminders to remind his boss, calendars—his and Rogan’s contacts—office, personal—Rogan’s. Birthdays and anniversaries listed in the personal sections. No sign of hacking, no contacts that read off. And he had a reminder to buy this Kimmi flowers and Rogan a bottle of wine over the weekend for congrats on the campaign. The kid wasn’t just not up to no good, he was up to too much good, you ask me. Needs a life outside work.”
“Kimmi visited him in the hospital, brought him flowers.”
“Maybe he’ll make a move there. Anyhow, I started on the big guy’s—Pearson’s. So far, nothing off, but I’ve got a ways to go.”
“I’m working on getting you toys from Econo.”
Feeney puffed out his cheeks. “I’m gonna need more boys. You’re looking inside job?”
“I’m just looking. I’ve got a briefing downstairs. And Roarke’s coming in—not for EDD,” she said quickly. “I need somebody who knows what the fuck about big business mergers.”
“If he wants to play after the what the fuck, I’ll take him. I’m gonna walk you out. Fizzies?” he asked his geeks.
“Solid,” they said in unison.
“So,” Feeney began as they walked out. “You know that Oscar deal’s coming up.”
“Oscar who?”
He scratched fingers through his wiry hair. “Jesus, Dallas, even I know about the fricking Oscars. The vid award thing.”
“Right. I knew that.” Somewhere, in some corner of her brain.
“You’re not going?”
“No.”
“The Icove vid’s up for a shitload. Nadine’s up for one. Why aren’t you going?”
Inside her head, she sulked at the question. “I don’t want to. You have to get all fancied up and talk to other fancied-up people, and sit there with them, right? And you have to do it in New L.A. with the media all up in your grill asking idiot questions like: Who are you wearing?”
“Yeah. I’d want to stun myself first, but it’s a BFD anyway. You know Peabody and McNab got invites to it.”
“No.” Eve stopped, more than surprised. “Are you sure? Peabody’d be nagging me brainless about it.”
“I’m sure. I got it from Callendar because McNab’s keeping it down low, too. And I figure they’re not nagging us brainless because we just gave them five days off, and you gave them the place in Mexico to recharge. So they’re not saying anything about it because they don’t want to be greedy assholes.”
“Okay.”
He sent her that basset-hound look as he ordered up the fizzies at Vending. “It’s a BFD, kid. Likely a once-in-a-lifetime BFD. I’d be willing to spring McNab for it if you spring Peabody.”
“We just caught a case with twelve vics. Shit, shit, fuck! When is it?”