Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,37
“So what brings you to this case, Elizabeth? I’m sorry—Special Assistant Director Ashland?”
Her eyes light up, but she doesn’t smile. “I volunteered,” she says.
“You volunteered for what? This is an internal investigation. It’s supposed to be secret. How would you even know to volunteer?”
“She’s my top deputy now,” says Dwight. “I asked her if she’d be a part of this and she was happy to do it.”
Ashland nods and eyes Books. “I need to know I can trust you.”
“You do?” Books returns her stare. “And what if you feel that you can’t? Do you have the power to remove me from this investigation?” He scratches his cheek. “See, there, again, we have that thing about the director outranking you.” Books knows he’s being difficult, but he doesn’t like sharp elbows, and he doesn’t like being toyed with. He adds, “If the evidence establishes that Emmy is the leaker, then I will be the first one to say that she needs to be brought to justice. But yes, I’m going to insist that we prove it first.”
Ashland takes a step toward him, raises an eyebrow. “You’re not happy with the proof we have already? Information funneled to one of her only friends, Shaindy Eckstein? The photo of them at the bar last Friday night chatting, just two days before the Post story breaks about Citizen David targeting New York next?”
“It’s circumstantial,” says Books. “You haven’t turned up anything on her computers, have you?”
“She wouldn’t be dumb enough to send an e-mail to the reporter from her computer. But don’t worry, Books. We’ll get her soon. And when we do, you know who’s going to put the handcuffs on her?”
Books smiles. “Let me guess. Me?”
She gives a slow nod. “Good guess.”
“Or maybe, with Emmy’s assistance,” says Books, “you’ll catch Citizen David even sooner and none of this will matter.”
She makes a face. “The leaks don’t help. You think David will go to New York now that we’ve telegraphed to the whole world that it’s where we expect him to go?”
Books feels something move within him, adrenaline quickening his pulse.
She’s right. He spent so much time wondering about Emmy, he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. The leaks aren’t revealing just the progress of the investigation. They’re revealing the Bureau’s investigative strategy.
They are aiding and abetting the bomber.
Maybe the leaker inside the Bureau isn’t merely an informant for the Washington Post, irresponsibly disclosing sensitive information.
Maybe whoever’s leaking this information is Citizen David’s accomplice.
35
COCOONED IN his room, flanked by computers, Charlie has everything he needs. Emmy isn’t the only one with a command central.
He’s got the clones of Emmy’s computers, allowing him to monitor Emmy’s internet activity in real time, no different than if he were looking over her shoulder. He watches every click on every link as Emmy pores over data and mines for anomalies in the reported natural or accidental deaths across the country. Amazing. Emmy has managed to distill news and information from around the nation using some algorithm that sorts them by key words, no different than a supercharged version of a Google search.
He watches as she clicks on a story about a drowning outside Minneapolis, an electrocution in Utah, a choking death in upstate New York.
“Sorry, my lady,” he whispers, “none of those are mine. But knock yourself out. Chase your own tail. Your endurance is inspiring.”
On a laptop, he has the downloaded contents of Emmy’s computers, including all her notes on Citizen David. Emmy has described, in great detail, how Citizen David carried out the bombings, choosing low-value targets, using rudimentary materials, gaining access in the simplest of ways.
Charlie devours all the particulars of David’s work. He reads about fire exits, metallic tape over door locks, splintered gas lines.
He reads about acetone and hydrogen peroxide and shaped charges and delayed initiation.
He reads about cotton balls and aluminum catering trays and cartoon cats.
Impressive. There are things that Charlie admires about Citizen David, to be sure. His discipline. His methodology. But his good work has gone to waste. The damage he’s inflicted is minimal, intentionally so, enough to be disruptive, to make a political statement, but not enough to injure or maim.
Symbolic protest. What pointless drivel.
On his personal laptop, he conducts a search of his own using a string of anonymous proxies so as not to compromise his IP address; this allows him to access whatever information he wants with maximum secrecy. Compared to Emmy Dockery’s sophisticated algorithm, his online search is downright prehistoric: SRO payday uptown 606.