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That's the shot the photographer got; Jinny's face floating white and wounded, startlingly clear in a grainy wash of black and dark gray over the
thoughtfully positioned roof of the Porsche. Andrea Peyton's feet are a tasteful blurry mass of pixels in the lower right hand corner and the headline is fairly subdued in a
refined midsized Courier font: SFPD Mourns Fallen Officer. Of course, Jinny looks stricken and grieving and of course everyone who views the photograph assumes it's that legendary thin blue line of loyalty at work. Of course, I know that particular expression was prior to our discovery of Andrea's identity. That one is all Jinny's. And all of it for Sylvie. "It's not going to change, Cooper, no matter how many times you look at it." It'd be nice to think Weaver has no clue what precisely about the photograph is disturbing to me. There is, of course, no way Dr. CIA doesn't know exactly why I find it so distressing. So I settle for a grunt as I lay the newspaper, photograph down, on the small pine table in the kitchen and stare suspiciously at the plate of scrambled eggs and toast she's slid in front of me then turn a more interested gaze on the methodically anal penmanship of S'Phear. He's left a phone number for me, delivered this morning via Weaver. The concept of being able to simply dial up a nationally known and wanted cyber criminal is rather disconcerting. The fact that he would leave contact information with Weaver amuses me, even given the swiftly concocted story that 'Michael' was a local boy from my very small home town in Texas, now employed in the Silicon Valley, who had recognized me in the pub. This of course doesn't explain my agitation at his sudden appearance or my not recognizing him or how he had known the address or that there was a hastily planned block party going on in the first place. And Weaver had more than made clear she didn't buy the story for an instant; the grunt she'd given had rivaled the sigh Murphy heaved when he'd found himself snuffling the uninteresting khaki trousers of S'Phear aka 'Michael' before throwing himself down and rolling onto his back, delivering up all the spots most vulnerable. "Hmm," Weaver had pontificated, frowning sourly before electing to say nothing. Very sarcastically. And now I look up and catch her studying me intently as I in turn peruse S'Phear's note. I am ridiculously pleased at having this one small note in my hand, although it consists of no more than a seven digit telephone number and his alias, 'Michael', followed by the words, "Call me." I can't wipe the grin off my face. There are at least a dozen FBI officials I know by name who would do all sorts of legal and employment gymnastics to receive a single bit of handwritten communication from S'Phear. Even a smudged yellow Post It note. "We had a little course on graphology at the Academy one year for Inservice." I flick the Post It with my third finger and grin at Weaver, waving the piece of paper gently. "He's regimented, anal, compulsive with a great deal to hide. See how block-like his letters are? Structured, probably math/science oriented, unyielding~~ very hard headed." "Of course you could know all that without seeing his handwriting since he's an old friend from Texas." I decide to ignore the sardonic note in that comment and give her what I hope is a bright and chipper smile. "Yep. That too." I deliberately dial up the grin as I stand and shove my chair in, turning towards the stairs. And of course Dr. CIA doesn't buy it for an instant. The tail end of the dish cloth catches me smartly on the ass as I exit. "Owww," I protest, rubbing where it stings. "That hurt." "Really," she says dryly, leveling the lasers on me. "Ditto." I mull that over from a safe distance as I retreat upstairs for my cellular.
I dial the number and impatiently listen to it ring musing that even in death Andrea Peyton had managed to foul things up for me. There'd been no time to get S'Phear alone and grill him on the hows and the whys or the progress of our Chandler Caper or what exactly was going through the Master Criminal's brain to make him think showing up at a party with wall to wall cops was a good thing. Although he'd seemed more afraid of Avery than of anything there with a badge. "Hello." I blink, startled, thrown by the low pitched, startingly familiar female voice. "Who's this?" I ask, sounding more mystified than the abrupt command tone I was striving for. And the person on the other end knows it immediately. "Who's this?" she challenges right back and I grunt in annoyance. "Let me speak to Michael." "Who?" I get the distinct feeling I am being jacked with because there's a note of coolly amused dispassion in the female's tone. "Michael." I spit it out through clenched teeth. "Oh," the female says. "Sure." I frown straining to hear the background noises of a television, street movement, anything, but there's nothing but a bit of vaguely muffled laughter and then a second voice, male this time. "Hey." "Is this Michael?" I ask. If my voice were any more syrupy I'd need an insulin injection. I wait until he has responded in the affirmative, consider launching into the temper tantrum I can feel boiling just below the surface, then beat it back avidly. "Who was that?" There's a second of silence I feel sure is being filled on the other end with a conspiratorial little wink and grin before he answers, "Just a friend." "That wasn't Avery." I don't make it a question and my voice is dark. "No, of course not." "Because Avery does not need to be drug into this. Avery's got enough shit on her plate whether she knows it or not. It didn't sound like her but~~" "It wasn't her, Huckleberry." Four words. Four words in an unfamiliar, yet soothing and comforting voice and that hideous, dreaded name tacked on the end that for once makes me smile and relax. I lean into the wall nearest me and close my eyes. "Okay. We need to meet somewhere. Talk. Catch up on old times." I know he'll grasp immediately that a cell phone is not a reliably secure means of conversation. And of course he does. "I'm thinking lunch would be good. I had this seafood place recommended to me." He rattles a name and address off and I mentally store it in my rolodex, then yank a pen and a scrap of paper out of my duffel and scribble a hard copy as well. I've been known to be a wee bit forgetful and distracted lately. It's not until we've hung up that I realize the sheet of paper I've grabbed is the original fact sheet on Jinny. Her face stares up at me, sullen and defiant and over it my brain lays the photograph in the newspaper this morning of a very different, much more vulnerable Jinny Exstead. It seems like a decade ago at least since I first looked at this sheet of paper, first opened that folder and frowned at all the things that simply didn't add up. The plastic waste basket in the guest room is empty and the wad of paper makes a satisfying thud as I slam it home on my way out the door. See it home, I tell myself grimly. Don't let personal shit bleed over to your assignment and see it home.
I spot him in a back booth at the restaurant whose address he'd given me and I'm striding forward, grinning slightly in what I decide is anticipation at the prospect of getting to know S'Phearhead in real life~~ when I stop short, stunned at the person who is sharing the booth with him. Detective C.D. De Lorenzo is across the table, leaning slightly forward to speak to him and even from here I can see neither of them is either uneasy or unfamiliar with the other. I am suddenly reminded that the infamous cyber criminal had the replacement lap top he custom ordered for me delivered to the residence of the San Francisco detective seated across the table from him. The detective notorious for being regimented, rigid, a stickler for the rules, yet who had signed the delivery receipt anyway. I watch as the two heads, one silver blonde, the other dishwater, almost touch in the center of the table and then recoil backwards in laughter at some shared mutual joke and I get the distinct impression that I have been played. Hugely. And well. "What the fuck?" They both look up and the blue hair at the booth to the right cringes visibly and her companion directs a meaningful and stern glare in my direction. C.D. and S'Phear blink up at before glancing at one another and there's just enough guilt in the look to stop my striding away at top speed. "Sit down, Sergeant," C.D. says mildly and slides herself closer to the wall on the maroon leather seat. I start to protest or argue the necessity of it but then the fact that the male across the table top is one of the nation's Most Wanted and also holds the key for ensuring the Chandler Caper comes to a successful close clicks in. I make sure he knows I'm pissed though. "Ouch," he says quietly, blinking at me before shoving the wire frames up his nose even though they haven't slipped in the least. "Yeah," I repeat, "No shit. Ouch." I'm momentarily disconcerted at the memory of Weaver's 'ditto' but shut that down promptly. This is not the time to get distracted by my incessant motherless daughter orphan shit. "Give me a clue here," I say, mainly to S'Phear, leaning back against the booth's seat behind me and waving a hand airily in his direction. "Because I'm at a complete loss as to how to proceed." "You're ticked," he says worriedly, glancing at C.D. with a perplexed frown as if uncertain he's all that adept at deciphering human emotion. "Damn straight I'm ticked." I decide to clear it up and make it really easy for him. "What is this, S'Phear? Tell me what's going on because I feel really stupid right now." He shifts restlessly on the seat, eyeing me, but the only response I get is a guilty little swallow that jerks his adam's apple in a very boyishly appealing manner. "No, no, don't do that." My voice is irritable and cranky. "Don't get all sheepish and sad and whipped puppy looking. I knew you did that. I knew you'd sit on the other end of the computer and anytime I wasn't overjoyed you turned into Whipped Puppy. I knew it." I glance to my right at De Lorenzo and don't even attempt to minimize the irate glare I give her. "And you," I snap. "With your Nazi Amazon routine over the laptop delivery. 'Clue me in on why you're here.' 'Did it ever occur to you I might not want a delivery receipt for a package addressed to you?' 'If it's delivered here, it's my package'~~" I sit back and spread my disgust and annoyance between the two of them equally. "You played me. Real funny. Ha ha. You win. Now explain to me what kind of game it was because I'm lost." "It wasn't a game, Coop," S'Phear says miserably looking at C.D. "Not a game." "Can I tell her?" her voice is even and measured; if it were a color it would be something between umber and amber and honey. She's gazing at S'Phear, waiting and I grunt in annoyance and slide my ass to the edge of the booth and shake my head before glancing up at the waitress who has paused there, pen poised expectantly. "Somebody better tell me something because I am one beer away from walking out. Dos Equis." I tell the waitress who grins at me and winks, glancing back and forth between myself and C.D. before speaking. "Excellent beer to have before walking out." Oh, good. Now I'm giving off Trapped in a Triangle vibes. Of the Geek and Nazi Amazon variety. I discern absolutely no change in the guilty down cast expression across the table, but C.D. apparently gleans an answer from it because she turns to me, face composed and voice smooth as silk and says, "We're cousins." "Oh, give me a break," I snort, then blink as I glance between the two of them. "Wait... you're serious?" "Very," C.D. says succinctly. S'Phear adds a rather glum little nod. I'd probably be glum too if I was an FBI Most Wanted and my cousin was a cop. "How?" In response to my one word question C.D. frowns slightly, smooth white brow briefly furrowed before she responds. "The usual way; our mothers are sisters." I blink and the snort of laughter explodes out of me before I can stop it and across the table I'm stunned to hear S'Phear chuckling as well. He leans forward slightly and says, "She meant how did this situation come about, Candy. How did I end up here, how long have you known your cousin was a hacker, 'how' like that." He stops and then grins at me impishly and I am struck with the realization that this is the first time I have ever heard him laugh~~ and yet it was completely familiar. I of course immediately latch onto the really relevant portion of that statement. "Candy?" I'm treated to an arctic freeze at close range via sky blue eyes. "Don't even," she tells me coldly, directing a chilly visual reprimand at S'Phear who shrugs it off so easily there's no longer any doubt in my mind at all that they are family. "Okay," I say, taking the bottle from the waitress and ignoring the frosted mug she sits beside it. "I feel like I've stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone here. You're cousins." "Yeah," C.D.'s voice is unruffled; S'Phear contents himself with a nod and a bashful grin. "And he's on the Top Ten and you're a cop." "That pretty much covers it," S'Phear says mildly but C.D.'s gaze is level and unflinching as she stares at me momentarily before speaking, voice low. "Yes. And he's on the Top Ten and you're a cop as well." "Touché." I lift my beer at her briefly and she in turn lifts both blonde brows and leans against the wall, eyes at half mast which makes me distinctly uneasy. Note to self: Not a good idea to push her or remind her she's drawn into something ethically questionable. C.D. is a black and white kinda gal. And she's heading up the investigation into me out here, although that's now rather dubiously gray as well in a conflict of interest kind of way. Probably not a good idea to bring that up either. I decide to change the subject abruptly. "Why 'Michael'?" I ask him and he grins at me, grasping immediately what it is I'm asking. "Oh, come on, Huckleberry," he drawls, "You can figure that one out. It's obvious." I shrug, resisting the urge to glance at C.D. and let my eyes flit over the other customers in the place before taking a second swallow of Dos Equis. It's similar to his own middle name, but nothing like the one he went through grade school or graduated high school (Valedictorian of his class, of course) using. I know probably more about him than he realizes although De Lorenzo had definitely slipped under my radar during the Hall case years earlier. "Candice Gerdttson," I say aloud, then glance at her warily. "That was my maiden name, yes," she acknowledges calmly. "They were step sisters actually, your moms," I put in and they glance at one another in bemusement before shrugging dismissively. I'm not really surprised because I know I don't grasp the way family works for most people. I lean back and study both of them, frowning slightly. "I guess that's how you slipped by me. The whole 'Candice' versus 'C.D.' and 'Gerdttson' versus 'De Lorenzo." She lifts one lazy finger up on the edge of the table top and smiles at me. "You have no idea why he picked 'Michael' do you?" So much for stalling for time. "Not a clue," I confess and in response she pulls out the neck of her shirt and leans forward, treating me to rather a lot of cleavage as she tugs out the silver links of a chain round her neck, tipping the pendant at the end where I can see it. There's a figure on it; a rather sturdy looking angel with wings outspread who's clutching both a sword and a hefty looking staff, expression both cocky and pugnacious. Around the outer edges of the rectangle the angel's name is etched in rather gothic lettering. "St. Michael. Patron Saint of Law Enforcement." My voice is both incredulous and incredibly amused and I look up at him expectantly. He extends a hand across the table's top and clasps the one I hold out, grip rather firm for a cyber jockey. "Nice to finally meet you," he tells me, grinning. "Cousins." I shake my head, laughing as I gulp cold beer. "Yeah," C.D. says, smiling. "Get over it, Sergeant." "And you so cool and so strict, everything so black and white. I'd never have thought~~" "Exactly." De Lorenzo gives excellent smirk. "And you've known who and what he was since...?" I let my voice drift off in question and she shrugs slightly, glancing across the table at S'Phear as if to gauge how much of any of it he's okay with her telling. S'Phear gazes complacently back at her and after ten or fifteen seconds of it she smiles slightly and looks at me, learning slightly forward. "That he was a geek? All his life. That he was a hacker?" she put her head to one side, musing and then shrugs. "Maybe four years? Four and a half? That he was you-know-who? Not until he told me he needed to get a computer to you and needed a safe house for delivery." I shift uneasily on my seat and sip at the beer looking away from the two of them. Not until me. Now they're both sitting here, involved, dragged into it. "She up to speed on everything?" I ask S'Phear curiously and he snorts and slides his eyes to meet C.D.'s briefly before shaking his head, wiping at the corners of his mouth, grinning. "No." "And doesn't want to be," C.D. puts in. "We're not doing that here today. I'm not going to be in on that at all. As far as I'm concerned my cousin Michael flew in a few days ago to visit. I gave him a ride downtown because there's a gallery exhibit he wants to catch~~ in fact, here's his date now." I know from the faint look of fuzzy and bewildered lust S'Phear's face has developed exactly who it's going to be before I even look up. "Cowboy," Avery says congenially, sliding into the booth next to S'Phear whose face undergoes several fascinating color combinations in a dizzying ten seconds. "I heard you were going to be here bein' all investigated and shit." "Yeah, well, you know we can't all commit such innocuous crimes as stealing baby formula. Some of us have to give the detectives something worthwhile to do." "It was diapers," she corrects me grinning and protectively links her arms through S'Phear's before leaning back against him cozily. "You just ignore her sugar. I can see somebody pushed her cranky button this morning already." "Yeah, sugar," I repeat, glaring at him pointedly. "You just ignore me and run along to your gallery chingaderra but you make sure we get a chance to talk later on. Because we got a lot to talk about... sugar." "Oh, c'mon," C.D. says easily when they've slid out from the booth and are twenty feet away, 'Michael' paying for whatever he'd consumed while Avery performs a ridiculous amount of cooing and rubbing of arm in the meantime. "You have to admit they make a cute couple." "Yeah. Cutest felon and sexiest misdemeanor couple ever born. Great." My voice is gloomy and I don't miss that as they exit Avery apparently has a chance to demonstrate her unique wit and sense of humor because S'Phear stops dead in his tracks and throws his head skyward, howling in unrestrained laughter. And when he can pause long enough to mop at his streaming eyes he cups one of her elbows and tugs her gently towards him, then lays a very tender, gentle kiss to her forehead. He has to stand on tip toe to accomplish this. I think it's a toss up as to which of us is more stunned; me or Avery. I can feel the blood that's drained from my face making a very sour little puddle somewhere near my naval. I clear my throat as they exit the restaurant and glance swiftly at C.D. who is, to my astonishment, smiling wistfully. "That," she says, voice breaking slightly, "would be nice." I know that somewhere in me there's an H. Cooper Finn that would agree and I rifle frantically through my various chameleon like personas, looking for her. No go. "I wasn't going to discuss this with you because it's his deal." When she doesn't go on I look up and struggle to look complacently bemused. I croak out, "Oh yeah?" "He wants to go legit." "What?" 'Legit. Legal. He wants to be a real person with a real job and stop all the other stuff." I turn the Dos Equis bottle away from me and peel distractedly at the gold foil label, frowning. "Can he do that?" "I don't know," she responds, "Can he?" I look up at her sharply. "I got no stroke, Investigator. None. I'm not even real clear if I have a job." "And I'm the lead investigator on an internal affairs case involving you. Tell me something I don't know, Sergeant." I clear my throat and grab the bottle as I switch to the opposite of the booth and raise my hand with the nearly empty brew at the waitress. I don't miss the conspiratorial little wink she gives me as she nods, or the appreciative glance at the Amazon Nazi now left at the table. "I don't know," I say honestly, after a few moments of silence. "If you're asking me can he get a job, can he fake the paperwork to obtain a new identity? Sure. He probably already has." I let my eyes drift up and when she doesn't blink I smile before I look down again. "Yeah. I thought so. So sure, in that way, yes, he can. But can he stop hacking?" I shrug. "I don't know. It's addictive. It's hard to not do something just to prove you can when you know you can and you know you won't get caught at it. There's a thrill to it, like stealing or sexual crimes. I don't know. Maybe. If he had something he needed more." Something with deep velvet brown eyes and a throaty voice maybe. Something warm and sweet and Avery shaped. "I'm going to tell you something now and I don't want this brought up again." I blink and peer at her worriedly, fretfully tugging at the soggy shredded label swiftly being destructed by my fingers. ""Tracye," C.D. gets out finally, not meeting my eyes for a good twenty seconds, then pinning me to the back of the booth when she does. "Thanks." I shrug, shaking my head head slightly and across the table she stiffens and I stop, gazing at her. "No. Don't negate it. Brushing it off says it meant nothing, it was nothing. Just accept the thanks and let's go on about our business here." We stare at one another in silence while the waitress delivers my second beer and when she moves away at last I nod, and clear my throat. "You're welcome. It was a nice one to close on." She nods calmly and there's no more than a few jerky, rather startled blinks betraying her emotion before she sighs and then grins at me devilishly. "Now, Sergeant. Let's talk about all the many ways you have compromised your Department and your position with it since you arrived here in the Bay Area." "Oh fuck you," I say, rather happily and she chuckles and flips open a steno pad, pen poised.
END OF SEVENTY FIVE
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