29

RIVERA

Right in the middle of the interrogation Detective Sergeant Alphonse Rivera had a vision. He saw himself behind the counter at Seven-Eleven, bagging microwave burritos and pumping Slush-Puppies. It was obvious that the suspect, Robert Masterson, was telling the truth. What was worse was that he not only didn't have any connection with the marijuana Rivera's men had found in the trailer, but he didn't have the slightest idea where The Breeze had gone.

The deputy district attorney, an officious little weasel who was only putting time in at the D.A.'s office until his fangs were sharp enough for private practice, had made the state's position on the case clear and simple: "You're fucked, Rivera. Cut him loose."

Rivera was clinging to a single, micro-thin strand of hope: the second suitcase, the one that Masterson had made such a big deal about back at the trailer. It lay open on Rivera's desk. A jumble of notebook paper, cocktail napkins, matchbook covers, old business cards, and candy wrappers stared out of the suitcase at him. On each one was written a name, an address, and a date. The dates were obviously bogus, as they went back to the 1920s. Rivera had riffled through the mess a dozen times without making any sort of connection.

Deputy Perez approached Rivera's desk. He was doing his best to affect an attitude of sympathy, without much success. Everything he had said that morning had carried with it a sideways smirk. Twain had put it succinctly: "Never underestimate the number of people who would love to see you fail."

"Find anything yet?" Perez asked. The smirk was there.

Rivera looked up from the papers, took out a cigarette, and lit it. A long stream of smoke came out with his sigh.

"I can't see how any of this connects with The Breeze. The addresses are spread all over the country. The dates run too far back to be real."

"Maybe it's a list of connections The Breeze was planning to dump the pot on," Perez suggested. "You know the Feds estimate that more than ten percent of the drugs in this country move through the postal system."

"What about the dates?"

"Some kind of code, maybe. Did the handwriting check out?"

Rivera had sent Perez back to the trailer to find a sample of The Breeze's handwriting. He had returned with a list of engine parts for a Ford truck.

"No match," Rivera said.

"Maybe the list was written by his connection."

Rivera blew a blast of smoke in Perez's face. "Think about it, dipshit. I was his connection."

"Well, someone blew your cover, and The Breeze ran."

"Why didn't he take the pot?"

"I don't know, Sergeant. I'm just a uniformed deputy. This sounds like detective work to me." Perez had stopped trying to hide his smirk. "I'd take it to the Spider if I were you."

That made a consensus. Everyone who had seen or heard about the suitcase had suggested that Rivera take it to the Spider. He sat back in his chair and finished his cigarette, enjoying his last few moments of peace before the inevitable confrontation with the Spider. After a few long drags he stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, gathered the papers into the suitcase, closed it, and started down the steps into the bowels of the station and the Spider's lair.

Throughout his life Rivera had known half a dozen men nicknamed Spider. Most were tall men with angular features and the wiry agility that one associates with a wolf spider. Chief Technical Sergeant Irving Nailsworth was the exception.

Nailsworth stood five feet nine inches tall and weighed over three hundred pounds. When he sat before his consoles in the main computer room of the San Junipero Sheriff Department, he was locked into a matrix that extended not only throughout the county but to every state capital in the nation, as well as to the main computer banks at the FBI and the Justice Department in Washington. The matrix was the Spider's web and he lorded over it like a fat black widow.

As Rivera opened the steel door that led into the computer room, he was hit with a blast of cold, dry air. Nailsworth insisted the computers functioned better in this environment, so the department had installed a special climate control and filtration system to accommodate him.

Rivera entered and, suppressing a shudder, closed the door behind him. The computer room was dark except for the soft green glow of a dozen computer screens. The Spider sat in the middle of a horseshoe of keyboards and screens, his huge buttocks spilling over the sides of a tiny typist's chair. Beside him a steel typing table was covered with junk food in various stages of distress, mostly cupcakes covered with marshmallow and pink coconut. While Rivera watched, the Spider peeled the marshmallow cap off a cupcake and popped it in his mouth. He threw the chocolate-cake insides into a wastebasket atop a pile of crumpled tractor-feed paper.

Because of the sedentary nature of the Spider's job, the department had excused him from the minimum physical fitness standards set for field officers. The department had also created the position of chief technical sergeant in order to feed the Spider's ego and keep him happily clicking away at the keyboards. The Spider had never gone on patrol, never arrested a suspect, never even qualified on the shooting range, yet after only four years with the department, Nailsworth effectively held the same rank that Rivera had attained in fifteen years on the street. It was criminal.

The Spider looked up. His eyes were sunk so far into his fat face that Rivera could see only a beady green glow.

"You smell of smoke," the Spider said. "You can't smoke in here."

"I'm not here to smoke, I need some help."

The Spider checked the data spooling across his screens, then turned his full attention to Rivera. Bits of pink coconut phosphoresced on the front of his uniform.

"You've been working up in Pine Cove, haven't you?"

"A narcotics sting." Rivera held up the suitcase. "We found this. It's full of names and addresses, but I can't make any connections. I thought you might..."

"No problem," the Spider said. "The Nailgun will find an opening where there was none." The Spider had given himself the nickname "Nailgun." No one called him the Spider to his face, and no one called him Nailgun unless they needed something.

"Yeah," Rivera said, "I thought it needed some of the Nailgun's wizardry."

The Spider swept the junk food from the top of the typing table into the wastebasket and patted the top of the table. "Let's see what you have."

Rivera placed the suitcase on the table and opened it. The Spider immediately began to shuffle through the papers, picking up a piece here or there, reading it, and throwing it back into the pile.

"This is a mess."

"That's why I'm here."

"I'll need to put this into the system to make any sense of it. I can't use a scanner on handwritten material. You'll have to read it to me while I input."

The Spider turned to one of his keyboards and began typing. "Give me a second to set up a data base format."

As far as Rivera was concerned, the Spider could be speaking Swahili. Despite himself, Rivera admired the man's efficiency and expertise. His fat fingers were a blur on the keyboard.

After thirty seconds of furious typing the Spider paused. "Okay, read me the names, addresses, and dates, in that order."

"So you need me to sort them out?"

"No. The machine will do that."

Rivera began to read the names and addresses from each slip of paper, deliberately pausing so as not to get ahead of the Spider's typing.

"Faster, Rivera. You won't get ahead of me."

Rivera read faster, throwing each paper on the floor as he finished with it.

"Faster," the Spider demanded.

"I can't go any faster. At this speed if I mispronounce a name, I could lose control and get a serious tongue injury."

For the first time since Rivera had known him the Spider laughed.

"Take a break, Rivera. I get so used to working with machines that I forget people have limitations."

"What's going on here?" Rivera said. "Is the Nailgun losing his sarcastic edge?"

The Spider looked embarrassed. "No. I wanted to ask you about something."

Rivera was shocked. The Spider was almost omniscient, or so he pretended. This was a day for firsts. "What do you need?" he said.

The Spider blushed. Rivera had never seen that much flaccid flesh change color. He imagined that it put an incredible strain on the Spider's heart.

"You've been working in Pine Cove, right?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever run into a girl up there named Roxanne?"

Rivera thought for a moment, then said no.

"Are you sure?" The Spider's voice had taken on a tone of desperation. "It's probably a nickname. She works at the Rooms-R-Us Motel. I've run the name against Social Security records, credit reports, everything. I can't seem to find her. There are over ten thousand women in California with the name Roxanne, but none of them check out."

"Why don't you just drive up to Pine Cove and meet her?"

The Spider's color deepened. "I couldn't do that."

"Why not? What's the deal with this woman, anyway? Does it have to do with a case?"

"No, it's... it's a personal thing. We're in love."

"But you've never met her?"

"Well, yes, sort of  -  we talk by modem every night. Last night she didn't log on. I'm worried about her."

"Nailsworth, are you telling me that you are having a love affair with a woman by computer?"

"It's more than an affair."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Well, if you could just check on her. See if she's all right. But she can't know I sent you. You mustn't tell her I sent you."

"Nailsworth, I'm an undercover cop. Being sneaky is what I do for a living."

"Then you'll do it?"

"If you can find something in these names that will bail me out, I'll do it."

"Thanks, Rivera."

"Let's finish this." Rivera picked up a matchbook and read the name and address. The Spider typed the information, but as Rivera began to read the next name, he heard the Spider pause on the keyboard.

"Is something wrong?" Rivera asked.

"Just one more thing," Nailsworth said.

"What?"

"Could you find out if she's modeming someone else?"

"Santa Maria, Nailsworth! You are a real person."

Three hours later Rivera was sitting at his desk waiting for a call from the Spider. While he was in the computer room, someone had left a dog-eared paperback on his desk. Its title was You Can Have a Career in Private Investigation. Rivera suspected Perez. He had thrown the book in the wastebasket.

Now, with his only suspect back out on the street and nothing forthcoming from the Spider, Rivera considered fishing the book out of the trash.

The phone rang, and Rivera ripped it from its cradle.

"Rivera," he said.

"Rivera, it's the Nailgun."

"Did you find something?" Rivera fumbled for a cigarette from the pack on his desk. He found it impossible to talk on the phone without smoking.

"I think I have a connection, but it doesn't work out."

"Don't be cryptic, Nailsworth. I need something."

"Well, first I ran the names through the Social Security computer. Most of them are deceased. Then I noticed that they were all vets."

"Vietnam?"

"World War One."

"You're kidding."

"No. They were all World War One vets, and all of them had a first or middle initial E. I should have caught that before I even input it. I tried to run a correlation program on that and came up with nothing. Then I ran the addresses to see if there was a geographical connection."

"Anything there?"

"No. For a minute I thought you'd found someone's research project on World War One, but just to be sure, I ran the file through the new data bank set up by the Justice Department in Washington. They use it to find criminal patterns where there aren't any. In effect it makes the random logical. They use it to track serial killers and psychopaths."

"And you found nothing?"

"Not exactly. The files at the Justice Department only go back thirty years, so that eliminated about half of the names on your list. But the other ones rang the bell."

"Nailsworth, please try to get to the point."

"In each of the cities listed in your file there was at least one unexplained disappearance around the date listed  -  not the vets; other people. You can eliminate the large cities as coincidence, but hundreds of these disappearances were in small towns."

"People disappear in small towns too. They run away to the city. They drown. You can't call that a connection."

"I thought you'd say that, so I ran a probability program to get the odds on all of this being coincidence."

"So?" Rivera was getting tired of Nailsworth's dramatics.

"So the odds of someone having a file of the dates and locations of unexplained disappearances over the last thirty years and it being a coincidence is ten to the power of fifty against."

"Which means what?"

"Which means, about the same odds as you'd have of dragging the wreck of the Titanic out of a trout stream with a fly rod. Which means, Rivera, you have a serious problem."

"Are you telling me that this suitcase belongs to a serial killer?"

"A very old serial killer. Most serial killers don't even start until their thirties. If we assume that this one was cooperative enough to start when the Justice Department's files start, thirty years ago, he'd be over sixty now."

"Do you think it goes farther back?"

"I picked some dates and locations randomly, going back as far as 1925. I called the libraries in the towns and had them check the newspapers for stories of disappearances. It checked out. Your man could be in his nineties. Or it could be a son carrying on his father's work."

"That's impossible. There must be another explanation. Come on, Nailsworth, I need a bailout here. I can't pursue an investigation of a geriatric serial killer."

"Well, it could be an elaborate research project that someone is doing on missing persons, but that doesn't explain the World War One vets, and it doesn't explain why the researcher would write the information on matchbook covers and business cards from places that have been out of business for years."

"I don't understand." Rivera felt as if he were stuck in the Spider's web and was waiting to be eaten.

"It appears that the notes themselves were written as far back as fifty years ago. I could send them to the lab to confirm it if you want."

"No. Don't do that." Rivera didn't want it confirmed. He wanted it to go away. "Nailsworth, isn't possible that the computer is making some impossible connections? I mean, it's programmed to find patterns  -  maybe it went overboard and made this one up?"

"You know the odds, Sergeant. The computer can't make anything up; it can only interpret what's put into it. If I were you, I'd pull my suspect out of holding and find out where he got the suitcase."

"I cut him loose. The D.A. said I didn't have enough to charge him."

"Find him," Nailsworth said.

Rivera resented the authoritarian tone in Nailsworth's voice, but he let it go. "I'm going now."

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"One of your addresses was in Pine Cove. You want it?"

"Of course."

Nailsworth read the name and address to Rivera, who wrote it down on a memo pad.

"There was no date on this one, Sergeant. Your killer might still be in the area. If you get him, it would be the bailout you're looking for."

"It's too fantastic."

"And don't forget to check on Roxanne for me, okay?" The Spider hung up.

30

JENNY

Jenny had arrived at work a half hour late expecting to find Howard waiting behind the counter to reprimand her in his own erudite way. Strangely enough, she didn't care. Even more strange was the fact that Howard had not shown up at the cafe all morning.

Considering that she had drunk two bottles of wine, eaten a heavy Italian meal and everything in the refrigerator, and stayed up all night making love, she should have been tired, but she wasn't. She felt wonderful, full of humor and energy, and not a little excited. When she thought of her night with Travis, she grinned and shivered. There should be guilt, she thought. She was, technically, a married woman. Technically, she was having an illicit affair. But she had never been very technically minded. Instead of guilt she felt happy and eager to do it all again.

From the moment she got to work she began counting the hours until she got off after the lunch shift. She was at one hour and counting when the cook announced that there was a call for her in the office.

She quickly refilled her customer's coffee cups and headed to the back. If it was Robert, she would just act like nothing had happened. She wasn't exactly in love with someone else as he suspected. It was... it didn't matter what it was. She didn't have to explain anything. If it was Travis  -  she hoped it was Travis.

She picked up the phone. "Hello."

"Jenny?" It was a woman's voice. "It's Rachel. Look, I'm having a special ritual this afternoon at the caves. I need you to be there."

Jennifer did not want to go to a ritual.

"I don't know, Rachel, I have plans after work."

"Jennifer, this is the most important thing we've ever done, and I need you to be there. What time do you get off?"

"I'm off at two, but I need to go home and change first."

"No, don't do that. Come as you are  -  it's really important."

"But I really..."

"Please, Jenny. It will only take a few minutes."

Jennifer had never heard Rachel sound so adamant. Maybe it really was important.

"Okay. I guess I can make it. Do you need me to call any of the others?"

"No. I'll do it. You just be at the caves as soon as you can after two."

"Okay, fine, I'll be there."

"And Jenny"  -  Rachel's voice had lowered an octave  -  "don't tell anyone where you are going." Rachel hung up.

Jennifer immediately dialed her home phone and got the answering machine. "Travis, if you're there, pick up." She waited. He was probably still sleeping. "I'm going to be a little late. I'll be home later this afternoon." She almost said, "I love you," but decided not to. She pushed the thought out of her mind. "Bye," she said, and hung up.

Now, if she could only avoid Robert until she could think of a way to destroy his hope for their reconciliation. Returning to the floor of the cafe, she realized that somewhere along the way her feeling of well-being had vanished and she felt very tired.