High Crimes Read online

  “Smart guy.”

  “Can you believe he was a rescue? Who would abandon a beautiful dog like that?”

  Despite her cynicism, her heart pinged. Why was it so easy to have more compassion for an abandoned dog than for a person? Was it that dogs were intrinsically innocent creatures, who through no fault of their own had landed in ill-fated circumstances, while humans were supposed to have free will and were, at least partially, responsible for their lots? Then again, humans were supposed to be God’s creatures too. It was a no-win argument.

  Zach fondled the dog’s ears. “So, what brings you to my lair?”

  She glanced around. The room they sat in was occupied by four computers, each flashing a mysterious light or two. Still, as she’d learned before, Zach’s security protocols were first-rate. No hot mics, hidden cameras, or other surveillance toys would monitor or record their conversation.

  “In nontechnical terms, can you explain how someone might set up an email account and then delete it without leaving a trace?”

  “Hmm. Tell me more.”

  “Oh, and whoever did it was able to hack into a private server. But here’s the thing: as far as I know, that account only sent one email while it existed.”

  “Interesting.”

  “The person who received the email tried to reply but got the ‘there is no such account’ message.”

  Zach stroked his beard for a moment. Then: “Well, off the top of my head, I can think of two ways to do it.”

  Georgia inclined her head.

  “You could buy a hacked account on the dark web with bitcoin.”

  “How does that work?”

  “You use bitcoins to buy an account that’s already been hacked and is for sale. Then you send the email and tear everything down afterwards. It’s complicated but very doable, if you know what you’re doing,” he said. “The other way would be just as safe. Basically you would need a VPN, Tor, and an—”

  “Tor is the browser that lets you surf anonymously, right?”

  “Exactly. And a VPN is a virtual private network that lets you send information securely, without being monitored. You could set up your own account that way.”

  “How much knowledge would a person need in order to do either of those things?”

  “It’s not rocket science.” He paused. “But I guess it does take some skill in hacking.”

  “And there would be no way to trace it.”

  “Right. Unless the device being used had malware or a virus already on it. Which wouldn’t be the case if someone knows what they’re doing.”

  Jeremiah padded over to Georgia and tucked his face in her lap. She petted him.

  “He likes you.”

  “I like him.”

  “You should get a dog.”

  “I have a baby instead. Which reminds me.” Georgia dug out her cell and checked for messages. Nothing from Vanna. “One other question. If you have a private server, do you have a VPN?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “So theoretically whoever hacked into that server and/or VPN had the proper credentials?”

  “With the right encryption software it’s a piece of cake.”

  “What if they didn’t? Have the encryption keys.”

  He blew out a breath. “Wow. That would be hard.”

  “How hard?”

  “To hack into a VPN without the key would take me a long time. Days. Weeks. Even months. The NSA did it, but look at their resources. It would be a whole lot easier just to steal the encryption keys.”

  “How?”

  “Easiest way would be to know someone who had the key and get it from them. Knowingly or not.”

  Georgia mulled it over. Did whoever send the beef jerky email know the Baldwin family? Or Dena? Jeremiah nosed her lap again, demanding attention. She stroked the top of his head.

  “So, you want to tell me why you need to know all this?” Zach asked.

  “I can’t. Not yet.” Georgia bit her lip. “But does the term ‘beef jerky’ mean anything to you?”

  “My favorite is Sweet ’n Spicy.”

  “Not in that context. What if I sent you a message that said, ‘Find the beef jerky’?”

  Zach frowned. “Uh—”

  “I take it you have no idea.”

  “Not a clue,” he said. “But when you figure it out . . .”

  She stood. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A winter dusk descended, bringing with it lazy bands of snow as Georgia drove back to Evanston. At a red light she punched in Vanna’s cell. It went to voice mail. Where was she? The tickle of anxiety in her gut expanded. Although the nightmare a year earlier was over, her connection to Vanna was still tentative and fragile. Like the delicate web of a spider, family bonds could be destroyed by the slightest breeze or movement.

  Back home, Georgia called Erica. She told her she’d look into the mysterious email but not to expect much. She’d work on the case for a week. Then they could reassess.

  “Great,” Erica said. “What do you need from me?”

  “A key to Dena’s apartment and permission to go inside. The passwords on her computer, if you know them. Emails, Facebook, other social media accounts.”

  “I don’t know her passwords, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The FBI has her computer.”

  “Do you have the names of the agents who took it?”

  Erica told her. The names weren’t familiar. Georgia wrote them down.

  “What was her email address?”

  “She had a few. Her main one was [email protected].”

  “Eaglewin?”

  “Bald eagle. Baldwin.”

  “Got it.” Georgia wrote it down. “And the others?”

  “[email protected] and [email protected]. Dena never dumbed herself down.”

  It took Georgia a few seconds to get it. When she did, she kept her mouth shut. “So, let’s talk about ‘beef jerky.’ To your knowledge did she know someone who loved beef jerky? Did she like it?”

  “Dena didn’t eat the stuff. Too many chemical additives, she said.”

  “Okay. What about her brother? Would Jeffrey by any chance know?”

  “I’ll ask him. Call you back.”

  “Thanks. One other thing . . .” Georgia proposed her fee for the week. Erica accepted without hesitation.

  Georgia checked her phone. A text from Jimmy; he was on his way down, but with the snow, he probably wouldn’t be there for another hour. Nothing from Vanna. She swallowed, then forced herself back to the case. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, booted up her computer, and went to the Facebook group.

  ResistanceUSA was a public forum. Anyone could join. So she did and was told she needed to be approved by an administrator. Still, all the posts on the Facebook group were public. She read through them.

  At the top of the page was a flood of condolence posts about Dena’s death, plus some panic-laden notes asking what they would do now. A few messages asked about Ruth Marriotti’s condition. The name sounded familiar; Georgia googled it. She was one of the people wounded at the demonstration. A few generic responses said Ruth was on the mend and she’d be back.

  She scrolled down. Most of the posts were highly critical of the president; some were bitingly funny. She read a decree from Dena not to post memes, which, judging from all the quotes and graphics, had been ignored. A chorus of comments typically followed every post—with forty-two thousand members, that wasn’t surprising. But the rage bubbling just below the surface of many posts was. Georgia hadn’t realized how bitter people were that the political pendulum had swung away from them.

  Not all, however. One poster wrote, This is the only place I can get accurate information. Thank you, Dena. Another wrote, This is my refuge from the insanity. It’s the first place I check in the morning and the last place at night. I don’t know how I’d survive without all of you. Dena must have been pleased—and proud—of what she’d created, Georgia th
ought.

  She scrolled to posts dated before the demonstration. An air of excitement and resolve came through the page. Plans were crafted, critiqued, adopted or rejected. Earnest discussions about nonviolence and what to do if someone—God forbid the Chicago police—started using aggressive tactics. Many of the posts were barely articulate and were rife with misspellings, but their passion for becoming crusaders against injustice, if only for a day, was clear.

  Dena posted more than anyone, sometimes a dozen times a day. Her comments were usually the last word on a subject, although to her credit, Georgia noted, she let the conversation keep going until posters started to repeat themselves. She also shared ideas; for example, she encouraged people who knew A-list celebrities to invite them to the demonstration. Some, according to comments, were actually coming. Dena applauded each member who’d made an effort. Good leadership skills, Georgia noted.

  She clicked on the tab for “Members.” Besides Dena, there were three administrators, two women and two men. One of the women was Ruth Marriotti. Georgia’s eyebrows rose. A list of members in Chicago followed. She scrolled down. Almost six thousand. She scanned the list quickly and found Ruth’s name again. A stroke of luck.

  She jotted down some notes, beginning with Dena’s family:

  First, Dena’s father, the big wheel in DC. Did he have enemies? Were they coming after him through Dena? Was he enraged about his failed marriage?

  What about Jeffrey, Dena’s brother? Erica claimed they were close, but kids often put on a show for Mom. Plus, the guy was a deadbeat for a while, out in LA trying to break into Hollywood. What else was he doing before becoming the prodigal son? And why was he less eager than Erica to hire Georgia? She needed more.

  Then there was the foundation. Was anything irregular going on financially or otherwise? Any organization or person who thought they were entitled to a contribution but didn’t get one?

  Did Dena have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend? She’d have to investigate.

  Then there was the fact that Jarvis used an IED to blow himself up. Most terrorists ate their guns. Why did he go to the trouble of building an IED, which limited the crime scene evidence that could have been collected after the fact? Was he sending a message? Protecting an accomplice?

  She’d have to look into Jarvis’s world. His sister, Katherine, was mentioned but not quoted in the media. Did she or someone else close to him set him up? If so, why?

  Georgia even wrote down Erica’s husband and his hedge fund. Did anyone there hire Jarvis? It bore looking into. In fact, she needed to run background checks on everyone associated with Dena Baldwin, her family, and her killer.

  Most important, however, was the Facebook group. If Jarvis was a gun for hire, did someone in the group hire him? Were there members of the group who didn’t support Dena? And if there were, how was she supposed to find them? Technically she now had forty-two thousand suspects. The social media behemoth had created a giant haystack. Moreover, the needle she was searching for might not even live in the US; she’d noted names like Pierre, Julio, Simone, and Lao-Chu in the group. While it would be impossible to track all forty-two thousand members, she assumed the FBI had culled data from Facebook. At least run their names through NCIC. And if they’d zeroed in on any suspects, their names would have leaked by now. She would interview the group admins, but what about the other 41,997 members?

  She got up and started to pace. The seventeen alphabet intelligence agencies used to be the only institutions that could pull off a huge data search. But now, with companies like Cambridge Analytica or that Israeli outfit, private organizations with just a few people were data mining regularly. Maybe there was a way for her to plug into one of them.

  Georgia had a lot of work to do. But first, she needed Dena’s computer from the FBI. Or a flash drive with its contents. Jimmy knew someone at the Bureau. He’d have the guy’s contact info.

  The meaty aroma of the cooked chicken in the kitchen wafted over her. She checked the time. After five. She hadn’t eaten since the coffee and pastry she’d downed that morning. No wonder her mouth was watering. She was setting the table in the kitchen when Vanna, Charlie, and Jimmy came in together, shaking snow off their boots.

  Relief washed over her at Vanna’s return, but she tried to be casual. “Hi, guys. Did you drive home together?”

  Vanna stared at her with dead eyes.

  Georgia felt lost; how was she supposed to treat an angry sixteen-year-old? Fortunately, Jimmy took over.

  “We bumped into each other out front. Where were you, honey?” he asked Vanna.

  “Out.” Vanna whirled around and headed to her room. “I’ll go change Charlie. Is dinner ready? I’m starved.”

  Georgia and Jimmy exchanged glances. Jimmy held up his hand, a signal for Georgia to let it go.

  She did. For now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Georgia ran the engine with the defrost on high and scraped four inches of snow off her car. While she worked, she punched in the number of the FBI contact Jimmy had given her.

  “LeJeune . . .” In the two syllables he spoke, Georgia could hear his Cajun lilt.

  “Good morning. This is Georgia Davis. I’m an investigator, and Jimmy Saclarides gave me your number.”

  “Mornin’, darlin’.” Georgia rolled her eyes. “How is my favorite chief of police?”

  “He sends his regards. The reason I’m calling is that I’m working for the family of Dena Baldwin, the young woman who—”

  “I know who she was.”

  “Did you work on the case?”

  “Not directly. But I am familiar with it.”

  Georgia stopped scraping. “I’d like to get Ms. Baldwin’s computer. I’ve been told the case is closed as far as the FBI is concerned, or at least inactive. If the agency isn’t willing to return the actual computer, perhaps you could copy the hard drive and give me that. I’m hoping you’ll put in a good word with the agents involved.”

  “Not gonna happen,” he said crisply. “It’s an open criminal investigation, and her computer may contain important evidence for us.”

  “But from what I’m reading, the Bureau doesn’t consider it a heater case. The guy who killed her is dead.”

  “What about the fact that you’ve been hired by the family? That would indicate to me that something has changed, n’est-ce pas?”

  Christ. French too? Jimmy had warned her it could be a long shot, but she had her answer ready. “Nothing’s changed. The family just wants to close the book on it, and this would help.”

  “Nice try, angel.”

  Despite the cold, Georgia felt her cheeks get hot.

  “But since Chief Saclarides and I are such good friends, tell you what I’m gonna do. You get a court order or a Freedom of Information Act request approved, and I’ll be the first to give you that flash drive.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s going to take way too much time, and most of what’s there will probably be redacted.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard that.”

  Georgia couldn’t understand why Jimmy respected LeJeune. He was acting like an asshole. She hated to pull rank, but she needed Dena’s laptop. She didn’t have a choice. “You do know who her father is, right? I can probably get it that way if I have to.”

  “Be my guest, cher,” LeJeune said. “And when you do, it will give me great pleasure to meet the woman who wrapped Chief Saclarides around her little finger.”

  She stabbed the “end” button harder than she needed to. LeJeune was a cliché from one of her Dashiell Hammett novels, misogyny and all. Then again, if she was being honest with herself, she had to admit he was just doing his job.

  Once the Toyota was free of ice, she climbed in and headed over to Zach Dolan’s office in Northbrook, stopping at a bagel place on the way. He was outside walking Jeremiah when she pulled up. He stopped. Jeremiah barked.

  She rolled down the window and held up the bag of bagels. “I brought breakfast.”

 
; Zach lifted his eyebrows. “Cream cheese too?”

  She grinned. “And jelly.”

  He shushed Jeremiah and swept his arm in a welcoming gesture. “Then you may enter.”

  Inside Zach toasted a couple of bagels. He loaded his with both cream cheese and jelly and dug in. Halfway through he sighed with satisfaction. “They’re fresh.”

  “Only the best for the Dolans.”

  He threw her a side-eyed glance. “And what impossible task brings you back so soon? With bribes?”

  Georgia cleared her throat and explained what she had in mind. As she did, Zach’s expression changed from contentment to surprise to disbelief.

  “You want me to run forty-two thousand names through a background check?” He rubbed a hand against his forehead. “And I suppose you want it yesterday.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Really?”

  “I’d need a team of people. First to pry out the real names of the Facebook members. Then to run them through criminal background checks.”

  Georgia didn’t blink. “A team is fine.”

  “Oh. We have money for this?”

  “Whatever you need.”

  Zach whistled. Jeremiah, who’d been lying at Zach’s feet, pricked up his ears. When he saw Zach with a bagel, he got up and pushed his head into Zach’s lap. “See what you made me do?” He tore off a piece of bagel and handed it to the dog, who snapped it up, swallowed it in one bite, and drooled just enough that Zach gave him another piece.

  “Somehow I think this is going to be one spoiled puppy,” Georgia said dryly.

  “Two points for the lady.” Zach’s forehead furrowed. “You know, I do have a friend who says he can match Facebook user names to their account IDs and real names.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Georgia said.

  “Hear what?” Zach grinned. “Although Facebook is pretty much a sieve these days since Cambridge Analytica stole all their data. You can find stuff all over the dark web.”

  “The timing is what’s critical,” Georgia said.

  Zach nodded. “How fast do you need it?”