“Surely. The manufacturers of the embedded products—the stoves, HVAC systems, medical equipment, escalators—just need to install the security patches we send them. I know from his blog how that fellow—what was his name?”
“Todd Williams.”
“How he ran the exploit. Yes, there was a vulnerability. We patched it within a day of learning it and sent out the updates. That was a month ago. Maybe more.”
“Why wouldn’t Midwest Conveyance have installed them?”
“Sometimes companies don’t update out of laziness, sometimes business. Updating requires a reboot and often some tinkering with the code. That takes the whole cloud offline for a while. Their customers aren’t happy with any disruption of service. Once people get used to a convenience it’s impossible to take it away from them. Turning lights off remotely if you forgot, when you left the house on vacation? Keeping an eye on the babysitter in real time? Ten years ago, when that wasn’t an option, you never thought twice about not being able to. But now? Everyone who has a smart product expects it to keep performing. If it doesn’t they’ll go elsewhere.”
“You said it wouldn’t take long.”
Chaudhary smiled. “The study of the psychology of consumers is a fascinating topic. Disappointments are remembered. Loyalties shift in milliseconds. Now, Mr. Rhyme and Detective . . .”
“Sachs.”
“I have a meeting I need to attend. But before that we’ll send all our customers another link to the security patches with a memo reminding them they have to install those patches. People’s lives could be at stake.”
“Thanks,” Sachs said.
“Good luck to you. If we can help, please let us know.”
The webcam closed. And Rhyme and Sachs reconvened the team, reporting on what Chaudhary had said.
Which, while it might stymie some of Unsub 40’s future attacks, was essentially of no help whatsoever in tracking him down.
Rhyme glanced at the whiteboard he, Archer and Whitmore had created for the Midwest Conveyance case. “I want to consolidate our charts, Sachs. See what evidence we’ve got.”
Rather than actually transport the Unsub 40 whiteboards from Sachs’s war room at One PP to the parlor here, she asked an assistant at Major Cases to take phone pictures and email them. They arrived in seconds.
Sachs now transcribed the details of the crime scenes onto the whiteboard. And added what they’d learned from Williams’s computer. The team reviewed them.
Rhyme watched Sachs staring at the chart, her right index finger and thumb spinning her blue-stone ring compulsively. Shaking her head, she muttered, “We’re still waiting for the sawdust, the varnish and the DNA and friction ridges from the napkins. CS in Queens never got back to us.” A glance toward him, a cool glance, as if speedbump was his fault. Which, he guessed, it partly was, thanks to the Cooper kidnapping.
“Let me see the micro pictures of the sawdust,” Rhyme said.
Sachs went online, into the secure CSU database, typed in the case file and conjured up the images.
Rhyme looked them over. “I’d say mahogany. Mel?”
After a fast examination the tech said, “Ninety-nine percent sure. Yes.”
“Ah, Sachs, you were right. Mea culpa for stealing him out from under your nose.” He’d meant this as a joke but she didn’t respond. Rhyme continued, “And you’re right about sanding. The particles aren’t from sawing. Suggests fine woodworking.” She wrote this down. And Rhyme added, “No idea about the varnish. There’s no database. We’ll just have to see what the analysts can come up with. What’s the story with the napkins?”
Sachs explained about the White Castle lead. “I don’t know why the hell it’s taking so long to run DNA and enhanced friction ridge.” She snagged her phone and called the crime scene operation in Queens, had a brief conversation. Disconnected.
A scowl. “It’s taking so long because they lost them.”
“What?” Cooper asked.
“Somebody in the evidence room lost the napkins. They got tagged wrong, seems. A clerk’s looking.”
It could be, Rhyme knew, an imposing quest. The evidence room was not one room at all but a number of them, which contained hundreds of thousands of items of evidence. Looking for a needle in a stack of needles, Rhyme had once heard.
“Well, fire whoever dropped the ball on that one,” he snapped.
He scanned the chart again, noting the new entries. Unsub 40 was either very lucky or very careful. The evidence gave no clear direction either as to where he lived or worked or to where he might be going to strike next, assuming he’d picked up some of the trace while assessing a future victim.
CRIME SCENE: 151 CLINTON PLACE,
MANHATTAN, CONSTRUCTION SITE,
ADJACENT TO 40° NORTH (NIGHTCLUB)
-Offenses: Homicide, Assault.
-Victim: Todd Williams, 29, writer, blogger, social topics.
-COD: Blunt force trauma, probably ball-peen hammer (no brand determined).
-Motive: Robbery.
-Credit/debit cards not yet used.
-Evidence:
-No friction ridges.
-Blade of grass.
-Trace:
-Phenol.
-Motor oil.
-Profile of suspect (Unknown Subject 40).
-Wore checkered jacket (green), Braves baseball cap.
-White male.
-Tall (6'2" to 6'4").
-Slim (140–150 lbs.).
-Long feet and fingers.
-No visual of face.
CRIME SCENE: HEIGHTS VIEW MALL, BROOKLYN.
-Offense: Homicide, escape from apprehension.
-Victim: Greg Frommer, 44, clerk with Pretty Lady Shoes in mall.
-Store clerk, left Patterson Fuel Systems as Director of Marketing. Will attempt to show he would have returned to a similar or other higher-income job.
-COD: Loss of blood, internal organ trauma.
-Means of death:
-Unsub 40 hacked into CIR DataWise5000 controller and opened door remotely.
-Discussion with CIR executives.
-Tracing the signal: only each manufacturer could do that. Difficult.
-Probably impossible to identify him.
-Danger of hacking could be minimized by companies’ installing security patches. CIR is sending out warning to do so.
-Evidence:
-DNA, no CODIS match.
-No friction ridges sufficient for ID.
-Shoeprint, likely unsub’s, size 13 Reebok Daily Cushion 2.0.
-Soil sample, likely from unsub, containing crystalline aluminosilicate clays: montmorillonite, illite, vermiculite, chlorite, kaolinite. Additionally, organic colloids. Substance is probably humus. Not native to this portion of Brooklyn.
-Dinitroaniline (used in dyes, pesticides, explosives).
-Ammonium nitrate (fertilizer, explosives)
-With oil from Clinton Place scene: Possibly constructing bomb?
-Additional phenol (precursor in making plastics, like polycarbonates, resins and nylon, aspirin, embalming fluid, cosmetics, ingrown toenail cures; unsub has large feet, so—nail problems?)
-Talc, mineral oil/paraffinum liquidum/huile minérale, zinc stearate, stearic acid, lanolin/lanoline, cetyl alcohol, triethanolamine, PEG-12 laurate, mineral spirits, methylparaben, propylparaben, titanium dioxide.
-Makeup? No brand determination. Analysis to return.
-Shaving of metal, microscopic, steel, probably from sharpening knife.
-Sawdust. Type of wood to be determined. From sanding not sawing.
-Organochlorine and benzoic acid. Toxic. (insecticides, weaponized poisons?)
-Acetone, ether, cyclohexane, natural gum, cellulose (probably varnish).
-Manufacturer to be determined.
-White Castle napkins missing at Crime Scene HQ.
-Cause of action in civil suit for Greg Frommer’s death.
-Wrongful death/personal injury tort suit.
-Strict products liability.
-Negligence.
-Breach of implied warranty.
-Damages: compensatory, pain and suffering, punitive.
-Defendant: Unsub 40.
-Facts relevant to accident:
-Access panel opened, victim fell into gears. Opened about 16 inches.
-Access panel weighed 42 pounds, sharp teeth on front contributed to death/injury.
-Door secured by latch. On springs. It popped open for unknown reason.
-Reasons for failure?
-Intervening cause—Unsub 40’s hacking DataWise controller.
-No access to Dept. of Investigation or FDNY reports or records at this time.
-No access to failing escalator at this time (under quarantine by DOI).
CRIME SCENE: WHITE CASTLE RESTAURANT,
ASTORIA BOULEVARD, ASTORIA, QUEENS.
-Relevance to case: Unsub eats here regularly.
-Additional elements of profile of suspect.
-Eats 10–15 sandwiches at a time.
-Had been shopping at least once when ate here. Carried white plastic bag, something heavy inside. Metallic?
-Turned north and crossed the street (toward bus/train?). No sign he owned/drove automobile.
-Witnesses didn’t get good view of face, probably no facial hair.
-White, pale, maybe balding or crew cut.
-Used a car service on Astoria Blvd. around day of Williams’s murder.
-Awaiting word from owner of gypsy cab company.
-Service has reported on the destination.
CRIME SCENE: 348 RIDGE STREET, MANHATTAN.
-Offenses: Arson.
-Victim: None.
-Relevance to case: Unsub 40 is the same person who caused Greg Frommer’s death, intentionally opening the access panel of Midwest Conveyance escalator, at Brooklyn Heights Mall. Met Todd Williams and learned how to hack DataWise5000 smart controllers, which caused escalator accident.
-On night of Williams’s death unsub got two lists from him:
-Database of all products the controllers are found in.
-Consumers who bought some of those products.
-Additional elements of profile of suspect:
-Under name of the People’s Guardian, posted manifesto. Domestic terrorism, attacking excess consumerism.
-Can’t trace the post.
-Intentional grammatical mistakes. Probably he’s intelligent.
-Evidence:
-Improvised explosive device.
-Wax, low-octane gasoline, cotton, plastic, matches. Candle bomb. Elements not sourceable.
So. This is her home.
Red’s.
Amelia Sachs, the Shopper.
The Shopper who was not courteous enough to burn to death in Todd Williams’s office building.
I happen to be across the street from her Brooklyn town house, dolled up in some worker’s clothing, coveralls, which, well, cover all. So as not to draw attention. Tired, now toward the end of a long, long workday (though I’m largely pretending at the moment, the fatigue is true). Coffee in one hand, mobile phone in another, pretending to read texts, though in reality I’ve been reading how well my screed against consumerism went over in the press. Why, I’ve even had some likes!
Studying Red’s town house carefully. A Shopper. Yes, she is and she’ll suffer for it but I’ve softened a bit (White Castles from the frozen foods section are not bad) and I’ve decided, Red isn’t the sadistic sort. A Shopper with a heart she is. The sort of girl who if I had asked her out wouldn’t laugh in my face and let loose about string beans and sacks of bones. She’d blush and keep a pretty smile on her pretty face. “Sorry, I have plans.”
Which maybe she would have had, or maybe she wouldn’t. Not the point. The worst, the absolute worst, would have been that blush and that forced formal smile—the iceberg tip of her discomfort, which I had caused. As if I’d tried to save a butterfly and crushed it accidentally, the dead form resting in my hands, sparkly with blue and gold dust from its broken wings.
That would be the worst. Making me feel doubly bad.
A Shopper with a heart . . .
So when I destroy Red’s life I will probably feel some regret. But I think this in passing and get back to the task at hand.
Nice place she has here. Old-time Brooklyn. Classic. Amelia Sachs. German name, I guess. She doesn’t look German, but I really don’t know what a German looks like, now I think about it. She doesn’t have braided blond hair and blue Aryan eyes.
I’ve been debating what to do about her. Red owns no products that have DataWise5000 controllers in them. At least not that I can find. She’s not on my magic lists that Todd so helpfully got for me before his bones started to crack. Of course once a product gets out into the hands of the public, it can bob like a cork in the ocean until it washes up in someone else’s kitchen or garage or living room. But I scanned Red’s house for signals, like Todd showed me, and while I found some lonely little devices sending out their wireless beacons, begging to join a network, none of them will help me turn her into a mass of broken bone or blistered flesh.
Sipping coffee, which I’m not really sipping, looking at cell phone, which I’m not really looking at . . . pretending. I’m blending in—an impatient workman waiting for a ride home at the end of the day.
Though I’m not impatient at all.
I’m patient as stone.
Which pays off. Because only a half hour later I see something interesting.
And I realize I now have the final piece of the puzzle to solve my Red problem.
All right, I think, finishing my beverage and putting the crumpled cup into my pocket (learned my lesson there!), it’s time to go. We’ve got work to do.
CHAPTER 23
Ron Pulaski walked out the front door of Richie’s bar. He felt good, almost light-headed.
He turned south and kept walking quickly, head down.
What sat in his front left pocket was minuscule but seemed like ten pounds of gold. He casually slipped his hand into his pocket and touched it for the comfort. Thank you, Lord.
And thank you, he thought too to the guy he’d been sharing a beer with a minute ago: Alpho (Pulaski didn’t like to use the dog food nic, even skels deserved respect). He’d hooked Pulaski up with just what he needed. Oh, yeah.
He could . . .
“Excuse me, sir. If you could stop right there, please. Take your hand out of your pocket.”
Face burning, heart thudding, Pulaski stopped in his tracks. Knew he wasn’t being mugged. But he also knew what was going down. The tone of voice, the words. He turned to see two large men, dressed in jeans and jackets, street clothes, but he knew right away who they were—not their names, but their jobs: tactical cops, undercover. He glanced at their shields, gold shields dangling from silver chains.
Shit . . .
He slowly removed his hand and kept both palms open. Non-threatening. He knew the drill; he’d been on the other side hundreds of times.
Pulaski said, “I’m NYPD, assigned to Major Crimes. I have a weapon in an ankle holster and my shield’s inside my jacket.” Trying to sound confident. But his voice was unsteady. His heart slammed.
They frowned. “Okay,” the bigger one, bald, stepped forward. His partner kept his hand near his weapon. Baldie: “We just want to make sure everybody stays safe, you understand. I’m going to ask you to turn around and put your hands against the wall.”
“Sure.” It does no good to argue. Pulaski wondered if he’d throw up. Deep breath. Okay, control it. He did. More or less.
The officers—they smelled of a task force—got the gun and the shield. They didn’t give them back. His wallet too. Pulaski was inclined to argue that one but didn’t.
