than you had yesterday.
One of my office telephones is ringing when I turn the key in the front door of the farmhouse. Thinking it’s Drewe, I race to catch it.
“Hello, snitch.”
This is not Drewe. The voice in the earpiece is at once strange and familiar. It belongs to Miles Turner.
“You’ve really shaken things up, haven’t you?” he says.
“What have you heard?” I ask, shocked at the sauna-level heat that has accumulated inside the house during the day.
“Jan is very upset with you.”
“I figured. Did the FBI call her?”
I hear a faint tsk. “Did they phone her? No, Harper. That would be much too easy for the Federal Bureau of Incompetence. They showed up at the door of our offices with a search warrant.”
“What? At EROS? When?”
“Two hours ago. Special agents from the New York office.”
“What did they see?”
“Not much. Jan locked the master client list in the file room the minute Reception buzzed her and said the FBI was in the building. She refused to give them a key, and that room is like a vault. Actually, it is a vault. It reminds me of your grandfather’s bomb shelter—Eisenhower chic. It’s got a time lock. Seventy-two hours before that monster opens. I guess the FBI could blow it open or cut it with a blowtorch, but they haven’t tried. They just posted two men outside it. They didn’t even confiscate our servers. Jan thinks the raid was pure intimidation.”
“I don’t think so, Miles. All six of those women I told you about were murdered this year. Karin Wheat makes seven. And David Strobekker, the man I thought was the killer, makes eight.”
“So says the FBI.”
“Come on, man. Wake up and smell the fucking coffee! I overheard one guy whispering about phone traces, bringing in the NSA, George Orwell stuff.”
“As a matter of fact, Jan is about to give the FBI permission to set up tracing equipment right here in the office.”
This stops me. “But you just said she hid the master client list from them.”
“She did. But Jan’s no fool. She knows she’s walking a fine legal line. There is apparently some question of a duty to warn. Warn the subscribers, I mean. She feels that by cooperating with the FBI in tracing Strobekker—or whoever he is—she demonstrates that she’s not obstructing the FBI merely for the sake of doing it.”
“At least somebody up there is thinking straight. How long do they think it will take to trace Strobekker if he does log on again?”
“If he’s stupid, no time at all. Personally, I don’t believe they have a chance in hell.”
“You sound glad about it, damn it!”
Miles laughs softly. “I haven’t heard you this excited in a while. Did Karin’s death affect you so deeply?”
I swallow. “You knew her?”
“Of course. We exchanged quite a few messages during the wee hours. Karin was one of the pillars of Level Three. A thoroughly interesting woman.”
I think quickly. “I … I know that. But—”
“But you never saw any of my aliases in exchanges with her, right? That’s what you’re thinking?”
“Yes.”
“I have many names, Harper. Even you don’t know them all.” He pauses. “You don’t always tell women you’re a sysop, do you? That you know who they really are? That would spoil the fun, wouldn’t it? It’s amazing how the perceived anonymity of a code name lets them open up, isn’t it? Especially the actresses. There’s nothing quite like boffing a three-million-dollar thespian online while she thinks you think she’s someone else, is there? You can play them like your guitar then, can’t you?”
I say nothing.
“And how is Drewe Welby, M.D. taking all of this? Did she finally break the camel’s back and send you running to the FBI?”
“I didn’t go to the FBI,” I snap. “I called the New Orleans police. The FBI was already on the case. Damn it, Miles, we’re talking about murder.”
“So?”
“So?”
“EROS is like an organic system, Harper. Constantly evolving. Powerful emotions flow through it every day. Sexual emotions. We’re accustomed to monitoring massive levels of input, or throughput, if you will. But output has always been a possibility. And sex has always been integrally bound up with death. Why anyone should be surprised by all this is beyond me.”
“Miles, put aside your bullshit philosophizing for a minute. Don’t you realize that EROS’s primary obligation is to protect the security of its clients?”
“You’re the one who trivialized that obligation by revealing the names of subscribers to the police.”
I shake my head. “You’ve finally flipped out, man.”
“You realize,” he says coolly, “that you’ve exposed yourself to litigation by your action. Your employment contract is quite specific about that. I would feel derelict as a friend if I didn’t warn you that you will almost certainly be hearing from Elaine Abrams in the next few days. I would speak to my attorney.”
It suddenly strikes me that Miles Turner—who grew up in Rain, Mississippi—is speaking without a trace of Southern accent. He has finally succeeded in his lifelong goal of erasing his roots.
“Listen to me, Miles,” I implore, reaching for some vestige of the boy I once knew so well. “Innocent women are being killed and mutilated. I’m trying to stop that. If you and Krislov don’t understand that, you’re going to get steamrollered by the FBI. I’ve met the guys running this investigation. They’re from the Investigative Support Unit—the serial killer guys—and they are serious people.”
“I gather they are,” he says, finally showing a touch of pique. “And you and I are their prime targets.”
I am silent.
“Surely you see that, Harper? You and I are the only two men—apart from my technical staff—who have access to the real names of the subscribers. Obviously the master client list is the map the killer is using to choose his victims.”
Obviously. “So how did he get access to it?”
“I’m looking into that.”
“You told me those files were protected like nuclear launch codes.”
“My system architecture is ironclad,” he snaps. “Still, even the best operating systems sometimes have flaws no one knows about. They come that way from the factory.”
“How many technicians are there, Miles?”
“Six.”
More than I’d thought. “If the killer isn’t hacking his way through your security, and you or I didn’t do the killings, that means one of those six guys did.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
This stops me. When Miles Turner sounds this certain, he is always right. The police would never accept that, of course, but I do. But how can he know? Trying not to slide too far down that neural pathway, I say, “Look, am I fired or what?”
“Fired?” he echoes