“According to the network logs,” Pixie told us, “right about the time you were busy laying waste to the garbage plant—pun intended—a tiny burst transmission passed from Elmer Donaghy’s personal computer to a server—this one—which I’ve already identified as belonging to Weishaupt and Associates. He ran before he had time to purge his records, and the computer kept a copy of the outbound message.”
I leaned in over her left shoulder. Jennifer mirrored me on the right.
“What’s it say?” I asked.
Pixie shook her head. She opened a fresh window, a rectangle filled with random letters and characters.
“That’s the problem. It was just a single two-hundred-byte text file, which is nothing. Like, your grocery list is probably longer than two hundred bytes. And as you can see, it’s…this. Garbage data. Or it’s supposed to look like that, anyway.”
She ran her cursor over a string of repeating numbers in the middle of the file, highlighting it.
“But this isn’t. This numeric string isn’t random garbage. It’s just buried and obfuscated.”
“Like some kind of code?” I said.
Pixie nodded. “That’s my guess. You can fit a ton of information in an alphanumeric cypher.”
“Like, ‘oh no, we’re gettin’ our heinies kicked, send reinforcements,’” Jennifer said.
“So how does this help us?” I asked.
“On its own? It doesn’t. But here’s the thing: I think Weishaupt, if it isn’t at the top of the Network, is at least a clearinghouse for signals traffic. Sort of the Network’s central mail room.”
“With you so far.”
“If I can crack the code,” Pixie said, “figure out what kind of encryption they’re using, and how to reverse-engineer it, then I can focus on sniffing Weishaupt’s server traffic for anything that matches the same criteria. As it stands, they’re passing massive amounts of network traffic in and out all day long, most of it disguised. These little packets are the needles in the haystack. Learn to spot those needles…”
“And we can read their mail,” I said.
“Bingo. Well, not their actual mail, but whatever’s hidden in these messages. And the best part is, it’ll be like the Enigma machine from World War Two: they won’t even know we’re reading their stuff. Heck, I could even spoof messages between Network computers. Maybe send fake emergency messages, or cancel real ones.”
Progress. Real progress. We needed this.
“I’m sold,” I said. “So what do you need from us to make this happen?”
Pixie waved a hand at the screen. “More samples. Hit a Network front, scare them into sending a distress call to Weishaupt, then grab their computers before they can erase anything. Ideally, hit every one of them you can find. The more data I have to work with, the more false positives I can weed out while I’m hunting down the pattern.”
“Unfortunately,” Jennifer said, “we only found the one. They don’t exactly advertise.”
I drummed my fingers on the back of Pixie’s chair as I considered our options. The fight at Donaghy Waste Management had been a solid victory, for once, but that was where the trail dead-ended.
“Well, we know Elmer’s going to come back for a rematch,” I said. “He can’t not come after me. Also, he told me about his ‘phase two’ project with the roaches, but without his old safe house—and without the breeding pits—he’s going to have to start from scratch. If we can pick up his scent when he lands in Vegas and keep an eye on him from a safe distance, that’d be our way in.”
Jennifer gave me a pat on the back. “Looks like you get to be the bait, sugar. It’s your lucky week.”
I had another slice of cake.
*
The next morning, reasonably refreshed and with only a mild hangover, I swung by city hall. I wanted to update Mayor Seabrook and see if her attitude on that liquor license was softening any now that we’d delivered some solid results. Also, I needed to know where she stood on this Metro thing. I knew Jennifer had read her the riot act over Commissioner Harding’s impromptu raid at Container Park, but depending on what Gary’s investigation turned up, this situation was primed to go nuclear.
Bottom line: if some cops were on the Network’s payroll, then some cops were about to disappear. I needed to know she’d yank tight on Harding’s leash to keep him from retaliating.
The undercarriage of my Elantra had a rattle in it, just persistent enough to be annoying. I parked at the edge of the lot and made a note to run it over to the rental place, maybe see about swapping it out for another set of wheels. And also get my damn Barracuda back, I thought. My car was out there, somewhere, and I tried not to imagine Harmony Black enjoying it. It was like picturing your ex with a new lover.
The mayor had some new security on the scene: men in severe suits with Secret Service style earpieces, thick white coils snaking down into their starched collars. They stopped me in the hall outside her office door and asked for my bona fides. I told them my name was Emerson and flashed a fake driver’s license to prove it. Two minutes later, they waved me inside.
“You’re tightening things up around here,” I said.
I shut the pebbled-glass door behind me. Seabrook was at the credenza, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She paused a moment, pot in hand, then poured a second mug. She slid it across her desk. I took a seat when she did, raised the mug in salute, and had a taste. Her peace offering went down bitter and strong.
“I hired Tall Pines to coordinate security for the United Conference of Mayors, since it’s outside Metro’s jurisdiction and I don’t know how much I trust the locals in Boulder City.” She paused. “After recent events, not sure how much I trust anyone. This is a shakedown cruise, showing me how they do things. They’re sweeping for bugs this morning. One’s in the bathroom, finishing up.”
Her sharp glance to the mahogany-paneled door drove the point home: mind my words until the hired help left.
“Do you trust the commissioner?” I asked her.
“With my life. I’ve known Earl for twenty years. But men have their pride. Once the news ran with that story about the house party massacre, it didn’t take long for the headlines to turn into ‘Vegas Police Impotent in Face of Drug Crisis.’ He needed a win. For the force’s morale, he said, but…well.”
“Men have their pride.”
She sipped her coffee. “Your colleague said I should thank you for some forward momentum in the matter under discussion.”
“We won a battle,” I said. “The war is ongoing, but the people responsible for recent problems are being dealt with.”
“That’s what I like to see.”
I couldn’t say more on that subject until our company left. I heard rustling behind the bathroom door.
“So, about that other matter,” I said. “The liquor license?”
“I like what I’m seeing. I’d like to see more of it. You’re on the road to convincing me, Mr. Emerson. I’m just not quite there yet.”
I had to smile. I’d earned a cup of coffee, but that was where the ride ended for now.
“You’re no pushover, Mrs. Mayor. I’ll give you that much.”
“I haven’t held my seat for this long by being an easy touch,” she told me. “But I’m fair. Hold up your end, I’ll hold up mine.”
“On a side note, extra security or not, I still don’t think you should go to the mayors’ conference.”
Seabrook was already sorting a stack of paperwork on her desk, the meeting half-dismissed. She opened her top desk drawer and took out a steel-rimmed pair of glasses, polishing them with a cloth as she glanced up at me.
“That’s nonnegotiable. We need to show a unified front in the face of this epidemic.”
“The problem with a unified front is that it puts you all in the same place at the same time.”