Page 6 of The Grave Artist
The first word in the name was the key to its purpose. It derived from Jake’s real profession. Dr. Jacoby Heron was a self-described “intrusionist” who made his living as a penetration tester—hired by government and corporate entities to breach their physical and internet facilities and report back on vulnerabilities. That paid the rent and was fun. More important, to him, was teaching at a small San Francisco college and giving public lectures, warning of the dangers of government and corporate intrusion (he never pen tested for any company he knew was guilty of such practices). Much lecture time was devoted to domestic abuse, which he considered one of the most dangerous and widespread forms of intrusion that existed.
Jake and Sanchez had managed—largelymanaged—to overcome their complicated past to investigate that recent case involving Tristan Kane. The partnership proved to be successful, and it was natural they would be asked by senior Justice Department officials to work together again.
Sanchez frowned at his screen. “We got his money. I want hiswhere. Butdon’tcontact HTW to give us a hand.” Her frown melted into a sly glance.
He sighed at the reference to a fellow hacker from his former life, whom Sanchez always referred to as “Hot Tub Woman.” Would he ever live it down? “It was one night, Sanchez.”
She put her hand to her chest. “You and a beautiful blonde in a hot tub overlooking the Matterhorn. Maybe it was only one night, but I’ll bet it was a memorable one.”
“It was Monte Bianco, and she wasn’t blonde. At least not then.”
“Did your fingers get very wrinkled?” Sanchez pursued.
Engendering another sigh.
The individual in question was a woman of both mysterious origins and undisclosed residences. Aruba—a nickname that had attached based on one of those locations—was in her early thirties, with features that bore the graceful hallmarks of her Caribbean heritage and, yes, was occasionally blonde, though her waist-length braids were sometimes red, brunette, blue or purple. She was renowned on the dark web for being a hacker of extraordinary skill, which, Jake admitted, was probably superior to his.
Sanchez was referring to the fact that the warrant out on Kane permitted intrusion by official law enforcers. It did not extend to international hackers hiding somewhere in Indonesia or Sweden or, for all they knew, maybe in nearby Laguna Beach.
Sanchez’s concern was understandable. Her philosophy was to follow the letter of the law to make sure the results of an investigation could be admitted at trial over defense objections.
Jake’s attitude was, again, to do whatever it took to find the bastard and worry about the niceties of jurisprudence later.
Otherwise seemingly compatible, Jake and Sanchez were forever at loggerheads on this issue.
“I won’t ask Aruba to do anything illegal,” Jake assured her.
She squinted his way. “That’s a sentence with so many exceptions you could drive a lawyer through it.”
He gave her a sardonic glance.
A voice intruded. “I told him you need arealplant in here. Not a virtual one.”
Jake turned to see a slim young woman in her twenties. She had just entered the Garage from the main Homeland Security Investigationsbuilding, which was attached by a short hallway. Her dark-blonde hair was in a messy bun held in place with a lacquered wood chopstick. Her attire was typical of what she usually wore: jeans and a gray tee. Her footwear consisted of retro bright-red Chuck Taylor All Star high-tops that zippered up the side. Her feet were forever busy, tapping slightly. Fingernails black. She must have owned a thousand earrings, because he couldn’t recall her ever wearing the same pair twice.
Her eyes, intense blue, were on the looping germination monitor.
“Declan picked the screen saver?” Sanchez asked.
“Who else?” she offered, lifting two hands, palms up. Her given name was Alwilda, but she was known universally as Mouse. The reference was not to the rodent but to the user interface device. She’d earned the moniker by spending inordinate amounts of time online assisting her boss, Sanchez.
“Real plant?” The agent scanned the Garage. “Nothing would grow. No light.”
“Oh. Forgot about that. I don’t grow things. So, he wants to see you both.”
“What’s up?” Sanchez asked.
“I’m not sure. But from what I could hear—nobody’s ever seen anything like it before.”
Chapter 4
Was someone following him?
Damon Garr thought: Possibly.
The same color car—dark blue—had appeared twice in the rearview mirror as he drove the short route from the strip mall off the 101 back to his home.
How many automotive paint colors were there? It wouldn’t make sense to have too many. Cost efficient to keep the shades limited.
