MIND FIELDS Read online

  “Computer,” Richie said, “eliminate all entries with the words ‘sex’, ‘babes’ or ‘hot’ in them.”

  Sandi started to object, but held back, mouth agape, as she watched the list shrink dramatically.

  “Well, you sure can learn a lot about someone from this, can’t you?” Sandi said, obviously offended at the thought that Guy had been using her computer to frequent adult Web sites.

  Richie felt sorry for her. Obviously, Guy wasn’t quite the person she had imagined him to be.

  The list was considerably smaller. Some of the calls to BNI were now apparent, but numerous other Web sites remained on the list. It was apparent that Guy spent a good deal of time surfing the Web in the middle of the night while Sandi slept.

  “Computer, display only sites containing ‘BNI’ in their name.”

  Once again, the list condensed quickly, displaying numerous uplinks to BNI’s Intranet.

  “I’ll be damned.” Sandi looked at the list on the screen, which was now identical to the file that Richie had shown her in the car. Every Saturday morning at two AM, this computer had called a computer at BNI and uploaded her work files. Every week since Guy had moved in, this computer had been used to give all of her work to her major competitor. “Right under my nose,” she sighed.

  “How often do you change your access codes?”

  “Every month, and I never give them to anyone. Could he have been getting them off the computer somehow?” She was starting to believe that maybe Guy knew a lot more about computers than she had given him credit for.

  “Not likely. Even with a program to break the encryption codes, it can take hours to break the encryption system that this software uses. The programmers aren’t always up front about what they put on your hard drive, but they do try to keep it safe. If it was easy to steal personal data from a PC, then no one would feel safe using one and the programmers would be out of business.”

  “Then how is he doing it?”

  Kincade walked over to the sofa on the other side of the room and sat next to Sandi. “Tell me about your Friday nights. What’s your routine?”

  Sandi blushed.

  “Sorry to pry, but there’s got to be a clue, something that he’s using to gain access, and since it’s always on Friday nights, that seems to be the place to start looking.”

  “Well,” Sandi thought, “I’m afraid I’m really very boring.” She was embarrassed to admit how poor her social life was when Guy was not around. “Fridays are really tough days for me, getting everything tied up at the lab for the weekend. I usually don’t get home until about seven or eight, and by then Guy’s long gone. He plays down at the club every Friday night. He’s usually not back until after one in the morning.”

  She stopped briefly, realizing that the timing would be perfect for him to go to the computer as soon as he gets in from work, with her sound asleep and unaware of his late night activity. “I just thought he was being thoughtful by not waking me.” Her voice started to break.

  “Take your time, I know this can’t be easy.” Richie said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “Like I said, I’m exhausted when I get in. I fix a quick bite to eat, take my insulin shot and then watch a little TV until I crash at about ten o’clock. That’s it, I’m afraid. Like I said…boring.”

  Richie raised an eyebrow. “Insulin?”

  “I guess you don’t know everything about me, Detective, huh?”

  “How often do you take your shot?”

  “Oh, it’s that new stuff, Synthulin. You only have to take it once a week. It’s great. When I was a kid I used to have to take a shot every night. Boy, did I learn to hate needles. But now, with this new synthetic insulin, I only have to take one shot a week. I keep it in the fridge and every Friday night like clockwork, I...”

  “Every Friday night, eh?”

  “Of course!” Sandi smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “It would be so easy for him to...Look, I keep the stuff in the refrigerator. That’s no big secret. All Guy would have to do is to slip a little Allohypnol into the vial while I’m at work.”

  “Allohypnol?”

  “Yes. It’s a hypnotic drug, real potent stuff. It was developed by the military, but it’s not that hard to get, especially for a guy with connections like JT Anderson. Allohypnol renders the subject highly suggestive. With that in my system, Guy could talk me into doing anything.”

  “Like accessing your files and uploading them to BNI.”

  “Yup, he could wake me in the middle of the night, get me to upload the files and I wouldn’t remember a thing in the morning.”

  “So why don’t we test that insulin vial of yours? Let’s see if the drug is in there.”

  “It’s not that easy, I’m afraid. The drug rapidly degrades once injected into an aqueous environment.”

  “You lost me, Doc.”

  “Aqueous...water. Once it’s injected into the vial containing the liquid solution my insulin is in, it would degrade in a matter of hours.

  “So he’d have to inject it into the vial every Friday.”

  “As long as he does it within twelve hours of the time I inject myself, it would still be active. Once it’s in my system, it would stay active for several hours more. I’d be like fruit, ripe for the picking when he gets home at one in the morning.”

  “Well, it is Friday, isn’t it? What time does Guy usually head downtown for work.”

  “Of course.” Sandi smacked her forehead again. “Ouch!”

  “I’d stop doing that if I were you. You’re going to make it bleed again.”

  “Bad habit. Maybe that scrape on my forehead will cure me of it.” She rubbed gently around the sore on her forehead. “Damn, that hurt.”

  “Could have been a lot worse,” Richie said, thinking about Hank.

  “Yeah,” Sandi sighed. “Anyhow, Guy usually splits around twelve-thirty or one in the afternoon so that he can grab a late lunch down by the Inner Harbor. He must inject the Allohypnol into my insulin vial right before he leaves.”

  “If that’s the way he’s doing it.”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  Sandi called next door to Mrs. Flannery. The elderly woman had a ten year old Camry, but hated to drive. Sandi often ran errands for her and she was only too happy to loan the car to Sandi. It was nice to be able to do a favor in return, she had said.

  Sandi grabbed the vial of Synthulin on the way out the door. “A friend of mine over at Hopkins can run this through an analyzer in a second.”

  They drove to Hopkins, and just as Sandi suspected, the vial contained Allohypnol.

  “Look, Doc, maybe you shouldn’t go back home tonight.”

  “Don’t be crazy. I can handle Guy. Besides, he won’t know that I know what he knows.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Sandi looked at Richie and smiled. “You’re sweet. Why can’t I find a man like you?”

  “Keep your eyes on the road, young lady.” Richie was more concerned that she’d catch him blushing than he was about getting into an accident. It was pretty flattering to have a younger woman pay him a compliment like that, especially one that he found increasingly more attractive as he got to know her. With the passing years, his waist was growing faster than the graying hair on his head. It had been a long time since any woman other than his wife had noticed him.

  Kincade checked in with the chief as they drove. The bomb squad had checked out Sandi’s car; it came up clean. The two of them stopped by to pick up the car, and Richie drove it back, following behind the old, reliable Camry. He tried again to talk Sandi into accepting some protection, but his protests were in vain. They dropped off Mrs. Flannery’s car, and then Sandi drove Richie home before returning to prepare for the even
ing.

  Chapter eighteen

  Trace McKnight was watching the breaking news on the TV screen in his Buick LeSabre. He had just pulled into his driveway, but left the car running to savor the moment. It hadn’t taken the news crew long to converge on the scene of the blazing vehicle just outside of Lexington Market. The smoke from the wreck that had been the Baltimore Police Department’s Unit Five billowed high into the sky and out of the frame of the small TV screen. Trace smiled; he was proud of his work.

  “One officer is dead,” the reporter said, “and another officer injured at the scene. There was at least one civilian reported injured as well, but both the injured officer and the civilian have left the scene. The degree of their injuries is undetermined, and their identities remain unknown. The body in the car was …”

  The ring from Trace’s car phone temporarily cut off the sound from the TV.

  “Shit,” he said, annoyed at the interruption. “Answer call,” he said to the computerized phone.

  The face of James O’Grady appeared on the screen.

  “Well, Uncle Jimmy. What a pleasant surprise.”

  O’Grady didn’t look too happy. “What kind of crap are you trying to pull, Trace? I told you to stay away from Kincade. You’re gonna take a toothless cop and turn him into a media darling. With press support, this guy can knock our legs out from under us. Use your head, would you?”

  “Well,” Trace said, “news travels fast, eh? Do you have your TV on? Our problems have just gone up in smoke.”

  “They don’t put everything on TV, you know. The fried corpse in that car was a BPD detective, name of Hank Holiday. He was Kincade’s partner.”

  Trace went white. “But I saw him …”

  “You saw wrong, and what’s more important is you thought wrong. Initiative is only a good thing when it’s used at the right time; breaching my orders is not the right time.”

  Trace was fuming. He was sure that he had nailed Kincade. Failure did not come often, and he didn’t like the feeling.

  “Don’t make the same mistake twice, Trace. One dead cop will have the police force on full alert. Two dead cops and we’ll be so thick in blue that we won’t be able to make a move in this town without them knowing about it.”

  James O’Grady stared at Trace through the video screen. It was a cold, piercing stare, the kind that made it clear who was in charge. This was Commander O’Grady’s face, not Uncle Jimmy’s. Trace was not the first who had been frozen by those eyes. He knew better than to speak.

  “It’s like a chess game, kid. We make the right moves and Kincade gets knocked off the board; everyone forgets a player once he’s out of the game. We make the wrong move and everyone on the other side knows just what we’re up to. Let’s not make a martyr of this guy, huh. We don’t want anyone wondering what he was snooping around for.”

  Trace nodded.

  “Nuff said. You’re doing a heck of a job, Trace, but you’ve still got a few things to learn. You stick to the tech stuff and let me handle the chess game.”

  The transmission clicked off and the TV news came back on screen. “We now return to our regular programming.”

  Trace reached to turn off the car, then pulled back.

  “Phone access,” he said.

  “What number please?”

  “Place call: Guy Andrews, cell phone number.”

  The TV screen went blank as the number was dialed. After three rings, Guy answered the phone, but the screen remained blank.

  “Hello?”

  Trace stared at the screen out of habit. “Christ, can’t you spring for a video phone, Andrews?”

  “Christ isn’t home right now. This is his father, may I take a message?” Guy said. He burst out in laughter.

  “Cute. Real cute.” Trace was not amused. “Listen up, guitar man, I don’t have time to waste shooting the breeze with you.”

  “Irish? Is that you, Irish? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  Trace hated it when Guy called him that. He had nothing against Ireland, but he had worked damned hard to erase any hint of his childhood accent. He thought of himself only as an American and was proud of it.

  “Good guess, Andrews.”

  “So, you got some more inside info for me about the doc? I thought you had squeezed just about everything you could out of our boy Hingston. With all the little tidbits you gave me about Sandi, she thinks I’m Don Juan or something. That girl’s convinced I can read her mind, star-crossed lovers or some shit like that, but my material’s getting a little old, you know? I could use some fresh stuff to butter her up.”

  “Man, after two years, if you don’t know how to push her buttons there’s something wrong with you.”

  “Hey, I’ve got her eating out of the palm of my hand, dude. I could convince her the Pope is Jewish if I wanted to.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing, loverboy.”

  “What do you mean?” Guy didn’t like the tone of Trace’s voice. It didn’t take much to spook him.

  “Look, I just called to tell you to keep your eyes open. There’s some detective that’s been hanging around your girlfriend a lot lately, the same guy that’s been snooping around at BNI.”

  “Shit, man. You gotta get me out. Now.”

  “Relax, Don Juan. If she’s as in love with you as you say, a nosey cop isn’t going to turn her against you that easy. Besides, there’s no way he can tie you into this. He’s not that bright.”

  “Listen, dude...”

  “No, you listen, guitar man. I spent way too much time and money setting you up with the doc. You stay put and do your job for now. You’re not out until I say you’re out.”

  Guy didn’t like risk, but he knew better than to cross Trace McKnight. “So what, then? Do I cancel the transmission tonight? I already juiced the insulin vial.”

  “No. Don’t change the routine until I tell you to. Just watch your back. Transmit at the usual time.”

  Trace disconnected and went in to pour himself a Scotch. Guy was a natural with women. He had been the obvious choice for the job two years ago when Trace had planned it. He’d seen Guy work his magic time after time in college when they were roommates at American University. While Trace was working hard getting his degree in bioengineering, Guy was busy playing his guitar and working on his smile. Trace spent many nights sleeping on the floors of his other friends’ rooms, supplanted from his own by one after another of Guy’s sorority conquests.

  There was no doubt that Guy could win Sandi Fletcher’s trust and gain access to her files, especially with the intimate details of her personal life that Trace was able to get from his connections at BNI. It wasn’t hard; Paul loved to talk about Sandi, and the wounds were fresh when Paul started work at BNI shortly after his break-up with her. It was easy getting Sandi and Guy together, but counting on Guy to keep his wits under pressure, this was the part that concerned Trace. He had always suspected that his old classmate didn’t have the backbone for espionage, and could only hope that Guy wouldn’t do anything stupid.

  ___

  Guy Andrews didn’t give the best show of his career that night, but no one really noticed. There was enough liquor flowing around the club to cover more than a few strained chords. He couldn’t get his mind off the conversation with his old college roommate that afternoon and was anxious about what he might find upon his return home tonight. He finished his second set, pilfered a bottle of Jack Daniels for the road, and started home in his blue Chevy flatbed. The white side-stripes were covered with scratches from years of backwoods camping trips.

  Maybe that sick bastard is just playing games with me, he thought to himself. He never really liked Trace McKnight; the Irishman was always a little too smug for him, a little too military. He never would have worked with him, but when the call had come two years
ago, Guy was broke. The owner of The Pendulum Pit, a bar by the Inner Harbor, owed Trace a favor and agreed to hire Guy at three times what he had been earning in sporadic gigs at the time. McKnight provided the funds, which were hard to trace when laundered through the Pit. Guy eagerly accepted. It seemed like an easy job, and although he hated the espionage-like feel to the computer games he played every Friday night, it had been fun. Sandi wasn’t his ideal woman, but she was attractive enough and knew how to have fun. He had never really regretted taking this job. Not until this afternoon.

  It had been a rough day. Guy tried to forget the tone in Trace’s voice, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. He had a few more drinks than usual that evening trying to calm his nerves, and he struggled to focus on the dark road on his way back home. His beat up flatbed truck swerved back and forth, but the security chip kept it a safe distance from the roadside markers, which sent out signals that the car’s security system could use to monitor the distance. The safety systems worked quite well and he made it home intact. Guy pulled the truck into the driveway and parked. One last swig from the bottle of Jack was just what he needed to slow his heart, which pounded in his chest at the thought of confronting Sandi, or maybe even an angry cop, when he went through that door.

  He got out of the car and ran his hand across the large silver buckle on his belt. Working downtown until late at night had its disadvantages and Guy was not the type to face the darkness of the city streets unprepared. On many occasions he had practiced releasing the catch of the spring-loaded switchblade that was built into the belt buckle, but he had hoped he would never find out if he had the guts to use it. Tonight, it was comforting to know it was there.

  Guy walked quietly up the four wooden steps to the front porch, pausing at each step and shifting his weight slowly, hoping that a creak from the old stairs would not betray his presence. The rain fell lightly against his face. He slipped the key easily into the lock above the doorknob and twisted the handle cautiously until the door popped open ever so slightly. Standing motionless in the misty night, he listened for voices. It was a relief to hear nothing but the drops of rain against the roof above his head, to see nothing but darkness beyond the door. Guy stepped just inside the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The lights were staying off tonight. Slowly, the room around him came into focus. Everything was in place, nothing unusual. Maybe Trace was right. Maybe Sandi didn’t really suspect anything