Daemon (6 page)

“M
s. Anderson?” The security guard stepped from the guard shack and ducked to look into the Jaguar XK8.

Anji Anderson looked down her nose at him from behind the wheel, lowering her Vuitton sunglasses. “Yesss. Open the gate.”

“Ma’am, if you could drive off to the right here, I believe Mr. Langley wants to have a word with you.”

“I think you should open the gate.”

“Ma’am, Mr. Langley—“

“Mr. Langley—whoever that is—can call my office if he wants to speak with me.” She dug through her glove compartment and produced a drive-on studio pass. “Now, open the gate.”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to pull off to the right, there.”

“Why? Do you know who I am?”

He gave her an incredulous look. He obviously knew who she was.

“And why do you keep calling me ‘Ma’am’? What is this, the Ponderosa? My name is Anji Anderson—although later you’ll be calling me ‘That Bitch Who Got Me Fired.’”

“Ma’am, there’s no call for cussing.”

“Cussing? Okay, Clem, I won’t cuss no more, as long as you open the fucking gate.”

His look hardened. He leaned down closer. “Look, if you don’t pull off to the right, you’ll wish you had. Now park over there.” He pointed.

She just laughed. “Ahhh, I guess there’s only so much shit you’ll take for eight bucks an hour, eh?”

“Pull over to the right.”

A car behind her honked.

“And what if I don’t?”

“Pull over to the right!”

Another guard approached the car.

“Oh, you called for backup. You need protection from a helpless woman, Clem?”

The second guard eased the first away from the car and then turned to her. “Ms. Anderson, using your superior social position to belittle a powerless employee does not speak well of you.”

She stared at him.

“The fact is that we’ve been instructed by your superiors to prevent you from entering. If you want to know why, I suggest you pull over to the right.”

She nodded slowly and put the car in gear. “Okay. I will.” She yanked the steering wheel to the right and accelerated madly into the walk-on lot.

Anderson was burning with anger after walking in high heels from the far corner of the parking lot. She was going to raise hell about this with Walter Kahn. She was
talent.
She shouldn’t have to put up with facilities crap.

When she finally reached the guard shed again, the second guard pointed to a pedestrian gate where two people waited for her, one a trim woman in a tailored suit, the other another security guard. Anderson slowed down and then stopped. She stood there not liking what she was suddenly thinking.

The woman motioned for her to approach.

Anderson took a deep breath and walked up to them as composedly as she could manage. “What’s this all about?”

The woman extended her hand from between the bars. It was like visiting hours at the state pen. Anderson extended her own hand for a cold handshake. “Ms. Anderson, I’m Josephine Curto from Human Resources. There’s been a change in your contract status at the network.”

“My agent is negotiating a contract renewal. It doesn’t lapse for another five weeks.”

“Yes. I see. Those negotiations are over. The network decided not to renew your contract. Please understand this decision came down from corporate. I’m just delivering the news. We thought your agent would have told you.”

Anderson felt the tears welling up, but sucked in a breath and forced them back down again. She looked away and pressed her forefinger and thumb against the bridge of her nose—then looked back sharply at Curto. “
This
is how you decide to tell me I’m fired? I’m standing here like some kind of vagrant in the street. What am I, a threat? What am I going to do, shoot up the place?”

Curto was unperturbed as she attached papers to a clipboard. “That’s not the concern. You are known to studio personnel and have access to a live television broadcast. I’m sure you can appreciate that the network doesn’t want you getting on the air at this difficult time.”

“Difficult time?” Anderson tried in vain to form her thoughts into words several times. The tears threatened again. She finally blurted out, lamely, “I have fans. You’ve seen my fan mail? There are men and women in Marin and Oakland and Walnut Creek—people who’ve asked to marry me. What are you going to tell them about my sudden disappearance?”

“I have no idea how to respond to that question.”

“You should let me do a final broadcast.”

“Lifestyles reporters don’t get farewell broadcasts, Ms. Anderson.”

“What about Jim McEwen? They had a big send-off when he retired.”

“Jim was the anchor. He worked at the studio for thirty-two years. You’ve been here six.”

“This is no way to treat talent.”

“That’s hardly at issue here.”

Anderson realized Curto was smart for being on the other side of the bars. She took another deep breath and tried to center herself. “Can’t I at least go in to say goodbye to Jamie and Doug and the others?”

“Oh, see, now why are we having this conversation? It’s not productive,” Curto said. She pushed a clipboard and pen through the bars. “Can you please sign these?”

Anderson just stared at her indignantly. “I’m not signing anything.”

“You want your personal effects, right?”

“My personal effects? You mean you people emptied out my
office
?”

“Anji, what do you think is going on here? This is a large corporation with global responsibilities. Emptying out your office wasn’t a vengeful act. It was a work order. Just sign the documents, and let’s get this over with. This is not fun for you or me.”

Anderson grabbed the clipboard and pen. She slapped it against the bars right in front of Curto’s face and started reading the COBRA and 401(k) documents. She felt like a public spectacle. A loser standing outside the gates where everyone could see her. The grips and cameramen stared as they drove in through the nearby gate. She started tearing up in humiliation. Someone was punishing her. But who?

She finally just signed all the papers without reading them and shoved the clipboard back through the bars.

“We’ll deliver your personal effects to your home.”

Anderson hurried away, rushing for the distant refuge of her car.

“Ms. Anderson. My pen.”

Anderson had been starting pitcher on Wisconsin State’s girls’ softball team. She stopped, turned, and hurled the pen at the corporate ice bitch with all her strength. The woman took it right in the torso. Had it been a Mont Blanc, she would have been sucking for air. But it was just a Bic, and the woman shrank back.

“There’s no call for that!”

Anderson stormed away, her mind running in fast-forward to all the bad things that were sure to follow. Someone had dynamited a bridge on her road to success. She hadn’t prepared for this at all. Fucking terrorists.

She mentally ticked off a list of her friends. They were all in the business or attached to the business. Who could find her a soft landing at another station? If not in San Francisco, then where? Not Madison, Wisconsin, again, please, dear God.

Then it hit her that Melanie hadn’t warned her. That bitch had let her be publicly humiliated. Anderson pulled her cell phone out of her handbag and speed-dialed her agent. It rang three times and went to voice mail.

“You’ve reached the office of Melanie Smalls. Ms. Smalls is not available at the moment. To reach her assistant, Jason Karcher, press 3349.”

Anderson punched in the numbers.

“Ms. Smalls’s office. Can I help you?”

“Jason, it’s Anji Anderson. Put me through to Melanie.”

“Hi, Ms. Anderson. Melanie’s on another line. Do you want to hold?”

“Look, I’m standing out here in front of KTLZ, and they’ve locked me out of the studio. Get Melanie on the damned phone.”

“Okay. Hang on.”

Anderson reached her car and clicked the remote. She got inside and cleaned up her mascara in the rearview mirror while Barry Manilow tortured her on hold because it looked like she had emphatically not “made it.” The anger built inside her with each passing verse.

Finally Melanie clicked on. “Anji, what’s going on?”

“I’ve just been fired at the studio front gate—publicly humiliated. Josephine Curto tells me that you knew my contract wasn’t being picked up.”

“Who the hell’s Josephine Curto?”

“Some toady from Human Resources.”

“Anji, we’re still in negotiations with the network, and I wasn’t told that any decision had been made. The ball was still in Kahn’s court.”

“Josephine just told me that my agent knew about this, Melanie. I just signed papers!”

“Well, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, and what do you mean you just signed papers? Why would you sign papers?” Melanie’s voice became muted. “Jase, check the fax machine.”

Anderson started crying again. She hit the dashboard—angry with herself for being so emotional. “Damnit, Melanie. Why didn’t I see this coming? Who the hell did the network get to replace me?”

“Don’t beat yourself up. We’ll see if we can get you something on the E! Channel or—“

“No! Stop. I’ve been trying for six years to get on a serious news desk. I can’t afford to do any more fluff pieces. I’m a journalist, not a damned fashion model.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here. Anji, you don’t have the right pedigree for it. You haven’t been a journalist, honey. Not really. And you weren’t talking serious journalism when we got you onto the San Francisco affiliate.”

“I’m realizing—“

“You’re realizing you’re past thirty and fluff reporting is for twenty-four-year-old news models.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s a problem.”

“No, it’s a challenge.”

“Anji, what you’re talking about is starting back at square one and reinventing yourself. No, actually you’re starting at square negative one because you’re already known as a fashion and lifestyles reporter—meaning you have all the journalistic heft of a British tabloid. It’s going to be a stretch, and at my age, I don’t stretch.”

Anderson searched for words. This was unraveling fast.

“Honey, you’re too old to intern as a serious journalist. Unless you’re a proven hard news reporter at thirty, you’re not going to be a hard news reporter.”

Anderson bit her lip gently. Performed in front of the right man, that used to solve a lot of problems. She realized that Christiane Amanpour probably didn’t bite her lip.

“Unfortunately, major networks are consolidating news production in Atlanta, and laying off in most markets. I could try to get you a spot on a cosmetics infomercial casting in L.A.”

Tears flowed down Anderson’s cheeks.

S
ebeck was already staring at the ceiling when his alarm clock sounded. He switched it off by touch and kept staring at the ceiling. He’d gotten in late last night. Even so, he hadn’t slept. He kept turning the case over in his mind. That’s what he’d taken to calling it:
The Case.

The FBI had taken over. They were forming a temporary task force with local law enforcement, but the Feds were in charge. Agents were photocopying files and interrogating suspects when Sebeck left at two
A.M.
Decker was some sort of workaholic.

Sebeck explored his sense of loss.
The Case
no longer belonged to him. Why did it bother him so much? He was afraid he knew the answer: he felt truly alive only when something horrible was happening. That was the dirty secret behind every promotion he had ever received.

He’d miscast himself in the role of authority figure. A decision made one afternoon fifteen years ago. He had had to grow up fast, back then—after the baby—but he sometimes wondered if he wasn’t just pretending. If he wasn’t simply acting the way he thought he should act. The way others around him did. He didn’t even know who he’d be without this role. Pete Sebeck was just an idea—a collection of responsibilities with a mailing address.

He tried to recall the last time he actually
felt
something. The last time he felt alive. That inevitably led to thoughts of her. Memories of the trip to Grand Cayman. He tried to remember the smell of her hair. He wondered where she was right now, and if he’d ever see her again. She didn’t need a damned thing from him. Maybe that’s what he loved most about her.

Sebeck’s cell phone sounded from the nightstand, scattering his thoughts. He glanced over at his wife’s side of the bed. She roused slightly. He grabbed the handset and sat up. “Sebeck.”

“Detective Sebeck?”

“Yeah. Who’s—”

“This is Special Agent Boerner, FBI. I just sent an e-mail to your home address. The agent in charge wants a response before you’re in this morning.” Someone yelled in the background. Boerner clicked off without saying goodbye.

“Hello?” Sebeck stared in irritation at the handset.
Rude asshole.
He glanced at the clock: 6:32
A.M.

His wife sat up on the other side of the bed and stretched in one of her full-length nightgowns.

“Laura, I have to jump in the shower first. I’ve got a full day ahead.”

“Fine, Pete.”

“I won’t be long. Go back to sleep.”

Sebeck ran through his ablutions in fifteen minutes, dressed, and tied his tie on the way downstairs. He ducked into the kitchen.

His son, Chris, sat reading the morning paper. The kid was getting big—muscular big. Sixteen. Almost the age Sebeck was when he and Laura conceived the boy. Had it really been sixteen years? “Why don’t you get a shovel, Chris?”

Chris had a bulging mouthful of cereal. The boy grabbed at his dad’s suit jacket as he walked past. Chris flipped the paper over to reveal the front page. There was a color picture of Sebeck over the headline: “Internet Killings Spark Federal Investigation.” Mantz was also in the picture to his left. Sebeck stopped short and picked up the page, reading slowly as he sank down into a seat at the table.

Chris chewed his way back to speech. “L.A.
Times
. That’s big.”

Sebeck just kept reading.

Laura walked into the kitchen.

Sebeck glanced up. “Did you see this?”

She looked down at the page. “Not a great picture of Nathan.” She went over to the stove to make tea.

Sebeck handed the paper back to Chris but kept looking at Laura. “I won’t be able to pick up Chris from practice today. I’ve got the FBI here, the national media, and God knows what else.”

“We’ll manage.”

Chris lowered the paper. “The Feds are interrogating the insurance guys. You think they did it?”

“I’m not the one questioning them, Chris.” Sebeck stood. “From here on out, I’ll be lucky to be in the loop at all.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go.”

Sebeck headed down the hall to the den. Once there, he dropped into the desk chair and hit the power switch on the computer. While the computer booted, he moved a gaming joystick off to the side and tossed two soda cans into the trash. He called to the kitchen, “Chris, I won’t keep asking you to clean up in here when you’re done!” No answer.

The computer desktop came up. Sebeck launched his e-mail program, then clicked the
GET MAIL
button. He waited as 132 messages downloaded.
Goddamned spam.
When it finished, the message subject lines ranged from “Barely Legal Teens” to ”Nigerian Exile Needs Help” to ”Lolitas Take Horse Cock.”

He searched his inbox for the FBI message. It was near the top and had the subject line “Case #93233—CyberStorm/Pavlos” from
[email protected].
Sebeck double-clicked on it.

Strangely, as the e-mail opened, the screen went black. Then the words ”Testing Audio” faded in. The hard drive strained. Sebeck stared in confusion. What did he do? In a moment, the words faded out and were replaced by a grainy video image of a man. It was hard to tell his age or precise appearance due to the poor video quality. It was amateurish—poorly lit and off-center.

The man looked thin and pale—a condition emphasized by his standing against a featureless white background. He was completely bald and wore what looked to be a medical gown.

What the hell was this, some sort of FBI lab report?

It took Sebeck a moment to realize that the video was already playing. The man swayed unsteadily—his pixels adjusting like colored tiles. Then he looked directly into the camera and nodded as if in greeting.

“Detective Sebeck. I was Matthew Sobol. Chief technology officer of CyberStorm Entertainment. I am dead.”

Sebeck leaned forward—his eyes fixed on the monitor.

“I see you’ve been assigned to the Josef Pavlos and Chopra Singh murder cases. Let me save you some time; I killed both men. Soon you’ll know why. But you have a problem: Because I’m dead, you can’t arrest me. More importantly: You can’t stop me.”

Sebeck stared in stunned silence.

Sobol continued. “Since you have no choice but to try and stop me, I want to take this moment to wish you luck, Sergeant—because you’re going to need it.”

The image disappeared, revealing the e-mail inbox again.

Sebeck didn’t move for several moments. When he finally did, it was to forward the message to his sheriff’s e-mail address.