"So just find out which user sent the e-mails"
"It's not that simple. Any user can create an e-mail account under any name. The name 'Gabe'no last nameis almost certainly an alias. The routing info tells us that the LAPD net was used, but to determine the specific workstation, we need additional information from ITA." He anticipated her question. "Information Technology Agency. The city agency that established the system."
"Then make them tell you."
"It takes time. We're trying to track down the administrator right now."
She bit back her impatience. "When you find him, will you know who sent the messages?"
"We'll know which terminal was used, that's all. It might be a terminal shared by various people."
"One way or the other, we're talking about a police officer?"
"Well amp; not necessarily a sworn officer, but someone on the LAPD system. It could be a clerical worker or, who knows, a civilian volunteer, a janitor, anybody with access to the terminal."
"But it could be a police officer?" she pressed. "The officers do use these terminals?"
"They do, yes, of course."
She thanked Farber, and when Gaines came back on the line, she asked him to keep her updated. "When we've traced the messages, you'll know," he promised.
The call was over. She put the phone back into her purse.
"What was that about?" Wolper asked from the driver's seat.
She couldn't give a truthful answer with Brand present. "A neighbor of mine. Calling to see if there's any news."
"It's better not to talk to friends and neighbors right now. You never know who'll start blabbing to the media or what they'll say."
She didn't answer. She stared at the seat in front of her, where Brand was sitting. She would never believe that Meg had been drawn to him in a personal encounter, but if he had created an Internet persona, perhaps passing himself off as a younger man amp;
She remembered Gray telling her that Mr. Cool was probably a cop. Was it Brand? She wished she'd asked how long Meg and Gabe had been exchanging e-mails. Had the relationship started before or after Brand became aware that he was likely to be selected as Robin's test subject? If it had started afterward, then maybe Brand had decided to get even with her by playing a sick game with her daughter.
She didn't quite buy it, though. Such a plan seemed too complicated, too subtle, for Sergeant Brand. Then again, she didn't really know him. And the messages had come from someone inside the LAPD.
Damn. She rubbed her head. Somehow things just kept getting worse.
"Headache?" Wolper asked. He'd been watching her in the rearview mirror.
"It's nothing."
"Not too late to take a trip to the hospital."
"No, thanks."
He shrugged. "Just asking."
At the arcade, Brand got out. "Nice to know who your friends are," he said in Wolper's direction. He glanced at Robin as she exited the backseat. "You too, Doc."
She stared back at him with cold, suspicious eyes. He walked off, not looking back. Quickly she slipped into the passenger seat beside Wolper. "Can we follow him, see where he goes?"
Wolper shook his head. "He knows my car. Under the circumstances, he'll be looking for it. I guess I should take you back to Parker Center."
She thought for a moment. "No."
"I told you, following him isn't an option."
"There's something else we can do."
"What is it?"
"We need to go to my office."
"Why? What's there?"
"The answer to my questionsmaybe."
"The chief made it pretty clear that I'm to have no further involvement in this case."
"So you won't take me there?"
"Oh, I'll take you." Wolper smiled. "I just wanted to establish what a great guy I'm being."
She smiled backher first smile in hours, she thought distantly. "Duly noted," she said.
"Then let's go."
He put the car into gear and headed east, toward the skyline.
Chapter Forty-six
It took Meg a long time to come back to herself. She felt as if she had gone away for a while, into a dream world of radiant peace.
She hadn't wanted to return. It was the moaning that had brought her back, a low, dismal sound like a foghorn.
She opened her eyes and found herself huddled on the bottom step of the cellar staircase, her handcuffed wrist suspended at shoulder height, her right arm wrapping her waist in a tight embrace. The flashlight still shone down from the landing, dimly illuminating the room.
A couple of feet away lay the man who'd tried to kill her, Detective Tomlinson, LAPD. He was still sprawled on his stomach, unmoving, showing no sign even of a rise and fall of breath. But he was alive. The moaning that issued from his open mouth was proof of that. Maybe he'd pulled free of the syringe before its entire contents could enter his bloodstream. Maybe he was big enough to absorb a dose that would have proven lethal to her. Or maybe he really was dying, but slowly.
She hoped not. She didn't want to take a life, even in self-defense. On the other hand, if he stayed alive, he might eventually awaken from his blackout or coma or whatever it was. And even if he didn't, Gabe or someone else was bound to stop by when Tomlinson failed to return.
One way or the other, she couldn't afford to be here. She had bought herself a reprieve, nothing more.
The cellar door was open. Escape was so close. The only thing holding her back was the handcuff on her wrist, the handcuff Tomlinson had claimed he would unlock.
She blinked with a new thought. Cops really did carry handcuff keys. And Tomlinson must have brought a key with him if he intended to move her after she amp; after he had amp;
She pushed away that idea. What mattered was the key. It had to be somewhere on his person. In one of his pockets, probably.
She moved closer to the unconscious man, as close as the short tether of the handcuff chain would permit, and reached out to the side pocket of his jacket. Some residual fear or distasteperhaps the simple reluctance to touch a body that was so nearly deadmade her hesitate before actually slipping her hand into the pocket.
She shut her eyes and did it. Her fingers closed over something small and metallica coin, not a key. She dug deeper. More spare change. Nothing else. His pants pocket, maybe. She didn't want to touch him there, so close to his groin, his crotch, but then she remembered that she'd already had his private parts in her hand.
Somehow the thought made her smile, and the smile made it easier for her to explore this pocket also. She touched a wad of cloth, probably a handkerchief. A few crumpled dollar bills. That was all.
His belt, then. Sometimes cops wore keys and stuff clipped to a belt. She reached under his jacket, running her hand along the belt, feeling cracked leather, brittle and old, but found no keys, no equipment of any kind.
There was still the other side of his body to check, but she couldn't reach it. She grabbed the dead weight of his arm and tried dragging him toward her.
No use. He weighed easily two hundred pounds. With both hands free and the proper leverage, she might have been able to drag him. As it was, she had no more hope of shifting his position than of breaking the steel chain of the handcuff by sheer strength. And what if the key was in his vest pocket or the pocket of his shirt? She would have to turn him over, onto his back, an impossible task.
"So I'm screwed," she whispered.
Tomlinson groaned in answer.
There was one other possibility. The syringe.
She'd dropped it on the floor by her feet. Picking it up, she studied the slim needle as it caught the flashlight beam. She knew nothing about picking locks except what she'd seen on TV. It looked easy enough on cop shows.
Still, it might be possible to use the needle as a locksmith tool. Insert it in the handcuff's keyhole, try to jigger the thing open.