(Chapter 13. The house in Brentwood, a cruddy motel in Anaheim, other
places in and around LA. March 8-16, 2033.)
Sitting at the kitchen table in Olivia…no, *Emily's* house in Brentwood, Steve scrubbed his tired eyes with the backs of his hands as he tried to wake up and focus on the matters at hand. He'd never been good at morning meetings, and fatigue and worry for the young woman who might be his daughter were making this particular meeting nigh on impossible. Five days, now. Emily had been on the run for five days, and try as he might, he hadn't been able to sleep. If he felt like hell, he probably looked worse. He could tell it showed because of the worried looks he'd been getting from everyone. Steven, Maribeth, CJ, Jesse, Amanda, his dad, and now, he realized as he dragged his mind back to the meeting, even young Officers Cioffi and Donovan were concerned.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, please continue."
Donovan looked to Cioffi, and Cioffi nodded.
"Well, sir, with Dr. Stephens' help, we've finished the profiles of the Lieutenant's alter-egos, and we've distributed pictures. As we discussed earlier, in each neighborhood, we're searching harder for the characters that would most likely hang out there. I just spoke with Agent Wagner a few minutes ago, and he personally has uploaded all the pictures to the most wanted/missing persons website and linked them into the facial recognition program. All we can do on that angle now is wait for a hit."
Emily was tapping at her laptop when she decided to check the FBI's most wanted site to see what additional information had been posted about herself and Moretti. At the bottom of the page, there was a link to more information about her. When she clicked it, she was astounded to see a list of more than forty aliases. They were all performance characters she had developed. She clicked on one of the names and found a picture and a brief bio of the character. In the photo, she could see the stage at Boots in the background.
"Hmmm," she muttered. "Mama's been helping them, huh? Guess I'll have to come up with some new characters before we have to hit the road again. Of course, I could *really* have fun with them…"
She slipped a disk into her computer and started tapping away. It had been fifteen years since she had sold her programming language to Microsoft, and to this day, they had no clue she was still using it. It made everything so simple. She had yet to write a program that couldn't be saved on one floppy disk. She pecked away at the keyboard with one hand as she nibbled at a bit of dried up cuticle on the other.
"Ok, what else have we done," Steve asked.
Donovan took over the briefing, "At your father's suggestion, he and Hannah and I went out with the immunometer again to see if we could figure out what was going on with it the other day."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "And?"
Donovan got all tongue tied, apparently thinking his Chief took exception to him cavorting around the neighborhood with his goddaughter.
With a wink and a grin, Hannah took over.
"Well, Unk, remember how there were all those spikes and drops in the search grid?"
Steve nodded.
Looking at Donovan, Hannah said, "Charles, you figured it out, you explain."
"Well, uh, there wasn't much to figure out, really, sir. Every spike was at a bus stop. She was riding public transportation through the area, switching busses at random, trying to avoid us."
"Probably made contact with Moretti and was just killing time until she met up with him."
"Yes, sir," Donovan confirmed, "That's what we think, sir. Some of the bus drivers recognized her, or, um, I guess I should say they recognized Mandisa. It appears her last stop was at Colorado and Ocean. An old Toyota Tundra was reported stolen a few blocks from there, and it turned up in La Mirada with her viral signature. We lost the trail after that."
About and hour later, Emmy had finished writing her program. She was wickedly pleased with it, and she felt sure it would throw the FBI and the LAPD into mass confusion. She had named it BiRDD for Binary Repetitive Disinformation Device. The Chief had to open an e-mail and make a cell phone call to activate it, but then, every time he sent an e-mail or a reply, he would be creating more trouble for himself. She knew when they saw the e-mail she had sent, they would easily figure out that she was behind it, but she doubted they would connect it to the effects of the BiRDD program when they were first seen days later. It would take someone considerably smarter than she was to figure out exactly what she had done and how she had accomplished it. She seriously doubted that anyone other than herself would be able to uninstall the program, and there was no way to prove she was responsible. All in all, she thought it was a good job, well done.
Now she needed to see what Hannah Wagner was up to.
After a few minutes of tapping, searching, and reading, she laughed and said, "Oh, now this is *very* interesting. She's using the BioGen virus to track me, very ingenious. How can I throw her off? It's easy to be in forty places at once on the computer, but how do I do it in the flesh?"
"Will you quit talkin' to yourself, woman? It's gettin' on my nerves," Moretti grumbled.
"Sorry about that," Emmy said sheepishly. "I'm like that when I get into what I'm doing. It slows my thoughts down enough for me to process them before they're lost."
She hissed in pain as the loose cuticle she'd been chewing at all morning peeled away and left a raw bleeding tear on her thumb. She got a tissue and wrapped it up, but the blood quickly soaked through. She repositioned the tissue to soak up more of the blood and watched as the stain soaked through.
"Ahhh. Kind of gross," she said, "but it will work, and since I don't have any blood-borne diseases, it won't hurt anybody."
She went to her makeup case and dug out a bag of cosmetic sponges, a pump bottle of liquid foundation, and her travel-sized sewing kit. Then she carefully selected about half the clothes from her closet and piled them on the small table, saying, "Now that they're looking for my people, these are useless anyway." Finally, she went to the bathroom and emptied the foundation down the sink and rinsed the bottle completely.
"Hey, Moretti, have you got a lighter," she asked.
Moretti was watching TV, and he took a second to respond. When he did, he merely grunted in the affirmative and tossed the lighter to Emily. She took the needle from her sewing kit and sterilized it in the flame of the lighter.
Moretti glanced over, and said with a grin, "Splinters are a pain, ain't they?"
"Hmm?" Emmy was clearly distracted. "Yeah, I guess."
Moretti could tell from the tone of her voice she was up to something unusual now, so he came over to watch. With Moretti peering over her shoulder, Emmy found a vein in the heel of her hand and slipped the needle into it very carefully. It had to go in and come out straight to avoid tearing the vein. The last thing she needed was a puncture wound that wouldn't quit bleeding. As she sucked air through her teeth in response to the pain, Moretti yelled, "Jeeze, Em! What the hell are you doin'?"
Jerking her head toward the computer, she said, "Read that, then I'll explain."
Sliding the foundation bottle over beside her, she removed the needle from her hand and let the blood ooze into the bottle. At first, the dark ruby fluid dribbled out apace, but soon the flow slowed and she had to coax it by squeezing and massaging her hand. Finally, she decided she had enough, and pressed a cosmetic sponge to the wound. She would have preferred a sterile gauze pad, but having none, she decided the foam rubber wedge was the next best thing.
"Ok, I've read it," Moretti said, staring uneasily at the small jar of blood on the table and turning ever so slightly green.
"How much do you understand?"
"She thinks she can track people by the diseases they've had. Every bug has its own scent, I guess, and she's workin' on a machine that can tell the difference."
"Ok, good. Do you know who Hannah Wagner is?"
Moretti thought hard. He felt he should know the name. He scratched his head and thought some more, but nothing was coming to him. He shook his head no.
Emily grinned as she checked to see that she had stopped bleeding.
"She's Agent Ron Wagner's daughter and Deputy Chief Steve Sloan's goddaughter."
"No kiddin'?"
"No kidding. And I'd stake my life she's got her machine working."
Nodding toward the bottle of blood, Moretti said, "You pull another stunt like that, and you might just lose that bet."
Emmy laughed as she screwed the pump action device back into the bottle. "I can't *believe* you're that queasy, Moretti. It's a one-ounce bottle. If you donate in a blood drive, the Red Cross takes *sixteen times* that much."
"Yeah, but they have people there to take care of you if anything goes wrong."
"Whatever. Anyway, before I moved out here, I caught a nasty genetically engineered bug that no one in California has ever had. That makes me easy for her to track. I'm going to use this," she said shaking the bottle slightly, "to confuse her machine. I'm going to make it look like I'm in dozens of places at once."
Moretti said nothing more, but watched with interest as Emmy laid her clothes out on the table and bed, looking for inconspicuous places such as the inside of a cuff or the hem of a skirt to mark them. Then she used the pump to place a dab of blood on each item.
"Em, that's gross."
"I know, but I couldn't think of a better way to…spread my essence."
"Anything else?" Steve hoped he'd be able to wrap this meeting up soon.
"Just one thing, sir," Cioffi replied. "Considering how much makeup it would take to change her into some of these characters, I requested some men to do a search for any major purchases of theatrical makeup made by an individual not employed by the studios."
"What did you find?"
"Nothing. But, someone broke into one of the makeup trailers in Studio City and took several thousand dollars worth of stuff including cosmetics, prosthetics, hairpieces, and even the equipment for making facial molds and foam-rubber masks. Whoever it was left an envelope full of cash behind and the Lieutenant's viral profile was all over the place."
"I see. So, she has everything she needs to make her look like anyone she wants."
Cioffi nodded. "I'm afraid so, sir."
After all the clothes were marked, Emily used the remaining blood to smudge the cosmetic sponges. They came in their own resealable bag, and when she was done, she closed them up and, while Moretti was in the bathroom, she put them in the fridge to help keep them from drying up.
"Oh, God," Moretti yelled as he opened the fridge a few minutes later to get a soda. "That's nasty."
Emily ignored him and got out her makeup kit.
"I think…I want to be…Dr. Amanda Bentley-Wagner," she said with a gentle smile.
She got out a rich brown foundation and started blotting it on her face.
"So, gentlemen," Steve posed the question, wondering if the two kids would come to the same conclusion he had. "What is she going to do next?"
"Lay low," they both said in unison
Steve was pleased, but tried hard not to show it.
"Why? She can be anyone she wants. She can go anywhere she wants. Why hide?"
"Sir, Moretti is a monkey on her back." Donovan said. "She swore she'd keep him alive for the hearings, and we have every reason to believe she meant it. The best way to keep him safe is to just stay put."
Steve looked to Cioffi for his input.
"I agree with Charles, sir," the young man said. "She's been on the run for five days now. She must be getting tired. I think she's going to catch her breath now, make some plans, probably try to figure out what we're doing to track her down, maybe even arrange another hiding place in case we get too close."
The tall elegant black woman wrapped a gauzy scarf loosely around her neck before she headed out the door with her purse, a computer disk, and a large shopping bag.
"Don't go anywhere while I'm gone, Moretti. You're safest if you stay inside, ok?"
"Ok, whatever."
Moretti laughed as Dr. Bentley Wagner left. He had to wonder if she would go to the hospital.
"So," Steve summed up with a frown, "All we can do is keep hunting and hope for a break while she gathers her strength for the next round."
Cioffi looked at Donovan as if to say, 'Are you sure?' Donovan nodded back, his eyes wide open, clearly telling Cioffi, 'Hell, yes.' Cioffi gestured to Donovan indicating, 'Well, go ahead, it's your harebrained idea. I'll back you up, but you're taking the risk.' Steve grinned as he watched the silent drama play out, but as the young men turned to look at him, he again let his features settle into a dark scowl.
"Well, sir," Donovan began nervously. "Ah, actually, sir, Cioffi and I were talking, and, um, well, we thought you could maybe flush her out."
"How?"
Steve feigned puzzled interest. He'd already reached the same decision, but he wanted to let these two young men have their say. They'd been putting in a lot of hours processing all the information they had received, and Donovan especially had been doing a lot of legwork on the case. Their last real lead had fizzled out two days ago, and the trail was cold, so, he could spare the few minutes to stroke their egos and boost their confidence by letting them explain to him how to do what he'd already had planned.
"It's like this, sir," Donovan volunteered. "Cioffi pointed out last night that she has been one hundred percent reliable about checking that voicemail service she asked you to call…"
Steve nodded. There was no denying it. Emmy had checked her service every day between four and five, and they had tried to trace her calls. She had defeated them easily by programming the service to accept only a fifteen second message. They never had time to locate her.
"…and Donovan figures we can use that against her." Cioffi jumped in to help explain. "It's like Dr. Stephens said, she plays by the rules; and one of the rules she made was that she would check her messages."
"So, Chief, you call and tell her the trial is scheduled," Donovan suggested. "Tell her when and where to bring Moretti, and we grab them. Piece of cake."
Steve had thought of the same thing exactly. It really seemed too easy, and he said so.
"Art mentioned that, too, Chief," Donovan said, "but the fact is, the Lieutenant trusts you."
"She wasn't too trusting the other night at the park," Steve said.
"That was a different situation entirely, Chief," Cioffi explained. "Then she was running *away* from people who were trying to kill Moretti. This time, she'll be coming *to* something. I think she'll be eager to drop him at the courthouse. I'm sure this whole mess has really disrupted her life, and more than anything, I'll bet she wants it over with. She'll be happy to come in."
Steve nodded thoughtfully. "Ok, we'll give it a shot."
Emily/Amanda's first stop was the Santa Ana Public Library. She checked her e-mail and read a couple stories at Fanfiction.net. Then she got the librarian to help her send a file to her friend, Deputy Chief Sloan, explaining that, for some very odd reason, the Internet service at the path lab was down. She was on her way, she said, to a conference at UCLA Irvine, but the computer labs there were likely to be packed because it was time for midterms. Since Santa Ana was on the way, she had decided to stop there and pass the time until the noon rush hour was over. She explained that she couldn't remember the last time she'd had to actually log on from a public computer, and the ones at the library were so out of date, she wasn't sure how they worked anymore.
The librarian apologized for the inconvenience, and Amanda quite understood. She apologized for any offence she may have caused. She hadn't intended to insult the library's resources. Almost thirty years after the big quake and subsequent riots, and even though the droughts had ended eight years ago, she realized that some public facilities had received more funding than others, and she recommended a few organizations that might be able to help the library with additional grants. She said the LA Promise Foundation in particular had a special program meant to close the technological gap between the rich and the poor and that they might be able to help.
Upon leaving the library, Amanda decided not to go to Irvine, after all. Instead, she took the Orange Freeway north to Placentia where she stepped into a small office supply store and bought a package of double-sided mounting tape. As she reached past another woman who was trying to make her selection, she deftly slipped her hand in the woman's bag and sneaked out her cell phone. She also found a Salvation Army donation box and dropped a couple articles of clothing in it.
When she was finished in Placentia, Amanda hopped on the Imperial Highway and headed west back into LA proper. She spent much of the afternoon going to various homeless shelters and handing out clothes from the shopping bag she carried with her. She said that she didn't want to just give them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army because she was afraid they'd end up in the thrift store where the people who needed them most still wouldn't be able to afford them. After all, they were very good quality clothes and would have rather high price tags, even in a thrift store or consignment shop.
His meeting over, Steve, decided to duck out for lunch. It had been a while since he'd had any time for himself, and there was a nice little Italian place not far from the house. His laptop battery was freshly charged, and he decided he'd have some broschetta, a little salad, and lasagna while he checked his e-mail. As the waiter left to place his order, he started scanning his e-mail.
One subject caught his attention, made his heart beat faster, caused the blood to pound in his ears, turned his complexion suddenly paler. Surely, Amanda would know better than to casually e-mail him about *that*. Of all people, he would expect her to have the sensitivity to at least call if not come tell him the difficult truth in person. With trembling, clammy hands, he tracked the cursor over to the subject line, 'Regarding Emily,' held his breath, and clicked.
In a dreary digital corner of the Santa Ana Public Library server, Emily's little BiRDD awoke, fluttered its tiny electronic wings, and waited.
For some reason, it seemed to take longer than usual for the e-mail to open. When he did get to the message, it said simply, 'CALL ME'. His stomach washed with acid as he flipped open his cell phone and dialed Amanda. The waiter chose just that moment to bring his food, and, at the scent and appearance of the rich Italian fare, Steve turned from pasty white to an unnatural green.
"Look," Steve told the waiter, "Suddenly, I'm not feeling so well. I'll pay for the food, but do you think you could just bring me a cup of tea and some breadsticks instead. I'm not sure I can stomach much else."
The waiter nodded, confused, and glided away.
The phone continued to ring. Why was she taking so long to pick up?
"Amanda Bentley-Wagner," Amanda answered.
"This is Steve. I got your e-mail," he said nervously, feeling the lizards crawling in his stomach.
"What e-mail?"
Steve frowned. How could she have possibly forgotten? The lizards grew larger. No longer cute little geckos, they were now full-grown komodo dragons.
"The one titled 'Regarding Emily.' You told me to call you." He was growing impatient.
"I didn't send any such e-mail, Steve." Amanda tried to remain calm and reasonable.
"Well, it's right here on my computer, Amanda!" Frustration was evident in his voice. Lizards nothing, they were young dinosaurs.
"Well, I didn't send it, Steve." Amanda was nearly in a snit herself now.
"Then who did?" Large young dinosaurs.
A pause.
"Emily," they both said in unison.
Steve sighed. He was getting so tired of this mess. He almost wished someone would just shoot Moretti and be done with it.
"Well, while I have you on the phone, what were the results of the test." Very active, large young dinosaurs.
"Steve, I was planning to talk to you about that tonight. I kind of wanted to tell you in person."
His heart sank and his stomach cramped into a tight fist, but he gave the waiter a grateful smile for his tea and breadsticks anyway.
"It's positive, isn't it?" He now realized he was going to be well and truly sick.
"Well, no…" she answered slowly.
Suddenly jubilant, but strangely not feeling any better, he said, "It's negative? Really?"
"Well…no."
"No? Well, which is it? Positive or negative," he demanded as he got up and headed desperately for the men's room.
"It's inconclusive, Steve."
"Oh. What's that mean?" He continued talking in the face of the odd looks he got as he entered the restroom, still jabbering away on his cell phone as he looked for a stall that was unoccupied. No matter what the circumstances, he needed to hear this now and get it over with. He couldn't take it twice.
"The odds are fifty-fifty. She could be yours, but maybe not. We don't know anything more than we did before the test."
"Oh, shi…" The expletive was cut off as Steve emptied the contents of his stomach in the toilet.
"Steve? Steve! Steve, are you ok?"
He could hear Amanda's frantic voice calling from a long way off. Finally, he caught his breath, spat out as much of the nasty taste as he could, and left the stall to splash some cool water on his face.
"Yeah, Amanda, I'm ok. Hold on a sec."
Apparently, some kind soul had sent for help, because the restaurant owner appeared to check on him.
"I'm fine," he told the worried man. "I guess breakfast didn't settle so well. Could I get a glass of water to rinse my mouth?"
The owner disappeared, muttering in Italian.
"Look, Amanda, I'll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, don't use any of your computers."
"What? Steve! That's not possible. You can't just shut the path lab down. We need the computers to do our work."
"It will only be for a few hours, Amanda," he soothed her as he accepted the glass of water from the restaurateur.
"We need to figure out how she sent me the e-mail under your name. The more the computers have been used since the message was sent, the harder it will be to track," he explained after he rinsed and spat. "If it's any consolation, I can't use mine either."
She huffed at him but said, "Ok, you have three hours. If you can't get it by then, we *have* to go back to work. You wouldn't believe how fast the bodies can pile up here."
"Ok, Amanda, and thanks."
"Only for you, Steve."
They said goodbye, and Steve went out to the mysteriously empty dining room and paid his bill. He also left his poor waiter a large tip. As he looked around, he commented to the now strangely hostile-looking owner of the establishment and said, "Hmm. The lunch crowd thinned out fast. You must do a brisk business here."
"You tink-a so, huh," the short Italian asked pugnaciously.
Steve wondered a moment at the man's attitude, and then understanding dawned.
"Ohhhh…ahhhh…sorry about that," he grimaced. "Look, when I'm feeling better, I'll come back and bring a bunch of friends to make it up to you," he promised as he ducked out the door.
"You do that, anna you putta me outta biz-a-ness," the man muttered as the door swung shut behind him.
When Steve dialed Amanda's number, he unknowingly sent a message to Emily's BiRDD. While his phone was ringing Amanda's office, the little BiRDD had built its NESTT, a Numerical Entity Storage Trap and Transporter, with the entities it was designed to store and transport being digitized images of Emily's many alter egos.
Emily/Amanda stopped for a late lunch in Hermosa Beach, and while she was there, she touched up her makeup. The cosmetic wedge somehow found its way into the purse of the woman beside her at the mirror. After lunch, she found a nice little two-bedroom, furnished place in Redondo Beach, cable and utilities included. It was a vacation home, and she decided to rent it for a month under a phony name. She got a good deal, and confirmed that she would be able to move in within the week. As she passed through Compton on her way back to Anaheim, she pulled over beside a mailbox and made a couple of calls. The first was to her answering service.
She heard a frustrated sigh.
"Emily, it's Chief Sloan. The trial is March 15. That's a week from tomorrow. Have Moretti in Judge Greer's courtroom by nine a.m. Better yet, bring him in now. Your parents are wor…" The tone cut him off.
Emily/Amanda sighed as she cut off the phone. "Sorry, Chief. Mama and Daddy will be ok. I can't bring Moretti in. Not until you figure out who's leaking information from your office."
"Sorry, Chief, all I can tell you is the e-mail did not come from this lab. It came from a server in Santa Ana. I don't know how or why she did it, but as far as I can tell, it was just an e-mail message. Maybe she's just messing with you."
Steve made a noise that was half sigh, half groan and said, "She's messing with me, all right, but I have a strong hunch that this is a lot more than just an e-mail."
"I'm sorry, sir," the tech apologized again, "but I didn't find anything else."
Steve nodded, accepting the young man's apology, all the while knowing he simply was not up to the challenge Emily presented. He was the best computer tech they could find, so Steve knew it was a lost cause. Emily had won yet another round.
While the tech was packing his gear, Steve called Cheryl and told her to have Cioffi try to figure out which of Emily's people would hang out in Santa Ana, then he wanted her to get the cops in Santa Ana to ask around and see if anybody recognized any of them. Hearing Amanda say to the tech, "I wonder why she pretended to be me?" he was struck with sudden inspiration and told Cheryl to also pull Amanda's County Coroner's ID photo and include it with Emily's characters.
"Ok, can I use my laptop," he asked as he hung up from talking with Cheryl.
The tech shrugged. "I don't see why not. There's nothing more I can do with it."
Steve thanked the tech, apologized to Amanda, promised her he'd take better care of himself, and headed down to the hospital cafeteria hoping that he could find something among the familiar offerings that would not further insult his already traumatized digestion. After he filled his tray and found a seat, he opened up his laptop and began checking his e-mail.
Maribeth wanted to know when he was going to be home. He replied saying she shouldn't expect him for dinner, but he'd call if it would be after ten. Jesse wanted to remind him that it would soon be time for his annual physical, and that he knew he was busy searching for Emily, but that if he didn't schedule the physical as soon as she was found, he was going to tell Steve's dad *and* his son. With a laugh, Steve replied that he would absolutely be there as soon as Emily and Moretti were found. The chief wanted to know how the search was progressing. Steve stifled the urge to reply, 'very carefully,' and instead replied that he would forward a copy of Cheryl's report as soon as he got it. He hadn't had time yet to prepare a report of his own, and she was in charge of coordinating the task force anyway. He handled dozens of other messages as efficiently. Somehow, over the years, he'd actually gotten into the habit of managing his paperwork before it got the better of him.
Every time Steve hit send, Emily's BiRDD laid an EGG in the NESTT. When the Entity Generating Gambits hatched, they would quickly leave the NESTT, and Emily and her characters would start appearing all over Southern California.
Emily/Amanda made her next call to her contact. She still didn't know who the man was, but she knew he wanted Moretti dead in some grand dramatic fashion that sent a message. He'd never said so, no, but Marino, Velasquez, and Rossi clearly hadn't planned on Moretti getting to trial. She wondered how her mystery man always knew what was going on. Did he get his information from the FBI or the LAPD? Maybe both? He hadn't yet told her where his source was, and she doubted if he ever intended to. Maybe she could con it out of him.
"It's me, sir."
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if you had any more information to help me, sir?"
She heard him sigh.
"I have a lot of information, but I don't know how much it will help. I suppose…"
"You never know what might come in useful, sir."
"True…umm…ok…Hannah Wagner has developed a device that can track you by the diseases you've had. It's fully operational, and…" He seemed disconcerted, almost irritated, at being interrupted. Something sparked in Emily's brain.
"I know, sir. I've already figured out how to counteract it," she interrupted again to see what would happen.
"…All right…Er…Good work…" He stumbled again. Emily smiled. She now knew how to get the name of the informant. This guy, whoever he was, needed control. He liked taking charge, and he was used to being the smartest kid in the class. He wanted to be the one to ask all the questions and have all the answers. All she had to do was stay one step ahead of him in the conversation, keep him off balance, and soon enough she would have him so frazzled he'd blow his contact's cover and never know it.
"Thank you, sir."
"Your mother was working closely with the chief's assistant the other day…"
"Leigh Ann?"
"…Ye-Yes…and…she received a number of very large digital video files from Pennsylvania…"
"I already know what they are, sir."
"Ok…" She could hear him trying to catch his next train of thought before it left the station. "Agent Wagner has posted some forty-odd pictures…"
"…on the most wanted site."
"Um, yes…and they're linked…"
"…linked to my name. I know, sir, and I have already dealt with that problem. What else?"
"Ok, very good. Also, the Chief had his assistant contact Judge Greer. He'll…"
"…be handling the trial? Did she tell you when?"
"The fifteenth…"
Emily suppressed a grin. That was too easy. Why was he getting so sloppy?
After an awkward pause, "…you should expect a trap."
"I thought as much, sir." But who was setting it? "Anything else?"
"Not at this time, Lieutenant."
"Ok, thank you, sir. Goodbye."
Emily rapidly entered a series of universal codes she'd discovered by hacking into a phone company's internal messaging system that cleared the stolen cell phone's memory and wiped the record of her calls from the phone company's computer. The last number recall feature was now disabled. Even if the cops found the phone, they would never be able locate her contact. *She* would decide when and how to expose him and his informant. She snapped the stolen cell phone closed and dropped it in the mailbox. The post office would probably get it back to the owner within the week.
Roger Gorini fumed. That wretched creature thought she was *so* smart. He couldn't believe he had allowed her to manipulate him that easily. He smiled. The last time she called, she'd asked him if he'd found a safe house for her. She must be getting desperate. He picked up the phone and called a realtor friend.
He explained that he had some family friends who were coming out for a vacation and needed a place to stay. He asked Joe to find them a nice rental place with good security somewhere between Hollywood and the beach, but not too close to his own place in Beverly Hills. They were, after all, *family* friends, and he was not, nor did he wish to become too chummy with either one of them.
In reference to Gorini's ancestry, Joe Gary jokingly asked what kind of *family* friends he meant, just how much security the place needed, and whether he should add bulletproof glass windows to his search parameters.
Gorini gave a half-hearted laugh at the hackneyed joke and said in a bad Godfather imitation, "Dat, my friend, is una cosa nostra, capisce?"
Then he called Leigh Ann.
"Leigh Ann Bergman."
"Do you know who this is?"
"Yes, sir."
"I need more information on what the task force is doing, and need you to get yourself on it."
"But sir, I'm just a civilian assistant."
"An invaluable civilian assistant, Little Bird. Get yourself on the task force."
"Yes, sir."
"And find out where that safe house is."
"I'll do my best, sir."
For the next week, things went slowly for the task force. A librarian in Santa Ana recognized Amanda's picture as that of a patron who needed help with uploading a file at the library. The librarian was very sure she was headed for Irvine, but following that lead turned up nothing new.
There were occasional unconfirmed sightings of Emily or one of her characters, but nothing was substantiated. Once in a while, when Hannah was out working with the immunometer, it would go nuts for no apparent reason. One time, in Hermosa Beach, it led them right to a woman's purse, not the woman herself, strangely enough, but her purse. She willingly allowed them to search the bag, but they turned up nothing that didn't belong there. Another time, the device insisted that a homeless woman was Emily, but it was clearly wrong. For some reason, Cioffi and Donovan noticed, it liked homeless people a lot. With Steve's permission, Cioffi and Donovan began questioning those with whom Hannah got a hit, but again, they had no luck. Nobody anywhere recognized any of Emily's characters.
One day, one of the homeless people to whom the immunometer led them said Hannah looked a lot like the woman who had given him his coat. Hannah took out her wallet and showed him a picture of her mother, and after a little negotiating over the contents of Hannah's wallet, confirmed that the woman in the picture was definitely the one who had given him the coat. Amanda's picture went up on the FBI site, and she obligingly wore a transmitter when she was out and about so the task force could track her and eliminate false sightings before they sent officers to check it out.
Steve grew impatient and ill tempered from lack of sleep. Everyone was concerned about him because for some reason, for the first time in years, he insisted on running the investigation. Cheryl had tried to tell him he was taking it far too personally and that it was not his job to take charge of the search, but he had exploded on her.
"How *should* I take it Commander, when one of my *own* makes a fool of me?" He couldn't tell her his concerns about his real personal connection to Emily, but he thought there were enough other reasons to be upset for him to give her a satisfactory explanation.
"Steve," Cheryl pitched her voice low to try and clam him. "It's not just you. She's got us all stumped. You've dealt with…" she chose her words carefully, knowing that Steve took exception to anyone using the words 'dirty cop' in reference to Emily. "…renegades before. Why is this one so personal?"
"She sat right there in my office," Steve said, his voice more defeated than calm, "and she called me a hero. She told me I was…we were the reason she came to LA. She played me, Cheryl. She played me like a cheap kazoo."
Cheryl chuckled, and Steve looked at her, confused.
"What?"
"All these years," she laughed, "and now you're talking like Liv again."
Steve grinned lopsidedly, feeling marginally better.
"The more things change, huh?"
She nodded. "The more they stay the same."
They shared a comfortable silence for a bit, then Cheryl asked, "There's more, isn't there?"
Steve nodded, too worn down to even hesitate long enough to consider whether he really wanted to answer. He was initially surprised that Cheryl had seen through him so easily, then realized that he shouldn't be. They'd been partners, colleagues, and close friends for over thirty years now. She knew him almost as well as his own wife. In some ways, she knew him better.
And she was still waiting for an answer.
"There is more, but I can't tell you about it yet. There are too many other people who've got a right to know ahead of you."
Emily and Moretti spent the next week playing cards and talking. He genuinely liked the young woman, though sometimes her dark sense of humor made him uneasy and he got tired of losing to her in poker. He found out she knew his son, and though he didn't tell her why, he often asked her questions about her captain.
Emily discovered that if one overlooked his history as a mobster, Moretti was a likeable guy. He was funny and more intelligent than she had originally given him credit for. He knew he thought he was being sly in asking her all about captain Cioffi, but she had quickly figured out that the captain was the son Moretti had mentioned.
Moretti was on a diet now, but true to her word, Emily fed him so well, he didn't mind. Every morning she kicked him out of bed an hour before sunrise so they could go get some exercise. He'd walk, and she'd jog a few feet ahead of him and back so he wouldn't be all alone. Eventually, he started jogging with her in short bursts. She promised him she'd teach him the tango as soon as they got someplace where they had room to dance.
One day, as they were poring over Moretti's records, Emily asked him about how the whole LAPD-Mob connection got started. He regaled her with a tale of danger and intrigue that included a mob war of succession for the position as head of the Ganza Family, the attempted assassination of then- Lieutenant Steve Sloan, the framing of Dr. Mark Sloan for murdering the mobster who ordered the hit, and two embezzling mob accountants.
Emily laughed in disbelief. "Quite a complicated affair, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," he agreed, "but only five people at the time knew Masters was fixin' things so Cainin would be the man in charge when it was all over. For a while there, the chief of police was runnin' the mob and the LAPD. Things just got away from him."
Emily gaped. "Boss Ross Cainin was a cop?"
"Yeah, good one, too, until he started likin' his new lifestyle a little too much. I guess when his wife decided she'd had enough of waitin' for him and worryin' about him he decided the only thing he had left was the 'Family.'"
Em nodded, "And that's when things got away from Masters."
"Yep. Cainin quit followin' orders, and Masters couldn't do a damned thing about it. No evidence."
"I see…" Emily was looking through the records and the family tree Moretti had gotten from his safety deposit box when something caught her attention.
"Cainin had a kid?"
"Little girl…"
"Liana," Em supplied, reading the name from the chart.
"Yup. When she left him, Cainin's wife went back east somewhere. Took the kid, changed her name, remarried. They just dropped off the face of the earth."
"Liana. What a pretty name…"
The fifteenth rolled around. The 'trial' started.
Steve, Dion, and Ron, sat in the courtroom behind the DA who was questioning a witness. Donovan was halfway back on the defense side, and Arturo Cioffi had an aisle seat at the back. One of the officers from the North Hollywood division was playing the role of Gaudino. He looked somewhat like the crime boss, but Steve doubted he could fool anybody for long. It was technically a public trial, and to make it more convincing, Steve had allowed civilians in the room, but he was worried. Still, he doubted if there were any trouble, that Emily would be the cause. The charade had been going on for just over an hour, and he was getting impatient for Emily and Moretti to show themselves.
An elderly man sat in the back of the courtroom watching. He sported a bristly gray moustache, and a day's growth of beard. His custodian's uniform was shabby and stained, but clean, though it smelled of disinfectant; and he had the look about him of one who had always worked hard for a living. A fringe of wispy gray hair stuck up in a halo around his otherwise bald head. His face was deeply tanned and lined with years of labor, but his gold-green eyes sparkled with mischief.
When the DA finally requested and received a fifteen-minute recess at about a quarter after ten, the old man turned to the young man beside him and said, "Well, that was good timing. My break's over now, anyways."
Arturo Cioffi just smiled and nodded, glad that the smelly old coot was leaving. Cioffi couldn't believe there were people who actually enjoyed watching trials. Most of the testimony was as dull as dirt. He wondered how long the Chief was going to wait for Lieutenant Stephens. Often stakeouts went several days or sometimes even weeks, but this was a lot of people and resources to devote to catching two fugitives. Then again, if Moretti had the information and the evidence he was supposed to have, it might be worth it.
A woman just outside the courtroom muttered as the custodian bumped into her and said, "'Scuse me, ma'am."
"Watch where you're going," the woman said, rudely.
The custodian said, "Yes, ma'am. Sorry 'bout that."
The woman never noticed that her cell phone had disappeared.
Emmy sat in the LTD, Moretti at her side, darting glances around the parking garage as she peeled off her phony face and scalp. He had to admit, she'd done a fine job of making herself up to look like that janitor. Now that they knew the hearing was a setup, though, he wished she'd just get them out of there before someone realized the janitor was missing or, worse yet, he woke up and reported what had happened. If the cops decided to lock the place down, they'd be in a terrible spot. Finally, with the makeup off and a wig and dark glasses on, she pulled out of the garage.
A few miles from the courthouse, she stopped and tapped some numbers into the stolen cell phone. When she heard the BiRDD whistling the tune Rockin' Robin she tensed slightly. She knew when he stopped she'd have just ten seconds to enter her twenty-six digit password. To protect her program, she had made it a one-shot deal. If she blew it, the BiRDD would shut down, and she'd have to come up with a plan B fast.
The song stopped, and she entered her ten-digit phone number, her eight- digit birth date, her three-digit badge number, and her five-digit house number. For a tense moment, she thought she'd goofed or that she'd been too slow, then the BiRDD started whistling again, and she smiled.
Back from the recess, Steve took his seat behind the DA again. He wondered how much longer he could justify committing so many people and resources to this setup. The DA began his questioning again, and the witness answered, occasionally squirming uncomfortably and hedging. Trials were always so boring.
This one was about to get interesting.
Art Cioffi started as the balding custodian staggered drunkenly back into the courtroom. He leaned heavily on the back of one of the benches and waved off Donovan as he approached to help the apparently inebriated man. Suddenly, Cioffi knew something was wrong. Nobody got that drunk that fast.
"Chief…"
The janitor cut him off.
"Your honor, may it please the court," the old man said, addressing the judge formally with the words he had often heard as he spent his breaks watching trials. "I have a message for Deputy Chief Sloan." Then the intoxicated man collapsed, insensate, on the floor.
Cioffi sat on a bench in the back of the courtroom, head hanging. He felt like the village idiot. When Donovan came and sat beside him, he laughed bitterly, "Now I know how you must have felt."
Donovan gave him a friendly swat on the shoulder and said, "Aw, it's not so bad."
"I am so embarrassed. I know everybody must be wondering what kind of fool sits right there and talks to a suspect and doesn't even recognize her. I'm canned."
"Look, Art," Donovan tried to encourage him. "If the Chief brought me *on* to the task force after letting her get away, I kinda doubt he'll kick you *off*."
"I dunno."
"I do," said a deep voice nearby.
Both young men leaped to attention at the Chief's voice.
Steve smiled slightly and said, "Cioffi, you don't have time to be embarrassed or to feel foolish. Find out where she was and what she did during the recess. That's our first step to finding her."
While Cioffi and Donovan tried to track Emily's movements through the building, Dion got the search started on the street, and Ron reviewed the tapes in the security office. Steve interviewed the custodian himself. The poor man had been confronted with those mesmerizing gold-green eyes staring out of his own face as he'd stepped out of the bathroom at ten before ten. Emily had been, "real apologetic," he said, and she'd asked him about his health to make sure that when she drugged him that it wouldn't hurt him. The last thing he remembered before passing out was having a letter stuffed into his hands and being told, "Make sure Chief Sloan gets it. No one else."
Moments after he finished the interview, Al Cioffi had called. Emily had been spotted at an ATM in Burbank, and units were on their way. Steve and Ron headed off, leaving Dion and an FBI agent in charge of the investigation at the federal courthouse. They had just turned on to the Golden State Freeway when a call came through for Ron. Em had stopped at the post office in Gelndale. So, they got on the Glendale Freeway just in time to find she'd showed up at the Pasadena driver's licensing center. Just as they arrived at the driver's licensing center, she appeared in San Gabriel.
They'd spent the remainder of the morning following her south through San Marino, San Gabriel, Alhambra, Monterey Park, Rosemead, and a dozen other communities until she hit Long Beach, where she just disappeared. Steve and Ron stopped for lunch at a little spot on the beach, and discussed the situation. Their first inkling that something peculiar was happening came when Steve idly wondered which of Emily's characters they were chasing. Anxious to satisfy his curiosity, he called Cheryl.
"All of them, Chief."
"What?"
Ron looked up curiously at his dismayed tone.
"We had the Albanian in Pasadena, and a Haitian in Downey. One of the Irish ladies showed up in Lakewood, and Mandisa is in Longbeach."
"That's not possible," Steve said.
"You know it, and I know it, Steve, but the computer doesn't know it."
Steve growled audibly, and, not knowing the cause of his frustration, Ron decided to hide his grin by taking another bite of his sandwich.
"We have to check out every lead. One of them might be real," he'd insisted.
Another spate of sightings had started up around mid afternoon, and still another after dinner. When the fourth round started right in his own station, Steve threw a fit of temper, and sent his coffee mug smashing through the patio door at the house in Brentwood. After grinding out a sincere, but angry apology, he excused himself and decided it was time he go home for a real night's sleep. Steven insisted on driving him, but wisely made no attempt at conversation until they got home.
"Pops, it took us a while to connect, but since we got it together, you've always been there for me. I'm not going to ask you any questions, and I'm not going to try to push you to talk, but I'd just like you to know, I'd be happy to return the favor."
Steve smiled gratefully, but said, "I appreciate the offer, son, and I'll keep it in mind, but I really do think I just need a good night's sleep. If you want to help, maybe you could give me some sleeping pills."
Steven grinned and gave his dad an affectionate pat on the back. "Take a shower and get into bed. I'll bring you something in a few minutes, Pops."
Steven sat at his dad's bedside as the 'old man' drifted off to dreamland. As Steve entered that half-dreaming state on the cusp of true restful sleep, his son heard him mutter.
"Shoulda been a better father."
"Shh, Pops, I know you did your best." Steven wasn't sure, but he thought he heard his dad say, 'She deserved better.' It was odd, for sure, but he put it down to the meds.
In the early morning light, Steve pushed himself hard. He had decided to sprint the last 100 yards back to the beach house. He might not be able to set the grueling pace he had back in the day, but when his mind was too troubled to think straight, the pain and strain of a punishing workout still helped him focus his thoughts.
He passed the beach house and settled into a gentle jog. As he was fighting for oxygen in the middle of his sprint, he'd broken through his runner's wall, and his swirling thoughts had finally fallen in to some kind of order. Since he needed to cool down properly anyway, he decided to keep thinking as he went up the beach.
He had a lot of new facts, but little useful information. The custodian's message for him had been a letter from Emily explaining why she hadn't shown up and how she had chosen to impersonate the custodian. He could almost hear her mildly sarcastic, slightly mocking tone when he'd read the letter…
*
*
*
Dear Chief:
I suppose you had to try, but you could have given me a little more credit. Why did you think I wouldn't recognize office Donovan? With that red hair, he stands out like a new penny in a coin purse full of tarnished silver. Even if my contact hadn't warned me of the setup, I'd have spotted it as soon as I saw him.
Let's just agree that next time, everything will be on the up and up.
I've been watching the courthouse for about a week, and Harold (that's the name of the custodian who probably delivered this letter) likes to hang out in Judge Greer's courtroom on his breaks. He's tall and skinny, and nobody looks at custodians, so I figured he'd be the perfect cover for me to check out the trial. I guess if you're reading this, I was right.
Please make sure Harold is all right, and assure him that he is in no danger.
I know how boring trials can be, but I can only imagine how dull a pretend trial can get, especially when the one person for whom you're staging it decided not to show. So, I've arranged a little excitement for you. Are you ready?
I'll be in touch.
Have fun!
Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens
*
*
*
Steve groaned as he went over and over the letter in his mind. She'd probably *watched* them set up the trap, but she decided to show up anyway, just to tease him. As he continued jogging north along the beach, he became dimly aware of a figure coming from his right to join him. She fell into step at his side a few yards away.
"Morning, Chief."
Steve nearly stumbled as he heard Emily's bright, cheery voice. She slowed down to help him catch up. She stayed just far enough away that he couldn't grab her, and it was a good thing, too, because he'd have throttled her if he could.
"Whadda you want," he asked sullenly.
"To talk."
"So, talk."
They continued to jog along.
"I'm sorry about that wild goose chase yesterday, sir. I felt I had to keep you heading away from me. I know you must be embarrassed about that tantrum you threw at my place last night. Don't be, I know I'm making it difficult."
He cast her a sidelong glance and said, "I'll pay to replace the patio door. How did you know about it?"
She answered his question with a non sequitur. "I hear you used know a guy named Ross Cainin, an undercover cop working for Chief Masters."
"Over thirty years ago, for a few weeks, yeah, we got acquainted. I didn't like him much."
"Did you know he had a daughter?"
"Did he?"
"Yup. His wife left him and took the kid a while after he took over the Ganza Crime Family."
"Oh, yeah? So?"
"So, the kid's name was Liana. The more people you trust, the more that can betray you, Chief. Keep an eye on that one."
Emily lengthened her stride, and Steve struggled to keep up.
"Wait," he called, panting out the words, "How you know?"
""Moretti," she called over her shoulder. Then he heard her laugh and, as she took off at a run, she yelled back to him, "Catch me if you can!"
Steve ran as fast as he could for a few seconds, and almost thought he was gaining ground when he caught a cramp and collapsed flat on his back on the sand. As he watched the gulls wheeling overhead, he heard the sound of a speedboat taking off somewhere further up the beach.
Sitting at the kitchen table in Olivia…no, *Emily's* house in Brentwood, Steve scrubbed his tired eyes with the backs of his hands as he tried to wake up and focus on the matters at hand. He'd never been good at morning meetings, and fatigue and worry for the young woman who might be his daughter were making this particular meeting nigh on impossible. Five days, now. Emily had been on the run for five days, and try as he might, he hadn't been able to sleep. If he felt like hell, he probably looked worse. He could tell it showed because of the worried looks he'd been getting from everyone. Steven, Maribeth, CJ, Jesse, Amanda, his dad, and now, he realized as he dragged his mind back to the meeting, even young Officers Cioffi and Donovan were concerned.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, please continue."
Donovan looked to Cioffi, and Cioffi nodded.
"Well, sir, with Dr. Stephens' help, we've finished the profiles of the Lieutenant's alter-egos, and we've distributed pictures. As we discussed earlier, in each neighborhood, we're searching harder for the characters that would most likely hang out there. I just spoke with Agent Wagner a few minutes ago, and he personally has uploaded all the pictures to the most wanted/missing persons website and linked them into the facial recognition program. All we can do on that angle now is wait for a hit."
Emily was tapping at her laptop when she decided to check the FBI's most wanted site to see what additional information had been posted about herself and Moretti. At the bottom of the page, there was a link to more information about her. When she clicked it, she was astounded to see a list of more than forty aliases. They were all performance characters she had developed. She clicked on one of the names and found a picture and a brief bio of the character. In the photo, she could see the stage at Boots in the background.
"Hmmm," she muttered. "Mama's been helping them, huh? Guess I'll have to come up with some new characters before we have to hit the road again. Of course, I could *really* have fun with them…"
She slipped a disk into her computer and started tapping away. It had been fifteen years since she had sold her programming language to Microsoft, and to this day, they had no clue she was still using it. It made everything so simple. She had yet to write a program that couldn't be saved on one floppy disk. She pecked away at the keyboard with one hand as she nibbled at a bit of dried up cuticle on the other.
"Ok, what else have we done," Steve asked.
Donovan took over the briefing, "At your father's suggestion, he and Hannah and I went out with the immunometer again to see if we could figure out what was going on with it the other day."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "And?"
Donovan got all tongue tied, apparently thinking his Chief took exception to him cavorting around the neighborhood with his goddaughter.
With a wink and a grin, Hannah took over.
"Well, Unk, remember how there were all those spikes and drops in the search grid?"
Steve nodded.
Looking at Donovan, Hannah said, "Charles, you figured it out, you explain."
"Well, uh, there wasn't much to figure out, really, sir. Every spike was at a bus stop. She was riding public transportation through the area, switching busses at random, trying to avoid us."
"Probably made contact with Moretti and was just killing time until she met up with him."
"Yes, sir," Donovan confirmed, "That's what we think, sir. Some of the bus drivers recognized her, or, um, I guess I should say they recognized Mandisa. It appears her last stop was at Colorado and Ocean. An old Toyota Tundra was reported stolen a few blocks from there, and it turned up in La Mirada with her viral signature. We lost the trail after that."
About and hour later, Emmy had finished writing her program. She was wickedly pleased with it, and she felt sure it would throw the FBI and the LAPD into mass confusion. She had named it BiRDD for Binary Repetitive Disinformation Device. The Chief had to open an e-mail and make a cell phone call to activate it, but then, every time he sent an e-mail or a reply, he would be creating more trouble for himself. She knew when they saw the e-mail she had sent, they would easily figure out that she was behind it, but she doubted they would connect it to the effects of the BiRDD program when they were first seen days later. It would take someone considerably smarter than she was to figure out exactly what she had done and how she had accomplished it. She seriously doubted that anyone other than herself would be able to uninstall the program, and there was no way to prove she was responsible. All in all, she thought it was a good job, well done.
Now she needed to see what Hannah Wagner was up to.
After a few minutes of tapping, searching, and reading, she laughed and said, "Oh, now this is *very* interesting. She's using the BioGen virus to track me, very ingenious. How can I throw her off? It's easy to be in forty places at once on the computer, but how do I do it in the flesh?"
"Will you quit talkin' to yourself, woman? It's gettin' on my nerves," Moretti grumbled.
"Sorry about that," Emmy said sheepishly. "I'm like that when I get into what I'm doing. It slows my thoughts down enough for me to process them before they're lost."
She hissed in pain as the loose cuticle she'd been chewing at all morning peeled away and left a raw bleeding tear on her thumb. She got a tissue and wrapped it up, but the blood quickly soaked through. She repositioned the tissue to soak up more of the blood and watched as the stain soaked through.
"Ahhh. Kind of gross," she said, "but it will work, and since I don't have any blood-borne diseases, it won't hurt anybody."
She went to her makeup case and dug out a bag of cosmetic sponges, a pump bottle of liquid foundation, and her travel-sized sewing kit. Then she carefully selected about half the clothes from her closet and piled them on the small table, saying, "Now that they're looking for my people, these are useless anyway." Finally, she went to the bathroom and emptied the foundation down the sink and rinsed the bottle completely.
"Hey, Moretti, have you got a lighter," she asked.
Moretti was watching TV, and he took a second to respond. When he did, he merely grunted in the affirmative and tossed the lighter to Emily. She took the needle from her sewing kit and sterilized it in the flame of the lighter.
Moretti glanced over, and said with a grin, "Splinters are a pain, ain't they?"
"Hmm?" Emmy was clearly distracted. "Yeah, I guess."
Moretti could tell from the tone of her voice she was up to something unusual now, so he came over to watch. With Moretti peering over her shoulder, Emmy found a vein in the heel of her hand and slipped the needle into it very carefully. It had to go in and come out straight to avoid tearing the vein. The last thing she needed was a puncture wound that wouldn't quit bleeding. As she sucked air through her teeth in response to the pain, Moretti yelled, "Jeeze, Em! What the hell are you doin'?"
Jerking her head toward the computer, she said, "Read that, then I'll explain."
Sliding the foundation bottle over beside her, she removed the needle from her hand and let the blood ooze into the bottle. At first, the dark ruby fluid dribbled out apace, but soon the flow slowed and she had to coax it by squeezing and massaging her hand. Finally, she decided she had enough, and pressed a cosmetic sponge to the wound. She would have preferred a sterile gauze pad, but having none, she decided the foam rubber wedge was the next best thing.
"Ok, I've read it," Moretti said, staring uneasily at the small jar of blood on the table and turning ever so slightly green.
"How much do you understand?"
"She thinks she can track people by the diseases they've had. Every bug has its own scent, I guess, and she's workin' on a machine that can tell the difference."
"Ok, good. Do you know who Hannah Wagner is?"
Moretti thought hard. He felt he should know the name. He scratched his head and thought some more, but nothing was coming to him. He shook his head no.
Emily grinned as she checked to see that she had stopped bleeding.
"She's Agent Ron Wagner's daughter and Deputy Chief Steve Sloan's goddaughter."
"No kiddin'?"
"No kidding. And I'd stake my life she's got her machine working."
Nodding toward the bottle of blood, Moretti said, "You pull another stunt like that, and you might just lose that bet."
Emmy laughed as she screwed the pump action device back into the bottle. "I can't *believe* you're that queasy, Moretti. It's a one-ounce bottle. If you donate in a blood drive, the Red Cross takes *sixteen times* that much."
"Yeah, but they have people there to take care of you if anything goes wrong."
"Whatever. Anyway, before I moved out here, I caught a nasty genetically engineered bug that no one in California has ever had. That makes me easy for her to track. I'm going to use this," she said shaking the bottle slightly, "to confuse her machine. I'm going to make it look like I'm in dozens of places at once."
Moretti said nothing more, but watched with interest as Emmy laid her clothes out on the table and bed, looking for inconspicuous places such as the inside of a cuff or the hem of a skirt to mark them. Then she used the pump to place a dab of blood on each item.
"Em, that's gross."
"I know, but I couldn't think of a better way to…spread my essence."
"Anything else?" Steve hoped he'd be able to wrap this meeting up soon.
"Just one thing, sir," Cioffi replied. "Considering how much makeup it would take to change her into some of these characters, I requested some men to do a search for any major purchases of theatrical makeup made by an individual not employed by the studios."
"What did you find?"
"Nothing. But, someone broke into one of the makeup trailers in Studio City and took several thousand dollars worth of stuff including cosmetics, prosthetics, hairpieces, and even the equipment for making facial molds and foam-rubber masks. Whoever it was left an envelope full of cash behind and the Lieutenant's viral profile was all over the place."
"I see. So, she has everything she needs to make her look like anyone she wants."
Cioffi nodded. "I'm afraid so, sir."
After all the clothes were marked, Emily used the remaining blood to smudge the cosmetic sponges. They came in their own resealable bag, and when she was done, she closed them up and, while Moretti was in the bathroom, she put them in the fridge to help keep them from drying up.
"Oh, God," Moretti yelled as he opened the fridge a few minutes later to get a soda. "That's nasty."
Emily ignored him and got out her makeup kit.
"I think…I want to be…Dr. Amanda Bentley-Wagner," she said with a gentle smile.
She got out a rich brown foundation and started blotting it on her face.
"So, gentlemen," Steve posed the question, wondering if the two kids would come to the same conclusion he had. "What is she going to do next?"
"Lay low," they both said in unison
Steve was pleased, but tried hard not to show it.
"Why? She can be anyone she wants. She can go anywhere she wants. Why hide?"
"Sir, Moretti is a monkey on her back." Donovan said. "She swore she'd keep him alive for the hearings, and we have every reason to believe she meant it. The best way to keep him safe is to just stay put."
Steve looked to Cioffi for his input.
"I agree with Charles, sir," the young man said. "She's been on the run for five days now. She must be getting tired. I think she's going to catch her breath now, make some plans, probably try to figure out what we're doing to track her down, maybe even arrange another hiding place in case we get too close."
The tall elegant black woman wrapped a gauzy scarf loosely around her neck before she headed out the door with her purse, a computer disk, and a large shopping bag.
"Don't go anywhere while I'm gone, Moretti. You're safest if you stay inside, ok?"
"Ok, whatever."
Moretti laughed as Dr. Bentley Wagner left. He had to wonder if she would go to the hospital.
"So," Steve summed up with a frown, "All we can do is keep hunting and hope for a break while she gathers her strength for the next round."
Cioffi looked at Donovan as if to say, 'Are you sure?' Donovan nodded back, his eyes wide open, clearly telling Cioffi, 'Hell, yes.' Cioffi gestured to Donovan indicating, 'Well, go ahead, it's your harebrained idea. I'll back you up, but you're taking the risk.' Steve grinned as he watched the silent drama play out, but as the young men turned to look at him, he again let his features settle into a dark scowl.
"Well, sir," Donovan began nervously. "Ah, actually, sir, Cioffi and I were talking, and, um, well, we thought you could maybe flush her out."
"How?"
Steve feigned puzzled interest. He'd already reached the same decision, but he wanted to let these two young men have their say. They'd been putting in a lot of hours processing all the information they had received, and Donovan especially had been doing a lot of legwork on the case. Their last real lead had fizzled out two days ago, and the trail was cold, so, he could spare the few minutes to stroke their egos and boost their confidence by letting them explain to him how to do what he'd already had planned.
"It's like this, sir," Donovan volunteered. "Cioffi pointed out last night that she has been one hundred percent reliable about checking that voicemail service she asked you to call…"
Steve nodded. There was no denying it. Emmy had checked her service every day between four and five, and they had tried to trace her calls. She had defeated them easily by programming the service to accept only a fifteen second message. They never had time to locate her.
"…and Donovan figures we can use that against her." Cioffi jumped in to help explain. "It's like Dr. Stephens said, she plays by the rules; and one of the rules she made was that she would check her messages."
"So, Chief, you call and tell her the trial is scheduled," Donovan suggested. "Tell her when and where to bring Moretti, and we grab them. Piece of cake."
Steve had thought of the same thing exactly. It really seemed too easy, and he said so.
"Art mentioned that, too, Chief," Donovan said, "but the fact is, the Lieutenant trusts you."
"She wasn't too trusting the other night at the park," Steve said.
"That was a different situation entirely, Chief," Cioffi explained. "Then she was running *away* from people who were trying to kill Moretti. This time, she'll be coming *to* something. I think she'll be eager to drop him at the courthouse. I'm sure this whole mess has really disrupted her life, and more than anything, I'll bet she wants it over with. She'll be happy to come in."
Steve nodded thoughtfully. "Ok, we'll give it a shot."
Emily/Amanda's first stop was the Santa Ana Public Library. She checked her e-mail and read a couple stories at Fanfiction.net. Then she got the librarian to help her send a file to her friend, Deputy Chief Sloan, explaining that, for some very odd reason, the Internet service at the path lab was down. She was on her way, she said, to a conference at UCLA Irvine, but the computer labs there were likely to be packed because it was time for midterms. Since Santa Ana was on the way, she had decided to stop there and pass the time until the noon rush hour was over. She explained that she couldn't remember the last time she'd had to actually log on from a public computer, and the ones at the library were so out of date, she wasn't sure how they worked anymore.
The librarian apologized for the inconvenience, and Amanda quite understood. She apologized for any offence she may have caused. She hadn't intended to insult the library's resources. Almost thirty years after the big quake and subsequent riots, and even though the droughts had ended eight years ago, she realized that some public facilities had received more funding than others, and she recommended a few organizations that might be able to help the library with additional grants. She said the LA Promise Foundation in particular had a special program meant to close the technological gap between the rich and the poor and that they might be able to help.
Upon leaving the library, Amanda decided not to go to Irvine, after all. Instead, she took the Orange Freeway north to Placentia where she stepped into a small office supply store and bought a package of double-sided mounting tape. As she reached past another woman who was trying to make her selection, she deftly slipped her hand in the woman's bag and sneaked out her cell phone. She also found a Salvation Army donation box and dropped a couple articles of clothing in it.
When she was finished in Placentia, Amanda hopped on the Imperial Highway and headed west back into LA proper. She spent much of the afternoon going to various homeless shelters and handing out clothes from the shopping bag she carried with her. She said that she didn't want to just give them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army because she was afraid they'd end up in the thrift store where the people who needed them most still wouldn't be able to afford them. After all, they were very good quality clothes and would have rather high price tags, even in a thrift store or consignment shop.
His meeting over, Steve, decided to duck out for lunch. It had been a while since he'd had any time for himself, and there was a nice little Italian place not far from the house. His laptop battery was freshly charged, and he decided he'd have some broschetta, a little salad, and lasagna while he checked his e-mail. As the waiter left to place his order, he started scanning his e-mail.
One subject caught his attention, made his heart beat faster, caused the blood to pound in his ears, turned his complexion suddenly paler. Surely, Amanda would know better than to casually e-mail him about *that*. Of all people, he would expect her to have the sensitivity to at least call if not come tell him the difficult truth in person. With trembling, clammy hands, he tracked the cursor over to the subject line, 'Regarding Emily,' held his breath, and clicked.
In a dreary digital corner of the Santa Ana Public Library server, Emily's little BiRDD awoke, fluttered its tiny electronic wings, and waited.
For some reason, it seemed to take longer than usual for the e-mail to open. When he did get to the message, it said simply, 'CALL ME'. His stomach washed with acid as he flipped open his cell phone and dialed Amanda. The waiter chose just that moment to bring his food, and, at the scent and appearance of the rich Italian fare, Steve turned from pasty white to an unnatural green.
"Look," Steve told the waiter, "Suddenly, I'm not feeling so well. I'll pay for the food, but do you think you could just bring me a cup of tea and some breadsticks instead. I'm not sure I can stomach much else."
The waiter nodded, confused, and glided away.
The phone continued to ring. Why was she taking so long to pick up?
"Amanda Bentley-Wagner," Amanda answered.
"This is Steve. I got your e-mail," he said nervously, feeling the lizards crawling in his stomach.
"What e-mail?"
Steve frowned. How could she have possibly forgotten? The lizards grew larger. No longer cute little geckos, they were now full-grown komodo dragons.
"The one titled 'Regarding Emily.' You told me to call you." He was growing impatient.
"I didn't send any such e-mail, Steve." Amanda tried to remain calm and reasonable.
"Well, it's right here on my computer, Amanda!" Frustration was evident in his voice. Lizards nothing, they were young dinosaurs.
"Well, I didn't send it, Steve." Amanda was nearly in a snit herself now.
"Then who did?" Large young dinosaurs.
A pause.
"Emily," they both said in unison.
Steve sighed. He was getting so tired of this mess. He almost wished someone would just shoot Moretti and be done with it.
"Well, while I have you on the phone, what were the results of the test." Very active, large young dinosaurs.
"Steve, I was planning to talk to you about that tonight. I kind of wanted to tell you in person."
His heart sank and his stomach cramped into a tight fist, but he gave the waiter a grateful smile for his tea and breadsticks anyway.
"It's positive, isn't it?" He now realized he was going to be well and truly sick.
"Well, no…" she answered slowly.
Suddenly jubilant, but strangely not feeling any better, he said, "It's negative? Really?"
"Well…no."
"No? Well, which is it? Positive or negative," he demanded as he got up and headed desperately for the men's room.
"It's inconclusive, Steve."
"Oh. What's that mean?" He continued talking in the face of the odd looks he got as he entered the restroom, still jabbering away on his cell phone as he looked for a stall that was unoccupied. No matter what the circumstances, he needed to hear this now and get it over with. He couldn't take it twice.
"The odds are fifty-fifty. She could be yours, but maybe not. We don't know anything more than we did before the test."
"Oh, shi…" The expletive was cut off as Steve emptied the contents of his stomach in the toilet.
"Steve? Steve! Steve, are you ok?"
He could hear Amanda's frantic voice calling from a long way off. Finally, he caught his breath, spat out as much of the nasty taste as he could, and left the stall to splash some cool water on his face.
"Yeah, Amanda, I'm ok. Hold on a sec."
Apparently, some kind soul had sent for help, because the restaurant owner appeared to check on him.
"I'm fine," he told the worried man. "I guess breakfast didn't settle so well. Could I get a glass of water to rinse my mouth?"
The owner disappeared, muttering in Italian.
"Look, Amanda, I'll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, don't use any of your computers."
"What? Steve! That's not possible. You can't just shut the path lab down. We need the computers to do our work."
"It will only be for a few hours, Amanda," he soothed her as he accepted the glass of water from the restaurateur.
"We need to figure out how she sent me the e-mail under your name. The more the computers have been used since the message was sent, the harder it will be to track," he explained after he rinsed and spat. "If it's any consolation, I can't use mine either."
She huffed at him but said, "Ok, you have three hours. If you can't get it by then, we *have* to go back to work. You wouldn't believe how fast the bodies can pile up here."
"Ok, Amanda, and thanks."
"Only for you, Steve."
They said goodbye, and Steve went out to the mysteriously empty dining room and paid his bill. He also left his poor waiter a large tip. As he looked around, he commented to the now strangely hostile-looking owner of the establishment and said, "Hmm. The lunch crowd thinned out fast. You must do a brisk business here."
"You tink-a so, huh," the short Italian asked pugnaciously.
Steve wondered a moment at the man's attitude, and then understanding dawned.
"Ohhhh…ahhhh…sorry about that," he grimaced. "Look, when I'm feeling better, I'll come back and bring a bunch of friends to make it up to you," he promised as he ducked out the door.
"You do that, anna you putta me outta biz-a-ness," the man muttered as the door swung shut behind him.
When Steve dialed Amanda's number, he unknowingly sent a message to Emily's BiRDD. While his phone was ringing Amanda's office, the little BiRDD had built its NESTT, a Numerical Entity Storage Trap and Transporter, with the entities it was designed to store and transport being digitized images of Emily's many alter egos.
Emily/Amanda stopped for a late lunch in Hermosa Beach, and while she was there, she touched up her makeup. The cosmetic wedge somehow found its way into the purse of the woman beside her at the mirror. After lunch, she found a nice little two-bedroom, furnished place in Redondo Beach, cable and utilities included. It was a vacation home, and she decided to rent it for a month under a phony name. She got a good deal, and confirmed that she would be able to move in within the week. As she passed through Compton on her way back to Anaheim, she pulled over beside a mailbox and made a couple of calls. The first was to her answering service.
She heard a frustrated sigh.
"Emily, it's Chief Sloan. The trial is March 15. That's a week from tomorrow. Have Moretti in Judge Greer's courtroom by nine a.m. Better yet, bring him in now. Your parents are wor…" The tone cut him off.
Emily/Amanda sighed as she cut off the phone. "Sorry, Chief. Mama and Daddy will be ok. I can't bring Moretti in. Not until you figure out who's leaking information from your office."
"Sorry, Chief, all I can tell you is the e-mail did not come from this lab. It came from a server in Santa Ana. I don't know how or why she did it, but as far as I can tell, it was just an e-mail message. Maybe she's just messing with you."
Steve made a noise that was half sigh, half groan and said, "She's messing with me, all right, but I have a strong hunch that this is a lot more than just an e-mail."
"I'm sorry, sir," the tech apologized again, "but I didn't find anything else."
Steve nodded, accepting the young man's apology, all the while knowing he simply was not up to the challenge Emily presented. He was the best computer tech they could find, so Steve knew it was a lost cause. Emily had won yet another round.
While the tech was packing his gear, Steve called Cheryl and told her to have Cioffi try to figure out which of Emily's people would hang out in Santa Ana, then he wanted her to get the cops in Santa Ana to ask around and see if anybody recognized any of them. Hearing Amanda say to the tech, "I wonder why she pretended to be me?" he was struck with sudden inspiration and told Cheryl to also pull Amanda's County Coroner's ID photo and include it with Emily's characters.
"Ok, can I use my laptop," he asked as he hung up from talking with Cheryl.
The tech shrugged. "I don't see why not. There's nothing more I can do with it."
Steve thanked the tech, apologized to Amanda, promised her he'd take better care of himself, and headed down to the hospital cafeteria hoping that he could find something among the familiar offerings that would not further insult his already traumatized digestion. After he filled his tray and found a seat, he opened up his laptop and began checking his e-mail.
Maribeth wanted to know when he was going to be home. He replied saying she shouldn't expect him for dinner, but he'd call if it would be after ten. Jesse wanted to remind him that it would soon be time for his annual physical, and that he knew he was busy searching for Emily, but that if he didn't schedule the physical as soon as she was found, he was going to tell Steve's dad *and* his son. With a laugh, Steve replied that he would absolutely be there as soon as Emily and Moretti were found. The chief wanted to know how the search was progressing. Steve stifled the urge to reply, 'very carefully,' and instead replied that he would forward a copy of Cheryl's report as soon as he got it. He hadn't had time yet to prepare a report of his own, and she was in charge of coordinating the task force anyway. He handled dozens of other messages as efficiently. Somehow, over the years, he'd actually gotten into the habit of managing his paperwork before it got the better of him.
Every time Steve hit send, Emily's BiRDD laid an EGG in the NESTT. When the Entity Generating Gambits hatched, they would quickly leave the NESTT, and Emily and her characters would start appearing all over Southern California.
Emily/Amanda made her next call to her contact. She still didn't know who the man was, but she knew he wanted Moretti dead in some grand dramatic fashion that sent a message. He'd never said so, no, but Marino, Velasquez, and Rossi clearly hadn't planned on Moretti getting to trial. She wondered how her mystery man always knew what was going on. Did he get his information from the FBI or the LAPD? Maybe both? He hadn't yet told her where his source was, and she doubted if he ever intended to. Maybe she could con it out of him.
"It's me, sir."
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if you had any more information to help me, sir?"
She heard him sigh.
"I have a lot of information, but I don't know how much it will help. I suppose…"
"You never know what might come in useful, sir."
"True…umm…ok…Hannah Wagner has developed a device that can track you by the diseases you've had. It's fully operational, and…" He seemed disconcerted, almost irritated, at being interrupted. Something sparked in Emily's brain.
"I know, sir. I've already figured out how to counteract it," she interrupted again to see what would happen.
"…All right…Er…Good work…" He stumbled again. Emily smiled. She now knew how to get the name of the informant. This guy, whoever he was, needed control. He liked taking charge, and he was used to being the smartest kid in the class. He wanted to be the one to ask all the questions and have all the answers. All she had to do was stay one step ahead of him in the conversation, keep him off balance, and soon enough she would have him so frazzled he'd blow his contact's cover and never know it.
"Thank you, sir."
"Your mother was working closely with the chief's assistant the other day…"
"Leigh Ann?"
"…Ye-Yes…and…she received a number of very large digital video files from Pennsylvania…"
"I already know what they are, sir."
"Ok…" She could hear him trying to catch his next train of thought before it left the station. "Agent Wagner has posted some forty-odd pictures…"
"…on the most wanted site."
"Um, yes…and they're linked…"
"…linked to my name. I know, sir, and I have already dealt with that problem. What else?"
"Ok, very good. Also, the Chief had his assistant contact Judge Greer. He'll…"
"…be handling the trial? Did she tell you when?"
"The fifteenth…"
Emily suppressed a grin. That was too easy. Why was he getting so sloppy?
After an awkward pause, "…you should expect a trap."
"I thought as much, sir." But who was setting it? "Anything else?"
"Not at this time, Lieutenant."
"Ok, thank you, sir. Goodbye."
Emily rapidly entered a series of universal codes she'd discovered by hacking into a phone company's internal messaging system that cleared the stolen cell phone's memory and wiped the record of her calls from the phone company's computer. The last number recall feature was now disabled. Even if the cops found the phone, they would never be able locate her contact. *She* would decide when and how to expose him and his informant. She snapped the stolen cell phone closed and dropped it in the mailbox. The post office would probably get it back to the owner within the week.
Roger Gorini fumed. That wretched creature thought she was *so* smart. He couldn't believe he had allowed her to manipulate him that easily. He smiled. The last time she called, she'd asked him if he'd found a safe house for her. She must be getting desperate. He picked up the phone and called a realtor friend.
He explained that he had some family friends who were coming out for a vacation and needed a place to stay. He asked Joe to find them a nice rental place with good security somewhere between Hollywood and the beach, but not too close to his own place in Beverly Hills. They were, after all, *family* friends, and he was not, nor did he wish to become too chummy with either one of them.
In reference to Gorini's ancestry, Joe Gary jokingly asked what kind of *family* friends he meant, just how much security the place needed, and whether he should add bulletproof glass windows to his search parameters.
Gorini gave a half-hearted laugh at the hackneyed joke and said in a bad Godfather imitation, "Dat, my friend, is una cosa nostra, capisce?"
Then he called Leigh Ann.
"Leigh Ann Bergman."
"Do you know who this is?"
"Yes, sir."
"I need more information on what the task force is doing, and need you to get yourself on it."
"But sir, I'm just a civilian assistant."
"An invaluable civilian assistant, Little Bird. Get yourself on the task force."
"Yes, sir."
"And find out where that safe house is."
"I'll do my best, sir."
For the next week, things went slowly for the task force. A librarian in Santa Ana recognized Amanda's picture as that of a patron who needed help with uploading a file at the library. The librarian was very sure she was headed for Irvine, but following that lead turned up nothing new.
There were occasional unconfirmed sightings of Emily or one of her characters, but nothing was substantiated. Once in a while, when Hannah was out working with the immunometer, it would go nuts for no apparent reason. One time, in Hermosa Beach, it led them right to a woman's purse, not the woman herself, strangely enough, but her purse. She willingly allowed them to search the bag, but they turned up nothing that didn't belong there. Another time, the device insisted that a homeless woman was Emily, but it was clearly wrong. For some reason, Cioffi and Donovan noticed, it liked homeless people a lot. With Steve's permission, Cioffi and Donovan began questioning those with whom Hannah got a hit, but again, they had no luck. Nobody anywhere recognized any of Emily's characters.
One day, one of the homeless people to whom the immunometer led them said Hannah looked a lot like the woman who had given him his coat. Hannah took out her wallet and showed him a picture of her mother, and after a little negotiating over the contents of Hannah's wallet, confirmed that the woman in the picture was definitely the one who had given him the coat. Amanda's picture went up on the FBI site, and she obligingly wore a transmitter when she was out and about so the task force could track her and eliminate false sightings before they sent officers to check it out.
Steve grew impatient and ill tempered from lack of sleep. Everyone was concerned about him because for some reason, for the first time in years, he insisted on running the investigation. Cheryl had tried to tell him he was taking it far too personally and that it was not his job to take charge of the search, but he had exploded on her.
"How *should* I take it Commander, when one of my *own* makes a fool of me?" He couldn't tell her his concerns about his real personal connection to Emily, but he thought there were enough other reasons to be upset for him to give her a satisfactory explanation.
"Steve," Cheryl pitched her voice low to try and clam him. "It's not just you. She's got us all stumped. You've dealt with…" she chose her words carefully, knowing that Steve took exception to anyone using the words 'dirty cop' in reference to Emily. "…renegades before. Why is this one so personal?"
"She sat right there in my office," Steve said, his voice more defeated than calm, "and she called me a hero. She told me I was…we were the reason she came to LA. She played me, Cheryl. She played me like a cheap kazoo."
Cheryl chuckled, and Steve looked at her, confused.
"What?"
"All these years," she laughed, "and now you're talking like Liv again."
Steve grinned lopsidedly, feeling marginally better.
"The more things change, huh?"
She nodded. "The more they stay the same."
They shared a comfortable silence for a bit, then Cheryl asked, "There's more, isn't there?"
Steve nodded, too worn down to even hesitate long enough to consider whether he really wanted to answer. He was initially surprised that Cheryl had seen through him so easily, then realized that he shouldn't be. They'd been partners, colleagues, and close friends for over thirty years now. She knew him almost as well as his own wife. In some ways, she knew him better.
And she was still waiting for an answer.
"There is more, but I can't tell you about it yet. There are too many other people who've got a right to know ahead of you."
Emily and Moretti spent the next week playing cards and talking. He genuinely liked the young woman, though sometimes her dark sense of humor made him uneasy and he got tired of losing to her in poker. He found out she knew his son, and though he didn't tell her why, he often asked her questions about her captain.
Emily discovered that if one overlooked his history as a mobster, Moretti was a likeable guy. He was funny and more intelligent than she had originally given him credit for. He knew he thought he was being sly in asking her all about captain Cioffi, but she had quickly figured out that the captain was the son Moretti had mentioned.
Moretti was on a diet now, but true to her word, Emily fed him so well, he didn't mind. Every morning she kicked him out of bed an hour before sunrise so they could go get some exercise. He'd walk, and she'd jog a few feet ahead of him and back so he wouldn't be all alone. Eventually, he started jogging with her in short bursts. She promised him she'd teach him the tango as soon as they got someplace where they had room to dance.
One day, as they were poring over Moretti's records, Emily asked him about how the whole LAPD-Mob connection got started. He regaled her with a tale of danger and intrigue that included a mob war of succession for the position as head of the Ganza Family, the attempted assassination of then- Lieutenant Steve Sloan, the framing of Dr. Mark Sloan for murdering the mobster who ordered the hit, and two embezzling mob accountants.
Emily laughed in disbelief. "Quite a complicated affair, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," he agreed, "but only five people at the time knew Masters was fixin' things so Cainin would be the man in charge when it was all over. For a while there, the chief of police was runnin' the mob and the LAPD. Things just got away from him."
Emily gaped. "Boss Ross Cainin was a cop?"
"Yeah, good one, too, until he started likin' his new lifestyle a little too much. I guess when his wife decided she'd had enough of waitin' for him and worryin' about him he decided the only thing he had left was the 'Family.'"
Em nodded, "And that's when things got away from Masters."
"Yep. Cainin quit followin' orders, and Masters couldn't do a damned thing about it. No evidence."
"I see…" Emily was looking through the records and the family tree Moretti had gotten from his safety deposit box when something caught her attention.
"Cainin had a kid?"
"Little girl…"
"Liana," Em supplied, reading the name from the chart.
"Yup. When she left him, Cainin's wife went back east somewhere. Took the kid, changed her name, remarried. They just dropped off the face of the earth."
"Liana. What a pretty name…"
The fifteenth rolled around. The 'trial' started.
Steve, Dion, and Ron, sat in the courtroom behind the DA who was questioning a witness. Donovan was halfway back on the defense side, and Arturo Cioffi had an aisle seat at the back. One of the officers from the North Hollywood division was playing the role of Gaudino. He looked somewhat like the crime boss, but Steve doubted he could fool anybody for long. It was technically a public trial, and to make it more convincing, Steve had allowed civilians in the room, but he was worried. Still, he doubted if there were any trouble, that Emily would be the cause. The charade had been going on for just over an hour, and he was getting impatient for Emily and Moretti to show themselves.
An elderly man sat in the back of the courtroom watching. He sported a bristly gray moustache, and a day's growth of beard. His custodian's uniform was shabby and stained, but clean, though it smelled of disinfectant; and he had the look about him of one who had always worked hard for a living. A fringe of wispy gray hair stuck up in a halo around his otherwise bald head. His face was deeply tanned and lined with years of labor, but his gold-green eyes sparkled with mischief.
When the DA finally requested and received a fifteen-minute recess at about a quarter after ten, the old man turned to the young man beside him and said, "Well, that was good timing. My break's over now, anyways."
Arturo Cioffi just smiled and nodded, glad that the smelly old coot was leaving. Cioffi couldn't believe there were people who actually enjoyed watching trials. Most of the testimony was as dull as dirt. He wondered how long the Chief was going to wait for Lieutenant Stephens. Often stakeouts went several days or sometimes even weeks, but this was a lot of people and resources to devote to catching two fugitives. Then again, if Moretti had the information and the evidence he was supposed to have, it might be worth it.
A woman just outside the courtroom muttered as the custodian bumped into her and said, "'Scuse me, ma'am."
"Watch where you're going," the woman said, rudely.
The custodian said, "Yes, ma'am. Sorry 'bout that."
The woman never noticed that her cell phone had disappeared.
Emmy sat in the LTD, Moretti at her side, darting glances around the parking garage as she peeled off her phony face and scalp. He had to admit, she'd done a fine job of making herself up to look like that janitor. Now that they knew the hearing was a setup, though, he wished she'd just get them out of there before someone realized the janitor was missing or, worse yet, he woke up and reported what had happened. If the cops decided to lock the place down, they'd be in a terrible spot. Finally, with the makeup off and a wig and dark glasses on, she pulled out of the garage.
A few miles from the courthouse, she stopped and tapped some numbers into the stolen cell phone. When she heard the BiRDD whistling the tune Rockin' Robin she tensed slightly. She knew when he stopped she'd have just ten seconds to enter her twenty-six digit password. To protect her program, she had made it a one-shot deal. If she blew it, the BiRDD would shut down, and she'd have to come up with a plan B fast.
The song stopped, and she entered her ten-digit phone number, her eight- digit birth date, her three-digit badge number, and her five-digit house number. For a tense moment, she thought she'd goofed or that she'd been too slow, then the BiRDD started whistling again, and she smiled.
Back from the recess, Steve took his seat behind the DA again. He wondered how much longer he could justify committing so many people and resources to this setup. The DA began his questioning again, and the witness answered, occasionally squirming uncomfortably and hedging. Trials were always so boring.
This one was about to get interesting.
Art Cioffi started as the balding custodian staggered drunkenly back into the courtroom. He leaned heavily on the back of one of the benches and waved off Donovan as he approached to help the apparently inebriated man. Suddenly, Cioffi knew something was wrong. Nobody got that drunk that fast.
"Chief…"
The janitor cut him off.
"Your honor, may it please the court," the old man said, addressing the judge formally with the words he had often heard as he spent his breaks watching trials. "I have a message for Deputy Chief Sloan." Then the intoxicated man collapsed, insensate, on the floor.
Cioffi sat on a bench in the back of the courtroom, head hanging. He felt like the village idiot. When Donovan came and sat beside him, he laughed bitterly, "Now I know how you must have felt."
Donovan gave him a friendly swat on the shoulder and said, "Aw, it's not so bad."
"I am so embarrassed. I know everybody must be wondering what kind of fool sits right there and talks to a suspect and doesn't even recognize her. I'm canned."
"Look, Art," Donovan tried to encourage him. "If the Chief brought me *on* to the task force after letting her get away, I kinda doubt he'll kick you *off*."
"I dunno."
"I do," said a deep voice nearby.
Both young men leaped to attention at the Chief's voice.
Steve smiled slightly and said, "Cioffi, you don't have time to be embarrassed or to feel foolish. Find out where she was and what she did during the recess. That's our first step to finding her."
While Cioffi and Donovan tried to track Emily's movements through the building, Dion got the search started on the street, and Ron reviewed the tapes in the security office. Steve interviewed the custodian himself. The poor man had been confronted with those mesmerizing gold-green eyes staring out of his own face as he'd stepped out of the bathroom at ten before ten. Emily had been, "real apologetic," he said, and she'd asked him about his health to make sure that when she drugged him that it wouldn't hurt him. The last thing he remembered before passing out was having a letter stuffed into his hands and being told, "Make sure Chief Sloan gets it. No one else."
Moments after he finished the interview, Al Cioffi had called. Emily had been spotted at an ATM in Burbank, and units were on their way. Steve and Ron headed off, leaving Dion and an FBI agent in charge of the investigation at the federal courthouse. They had just turned on to the Golden State Freeway when a call came through for Ron. Em had stopped at the post office in Gelndale. So, they got on the Glendale Freeway just in time to find she'd showed up at the Pasadena driver's licensing center. Just as they arrived at the driver's licensing center, she appeared in San Gabriel.
They'd spent the remainder of the morning following her south through San Marino, San Gabriel, Alhambra, Monterey Park, Rosemead, and a dozen other communities until she hit Long Beach, where she just disappeared. Steve and Ron stopped for lunch at a little spot on the beach, and discussed the situation. Their first inkling that something peculiar was happening came when Steve idly wondered which of Emily's characters they were chasing. Anxious to satisfy his curiosity, he called Cheryl.
"All of them, Chief."
"What?"
Ron looked up curiously at his dismayed tone.
"We had the Albanian in Pasadena, and a Haitian in Downey. One of the Irish ladies showed up in Lakewood, and Mandisa is in Longbeach."
"That's not possible," Steve said.
"You know it, and I know it, Steve, but the computer doesn't know it."
Steve growled audibly, and, not knowing the cause of his frustration, Ron decided to hide his grin by taking another bite of his sandwich.
"We have to check out every lead. One of them might be real," he'd insisted.
Another spate of sightings had started up around mid afternoon, and still another after dinner. When the fourth round started right in his own station, Steve threw a fit of temper, and sent his coffee mug smashing through the patio door at the house in Brentwood. After grinding out a sincere, but angry apology, he excused himself and decided it was time he go home for a real night's sleep. Steven insisted on driving him, but wisely made no attempt at conversation until they got home.
"Pops, it took us a while to connect, but since we got it together, you've always been there for me. I'm not going to ask you any questions, and I'm not going to try to push you to talk, but I'd just like you to know, I'd be happy to return the favor."
Steve smiled gratefully, but said, "I appreciate the offer, son, and I'll keep it in mind, but I really do think I just need a good night's sleep. If you want to help, maybe you could give me some sleeping pills."
Steven grinned and gave his dad an affectionate pat on the back. "Take a shower and get into bed. I'll bring you something in a few minutes, Pops."
Steven sat at his dad's bedside as the 'old man' drifted off to dreamland. As Steve entered that half-dreaming state on the cusp of true restful sleep, his son heard him mutter.
"Shoulda been a better father."
"Shh, Pops, I know you did your best." Steven wasn't sure, but he thought he heard his dad say, 'She deserved better.' It was odd, for sure, but he put it down to the meds.
In the early morning light, Steve pushed himself hard. He had decided to sprint the last 100 yards back to the beach house. He might not be able to set the grueling pace he had back in the day, but when his mind was too troubled to think straight, the pain and strain of a punishing workout still helped him focus his thoughts.
He passed the beach house and settled into a gentle jog. As he was fighting for oxygen in the middle of his sprint, he'd broken through his runner's wall, and his swirling thoughts had finally fallen in to some kind of order. Since he needed to cool down properly anyway, he decided to keep thinking as he went up the beach.
He had a lot of new facts, but little useful information. The custodian's message for him had been a letter from Emily explaining why she hadn't shown up and how she had chosen to impersonate the custodian. He could almost hear her mildly sarcastic, slightly mocking tone when he'd read the letter…
*
*
*
Dear Chief:
I suppose you had to try, but you could have given me a little more credit. Why did you think I wouldn't recognize office Donovan? With that red hair, he stands out like a new penny in a coin purse full of tarnished silver. Even if my contact hadn't warned me of the setup, I'd have spotted it as soon as I saw him.
Let's just agree that next time, everything will be on the up and up.
I've been watching the courthouse for about a week, and Harold (that's the name of the custodian who probably delivered this letter) likes to hang out in Judge Greer's courtroom on his breaks. He's tall and skinny, and nobody looks at custodians, so I figured he'd be the perfect cover for me to check out the trial. I guess if you're reading this, I was right.
Please make sure Harold is all right, and assure him that he is in no danger.
I know how boring trials can be, but I can only imagine how dull a pretend trial can get, especially when the one person for whom you're staging it decided not to show. So, I've arranged a little excitement for you. Are you ready?
I'll be in touch.
Have fun!
Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens
*
*
*
Steve groaned as he went over and over the letter in his mind. She'd probably *watched* them set up the trap, but she decided to show up anyway, just to tease him. As he continued jogging north along the beach, he became dimly aware of a figure coming from his right to join him. She fell into step at his side a few yards away.
"Morning, Chief."
Steve nearly stumbled as he heard Emily's bright, cheery voice. She slowed down to help him catch up. She stayed just far enough away that he couldn't grab her, and it was a good thing, too, because he'd have throttled her if he could.
"Whadda you want," he asked sullenly.
"To talk."
"So, talk."
They continued to jog along.
"I'm sorry about that wild goose chase yesterday, sir. I felt I had to keep you heading away from me. I know you must be embarrassed about that tantrum you threw at my place last night. Don't be, I know I'm making it difficult."
He cast her a sidelong glance and said, "I'll pay to replace the patio door. How did you know about it?"
She answered his question with a non sequitur. "I hear you used know a guy named Ross Cainin, an undercover cop working for Chief Masters."
"Over thirty years ago, for a few weeks, yeah, we got acquainted. I didn't like him much."
"Did you know he had a daughter?"
"Did he?"
"Yup. His wife left him and took the kid a while after he took over the Ganza Crime Family."
"Oh, yeah? So?"
"So, the kid's name was Liana. The more people you trust, the more that can betray you, Chief. Keep an eye on that one."
Emily lengthened her stride, and Steve struggled to keep up.
"Wait," he called, panting out the words, "How you know?"
""Moretti," she called over her shoulder. Then he heard her laugh and, as she took off at a run, she yelled back to him, "Catch me if you can!"
Steve ran as fast as he could for a few seconds, and almost thought he was gaining ground when he caught a cramp and collapsed flat on his back on the sand. As he watched the gulls wheeling overhead, he heard the sound of a speedboat taking off somewhere further up the beach.
