The Blue Nowhere Read online

  Will looked around. "You see him?"

  "Not now."

  He asked, "You have that Web site, right? About how women can protect themselves."

  "That's right."

  "You think he knows about it? Maybe he's harassing you."

  "Could be. You'd be surprised at the hate mail I get."

  He reached for his cell phone. "You want to call the police?"

  She debated.

  Never feel too embarrassed or proud to ask for help.

  "No, no. Just . . . would you mind, after we get the pictures, walking me to my car?"

  Will smiled. "Of course not. I don't exactly know karate but I can yell for help with the best of them."

  She laughed. "Thanks."

  They walked along the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and she checked out the cars. As in every parking lot in Silicon Valley there were dozens of Saabs, BMWs and Lexuses. No vans, though. No kids. No bloody smears.

  Will nodded toward where he'd parked, in the back lot. He said, "You see him?"

  "No."

  They walked past a stand of juniper and toward his car, a spotless silver Jaguar.

  Jesus, did everybody in Silicon Valley have money except her?

  He dug the keys out of his pocket. They walked to the trunk. "I only took two rolls at the wedding. But some of them are pretty good." He opened the trunk and paused and then looked around the parking lot. She did too. It was completely deserted. His was the only car there.

  Will glanced at her. "You were probably wondering about the dreads."

  "Dreads?"

  "Yeah," he said. "The dreadlocks." His voice was flatter, distracted. He was still smiling but his face was different now. It seemed hungry.

  "What do you mean?" she asked calmly but fear was detonating inside her. She noticed a chain was blocking the entrance to the back parking lot. And she knew he'd hooked it after he'd pulled in--to make sure nobody else could park there.

  "It was a wig."

  Oh, Jesus, my Lord, thought Lara Gibson, who hadn't prayed in twenty years.

  He looked into her eyes, recording her fear. "I parked the Jag here a while ago then stole the van and followed you from home. With the combat jacket and wig on. You know, just so you'd get edgy and paranoid and want me to stay close. . . . I know all your rules--that urban protection stuff. Never go into a deserted parking lot with a man. Married men with children are safer than single men. And my family portrait? In my wallet? I hacked it together from a picture in Parents magazine."

  She whispered hopelessly, "You're not . . . ?"

  "Sandy's cousin? Don't even know him. I picked Will Randolph because he's somebody you sort of know, who sort of looks like me. I mean, there's no way in the world I could've gotten you out here alone if you hadn't known me--or thought you did. Oh, you can take your hand out of your purse." He held up her canister of pepper spray. "I got it when we were walking outside."

  "But . . ." Sobbing now, shoulders slumped in hopelessness. "Who are you? You don't even know me. . . ."

  "Not true, Lara," he whispered, studying her anguish the way an imperious chess master examines his defeated opponent's face. "I know everything about you. Everything in the world."

  CHAPTER 00000010 / TWO

  Slowly, slowly . . .

  Don't damage them, don't break them.

  One by one the tiny screws eased from the black plastic housing of the small radio and fell into the young man's long, exceedingly muscular fingers. Once, he nearly stripped the minuscule threads of one screw and had to stop, sit back in his chair and gaze out his small window at the overcast sky blanketing Santa Clara County until he'd relaxed. The time was eight A.M. and he'd been at this arduous task for over two hours.

  Finally all twelve screws securing the radio housing were removed and placed on the sticky side of a yellow Post-it. Wyatt Gillette removed the chassis of the Samsung and studied it.

  His curiosity, as always, plunged forward like a racehorse. He wondered why the designers had allowed this amount of space between the boards, why the tuner used string of this particular gauge, what the proportion of metals in the solder was.

  Maybe this was the optimal design, but maybe not.

  Maybe the engineers had been lazy or distracted.

  Was there a better way to build the radio?

  He continued dismantling it, unscrewing the circuit boards themselves.

  Slowly, slowly . . .

  At twenty-nine Wyatt Gillette had the hollow face of a man who was six feet, one inch tall and weighed 154 pounds, a man about whom people were always thinking, Somebody should fatten him up. His hair was dark, nearly black, and hadn't been recently trimmed or washed. On his right arm was a clumsy tattoo of a seagull flying over a palm tree. Faded blue jeans and a gray work shirt hung loosely on him.

  He shivered in the chill spring air. A tremor made his fingers jerk and he stripped the slot in the head of one tiny screw. He sighed in frustration. As talented mechanically as Gillette was, without the proper equipment you can only do so much and he was now using a screwdriver he'd made from a paper clip. He had no tools other than it and his fingernails. Even a razor blade would have been more efficient but that was something not to be found here, in Gillette's temporary home, the medium-security Federal Men's Correctional Facility in San Jose, California.

  Slowly, slowly . . .

  Once the circuit board was dismantled he located the holy grail he'd been after--a small gray transistor--and he bent its tiny wires until they fatigued. He then mounted the transistor to the small circuit board he'd been working on for months, carefully twining together the wire leads.

  Just as he finished, a door slammed nearby and footsteps sounded in the corridor. Gillette looked up, alarmed.

  Someone was coming to his cell. Oh, Christ, no, he thought.

  The footsteps were about twenty feet away. He slipped the circuit board he'd been working on into a copy of Wired magazine and shoved the components back into the housing of the radio. He set it against the wall.

  He lay back on the cot and began flipping through another magazine, 2600, the hacking journal, praying to the general-purpose god that even atheist prisoners start bargaining with soon after they land in jail: Please let them not roust me. And if they do, please let them not find the circuit board.

  The guard looked through the peephole and said, "Position, Gillette."

  The inmate stood and stepped to the back of the room, hands on his head.

  The guard entered the small, dim cell. But this wasn't, as it turned out, a roust. The man didn't even look around the cell; he silently shackled Gillette's hands in front of him and led him out the door.

  At the intersection of hallways where the administrative seclusion wing ran into the general population wing the guard turned and led his prisoner down a corridor that wasn't familiar to Gillette. The sounds of music and shouts from the exercise yard faded and in a few minutes he was directed into a small room furnished with a table and two benches, both bolted to the floor. There were rings on the table for an inmate's shackles though the guard didn't hook Gillette's to them.

  "Sit down."

  Gillette did.

  The guard left and the door slammed, leaving Gillette alone with his curiosity and itchy desire to get back to his circuit board. He sat shivering in the windowless room, which seemed to be less a place in the Real World than a scene from a computer game, one set in medieval times. This cell, he decided, was the chamber where the bodies of heretics broken on the rack were left to await the high executioner's ax.

  Thomas Frederick Anderson was a man of many names.

  Tom or Tommy in his grade school days.

  A dozen handles like Stealth and CryptO when he'd been a high school student in Menlo Park, California, running bulletin boards and hacking on Trash-80s and Commodores and Apples.

  He'd been T.F. when he'd worked for the security departments of AT&T and Sprint and Cellular One, tracking down hackers and phone phr
eaks and call jackers (the initials, colleagues decided, stood for "Tenacious Fucker," in light of his 97 percent success record in helping the cops catch the perps).

  As a young police detective in San Jose he'd had another series of names--he'd been known as Courtney 334 or Lonelygirl or BrittanyT in online chat rooms, where in the personas of fourteen-year-old girls he'd written awkward messages to pedophiles, who would e-mail seductive propositions to these fictional dream girls and then drive to suburban shopping malls for romantic liaisons, only to find that their dates were in fact a half-dozen cops armed with a warrant and guns.

  Nowadays he was usually called either Dr. Anderson--when introduced at computer conferences--or just plain Andy. In official records, though, he was Lieutenant Thomas F. Anderson, chief of the California State Police Computer Crimes Unit.

  The lanky man, forty-five years old, with thinning curly brown hair, now walked down a chill, damp corridor beside the pudgy warden of the San Jose Correctional Facility--San Ho, as it was called by perps and cops alike. A solidly built Latino guard accompanied them.

  They continued down the hallway until they came to a door. The warden nodded. The guard opened it and Anderson stepped inside, eyeing the prisoner.

  Wyatt Gillette was very pale--he had a "hacker tan," as the pallor was ironically called--and quite thin. His hair was filthy, as were his fingernails. Gillette apparently hadn't showered or shaved in days.

  The cop noticed an odd look in Gillette's dark brown eyes; he was blinking in recognition. He asked, "You're . . . are you Andy Anderson?"

  "That's Detective Anderson," the warden corrected, his voice a whip crack.

  "You run the state's computer crimes division," Gillette said.

  "You know me?"

  "I heard you lecture at Comsec a couple of years ago."

  The Comsec conference on computer and network security was limited to documented security professionals and law enforcers; it was closed to outsiders. Anderson knew it was a national pastime for young hackers to try to crack into the registration computer and issue themselves admission badges. Only two or three had ever been able to do so in the history of the conference.

  "How'd you get in?"

  Gillette shrugged. "I found a badge somebody dropped."

  Anderson nodded skeptically. "What'd you think of my lecture?"

  "I agree with you: silicon chips'll be outmoded faster than most people think. Computers'll be running on molecular electronics. And that means users'll have to start looking at a whole new way to protect themselves against hackers."

  "Nobody else felt that way at the conference."

  "They heckled you," Gillette recalled.

  "But you didn't?"

  "No. I took notes."

  The warden leaned against the wall while the cop sat down across from Gillette and said, "You've got one year left on a three-year sentence under the federal Computer Fraud and Abuse Act. You cracked Western Software's machines and stole the source codes for most of their programs, right?"

  Gillette nodded.

  The source code is the brains and heart of software, fiercely guarded by its owner. Stealing it lets the thief easily strip out identification and security codes then repackage the software and sell it under his own name. Western Software's source codes for the company's games, business applications and utilities were its main assets. If an unscrupulous hacker had stolen the codes he might have put the billion-dollar company out of business.

  Gillette pointed out: "I didn't do anything with the codes. I erased them after I downloaded them."

  "Then why'd you crack their systems?"

  The hacker shrugged. "I saw the head of the company on CNN or something. He said nobody could get into their network. Their security systems were foolproof. I wanted to see if that was true."

  "Were they?"

  "As a matter of fact, yeah, they were foolproof. The problem is that you don't have to protect yourself against fools. You have to protect yourself against people like me."

  "Well, once you'd broken in why didn't you tell the company about the security flaws? Do a white hat?"

  White hats were hackers who cracked into computer systems and then pointed out the security flaws to their victims. Sometimes for the glory of it, sometimes for money. Sometimes even because they thought it was the right thing to do.

  Gillette shrugged. "It's their problem. That guy said that it couldn't be done. I just wanted to see if I could."

  "Why?"

  Another shrug. "Curious."

  "Why'd the feds come down on you so hard?" Anderson asked. If a hacker doesn't disrupt business or try to sell what he steals the FBI rarely even investigates, let alone refers a case to the U.S. attorney.

  It was the warden who answered. "The reason is the DoD."

  "Department of Defense?" Anderson asked, glancing at a gaudy tattoo on Gillette's arm. Was that an airplane? No, it was a bird of some kind.

  "It's bogus," Gillette muttered. "Complete bullshit."

  The cop looked at the warden, who explained, "The Pentagon thinks he wrote some program or something that cracked the DoD's latest encryption software."

  "Their Standard 12?" Anderson gave a laugh. "You'd need a dozen supercomputers running full-time for six months to crack a single e-mail."

  Standard 12 had recently replaced DES--the Defense Encryption Standard--as the state-of-the-art encryption software for the government. It was used to encrypt secret data and messages. The encryption program was so important to national security that it was considered a munition under the export laws.

  Anderson continued, "But even if he did crack something encoded with Standard 12, so what? Everybody tries to crack encryptions."

  There was nothing illegal about this as long as the encrypted document wasn't classified or stolen. In fact, many software manufacturers dare people to try to break documents encrypted with their programs and offer prizes to anybody who can do so.

  "No," Gillette explained. "The DoD's saying that I cracked into their computer, found out something about how Standard 12 works and then wrote some script that decrypts the document. It can do it in seconds."

  "Impossible," Anderson said, laughing. "Can't be done."

  Gillette said, "That's what I told them. They didn't believe me."

  Yet as Anderson studied the man's quick eyes, hollow beneath dark brows, hands fidgeting impatiently in front of him, he wondered if maybe the hacker actually had written a magic program like this. Anderson himself couldn't have done it; he didn't know anybody who could. But after all, the cop was here now, hat in hand, because Gillette was a wizard, the term used by hackers to describe those among them who've reached the highest levels of skill in the Machine World.

  There was a knock on the door and the guard let two men inside. The first one, fortyish, had a lean face, dark blond hair swept back and frozen in place with hairspray. Honest-to-God sideburns too. He wore a cheap gray suit. His overwashed white shirt was far too big for him and was halfway untucked. He glanced at Gillette without a splinter of interest. "Sir," he said to the warden in a flat voice. "I'm Detective Frank Bishop, state police, Homicide." He nodded an anemic greeting to Anderson and fell silent.

  The second man, a little younger, much heavier, shook the warden's hand then Anderson's. "Detective Bob Shelton." His face was pockmarked from childhood acne.

  Anderson didn't know anything about Shelton but he'd talked to Bishop and had mixed feelings concerning his involvement in the case Anderson was here about. Bishop was supposedly a wizard in his own right though his expertise lay in tracking down killers and rapists in hard-scrabble neighborhoods like the Oakland waterfront, Haight-Ashbury and the infamous San Francisco Tenderloin. Computer Crimes wasn't authorized--or equipped--to run a homicide like this one without somebody from the Violent Crimes detail but, after several brief phone discussions with Bishop, Anderson was not impressed. The homicide cop seemed humorless and distracted and, more troubling, knew zero about computers.
/>   Anderson had also heard that Bishop himself didn't even want to be working with Computer Crimes. He'd been lobbying for the MARINKILL case--so named by the FBI for the site of the crime: Several days ago three bank robbers had murdered two bystanders and a cop at a Bank of America branch in Sausalito in Marin County and had been seen headed east, which meant they might very well turn south toward Bishop's present turf, the San Jose area.

  Now, in fact, the first thing Bishop did was to check the screen of his cell phone, presumably to see if he had a page or message about a reassignment.

  Anderson said to the detectives, "You gentlemen want to sit down?" Nodding at the benches around the metal table.

  Bishop shook his head and remained standing. He tucked his shirt in then crossed his arms. Shelton sat down next to Gillette. Then the bulky cop looked distastefully at the prisoner and got up, sat on the other side of the table. To Gillette he muttered, "You might want to wash up sometime."

  The convict retorted, "You might want to ask the warden why I only get one shower a week."

  "Because, Wyatt," the warden said patiently, "you broke the prison rules. That's why you're in administrative seclusion."

  Anderson didn't have the patience or time for squabbles. He said to Gillette, "We've got a problem and we're hoping you'll help us with it." He glanced at Bishop and asked, "You want to brief him?"

  According to state police protocol Frank Bishop was technically in charge of the case. But the lean detective shook his head. "No, sir, you can go ahead."

  "Last night a woman was abducted from a restaurant in Cupertino. She was murdered and her body found in Portola Valley. She'd been stabbed to death. She wasn't sexually molested and there's no apparent motive.

  "Now, this victim, Lara Gibson, ran a Web site and lectured about how women can protect themselves. She'd been in the press a lot and was on Larry King. Well, what happens is, she's in a bar and this guy comes in who seems to know her. He gives his name as Will Randolph, the bartender said. That's the name of the cousin of the woman the victim was going to meet for dinner last night. Randolph wasn't involved--he's been in New York for a week--but we found a digital picture of him on the victim's computer and they look alike, the suspect and Randolph. We think that's why the perp picked him to impersonate.

  "So, he knows all this information about her. Friends, where she's traveled, what she does, what stocks she owns, who her boyfriend is. It even looked like he waved to somebody in the bar but Homicide canvassed most of the patrons who were there last night and didn't find anybody who knew him. So we think he was faking--you know, to put her at ease, making it look like he was a regular."