He also made mistakes. When he tried for information on Calais, DeBolt wound up on the seaside in France. It was just like any computer — garbage in, garbage out. A mile farther on, stopping at a red light, he pulled next to a small Audi whose female driver, a very attractive blonde, glanced his way and locked eyes for a moment. But only for a moment. He began with the license plate number, and by the time they reached the next light he knew her name: Christina Fontaine. He also knew that she was a recent graduate of Brown, cum laude, newly employed by a local accounting firm, and quite active in various green-leaning movements. She was single, active on at least one online dating service, and had $6,503.26 in her Bank of America Preferred Awards account.
What some guys would give for this, he thought.
It was like being a voyeur, peeking into the lives of others at will. It was also profoundly distressing. The internet offered information to everyone, but only to a point. DeBolt’s new faculties went far beyond that. It was more akin being a hacker, he imagined, only without the days and nights spent cracking passwords, and without constantly looking over one’s electronic shoulder for a cyber-crimes task force. As far as he could tell, he’d somehow acquired a pass — unlimited access without the attribution or headaches. At least not the metaphorical kind.
There were noticeable quirks to whatever network had found him. Most obvious — the length of time for responses varied. Some information came almost immediately, while other inquiries took minutes to fulfill. He was not surprised that Christina Fontaine’s bank balance had been particularly slow in coming — in truth, he was heartened. His secret server had worked overtime for that one. He watched her pull away from the stoplight in a flourish of blond hair and gleaming metallic paint. As she did so, that final thought remained lodged in DeBolt’s head. A bank account. Everybody had one, unless they were penniless … or dead.
He fell back and hooked a turn into a pleasant-looking neighborhood, less a conscious decision than an impulse to get out of sight. With the gas tank running low and five dollars in his pocket, his immediate need was obvious. He needed money, and while he’d never before sunk to thievery, DeBolt saw little recourse but to leverage his newfound abilities in that direction. He had to find a way.
He regarded the homes on a quiet suburban street in ways he never had before. Front doors, coach lights, newspapers in driveways. A canopy of trees formed an archway above the road, filtering light and expanding shadows. When performing rescues DeBolt had always preferred the light of day, yet being hunted brought a new perspective. He edged the car toward darkened curbs and coasted behind stands of foliage. The neighborhood was tony, large and elegant residences on one-acre lots, towers of brick and mortar that seemed more statements than homes. Unlike so many developments where the land was first clear-cut, the houses here had been trenched into the surrounding forest. Which made for good cover.
At an intersection he paused to check the road name, then continued slowly and combined that with the numbers on mailboxes. It was difficult at first, certain requests denied, formats not recognized. After much trial and error, however, responses began to flow.
87 MILL STREET: OWNERS OF RECORD, MR. AND MRS. JAMES REDIFER.
DeBolt saw two cars in the driveway. He kept going.
90 MILL STREET: OWNERS OF RECORD, DON AND LINDA BRUNS.
No cars in the driveway. DeBolt paused, until he discovered that Linda was a local veterinarian whose office was closed today.
After five inquiries, DeBolt touched the brake pedal for the first time at 98 Mill Street: Owners, Paul and Lori Thompson. No cars in the driveway. More pertinently, Paul Thompson was the principal registered owner of a defunct hedge fund. He had recently been arrested and charged with embezzlement, and was currently awaiting arraignment in a New York City federal detention facility. He was also fighting tax-evasion charges from the IRS. DeBolt pursued the legal trail and, by means he could not envision, discovered that a warrant was pending judicial approval for a search of Thompson’s homes in New York, Key West, and Maine.
Also unearthed: Lori Thompson, apparently unfazed by her husband’s professional exertions, had used her credit card this morning at Saks Fifth Avenue, Macy’s, and a Starbucks in Manhattan. DeBolt also learned the couple had no children, presumably increasing the odds that no one was presently in the house. He weighed other methods to confirm that the home was unoccupied, and targeted the Eastern Main Electric Cooperative. After a ninety-second delay, he was looking at the previous month’s electric bilclass="underline" $42.12. This for a home of at least five thousand square feet. He was satisfied. Nobody was home at 98 Mill Street.
He pulled the Caddy a block down the street and parked in front of a vacant lot. DeBolt got out and looked all around. Once again, he left the engine running.
15
It was midmorning when Lund put in a call to Fred McDermott, the Coast Guard’s FAA liaison for Alaska. McDermott worked out of Anchorage, and when he didn’t pick up, she left a message explaining what she needed. He called back at two that afternoon.
“Well, I found that jet you were looking for,” he said in his gravel-edged voice. The same voice Lund would have someday if she didn’t stop smoking.
“Did it land in Anchorage?”
“Actually, no. They changed their destination once they got airborne — said they were diverting.”
“Diverting? Is that common?”
“Not common,” he said, “but it happens. Sometimes you have to land at a different airport because the weather at your original destination goes bad, or maybe due to a mechanical problem. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t any of that. No record of an emergency, and the weather that night was fine.”
“So why would they have gone elsewhere?”
“Business jets do it now and again, generally for corporate reasons — maybe a meeting schedule changes. Private owners might change their minds about which vacation home they want to visit. There aren’t any rules against altering a destination.”
“So where did they go?”
“They refiled their flight plan for Minneapolis.”
“Minneapolis?”
“That was the first change. You piqued my curiosity, so I tracked the jet as far as I could. Bear in mind, this requires transiting a foreign country. Canada is more inviting than most — they charge for air traffic services, so every time an airplane goes through their airspace it’s money in the bank. This jet flew southeast through British Columbia all the way to Manitoba. Reentered U.S. airspace in northern Minnesota, and at that point they canceled and went VFR.”
“VFR? What’s that?”
“Visual flight rules. Basically, they said bye-bye to air traffic control. Below eighteen thousand feet you can do that, go anywhere you want without being tracked.”
“So there’s no way to tell where this jet ended up?”
“Not really. But there is one way you could get an idea of their intentions.”
“How?” asked Lund.
“I do a little flying myself, and I happen to know that aviation fuel is outrageously expensive in Kodiak. The government wouldn’t care, mind you, but no private jet operator is going to buy an ounce of fuel more than necessary.”
Seeing where he was going, Lund scrounged through the pile of papers on her desk for the servicing records she’d printed out earlier. “How much gas would a jet like that need to get to Anchorage?”