“Good.”
Gonzales was almost 64. But in many ways he was no different now than when he was 10, 20, 30, or 40 years ago.
His deep, commanding voice always got what he wanted. Though the length and color of his hair changed, moustaches and beards appeared and disappeared, and glasses came and went, nothing could ever hide the utter coldness in his eyes.
Gonzales spoke six languages fluently. Spanish, of course. English, French, German, and Russian, plus one that he hid from almost everyone — Arabic.
He didn’t smoke or drink. Personal chefs, who were especially good with knives in and out of the kitchen, catered to his narrow culinary whims. When he did eat out, he never ordered off a standard menu. He shunned small talk. Every word always counted. He only saw women for personal pleasure. They never saw him a second time, which was probably a mutual decision.
Few people knew Gonzales. Those who worked for him never got close. They were loyal to their ruthless boss and recognized they served him at his pleasure — or life.
“What’s happening in the news?” he asked.
“Haven’t heard much today, but I do have the recording you wanted.”
Gonzales walked to his study and closed the door. Once he was alone, Gonzales sat on a Massagenius 702 Electronic Massage Chair, reupholstered in a soft Spanish leather. He adjusted the chair’s incline and stretched out. With one remote, he set the chair back to a slow, relaxing rolling pattern; with another, he turned on the CD that Alley had burned.
Luis Gonzales, formerly Ibrahim Haddad, eagerly listened to the 12-hour-old recording of Strong Nation.
“No ID. No missing persons yet?” Ellsworth phoned in, hoping for a quick identification. He figured that finding the murderer was going to be next to impossible without serious lab work, but getting a positive ID on his Jane Doe would at least provide a starting point.
“Nothing,” the overnight supervisor reported without emotion.
“You mean to tell me that after twelve fucking hours we have nothing on a missing woman in Cheviot Hills! A redheaded jogger in the middle of the whitest park in all L.A.?” The L.A. detective was furious.
“Well, we had a little problem.”
Sweet Jesus, we better not blow this, Ellsworth thought.
“We were short because of the Lamden visit. A whole bunch of the force was on OT. After the president hightailed it for the airport last night, command cut them loose.” He kept the real bad news for last. “So the fingerprints haven’t been delivered yet.”
Chapter 10
One name had been dropped from the law firm’s marquee: Marcus. The decision was costly for many reasons. Reputation aside, the change amounted to $212,453.25 in the redesign of the logo, new stationary, business cards, editorial corrections to all of the website biographies and listings, and the five-foot, gold-plated lettering that hung over the entrance to the building.
Heywood Marcus had represented the Lodge estate. He was also a conspirator in the plot to take the White House. Now he was dead — the work of the man Roarke sought to identify.
Last night, Katie Kessler argued with her lover about the very means he wanted to use to find the killer. As she walked under the new marquee, she considered what she could do to help. Our first argument. Then she laughed to herself. Son of a bitch. He did it again. He’s so damned good at it, too. Roarke made her question things that, less than a year ago, were so easy to decide.
Katie took her lunchtime in the research library where they’d made their initial discoveries together. She stayed there through the afternoon, pouring over Lexis/Nexis research on the use and abuse of FRT technology. She searched for cases where it resulted in bona fide arrests. She read arguments in support from police chiefs and narratives spelling doom from civil libertarians.
Facial Recognition Technology wasn’t going away. But Katie Kessler struggled over whether it was getting in the way.
She read editorials with dire predictions of Big Brother scenarios: how one day, surveillance cameras will be mounted on every street corner; how pedestrians will be photographed and analyzed in their own neighborhoods.
She also found cases where FRT had identified real criminals, one who had procured seventeen fraudulent driver’s licenses. Katie read about its widespread and successful use in more than eighty casinos, on school property to track potential child molesters, and at airports where suspected terrorists had been detained.
On balance, she wished she had better researched her topic before she spoke. She came to the personal conclusion that FRT shouldn’t be the sole basis for arrest. But it could be an effective instrument in helping to identify and track suspected criminals and their movements.
At 4:15, she set the privacy issues aside for good. Christ, he’s turning me into a Republican! If Roarke found his man through FRT matches, she’d live with her personal quandary.
What Katie didn’t know is that while she was working, she was also being observed by three cameras. The law firm’s security department eyes were always on, a result of technological upgrades installed in the last few months. The partners and staff were politely notified that some additional cameras were installed to prevent break-ins and theft. She never considered that the network was far greater than advertised, and that they’d ever be used for internal spying.
“Sir,” the security officer reported over the phone, “you asked me to keep you informed on any of Ms. Kessler’s prolonged studies.”
“Yes,” said Donald Witherspoon, an officious, but rising young attorney who organized the effort to equip the building with state-of-the-art surveillance measures. Roarke had met him and concluded he had asshole written all over him. Kessler resoundingly agreed.
“Where is she? What is she doing?”
“She’s in the library.” He zoomed in the hidden camera behind her, reconfirming what he’d already discovered. He switched to a second and third angle. “Ms. Kessler is reading up on something called FRT. The print is a little too small to tell for sure. But she’s scrolling through some cases or opinions. We have to get some better lenses in there, sir.”
The security guard’s explanation made Witherspoon sit up. He called up an office log on his computer. Kessler. Kessler. He found her name and scrolled down her current assignments. Nothing associated with FRT. What’s that cunt up to?
“How long has she been at it?”
“About four hours. Lexis/Nexis. Google. Harvard Law Library online. She’s got a pad full of notes.”
Notes for a case she’s not working on? This worried Witherspoon. She’d been seen with the Secret Service agent. There were even rumors that she had made a quick trip to D.C. the morning of the inauguration, the morning that Teddy Lodge was killed. Why? Kessler never spoke about it, but she didn’t deny she was seeing a man in Washington.
“Thank you, Freddie. I’ll just go down and say hello. But it’s all fine, and I appreciate you keeping me posted.”
“Yes, sir.” The security officer hung up and turned to his other cameras.
“Good afternoon, Katie,” Witherspoon said, feigning real interest. He looked like he had reason to be in the archives, with two thick volumes in hand.
Katie looked up. “Donald.”
Witherspoon busied himself for a moment, returning the books to a shelf. When he finished, he was standing directly behind her.