Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

with account numbers, addresses, everything. That’s where I got Strobekker’s name.”

      “Who has access to that list?” asks Baxter.

      “Myself, Miles Turner, Jan Krislov. Maybe a few techs. That’s it. The computer handles the billing automatically. It’s a pretty sophisticated system.”

      “Who is Miles Turner?” asks Lenz.

      “He’s the primary sysop. We grew up together in Mississippi, but he lives in New York now. He’s the one who got me into this job.”

      “So you think the killer is hacking into the accounting database,” says Baxter.

      “I don’t know. Miles tells me it’s impossible, that the list is protected like nuclear launch codes, but as far as I can see it’s the only way the killer could get the names. He must have seen that master list at least once. Maybe printed it out.”

      “Not the only way,” interrupts Mayeux’s partner. “You or this Miles character could have given the list to someone. Or sold it to them.”

      I’m on the verge of telling this guy to fuck himself when Baxter asks, “Who does security for EROS?”

      “Miles,” I reply, still watching Mayeux’s scowling partner.

      “This Miles Turner is highly proficient with computers?” asks Baxter.

      “‘Highly’ doesn’t come close.”

      “He has a degree?”

      “MIT.”

      “Serious program,” says one of the younger FBI agents.

      “Graduate degree?” Baxter presses.

      “Degrees, plural. I don’t know the exact names, but his specialty is computational physics.”

      “If he’s so damned smart,” asks Mayeux’s partner, “how did Strobekker break through his security?”

      It’s clear that everyone detests this little rat as much as I do, but his question is a good one. “I don’t know. And he refuses to believe anyone has.”

      “How many techs are there?” asks Baxter.

      “Four, five. I’m not positive they have access to the master list, but I think if they wanted to see it, they could figure a way. They’re good. Miles handpicked every one.”

      The two younger FBI agents are murmuring between themselves. From the lips of the one with whippet eyes I catch, “… nail that fuck with a phone trace … subcontract some NSA geeks … next log-on … no time—” before Baxter silences them with a glare.

      “Mr. Cole,” he says gently, “if you don’t mind, we’d like you to draw us a floor plan of the EROS offices before you go.”

      This startles me. “I can’t do that.”

      “Why not?”

      “I’ve never been there.”

      “Never?”

      “They’re obsessively private about the place. Why do you need that anyway?”

      No one answers.

      “You’re not gearing up for some kind of Waco thing, are you? This is nothing like that. There’s a reason for all the secrecy. We have very famous clients.”

      “Relax,” Baxter says. “We’re not the ATF.”

      “You’re all initials to me, Mr. Baxter.”

      “We can arrest your ass right now!” yells Mayeux’s partner, finally losing control. “I don’t know why the hell we haven’t already!”

      “Go ahead!” I shout back, my anger boiling over. “You want to arrest me for linking these homicides for you? The Press might be real interested to hear a story like that. In fact, my wife knows one of the TV news anchors here from her school days. Maybe I should give her a call.”

      “Let’s everybody just calm down,” Chief Tobin booms. With his department under fire from all quarters for corruption, the last thing he needs is more press scrutiny.

      “Now can I go home?” I ask again.

      The chief looks hard at Baxter, who in turn looks to Lenz. Lenz finally gives a reserved nod. Baxter reaches into his inside jacket pocket and passes me a card. “This is the number of our headquarters in Quantico, Virginia. I want you to check in once a day for the next few days. Obviously we’ll need to speak with you again. Possibly at some length.”

      Mayeux’s partner looks like he just swallowed a cigarette butt with his coffee, but Chief Tobin’s hard gaze keeps him muzzled.

      “I’d like to study your EROS printouts on the plane,” says Lenz. “You are going to leave them with me?”

      I open my case, lift out the thick stack of pages, and drop it at the center of the table. “They’re all yours. But when Jan Krislov lands on me with both feet and a dozen lawyers, I’m going to expect some payback from you guys.”

      “Leave Krislov to us,” says Baxter.

      Measuring Daniel Baxter against my mental image of EROS’s cold-blooded CEO, I stifle a retort and turn to go. One foot is outside the doorway when Lenz says, “Mr. Cole?”

      I turn back, expecting some Columbo trick just as I taste freedom. Lenz smiles oddly. “What instrument do you play?”

      The question throws me off balance. Is this some bullshit Barbara Walters question? What kind of tree would I like to be? But of course it’s not. I do play an instrument, and somehow Lenz knows that. “Guitar,” I answer blankly.

      The psychiatrist nods, a trace of disappointment in his eyes. “Do you sing?”

      “Some people think so. I never did.”

      The rest of the group looks from me to Lenz, then back again, trying to understand this odd coda to our meeting. My bewilderment holds me in place until the psychiatrist says, “Calluses, Mr. Cole. You have well-developed calluses on the fingertips of your left hand.”

      The hand closes involuntarily. I squint at Lenz, imprinting his face in my memory, then turn and step into the hall.

      On my way out of the station, I pass a knot of middle-aged men in sweat-stained suits. They are obviously waiting for something. Their angry voices mark them as anything but Southerners, and before I am out of earshot I realize they are waiting for me.

      I quicken my steps.

      Once outside, I reflect on Dr. Lenz’s little performance. He’s an observant man. But is he smart? A smart man would simply have noted the calluses and bade me farewell. Unless he felt that quickly discovering what instrument I play was important. But even then, a smart man would have remained silent after I answered his question, leaving me mystified by his deductive skills. Yet Arthur Lenz insisted on doing a Sherlock Holmes impression for his captive audience of Lestrades. Why?

      The doctor was showing off. I don’t know why, but this is somehow important. I cannot escape the feeling that the entire low-key meeting was a carefully orchestrated interrogation designed to look and feel like anything but that. Baxter and Lenz playing good cop while the NOPD played the heavy. Or maybe it’s more complicated than that. But if they really suspect me, why not arrest me and give me the third degree? Or throw me to the out-of-state wolves who were waiting for me?

      One thing is certain. The FBI controlled that meeting. I am free because they want me free. Why do they want that? Could the FBI—like Chief Tobin—be afraid of the media? It’s possible. After seven murders—eight including Strobekker—the Bureau’s elite serial killer unit has managed to link exactly none of the crimes. Wrongly accusing the good citizen who connected the murders for them might make their precious Unit an object of ridicule on Nightline, not to mention Hard Copy, which is already feeding on the