Man In The Middle Part 9

"I'm aware of the statistics."

"Good. So you would think an address book would be like a road map from the victim to the killer. In fact, often, the killer was was in the victim's address book . . . unfortunately you don't in the victim's address book . . . unfortunately you don't know know that until you've already ID'd the killer through other means." She concluded, "A very low percentage of crimes have been solved through address books." that until you've already ID'd the killer through other means." She concluded, "A very low percentage of crimes have been solved through address books."

"Am I wasting my time?"

"Well . . . I thought you should know."

"Now I know. Thank you."

"Statistics can be useful criminological tools."

I looked at her.

"Are you sensitive to criticism?" she asked.

"Me? . . . No. Would you like a punch in the nose?" I explained, "I'm not looking for the killer, Bian. I'm trying to see who this guy a.s.sociated with, get an idea of his life."

"I see." She pointed at a name and asked me, "And what does that name tell you?"

I looked at the name Albert Tigerman. "It's a statistical fact that only .0001 percent of killers are named Albert, and less than .0001 percent of those have the surname Tigerman. Ergo, Albert moves to the bottom of our suspect pool." I smiled at her. "I love statistics."

She smiled back tightly. "Try again."

"Should I know Albert?"

"Were you a Pentagon insider . . . yes, you would instantly recognize the name."

"That's why I have you."

"Tigerman was Daniels's boss, a very powerful and influential man. He's the deputy to the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy, Thomas Hirschfield--roughly the third-highest-ranking official in the Pentagon."

"Is there a point to this?"

"You catch on quick. Why don't I leaf through the address book and you look over my shoulder? I might recognize some of these people."

I tossed her the book. She started with the A's and ran her finger down the pages quickly, moving on to the B's, and down the line. Occasionally she used a pen and stabbed a checkmark or slashed an X beside a name. I had not a clue what significance was attached to those names or to these symbols.

As you might expect, the majority of names in Cliff's book were males, some with military ranks, most not. From what I could discern, Cliff's world was the usual amalgam of work colleagues, professional contacts, and people who were important or relevant to him personally; a few doctors, his dry cleaner, and presumably some friends and social acquaintances. Less than a third were women. Also, only about a third had listed addresses, the majority limited to phone numbers, predominately from area codes 202--Washington--and 703--northern Virginia.

A few names were recognizable to me, however--several well-known members of the National Security Council staff, some senior CIA officials, a.s.sorted Pentagon muckety-mucks, and General Nicholas Westfall, commander of the Defense Intelligence Agency. For a midlevel bureaucrat, Clifford was surprisingly well connected and inside the beltway loop.

Bian was now on the T's, and she flipped back to the D's and pointed to several people with the surname Daniels she had put X's next to--a Theresa with a northern Virginia area code and a South Arlington address; a Matthew with a Manhattan address; and a Marilyn in Plano, Texas.

Bian placed her right forefinger on Theresa from South Arlington. "What do you want to bet that's his ex? This address is only a few blocks from his apartment. The other two could be his parents, siblings, or maybe cousins."

At that moment Will popped his head around the corner. In a shrill and exhilarated voice, he reported, "We broke his code word. We're diddling his hard drive."

This sounded either vulgar or ridiculous, but Bian diplomatically asked Will, "And what are you finding?"

"Well . . . it's quite intriguing. Mr. Daniels stored a lot of personal materials on his computer. Financial information. Checkbook. He did his taxes on the computer. Lots of personal correspondence, too." He added, with fraternal approval, "He was very computer-savvy . . ." then added, "but it's really weird."

Will was really weird. I kept that thought to myself, however, and asked, very sweetly, "What's weird?"

"The three encrypted folders."

"Folders?"

"Yeah . . . folders . . ." He stared at me through his thick spectacles before concluding, accurately, that his interrogator was a technological dimwit. "Like a dresser drawer in the hard drive, where you store common items . . . say, socks or underwear. Judging by the large amount of storage s.p.a.ce, they must contain multiple files. But as I said, they're encoded. Indecipherable."

I asked, "Are we talking socks or underwear?" Actually, I'm not that much of a dimwit--I knew what folders were--but this was my way of getting him to tone down the cyber gibberish. He stared back, I'm sure wishing he, or I, were someplace else, but I'm sure he got the point.

Bian decided to be helpful and asked Will, "Can you describe the code?"

"Well . . . it looks like a commercial version. The FBI and CIA tried to get Congress to ban these commercial codes, but that hasn't worked. So now there are a number of these applications out there." He looked thoughtful and added, "Mostly, though, they're employed by businesses, not individuals."

Bian and I traded glances. The obvious question was: Why would a Defense Department official suspected of espionage have a private code installed on his personal computer? Then again, the obvious is sometimes the enemy of the truth.

Will, sort of verbally rubbing his hands together, informed us, "Wow . . . I'd love to take a whack at those codes myself."

Being an idiot, I asked, "So why don't you?"

"Frankly, that could take months, particularly if it's a VPN version. That ISP protocol is . . . well, with all those symmetric ciphers . . ." He shook his head. "Now, if it's SSL, that would be better luck."

Bian was nodding. I had not a clue what Will was whining about, nor was I about to ask another stupid question and risk another stream of what pa.s.ses for technical jargon with these people and actually is alphabet diarrhea. Bian, ever the diplomat, suggested to Will, "Thank you. But wouldn't it make better sense to bring these encrypted files to the National Security Agency? They have a lot of expertise in codes and codebreaking."

This was not what Will hoped to hear, and he made a mopey little nod.

"How long will that take?" I asked Will.

"Maybe they already have experience with this code. If they have to break it from scratch, depending on the sophistication . . . a day . . . two days . . . three months. How badly do you want it?"

"Yesterday sounds about right. Tell Phyllis. She'll know whose a.s.s to kiss or kick."

"Sure." He started to walk away, then slapped his forehead and spun around. "Oh . . . there're some letters John thinks you should see."

Carrying our coffee, Bian and I got up and followed Will back to the office, where John had his nose pressed against the computer screen.

I said to John, "Will mentioned letters."

"Uh . . . yeah. I thought you should see these," John replied. "Hold on." Without looking up, he manipulated the little cursor as though it was connected to his fingertip and quickly brought a Microsoft Word file up on the screen. He said, "There are a number of these. This one's a little nastier . . . yet generally representative of what we're seeing."

Bian and I leaned over his left shoulder. I read out loud: You b.i.t.c.h, Your bloodsucking f.u.c.k of a lawyer called me again today. At work!

Wow. I stopped reading out loud, and we both read to ourselves:

I'm tired of your bulls.h.i.t threats about taking me back to court, and I'm REALLY tired of your efforts to destroy my career. I will not put up with it. You tell your hired a.s.shole not to call me at the office any-more or he'll regret it. I'll take care of him myself.Get it through your thick, b.i.t.c.hy brain: I have no more money to give. You have sucked me dry, you contemptible leech. So Lizzie has college bills-- Whoopty Doo. Tell her to get off her a.s.s and get a job. I've got to eat, live, get on with my life.Sell the G.o.dd.a.m.n house that's too big for you anyway. I don't live there anymore. By the way I drove by the house the other day. The lawn looks like s.h.i.t. The car looks like s.h.i.t. And what happened to the money I gave you to repair the roof? You ob-viously spent it on something else, you b.i.t.c.h. On what? It's my right to know. It was MY money.I would ask you to pa.s.s my love to the kids . . . of course, you won't. Anyway, you've already poi-soned their minds and hearts against me. I rue the day I ever met you. What in the h.e.l.l was I thinking when I married you? Just don't forget, if your law-yer calls me at work again, I'll make him regret it. You too. Don't underestimate me. Cliff.

I looked up from the screen. Bian and I exchanged glances. My goodness. Clearly theirs had not been a divorce on amicable terms.

Fortunately, JAG officers don't go near divorces--just wars, which generally suck, though they have one saving grace: When they're over, usually they're over.

Bian turned to John and asked, "There are more letters like this?"

"Yeah. I'm still browsing . . . but the t.i.tles don't tell if it's hate mail to his ex-wife."

I asked, "Anything else?"

"One thing. It's interesting, I guess. Mr. Daniels belonged to several online dating clubs and chat rooms."

"Tell us about that."

"Oh . . . well, he tried to erase the entries and e-mails. Everything on a hard drive is recoverable, of course. But you know how you can meet people online?"

I suppose I looked confused, because he explained, "It's more efficient. Easier."

"What is?"

"Meeting women on the computer. No need to hang around bars trying to think up clever things to say to real women."

I could see where that might be a problem for John.

Bian looked at me and remarked to him, "I've heard Drummond's best line." She suggested, "Why don't you do him a big favor and explain how this works?"

I smiled back. b.i.t.c.h. b.i.t.c.h.

John said, "With online services you pay a fee and fill out a questionnaire. It's very convenient--you answer a few questions about your likes, dislikes, hobbies, the type of person you'd prefer to date. The service culls through similar profiles filled out by women, looks for commonalities, and hooks you up electronically. Chat rooms are a free-for-all. Log in to the conversation, and maybe another member likes your style and becomes interested in you."

"You're telling me my computer's a pimp?"

"No . . . I--"

"What happens if you both lie?"

"Well . . . that can happen but--"

"And you get together and it turns out you're both stupider and ickier-looking than you said?"

Bian was stifling a laugh.

John was now staring at me like I was weird. Truly, it's a whole new world. I'm part of the older world; I don't really like being reminded of it. However, I said to John, "You've done great work. Thank you." I asked Bian, "Who notifies his ex he's dead?"

"The Arlington police."

"You know this for a fact?"

"I do. I checked before I left the office. I hate notification detail." She added, "The obligation for a military notification pertains only to uniformed military."

"Not this time. Call your pal Detective Enders. Tell him he's off the hook."

"You think that's a good idea?"

"Is it ever a bad idea to observe a suspect's expression at the instant she learns the body was discovered?"

She paused for a moment, then said, "I should've thought of that."

"Yes, you should have."

Bian made the call, and I stood looking over John's shoulder and read more letters from Cliff to his ex, and about his ex. All were post-divorce, uniformly bitter, angry, insulting, and frequently they were threatening. On a hunch, I mentioned to Bian, who was still talking with Enders, "Tell him to check for past reports of domestic violence. Restraining orders, protection orders, whatever."

That Cliff was corresponding by mail with his ex suggested, at the very least, a geographic restraining order, perhaps extending to a telephonic order. Or alternatively, this physical excommunication may have been self-imposed. When it comes to divorce, nothing ever makes sense, and you never know. It was too early to jump to conclusions, but based on the tenor of that note, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she wanted to put a bullet through his brain.

And for sure it would be easy for us, and convenient for many, were it to turn out Cliff was popped by a p.i.s.sed-off ex. Frankly, I would be a little disappointed; also, a lot relieved.

Well, we would see.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The house was on South 28th Street, a winding lane of small, double-storied, red-brick colonial homes that looked like two long lines of red-coated soldiers. The lots were tiny quarter-acre jobs, with mature oaks and elms; everything looked tidy and well-kept. The street held an old-fashioned charm; the homes were uniformly older, constructed in the late forties or the early fifties, a middle-cla.s.s enclave for men who had just survived and returned from a world war, relieved to be in one piece, ready to enjoy peacetime employment, build families, and get on with their lives. It still looked wholesome, yet dated enough that any second I expected to see Wally Cleaver come dashing around a corner chasing the Beav.

I parked the Crown Vic directly in front of Theresa's house and Bian and I got out. Cliff was right; Theresa's yard was unkempt and overgrown with weeds, a swath of tiles was missing from the roof, and the Chrysler minivan in the driveway was long overdue for a paint job, probably an oil change, a tire rotation, or better yet, a complete replacement.

Bian and I proceeded to the front stoop. I pushed the bell and we waited. After a few seconds, a woman opened the door, dressed casually in dark sweatpants and a ratty T-shirt festooned with a snarling Georgetown University bulldog and the words "Up Yours." Bian handled the introductions, remaining deliberately vague about our purpose, and very politely asked if we could step inside.

It took a stretch, yet from the photograph in Clifford's apartment, I recognized the lady. She had aged considerably, or, more charitably, her face had acquired a new character since the photograph. It was Winston Churchill who said that by the time a person reaches fifty, the story of their life is written on their face. Apparently not always, because the smiling Theresa Daniels I had observed in the photo was about fifty then; somehow, in a few intervening years, a whole new story had been etched on her face.

I guessed she had once been moderately attractive--not necessarily pretty, not even s.e.xy, but striking in a certain sharp-featured way. Cliff, as I mentioned, was fairly plain in appearance, so at least physically he had married above himself.

She was of medium size, possessing a narrow face with good bone structure, high but overly sharp cheekbones, attractive blue eyes, and a trim figure, with thin hips and wide shoulders. But, as with her house and her car, Theresa Daniels had let things slide. Her leathery skin and husky voice suggested she was a heavy smoker, possibly a heavy drinker, and we had caught her sans makeup, which, for all concerned, was seriously unfortunate. In the photo, I recalled, her hair had been brunette and coiffed in a stylish pageboy cut; it now hung below her shoulders, gray, untended, s.h.a.ggy--less a bad hair day, more a bad hair decade.

Also, I detected something in her posture and movement, a disjointed looseness, as if the spirit inside the body had run out of breath.

Anyway, she had a wary expression as she studied us, Bian in her Army field uniform and me looking natty and businesslike in my blue Brooks Brothers suit. She asked Bian, "Would you tell me what this is about?"

"I . . . it would be better if we discussed this inside."

Mrs. Daniels hooked a languid hand and we followed her inside, turning right into a living room that was small and cramped. To our left, a pair of French doors led to a matchbox dining room, and to our rear a narrow staircase led to the second floor; this was a home designed to induce claustrophobic fits.