Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(72)
“So forty million was a lowball.”
“Not even in the ballpark,” said June. “But she wouldn’t have taken any amount. She was pretty stubborn.”
Just like her daughter, thought Peter as June turned back to the keyboard and typed another message.
“Did Tyg3r discover the identity of the third party mentioned in the email?”
No. This program was unable to penetrate the security of law firm Sydney Bucknell Sparks, where the email originated.
“Has Tyg3r discovered more information since February 7?”
This program was not requested to do so.
“Has Tyg3r advanced in its capabilities since the last request?”
Yes.
“Please try again. Do this and every future action in a manner that cannot be traced back to this computer or this user personally.”
Multiple variable proxy servers are already in use. Please wait.
A blur of smaller windows popped up on the screen, overlapping each other in a fractal pattern, like tree leaves, in a constantly shifting and growing pattern, tens of windows, then hundreds. The effect was hypnotic. Peter glanced from the road to the screen and back. This went on for ten or fifteen minutes, long enough for Peter to make it through downtown, Puget Sound on the left with the Olympic Mountains on the far side, the raised highway providing an excellent view, then through a tunnel and back on the surface in a dip between two big hills, getting closer to their destination.
Then the windows began disappearing, one by one, slowly at first, then more rapidly, until the screen was left with only four small windows open in the bottom right corner of the home screen with its simple empty text box and a response below:
Sydney Bucknell Sparks’s corporate servers and Jean-Pierre Nicolet’s personal computer are very well protected against intrusion. This program has obtained administrator-level access to both systems.
The cockroach, thought Peter, was definitely getting smarter.
He wondered if that tone of pride had been programmed into the software’s interface.
June opened the windows. One was a Mac desktop with a photo of an empty racquetball court, which Peter took to be Nicolet’s personal computer. The second window was open to the law firm’s website. The third was a commercial email program with Nicolet’s work email address at the top. The fourth was the server’s main dashboard.
“Shit,” she said. “We just hacked a law firm.”
“Not me,” said Peter. “Definitely not me. But you should search Nicolet’s work email.”
They crossed a long high bridge over a canal, a lake on the right and a narrow channel through to the sound now on the left. Peter made himself keep his eyes on the road. He didn’t like the clouds, but he definitely liked the geography.
June wasn’t looking at the view. “I just did a search on his work email using my mom’s name,” she said. “But all I got was the same email string back and forth between her and Nicolet. We’ve seen these already.”
“What about anything coming in? We want to know who asked Nicolet to make the offer.”
June scrolled through her search. “These look like the only emails with Hazel Cassidy anywhere in the From, To, or the body of the email.”
“What about another member of the law firm?”
June clicked over to the dashboard and worked her way through to a server-wide email overview and did the same search. It took a few minutes. The same email string. No other mention of June’s mom.
June said, “I’m going over to his personal computer to look at his email there.” She clicked and typed while Peter navigated the off-ramp and worked his way west through surface streets. Newer mid-rise condos competed with heavily renovated homes, old apartment buildings, and beat-up shacks that looked like one minor quake away from collapse.
“Three email addresses. His work email, another address with messages about, let’s see, dinner plans, eighth-grade basketball games, a guys’ night out. And a third address that it looks like he uses when he’s shopping online. His new North Face raincoat has shipped.”
She ran the search again on all three and came up with nothing.
“We’re here.” Peter pulled up in front of the next address on their list. Jason Ross had lived in a row of two-story town houses with underground parking and high steel gates protecting the courtyard.
“Hang on,” said June. “I’m going to do another search. This time for the word ‘algorithm.’” She typed and clicked. “Shit. The list is like, three thousand emails.”
“I’m just going to look,” Peter said, and got out of the car. Both the courtyard gates and the garage door had no card or button access, and probably required some kind of electronic key fob to open. A round black camera lens eyeballed him from each location. To top things off, someone had posted a sign on the gate that read, “To help maintain building security, please do not allow anyone you do not know personally into the building.” And a little smiley face.
If the goal was to limit casual burglars, it sure worked on Peter.
He walked along the fence, looking for Ross’s address, more to have done something than in any expectation he’d actually learn anything. It was the middle unit, with a little overhang and a big picture window. The blinds were open, and Peter could see a giant television, a framed Army recruiting poster, and a plush teddy bear perched on an end table, facing the gate, almost like a pet waiting for its owner to come home. A little sad. And now Ross was dead.