Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(73)

“That’s nothing but a key to something,” Bob said.



* * *



—

LUCAS FOUGHT through the FBI bureaucracy to get on the line with Roger Smith, the FBI computer tech. “Do you have Jim Ritter’s laptop handy?”

“It’s in a lockup, but I can get it in a minute or two.”

“I got some numbers for you,” Lucas said.

“Hang on.”



* * *



—

LUCAS HUNG ON, and Bob said to Rae, “If this works, I’m probably going to have to kiss Lucas’s ass. You might not want to be here for that.”

“No time for it anyway,” Lucas said. “If this works, we need to get down to Quantico and check this stuff out.”

Rae: “Why? We’ll just have him email it to us.”

Lucas rubbed his face, and sighed. “Shit. You know, deep in my heart, I don’t understand that we don’t always have to go places to get things anymore,” Lucas said. “I was about to drive an hour over to the Medical Examiner’s Office to look at Ritter’s belt. The investigator sent me the iPhone photos in seven minutes. Kind of scizzes me out, the way it comes out of the sky now.”



* * *



—

SMITH CAME BACK to the phone, said, “We’re up and running. What’s your best guess?”

Lucas read the string of numbers and letters to him, and the tech typed them in, and said, “Nothing.”

“Maybe it’s backward, or whatever,” Lucas said.

“Or maybe I mistyped something. I’m going to read them back to you,” the tech said.

He did, and, toward the end of the string, said, “ddo6g9.”

Lucas said, “Wait. Wait. Toward the end of the string, it should be bdo, not ddo . . .”

The tech said, “Wait one . . .” and then, “Shazam! We’re in.”

“I could come down and look at it, but if you could send the stuff, it’d be a hell of a lot quicker.”

“I can send it. What’s that chick’s name, the one working with you?” Smith asked.

“You mean Rae?” Lucas looked at Rae.

“Yeah, the pretty one . . . the basketball player.”

“Rae.” To Rae, quietly: “He kinda likes your looks.”

“Well, naturally,” she said.

Smith: “Gimme her email and yours. I’m going to send her a string like the one you sent me . . . a different one, of course . . . and I’ll send all the texts and emails in one long file to your email. We’ll keep them separate so nobody can see both at the same time. You’ll need to enter the code to read them. It’s a onetime code, nobody else will be able to use it after you do. Not even you. Of course, if you open the files on your computer and save them in plain text, and somebody takes the computer away from you, they’ve got it.”

“I’ll open it on my iPad. I got Touch ID,” Lucas said.

“Didn’t this Ritter guy lose his fingers?” Smith asked.

“Yeah,” Lucas said. “I won’t do that.”

“Gimme Rae’s email.”

“Don’t hit on her,” Lucas said.

“Hey, I’m with the FBI. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity—FBI.”



* * *



—

SMITH SAID IT WOULD TAKE a while to put a file together, and they sat and restlessly watched a Nationals game for twenty-five minutes, then Lucas’s iPad dinged, and the file came in. A minute later, a string of letters and numbers came in for Rae: “Hey, sugar bun, I’d gr8ly like 2 take U out 4 a drink someday.”

“That can’t possibly be the code,” Rae said.

Bob: “Sure it is. Remember what he said about using regular sentences as keys? And what Lucas told him about hitting on you? He’s delivering the encryption code and hitting on you at the same time.”

“He’s not a bad-looking guy, either,” Rae said. “Tall. Intelligent.”

“Bald,” Bob said.

Lucas said, “Jesus, Rae, just type the fuckin’ thing into my file.”

She did, and the new file opened up: twelve documents and thirty emails.

“Not much,” Rae said.

“Ritter was disciplined,” Lucas said. “Probably cleans out stuff he’s not using.”

“Even though he knows we could never crack the encryption without the code?” Bob asked.

“Even then,” Lucas said. “If you got something you don’t need, get rid of it.” He thought about the Ritter bank statement he’d flushed.



* * *



—

BUT RITTER WASN’T PERFECTLY DISCIPLINED.

The longer files contained details of shipments to Libya, Niger, and Iraq from Heracles—there were no details of what the shipments might be—that Ritter, McCoy, and Moore would be escorting to their final destinations. There were names of recipients and places mentioned, along with notes on briefing times, and, occasionally, enigmatic labels that seemed to Lucas to be cautionary: “Maziq is reliable and knows his way around, and he’s always got protection, both physical and political, so you’ll be okay there,” and, “You can’t count on Jibril to back you up if push comes to shove (which it won’t). Be aware that he’s belonged to four different militias that we know of, and they’re not friendly with each other, so he’s a guy who’s willing to change beliefs like he changes his shorts. If he changes his shorts . . .”