A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(108)

Lots of readouts and sliding bars and flashing lights on the screen. Peppers watched them as she listened for indicators of manipulation. Shook her head slowly.

“I’m going to reduce the speed. Slowing can reveal sounds incongruous to the flow of the music or the voice, or whatever, distortions that would be missed when playing at regular speeds.”

She typed in the command. A few seconds, then, “There. Do you hear that?” Raising an index finger, eyes now closed for better concentration.

Unconsciously, I leaned in. Behind me, I felt Slidell mash closer to my chair. Bend lower, so his breath was hot on my neck.

At first, nothing. Then I caught it. Tiny hitches in Body’s gravelly voice. A quick note here and there of higher or lower pitch.

“Yes.” Heart pumping fast. “What is it? Are you able to decode what’s been hidden?”

“Unfortunately, no. I can say this file demands more analysis to determine if something else is there, but without a lot more digging, I can’t tell you what it is.” Peppers leaned back and turned to face me. Instead of elated, she seemed wary.

“What?” I asked.

“The problem is, the whole thing seems unwieldy.”

“Unwieldy.”

“I’m not sure an audio file like this would have enough space”—she hooked air quotes around the last word—“to contain a whole image, much less a video. An image could be spread across several MP3 files, I suppose …” She didn’t sound convinced.

“Go on.”

“OK, say a buyer forks over for a bundle of podcasts. They’re expensive but not crazy. How much could Body make off this type of operation? As a distribution system for child porn, it would be reasonably secure and keep him at arm’s length. And the images would be hard to detect. But profitable?”

Though my mind was in hyperdrive, my thoughts were tracking along the same lines.

“Holy bleeding Jesus.” Slidell straightened like a marionette yanked up by strings. Shot a hand through his hair. “So you’re sayin’ we still got nothing on this bastard?”

“I’ll keep at it,” Peppers said, tipping both palms in a gesture meant to calm.

It didn’t. With one final growl, Slidell turned and thundered out, nostrils flaring, looking ready to dog-dare anyone to get in his way.

Exiting police headquarters, I was overwhelmed with feelings of anger and self-blame. Body was going to skate, and that was partly my fault. What if I’d done more? Been smarter? Confronted Heavner earlier? Pushed Duncan Keesing harder? Been more conscientious about backing up my laptop? Spotted something in one of those lost images? Hadn’t been so damn preoccupied with the state of my brain? A million what-ifs.

And I was running out of time. In a few short hours, I had to board a flight to Montreal. Driving toward home, I felt myself clawing for sanity with ten ragged nails.



* * *



Mittie Peppers rang at twelve past five. I recall noting the time on my phone. Trepidation must have seared the glowing digits into my memory.

I’d just finished packing, which took ten minutes. Lacking enthusiasm for couture or maquillage, I’d simply tossed random items into a Rollaboard. Business suit for court. Beyond that, whatever.

“I’ve got it.” Unlike earlier, Peppers now sounded jazzed.

“You managed to open an image?”

“Not exactly. Can you come back uptown?”

“You bet your ass.”

Slidell arrived as I did. We ascended together. He smelled extra-ripe, even for Skinny. The reek of frustration and sleep deprivation.

Once in her lab, Peppers wasted no time. As we reconvened at the same computer, she said, “Body’s not hiding images. He’s hiding links and passwords.”

We both stared at the back of her head.

“It’s a double-layered setup. The message hidden in the steg podcast is a URL, many fewer bytes than an image.” Pointing to a string of text displayed on the screen. “Once the buyer uses the special program to decode and display the link on his or her computer, he or she copies or clicks on it, and the browser loops to another window.”

“You’re unbelievable. How did you—”

“Open it.” Slidell’s barked command was like a slap, quick and painful.

“Not that simple,” Peppers said. “For added security, Body requires a password to access the URL.”

“Sonofafreakinbitch.”

“Fear not, detective. After attempting beaucoup manipulations—I won’t burden you with the fine points—I cracked the bastard.”

Returning to the Body Language homepage, Peppers pointed to the tab labeled “Support Our Efforts.” “I won’t go into detail now, but the buyer gets to decode the password, also hidden in the podcast, by making a five-thousand-dollar donation here.”

“That explains profitability.” My mouth and throat felt rough and dry.

“It does.”

“So what do these maggots get for their money?”

Peppers returned to the original screen and indicated a second string of text that I hadn’t noticed before. “That’s our password. Alert your boss, detective. My department will be billing yours.”

“Do it!” Slidell snapped.

Peppers clicked on the link. The screen shifted to the new URL. A rectangular box demanded a password. She entered the $5,000 string of text.