“Hey Dabs,” I yelled.
“Muthaaafuck …The Harry and Carson Show is back on stage.”
“Why we’re calling, Dabs … we got a potential bad guy on CCTV vid, and would really like to know if he’s in FBI files. Local mug shots are coming up blank. You make any headway since Tampa?”
I was referring to an early experiment in which facial-recognition equipment was installed in Tampa’s Ybor City district, a miserable failure scrapped two years later and still the butt of jokes. Another experiment at Boston’s Logan Airport had also ended poorly. But both were before Dabney got called to Quantico.
“Refining algorithms takes a long time. There are problems, but we’ve come a far piece lately.”
“How far?”
“Given a fairly clear face – individualized features and not many deep shadows – we can feed it into a photo database of known criminals and get solid hits. We’re above a 90 percent recognition factor.”
“Got any time to slip us into the mix?”
“Maybe …” he said, a grin in his voice. “If you send me some love.”
It was Dabney’s quirk that before taking any outside job, he wanted a “love token,” a meaningless gift that he found amusing. Our past tokens had included an Elvis Presley Pez dispenser, a harmonica that had once passed through a room where John Lee Hooker was dining, and a bag of novelty clam shells that, when dropped into water, opened to disburse little paper flowers.
“Get us in fast, Dabs,” I yelled. “And we’ll love you like Gertrude loved Alice B.”
“I dunno what that means, but I’m on it.”
We e-mailed Dabney the video and hit the street, hoping to find anyone who could tell us more about the killings of either Angela Bowers or John Warbley, now looking more and more like highly calculated – and connected – murders.
* * *
Adam Kubiac was an early riser. He liked the quiet of sitting alone on the balcony of Zoe Isbergen’s apartment as Zoe slept and the sun rose in the east. He often used the time to game against players on the other side of the planet. But this morning he wasn’t thinking about gaming, he was pacing the small balcony, four steps down, four steps back. Then repeat and repeat and repeat. Mumbling to himself.
He hadn’t been able to sleep, too angry at his father and his father’s stinking lawyer. Bastards! They had both conspired to keep his money from him. His money. His old man may have made it selling cars, but he owed Adam for putting up with years of bullshit. The drinking and drugging when he thought Adam wouldn’t notice. Or the times he just didn’t care. The women Adam would find in their home, his home. The times the local cops would bring his father home, half drunk, and he’d start pretending to himself and Adam that he was a real father.
“Y’know what, Adam, we doan see enough of each other, do we, son? What say we head up to Aspen this weekend? You ever skied? I’ll teach you to ski. You’ll love it. An’ wait till you get a load of the ski bunnies in the lodge, make your eyes pop out …”
Soon after, the liquor-reeking bastard would begin snoring, and then awaken the next morning with no memory of the conversation. He’d start right back in on digging at Adam for a host of supposed infractions: laziness, immaturity, disobedience, insolence, swearing, or any of a dozen other bullshit things. The old man had been a bitch.
But now he was gone, and Adam should have gotten over twenty million bucks on his upcoming birthday.
Instead, he would receive one dollar. One fucking dollar.
He screamed and kicked one of the cheap lawn chairs on the balcony, causing it to fold and fall to the floor. Seconds later the glass door slid open and Zoe’s head poked out. He knew she didn’t come all the way out because she slept naked.
“Jesus, Adam, what’s going on?”
“I’m thinking. That’s all.”
Her eyes found the tumbled chair. “You’re thinking about Cottrell, right? And your father?”
“Damn right, the scumbags, both of them. Hashtag: SCREWADAM!”
“Relax, Adam. Calm down.”
“I don’t want to calm down. I want my $20,000,000.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll get dressed and we’ll go to that little coffee shop down the street. Get a couple of muffins. Watch the robots going to work. You like that, right?”
He thought a moment. “I guess. Hurry up.”
She pulled her head back inside and disappeared. Adam set the chair upright, hearing Zoe bustling around inside. He and Zoe had only been together about two weeks but it seemed a lot longer; they got along so good.
It had been that way from the beginning, when she’d noticed him at his favorite tacqueria on Indian School Road. He’d been sitting in a booth in the rear, playing Clash of Clans against some chick in Finland. She’d been pretty good but Adam had won easily. He’d returned to his beef torta and Cola when Zoe had just walked up and slid into the booth opposite him.
She’d said, “Whatcha doing?” like she’d known him for years.
“Do I know you?” he’d said.
“No,” she had said. “But that’s not set in stone, right?” Her shy smile seemed as wide as her face.
“S-set in stone?” Don’t fucking stutter! Whatever you do, don’t stutter. Relax, Adam, he’d heard Dr Meridien say in his head. Think first, then speak.
The woman clarified: “Not set in stone means, ‘Doesn’t have to stay that way’.” She was still smiling, but like she was happy, not making fun of him.
“Oh, sure. No, I guess not.”
“I was at that table over there.” Nodding her head toward the corner. “You looked like you were having fun, laughing while you played with your phone.”
“I was gaming against someone in Finland. She was good, but I won. I almost always win.”
“I don’t know anything about gaming. I’ve always wanted to learn, but there’s no one I know that can teach me.”
Adam’s heart had leapt to his throat, and he heard himself say: “I can teach you. I’d be happy to teach you.”
“Would you? You’re not just saying that? That would be too cool.”
He had affected nonchalance, almost yawning. “Yeah. It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it. It just takes some time to learn. We can start now, if you want.”
She had slid out of the booth and slid back in on his side. Close enough that they were touching!
“OK, then,” she had said tapping the phone in his hand. “Show me how this game stuff works.”
The sliding door reopened. Zoe stepped out wearing black tights, ankle-high black boots with two-inch heels, and a crimson top that left her right shoulder bare.
“Let’s go get coffee,” she said.
“Let’s take my car,” Adam said.
“But it’s just four blocks. We always walk.”
“Let’s go to that coffee shop over by Scottsdale, Higher Grounds?”
“Why there?”
“We’ll be in the area.”
Looking quizzical but saying nothing, Zoe followed Adam to his white 2011 Subaru Outback, a dent in the front right wheel panel, another