Tell No One

“What Web site?”

“It’s a broken link. Again, you can’t trace it back.”

“And Beck was supposed to do this at ‘kiss time’?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Is kiss time some sort of computer term?”

Wu almost grinned. “No.”

“So you don’t know what time the email refers to?”

“That’s correct.”

“Or even if we’ve passed kiss time or not?”

“It’s passed,” Wu said.

“How do you know?”

“His Web browser is set up to show you the last twenty sites he visited. He clicked the link. Several times, in fact.”

“But you can’t, uh, follow him there?”

“No. The link is useless.”

“What about this other email?”

Wu hit a more few keys. The screen changed and the other email appeared. “This one is easier to figure out. It’s very basic, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“The anonymous emailer has set up an email account for Dr. Beck,” Wu explained. “He’s given Dr. Beck a user name and a password and again mentioned kiss time.”

“So let me see if I understand,” Gandle said. “Beck goes to some Web site. He types in that user name and that password and there’ll be a message for him?”

“That’s the theory, yes.”

“Can we do it too?”

“Sign in using that user name and password?”

“Yes. And read the message.”

“I tried it. The account doesn’t exist yet.”

“Why not?”

Eric Wu shrugged. “The anonymous sender might set up the account later. Closer to kiss time.”

“So what can we conclude here?”

“Put simply”—the light from the monitor danced off Wu’s blank eyes—“someone is going through a great deal of trouble to stay anonymous.”

“So how do we find out who it is?”

Wu held up a small device that looked like something you might find in a transistor radio. “We’ve installed one of these on his home and work computers.”

“What is it?”

“A digital network tracker. The tracker sends digital signals from his computers to mine. If Dr. Beck gets any emails or visits any Web sites or even if he just types up a letter, we’ll be able to monitor it all in real time.”

“So we wait and watch,” Gandle said.

“Yes.”

Gandle thought about what Wu had told him—about the lengths someone was going through to remain anonymous—and an awful suspicion started creeping into the pit of his belly.

9

I parked at the lot two blocks from the clinic. I never made it past block one.

Sheriff Lowell materialized with two men sporting buzz cuts and gray suits. The two men in suits leaned against a big brown Buick. Physical opposites. One was tall and thin and white, the other short and round and black; together they looked a little like a bowling ball trying to knock down the last pin. Both men smiled at me. Lowell did not.

“Dr. Beck?” the tall white pin said. He was impeccably groomed—gelled hair, folded hanky in the pocket, tie knotted with supernatural precision, tortoiseshell designer glasses, the kind actors wear when they want to look smart.

I looked at Lowell. He said nothing.

“Yes.”

“I’m Special Agent Nick Carlson with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the impeccably groomed one continued. “This is Special Agent Tom Stone.”

They both flashed badges. Stone, the shorter and more rumpled of the two, hitched up his trousers and nodded at me. Then he opened the back door of the Buick.

“Would you mind coming with us?”

“I have patients in fifteen minutes,” I said.

“We’ve already taken care of that.” Carlson swept a long arm toward the car door, as though he were displaying a game show prize. “Please.”

I got in the back. Carlson drove. Stone squeezed himself into the front passenger seat. Lowell didn’t get in. We stayed in Manhattan, but the ride still took close to forty-five minutes. We ended up way downtown on Broadway near Duane Street. Carlson stopped the car in front of an office building marked 26 Federal Plaza.

The interior was basic office building. Men in suits, surprisingly nice ones, moved about with cups of designer coffee. There were women too, but they were heavily in the minority. We moved into a conference room. I was invited to sit, which I did. I tried crossing my legs, but that didn’t feel right.

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

White-Pin Carlson took the lead. “Can we get you something?” he asked. “We make the world’s worst coffee, if you’re interested.”

That explained all the designer cups. He smiled at me. I smiled back. “Tempting, but no thanks.”

“How about a soft drink? We have soft drinks, Tom?”

“Sure, Nick. Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, whatever the doctor here wants.”

They smiled some more. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said.

“Snapple?” Stone tried. He once again hitched up his pants. His stomach was the kind of round that made it hard to find a spot where the waistband wouldn’t slide. “We got a bunch of different varieties here.”

I almost said yes so that they’d get on with it, but I just gently shook him off. The table, some sort of Formica mix, was bare except for a large manila envelope. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands, so I put them on the table. Stone waddled to the side and stood there. Carlson, still taking the lead, sat on the corner of the table and swiveled to look down at me.

“What can you tell us about Sarah Goodhart?” Carlson asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I kept trying to figure out the angles, but nothing was coming to me.

“Doc?”

I looked up at him. “Why do you want to know?”

Carlson and Stone exchanged a quick glance. “The name Sarah Goodhart has surfaced in connection with an ongoing investigation,” Carlson said.

“What investigation?” I asked.

“We’d rather not say.”

“I don’t understand. How am I connected into this?”

Carlson let loose a sigh, taking his time on the exhale. He looked over at his rotund partner and suddenly all smiles were gone. “Am I asking a complicated question here, Tom?”