Daemon

outside, lights and sirens blaring.
    A sharply attired salesman approached Ross, hand extended. ‘How are you today, sir?’
    Ross looked up. ‘Bored, but it’s nothing a sports car won’t fix.’
    The salesman laughed politely. ‘Well, what are you driving now, Mr …’
    ‘Ross. I have a twelve-cylinder A8 – drives like a dream – but I want to get a second car. Something smaller and sportier.’
    ‘And you’re familiar with the SL roadster?’
    Ross examined the silver car nearby. ‘A golf buddy of mine has one. I’ve done some research, but the truth is, if I like the way it feels I’ll buy it today. No financing necessary.’
    The salesman nodded. ‘Let’s take it for a spin. I’ll just need a photocopy of your driver’s license.’
    Ross drew his wallet. ‘Of course.’
    The platinum cards were clearly visible as he offered his license to the salesman.
    Natalie Philips stood in the car rental company’s parking lot and stared at the car Ross had rented an hour before. She had tracked Ross’s cell phone through E911, only to find it ridingto Oxnard on the back of a truck. Ross’s rented subcompact was never driven off the rental lot. And nobody in the Task Force had thought to look for it here – especially with his cell phone on the move.
    Trear pounded the roof of his car. ‘Damnit! This guy’s probably halfway to Mexico by now.’
    Philips turned to him. ‘Halfway isn’t all the way. Besides, he still needs transportation, and we have all the airports, train stations, and bus stations staked out. If he makes any ATM withdrawals or credit card purchases, we’ll be on top of him in minutes. There’s a strike team airborne in the L.A. basin as we speak.’
    Trear grabbed a radio, but looked to Philips. ‘This Ross imposter was most likely Sebeck’s go-to man for computer work. Maybe even the mastermind of this hoax.’
    ‘You mean
if
the Daemon is a hoax.’
    ‘It’s definitely a hoax, and I don’t think Sebeck was smart enough to pull it off – much less to conceive of it. But our imposter just might be.’
    Philips nodded, even though it made less sense the more she thought about it.
    Ross ditched the Mercedes salesman off the 23 freeway in Simi Valley. He exited the freeway, claiming a bathroom emergency, and never returned after rushing into a restaurant to use the restroom. Instead, he ducked out a side exit and walked over one block to a row of nondescript, corrugated metal box garages.
    He pulled out his key ring and cycled through the keys for a moment. Then he unlocked the garage door padlock and pulled up the door to reveal a late-model white utility truck with side cargo panels. A logo on the door read ‘Lasseter Heating & Air.’ Ross flicked the garage light switch then ducked inside, lowering the door behind him.
    There was about six feet of space on either side of the vehicle. Ross moved alongside and opened one of the cargo panels,revealing a mirror hanging on the inside of the door. There was a toiletry bag and a change of clothes. He pulled a wallet out from under the clothes and flipped it open to reveal a California driver’s license with his picture on it. The name read ‘Michael Lasseter.’ In the picture he was bald as a billiard ball. He lined up the mirror and pulled an electric shaver out of the toiletry bag. He looked for the single electric socket up by the overhead light.
    In ten minutes or so, he was completely bald. Clumps of dark hair covered the floor. He examined himself in the mirror and rubbed his bald scalp.It felt strangely good to speak his native language again. And bad, too. This place wasn’t supposed to be needed.
    He emptied Jon Ross’s wallet and placed the credit cards and identification on a hot plate. He powered it up and kept working as the acrid smell of melting plastic filled the space.
    He changed into jeans and a work shirt.
    When he finished he looked at himself in the mirror. He stopped and grabbed a bottle of rub-on tan, then smeared it over his face, neck, and arms. He took another look at Lasseter’s license photo. Much better.
    Jon Ross was dead. Long live Michael Lasseter.
    He hid Ross’s clothes and the toiletry bag in a tool bench cabinet, then unplugged the hot plate. He checked to be certain that Ross’s ID and credit cards were completely melted. It was a multicolored puddle. He took one last look around, then opened the garage door.
    The sun was suddenly blinding. He got into the truck and started it