Dark Rivers of the Heart

the video screen. In red letters, a single word appeared: CLEAR.
        No taps were in operation.
        After logging off Worldwide Stock Market, he dialed the main computer of the California Multi-Agency Task Force on Computer Crime.
        He entered that system by a deeply concealed back door that he had inserted prior to resigning as second in command of the unit.
        Because he was accepted at the system-manager level (the highest security clearance), all functions were available to him. He could use the task force's computer as long as he wanted, for whatever purpose he wished, and his resence wouldn't be observed or recorded.
        He had no interest in their files. He used their computer only as a jumping-off point into the Los Angeles Police Department system, to which they had direct access. The irony of employing a computer-crime unit's hardware and software to commit even a minor computer crime was appealing.
        It was also dangerous.
        Nearly everything that was fun, of course, was also a little dangerous: riding roller coasters, skydiving, gambling, sex.
        From the LAPD system, he entered the California Department of Motor Vehicles computer in Sacramento. He got such a kick from making those leaps that he felt almost as though he had traveled physically, teleporting from his canyon in Malibu to Los Angeles to Sacramento, in the manner of a character in a science fiction novel.
        Rocky jumped onto his hind legs, planted his forepaws on the edge of the desk, and peered at the computer screen.
        "You wouldn't enjoy this," Spencer said.
        Rocky looked at him and issued a short, soft whine.
        "I'm sure you'd get a lot more pleasure from chewing on that new rawhide bone I got you."
        Peering at the screen again, Rocky inquisitively cocked his furry head.
        "Or I could put on some Paul Simon for you."
        Another whine. Longer and louder than before.
        Sighing, Spencer pulled another chair next to his own. "All right.
        When a fella has a bad case of the lonelies, I guess chewing on a rawhide bone just isn't as good as having a little company. Never works for me, anyway." Rocky hopped into the chair, panting and grinning.
        Together, they went voyaging in cyberspace, plunging illegally into the galaxy of DMV records, searching for Valerie Keene.
        They found her in seconds. Spencer had hoped for an address different from the one he already knew, but he was disappointed. She was listed at the bungalow in Santa Monica, where he had discovered unfurnished rooms and the photo of a cockroach nailed to one wall.
        According to the data that scrolled up the screen, she had a Class C license, without restrictions. It would expire in a little less than four years.
        She had applied for the license and taken a written test in early December, two months ago.
        Her middle name was Ann.
        She was twenty-nine. Spencer had guessed twenty-five.
        Her driving record was free of violations.
        In the event that she was gravely injured and her own life could not be saved she had authorized the donation of her vital organs.
        Otherwise, the DMV offered little information about her:
        SEX: F HMR: BPN EYES: Be HT. 5-4 115
        
        That bureaucratic thumbnail description wouldn't be of much help when Spencer needed to describe her to someone. It was insufficient to conjure an image that included the things that truly distinguished her: the direct and clear-eyed stare, the slightly lopsided smile, the dimple in her right cheek, the delicate line of her jaw.
        Since last year, with federal funding from the National Crime and Terrorism Prevention Act, the California DMV had been digitizing and electronically storing photographs and thumbprints of new and renewing drivers. Eventually, there would be mug shots and prints on file for every resident with a driver's license, though the vast majority had never been accused of a crime, let alone convicted.
        Spencer considered this the first step toward a national ID card, an internal passport of the type that had been required in the communist states before they had collapsed, and he was opposed to it on principle.
        In this instance, however, his principles didn't prevent him from calling up the photo from Valerie's license.
        The screen flickered, and she appeared. Smiling.
        The