More Twisted

“No.”
    Muller fetched a Heineken from the kitchen. He continued. “So what you’re saying is that after you’ve gone over this interesting information you’ll have enough evidence to arrest me for real this time. But if I confess it’ll go a lot easier. Right?”
    “Come on, Jake. Nobody was hurt at Anco. You’ll do, what, five years. You’re a young guy. It’d be a church social for you.”
    Muller nodded for a moment, drank a good bit of beer. Then said seriously, “But if I confessed, then I’d have to give the money back, right?”
    Carnegie froze for a moment. Then he smiled. “I’m not going to stop until I nail you, Jake. You know that.” He said to the sergeant, “Let’s go. This’s a waste of time.”
    “At last there’s something we agree on,” Muller offered and closed the door after them.

    The next day, William Carnegie, wearing a perfectly pressed gray suit, white shirt and striped red tie, strode into the watch room of the Annandale police station, Hager behind him.
    He nodded at the eight officers sitting in the cheap fiberglass chairs. The men and women fell silent as the detective surveyed his troops.
    Coffee was sipped, pencils tapped, pads doodled upon.
    Watches glanced at.
    “We’re going to make a push on the case. I went to see Muller yesterday. I lit a fire under him and it had an effect: Last night I was monitoring his email and he made a wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars from a bank in Portland to a bank in Lyon, France. I’m convinced he’s getting ready to flee the jurisdiction.”
    Carnegie had managed to get level-two surveillance on Muller. This high-tech approach to investigations involved establishing real-time links to his online service provider and the computers at Muller’s credit card companies, banks, cell phone service and the like. Anytime that Muller made a purchase, went online, made a call, withdrew cash and so on, the officers on the Anco team would know almost instantly.
    “Big Brother’s going to be watching everything our boy’s doing.”
    “Who?” asked one of the younger cops.
    “ 1984 ?” Carnegie responded, astonished that the man hadn’t heard of the novel. “The book?” he asked sarcastically. When the officer continued to stare blankly he added, “Big Brother was the government. It watchedeverything the citizens did.” He nodded at a nearby dusty computer terminal and then turned back to the officers. “You, me, and Big Brother—we’re closing the net on Muller.” Noting the stifled grins, he wished he’d been a bit less dramatic. But, damn it, didn’t they realize that Annandale had become the laughingstock of Southern California law enforcers for not closing the Anco case? The CHP, LAPD and even the cops in small towns nearby couldn’t believe that Annandale Police, despite having the biggest per capita budget of any town in Orange County, hadn’t collared a single perp in the heist.
    Carnegie divided the group into three teams and assigned them to shifts at the computer workstations, with orders to relay to him instantly everything that Muller did.
    As he was walking back to his office to look further at Muller’s wire transfer to France he heard a voice. “Hey, Dad?”
    He turned to see his son striding down the corridor toward him, dressed in his typical seventeen-year-old’s uniform: earrings, shabby Tomb Raider T-shirt and pants so baggy they looked like they’d fall off at any moment. And the hair: spiked up and dyed a garish yellow. Still, Billy was an above-average student and nothing like the troublemakers that Carnegie dealt with in an official capacity.
    “What’re you doing here?” he asked. It was early May. School should be in session, shouldn’t it?
    “It’s parent-teacher day, remember? You and Mom’re supposed to meet Mr. Gibson at ten. I came by to make sure you’d be there.”
    Damn . . . Carnegie’d forgotten about the meeting. And he was supposed to have a conference call with two investigators in France about Muller’s wire transfer. That was set for nine-forty-five. If he postponed it, the French policemen wouldn’t be available later because of the time difference and the call would have to be delayed until tomorrow.
    “I’ve got it on my calendar,” the detective said absently; something had begun to nag at his thoughts. What was it? He added to his son, “I just might be a little late.”
    “Dad, it’s important,” Billy said.
    “I’ll be there.”
    Then