The Blue Nowhere

He would drive past Phate’s house scanning for Mobile America cell phone frequencies, and see if the man was transmitting.
    A moment later he called Bishop back and reported, “He’s inside on a mobile phone. It’s a data transmission, not voice.”
    “He’s online,” Gillette said.
    Bishop and Gillette climbed out of the car, found Shelton and Alonso Johnson and gave them this news.
    Johnson sent a surveillance van, disguised as a courier truck, to the street in front of Phate’s house. The officer reported that the blinds were down and the garage door was open. A beat-up Ford was in the driveway. There were no interior lights visible from outside. A secondsurveillance team, perched near a thick jacaranda, gave a second, similar report.
    Both teams added that all exits and windows were covered; even if Phate happened to see the police he wouldn’t be able to escape.
    Johnson then opened a detailed map, encased in plastic, of the streets in Stonecrest. He circled Phate’s house with a grease pencil and then examined a catalogue of model homes in the development. He looked up and said, “The house he’s in is a Troubadour model.” He flipped to the floor plan of this model in the catalogue and showed it to his second in command, a young crew-cut trooper with a humorless, military attitude.
    Wyatt Gillette glanced at the catalogue and saw an advertising slogan printed beneath the diagram. Troubadour. . . . The dream house that you and your family will enjoy for years to come. . . .
    Johnson’s assistant summarized, “Okay, sir, we’ve got front and back doors at ground level. Another door opens onto a deck in back. No stairs but it’s only ten feet high. He could jump it. No side entrance. The garage has two doors, one leading inside, to the kitchen, the other leading to the backyard. I’d say we go with a three-team dynamic entry.”
    Linda Sanchez said, “Separate him from his computer immediately. Don’t let him type anything. He could destroy the contents of the disk in seconds. We’ll need to look at it and see if he’s targeted any other vics.”
    “Roger that,” the assistant said.
    Johnson said, “Team Able goes through the front, Baker in the back, Charlie through the garage. Hold back two from Charlie team and post them near the deck in case he goes for a dive.” He looked up and tugged the gold earring in his left lobe. “All right. Let’s go catch ourselves a beast.”
    Gillette, Shelton, Bishop and Sanchez jogged back to one of the Crown Victorias and drove into the development itself, parking just out of sight of Phate’s house, next to the tactical vans. Their shadow, Agent Backle, followed. They all watched the troops deploy quickly, crouching low and moving undercover behind bushes.
    Bishop turned to Gillette and surprised the hacker by reaching forward formally and shaking his hand. “Whatever happens, Wyatt, we couldn’t’ve gotten this far without you. Not many people would’ve taken the risks you have and worked as hard as this.”
    “Yeah,” Linda Sanchez said. “He’s a keeper, boss.” She turned her wide brown eyes on Gillette. “Hey, you want a job when you get out maybe you oughta apply to CCU.”
    Gillette tried to think of something to say by way of acknowledging the gratitude. He was embarrassed, though, and unable to think of anything. He merely nodded.
    For once Bob Shelton seemed on the verge of echoing their sentiments but then he climbed out of the car and disappeared into a cluster of plainclothes troopers he seemed to know.
    Alonso Johnson walked up to them. Bishop rolled down the window. “Surveillance still can’t see inside and the subject’s got his air conditioner on full tilt so the infrared scanners aren’t picking up a thing. Is he still on his computer?”
    Bishop called Garvy Hobbes and asked the question. “Yep,” was the cowboy’s response. “The Cellscope is still picking up his transmission.”
    “Good,” Johnson said. “We want him nice and distracted when we come a-calling.” He then spoke into his microphone. “Clear the street.”
    Officers turned back several cars driving along Alta Vista. They flagged down one of Phate’s neighbors, a white-haired woman pulling out of her garage, and directed her Ford Explorer down the street, away from the killer’s house. Three young boys were ignoring the rain and happily doing acrobatics on noisy skateboards. Two troopers disguised in shorts and Izod shirts casually