The Blue Nowhere

can’t let him in our system.”
    Gillette said shortly, “I’ll transfer out all the real data to backup tapes and load some encrypted files. While he’s trying to decrypt them we’ll track him down.”
    Bishop agreed and Gillette had transferred all the sensitive data, like the real personnel files, to tape and replaced them with scrambled files. Then Gillette sent out a search request about Interpost and, when the results came back, the Trapdoor demon came with them.
    “It’s like he’s a rapist,” Linda Sanchez said, seeing the folders in their system opening and closing as Phate examined them.
    Violation is the crime of the new century. . . .
    “Come on, come on,” Gillette encouraged his HyperTrace program, which was issuing faint sonar pings each time another link in the chain of connection was identified.
    “What if he’s using an anonymizer?” Bishop asked.
    “I doubt that he is. If I were him I’d be doing a hit and run, probably logging on from a pay phone or hotel room. And I’d be using a hot machine.”
    Nolan explained, “That’s a computer you use once and abandon. It doesn’t have anything on it that could be traced back to you.”
    Gillette sat forward, staring intently at the screen as the HyperTrace lines slowly made their way from CCU toward Phate. Finally they stopped at a location northeast of them. “I’ve got his service provider!” he shouted, reading the information on the screen. “He’sdialing into ContraCosta On-Line in Oakland.” He turned to Stephen Miller. “Get Pac Bell on it now!”
    The phone company would complete the trace from ContraCosta On-Line to Phate’s machine itself. Miller spoke urgently to the Pac Bell security staff.
    “Just a few more minutes,” Nolan said, her voice edgy. “Stay on the line, stay on the line . . . Please.”
    Then Stephen Miller, on the phone, stiffened and his face broke into a smile. He said, “Pac Bell’s got him! He’s in the Bay View Motel—in Fremont.”
    Bishop pulled out his cell phone. He called central dispatch and had them alert the tactical team. “Silent roll up,” he ordered. “I want troopers there in five minutes. He’s probably sitting in front of the window, watching the parking lot, with his car running. Let the SWAT folks know that.” Then he contacted Huerto Ramirez and Tim Morgan and directed them to the motel too.
    Tony Mott saw this as one more chance to play real cop. This time, though, Bishop surprised him. “Okay, Officer, you’re coming along on this one. Only you stay to the rear.”
    “Yessir,” the young cop said gravely and pulled an extra box of bullets from his desk.
    Bishop nodded at Mott’s belt. “I think the two clips you’ve got with you’ll be enough.”
    “Sure. Okay.” Though when Bishop turned away Mott slipped a furtive handful of bullets into his windbreaker pocket.
    Bishop said to Gillette, “You come with me. We’ll stop by Bob Shelton’s place, pick him up. It’s on the way. Then let’s go catch ourselves a killer.”
    D etective Robert Shelton lived in a modest neighborhood of San Jose not far from the 280 freeway.
    The yards of the houses were filled with the plastic toys of youngsters, the driveways with inexpensive cars—Toyotas and Fords and Chevys.
    Frank Bishop pulled up to the house. He didn’t get out immediately but appeared to be debating. Finally he said, “Just want to let you know, about Bob’s wife. . . . Their son dying in that car crash? She never really got over it. She drinks a bit too much. Bob says she’s sick. But that’s not what it is.”
    “Got it.”
    They walked to the house. Bishop pushed the doorbell button. There was no ring inside but they could hear muted voices. Angry voices.
    Then a scream.
    Bishop glanced at Gillette, hesitated a moment then tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed inside, his hand on his pistol. Gillette entered after him.
    The house was a mess. Dirty dishes, magazines, clothes littered the living room. There was a sour smell to the place—unwashed clothing and liquor. An uneaten meal for two—sad-looking American cheese sandwiches—were on the table. It was 12:30, lunchtime, but Gillette couldn’t tell if the food was meant for today or leftover from yesterday or even before. They couldn’t see anyone but the men heard a crash and footsteps from a back room.
    Both Bishop and Gillette were startled by a shout—a woman’s slurred voice: “I’m fucking fine! You think you